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time like this.
    â€œYou’re the owner of the deli, aren’t you?” Crystal asked. “The one they’re all talking about?”
    â€œNo, I’m Golda Meir,” I said.
    The woman seemed puzzled. “I thought your name was Katz.”
    â€œIt is,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
    I moved on, leaving a confused hairdresser in my wake.
    Stopping at the pharmacy on Rosa and Jefferson, I bought the blondest dye-it-yourself gunk I could find and turned back toward the parking garage, taking care not to walk past the hair salon.
    The mid-morning drive was quiet, uneventful, and utterly unmemorable. Truly, I didn’t remember driving home. I used Grant’s ex-key to get inside, and I closed the door, dramatically falling back against it, like someone had been stalking me down an alley. And maybe there had been. I couldn’t be sure anymore. I imagined all eyes on me after Crystal hunted me down like a trophy. Maybe they were; maybe they weren’t. It felt like it. I told myself, You’re home, and set the key on the counter. I didn’t want any surprise visitors.
    It was only a little past eleven a.m., but I was already exhausted. Perhaps from the day’s events, perhaps just from walking on my out-of-shape, former New York legs. I got in the shower, scrubbed my hands like Lady Macbeth, washed my hair, tore open the hair dye, administered the blond treatment, put on the thin plastic hair cap, and sat on the couch with my laptop, checking e-mails and reading the local news, as I waited for Nashville’s official hair color to sink in.
    The words were a whirlpool in front of my eyes. All I could see was Joe, dead Joe, pieces of Joe, and a lot of bread. They were tesserae of an absurd mosaic of homicide. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen dead bodies before. I’d been to open-casket funerals, and I’d seen two people run down in Manhattan, one of them bounced about ten feet high on Central Park West before coming down on the dog he was pulling behind him. Both died. Then there was the guest at Lolo Baker’s party who fell through the ceiling into my catered spread a few weeks before.
    This was different. Not just because of the blood, but because it had happened at my place.
    What had really happened? I wondered. It had all started off so well. I was proud that I’d found a compromise with Brenda. I’d felt like I had a good shot at the prize. It was a photo-album perfect day filled with challenges I knew I could beat like pizza dough. What went wrong? Why did Joe Silvio pick today to become the late Joe Silvio?
    Logic hit a wall. That’s when imagination takes over to get you through.
    Am I next? Was I actually followed home? Am I really a suspect, but I just haven’t been subpoenaed? Can that even happen?
    What was the press going to do to this? I’d slammed the door on the Nashville National, which was one of the sponsors of the competition. Robert Reid had probably been there to cover it.
    I had better call them, right? I should prepare a statement or something! Call my lawyer to prepare a statement. I should call him, anyway, in case I was arrested.
    Crap. Crap .
    I told myself to chill. Let them all come to you. That way, you’ll have the energy to deal with this.
    But what if the killer found me first? The police weren’t guarding my door. I had even told Grant to stay away—maybe that was the reason he wanted to spend time with me? Bless him, but damn him for not telling me. Hell, what if killing baker Joe was a warning to me?
    Warning you of what? Don’t be voted Best Mid-Range. . . or else?
    I told myself that there was only one thing to do.
    Go rinse your hair.
    I put my laptop aside and returned to the bathroom. If I was going to lose my mind, my life or, most importantly, the Best in Nashville Award, at least I’d lose it in style. Walking to the sink, I jumped as my cell phone buzzed. I went back to the