Free A Killer in the Rye by Delia Rosen Page A

was still standing at the foot of the steps, talking loud enough for the gardener across the street to hear. I started forward. “No. I really felt I should apologize face-to-face for slamming the door on you. So here I am!”
    He stepped onto his front landing, crossed his arms, and leaned his back on the door frame as I struggled to make my way to the top. His golden smile allowed a sweet, forgiving chuckle. He was kind of handsome and pretty well built, now that I took time to notice.
    â€œHere you are,” he said. “Can I tell you something?”
    â€œIt’s your house.” I wasn’t even sure what that meant. I wanted him to say something fast to wash it from my ears.
    â€œI thought it was kind of funny,” he said.
    â€œWhat was?”
    â€œThe look on your face when you tried to close the door on the cinder block.”
    I felt myself flush.
    â€œI was half betting myself that you would actually succeed in pulling the door through it.”
    â€œHulk smash,” I said. “I wasn’t myself.”
    â€œAre you now?”
    â€œMuch more so,” I lied. This was not the time and place to tell him that I was having an identity crisis. I reached the landing. “I’ve never really been to this side of town. You’ve got quite a home.”
    â€œThanks. I inherited it from my grandmother.”
    â€œGay,” I said.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œShe was the one who founded the newspaper chain,” I said.
    â€œRight again. After my grandfather died. The family owned a lot of property down here. She started selling it during the boom, bought a bunch of small papers and built them up.”
    â€œQuite a woman,” I said.
    â€œMost women are,” he said.
    â€œHow do you mean?” I hoped he wasn’t being patronizing. I could use some “sincere” right now.
    â€œMen just have to deal with their own egos. You gals have to deal with men and your own identities and ambitions. That’s a lot of work.”
    â€œSometimes,” I admitted.
    He was looking at me funny. I couldn’t decide whether it was kindness or pity or whether he was mentally replaying my attack on a concrete mass.
    â€œWell, I’m glad you were home. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
    â€œNo,” he said. “I was just on the phone with the office.”
    â€œSo . . . what’s your job there?”
    â€œApart from being on the board and running things day to day as publisher of the National ?”
    â€œYeah, apart from that.”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œRight. I guess those things would keep you kind of busy.”
    â€œThey do,” he said. “Which is why it was also a little amusing that you thought I was interviewing your employee. I haven’t done that for years, since my dad brought me on to learn the ropes.”
    â€œLike I said, my brain was in lockdown.”
    â€œUnderstandable,” he said. “For the record, the National decided not to play the story big again until the police have a better idea of what actually happened.”
    â€œThat’s . . . journalistic of you.”
    â€œIt’s a little more self-serving than a case of integrity,” he said. “We don’t feel sensationalism is good for our city. We are about quality of life and the arts. Murders aren’t a good fit.”
    Well, he was honest, I had to admit.
    â€œSo, now that I’ve got that off my chest, I really should get going—”
    â€œI thought you wanted to check the room where the gathering will be held?”
    â€œRight,” I said. But I hesitated.
    â€œLet me guess,” he said. “You’re afraid that will be an imposition? Am I hot or cold?”
    â€œYou’re hot,” I said. “Definitely hot.”
    â€œWell, it’s not a bit,” he replied. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
    Ushered in by his extended arm, I took a walk through