Stabbed in the Baklava

by Tina Kashian

  Only a few months ago, Azad had wanted to buy Kebab Kitchen. But Lucy’s “temporary” visit home, after quitting the firm, had turned into a permanent stay, and she’d come to realize how much she’d missed her family, her friends—and surprisingly—how important Kebab Kitchen was to her. So Lucy had stepped up. Her parents were more than happy to teach her the business as they worked part-time and eased into retirement.

  At least it had seemed the perfect arrangement for her. Azad may not view it that way. He’d left his sous chef job at a fancy Atlantic City restaurant to become head chef of Kebab Kitchen. She knew he’d initially wanted to buy the place from her parents and make it his own, but he’d changed his mind after Lucy had stated her intentions to remain in town.

  Azad set the knife aside and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Now do you remember how to knife-puree it?”

  “Sure. Start by crushing it with the back of the blade.”

  Determined to show him she could do something, Lucy picked up the knife, pressed the back of the blade flat on a clove, and slammed her fist down to squash the garlic on the cutting board. But instead of cooperating, the finicky garlic clove shot from the board and flew across the kitchen like a smelly projectile.

  Oh, no. Her eyes widened in dismay. What the heck went wrong? He made it look so simple.

  She was saved from another culinary lecture by the sound of footsteps on the kitchen’s terra-cotta floor.

  Her mother, Angela, appeared behind an industrial mixer almost as tall as her five-foot frame. Her signature beehive, which had gone out of style decades ago, added a few inches to her height. The gold cross necklace she never left the house without caught a ray of light from an overhead kitchen window.

  Angela frowned as she bent down to pick up the wayward piece of garlic from the floor. “You’re doing it wrong, Lucy.”

  “She forgot to add salt,” Azad said.

  Salt! That was it. Lucy resisted the urge to smack her forehead with her palm. Salt made it easier to crush the garlic.

  Angela’s face softened as she looked at Azad in approval. She tossed the clove in a trash can and approached to pat Azad on the arm. “Listen to Azad, Lucy. He knows how to cook.”

  Lucy fought the urge to roll her eyes. If her mother had her way, Lucy would be baking her own baklava to celebrate her nuptials with Azad. It was no secret Angela Berberian wanted more grandchildren. Lucy had turned thirty-two and Angela firmly believed that her daughter’s biological clock was set to explode. It wasn’t enough that Emma was married to Max, a real estate agent in Ocean Crest, and they had a ten-year-old daughter, Niari. Lucy’s mother wanted more grandkids, and fast.

  “Now, do you have everything planned for that woman’s wedding?” Angela asked, her tone a bit chilly.

  “Her name is Scarlet Westwood,” Lucy pointed out.

  Angela folded her arms across her chest and arched an unamused brow. “Hmph. I know her name. I don’t have to like her. She’s done nothing to earn her fame except to be born into a wealthy family.”

  Lucy set aside the knife. “I know, Mom, but think of it as great publicity for the restaurant.”

  “Bah! Kebab Kitchen has done just fine for thirty years. Plus, that woman is a home wrecker.”

  Her mother was referring to several of Scarlet’s past relationships with engaged or married men. Almost all were older and wealthy. Lucy wondered how much of what was reported was true and how much was sensationalized. “Since when do you watch the celebrity news channels? I thought you only liked the cooking channel and that good-looking chef.”

  Angela looked affronted. “What’s wrong with Cooking Kurt? At least he’s honest and single.”

  Lucy couldn’t help but smile. One of the things she’d discovered since returning home was that her mother liked watching cooking shows while she worked. But she wasn’t as interested in the new recipes as she was in watching the hot, sexy star of one of the shows.

  “What’s this about Cooking Kurt?” her father’s voice boomed.

  Lucy and her mother turned. Raffi Berberian stood between the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. Arms crossed over his thick chest, her father was a large, heavyset man with a balding pate of curly black hair and a booming voice. He held a stack of papers.

  Her mother waved her hand dismissively. “We’ve been over this. You won’t take me to Cooking Kurt’s book signing at Pages Bookstore,” Angela said. “Now I have to ask Lucy to take me.”

  Raffi’s brow furrowed. “The man is a fraud. I doubt he even wrote one recipe in that cookbook.”

  Her mother planted her hands on her hips. “Of course, he wrote it. Isn’t that right, Lucy?”

  All eyes turned to her, and Lucy squirmed beneath her parents’ gazes. “I guess so, Mom. If he didn’t, his name wouldn’t be on the cover.”

  A glimmer of satisfaction lit her mother’s face, and her gaze returned to her father. “See? Lucy would know.”

  “Harrumph,” her father said, dismissing the subject in his own way.

  Lucy coughed to hide a smile. Despite their bickering, she knew her parents loved each other.

  Her father sifted through the papers in his hand. “I double-checked the remaining wedding invoices you prepared. Everything looks good.” He’d been in charge of the finances and the day-to-day business aspects of running a restaurant. Her mother had been in charge of the cooking.

  “Thanks for double-checking, Dad,” Lucy said.

  “Is everything ready to be loaded into the catering van?” her father asked.

  Two tall, rolling, catering carts with Dutch doors stood ready in the corner. One was heated to keep prepared food warm, the other was refrigerated for the cold items. The meat kebabs and vegetables had been marinated and would be grilled at the reception.

  “We’re ready to go,” Azad confirmed.

  “Do not forget that everything has to be served minutes from the grill.” Her mother’s laser-like gaze landed on Lucy. “I don’t know who the servers will be, so it’s up to you, Lucy, to be sure the food arrives hot to every table. The reputation of Kebab Kitchen is on the line.”

  Lucy swallowed as her nervousness slipped back to grip her. Her mother, despite her five-foot frame, could be quite intimidating. The wedding was a test and she was determined to prove that she had what it took to be a successful restaurateur.

  At Lucy’s nod, her mother continued. “Good. I’ll stay behind with your father, Emma, and Sally and run the dinner shift. You go with Azad in the van and take all the food. Butch will meet you there.”

  “Katie is helping.” Her friend didn’t normally work weekends and had agreed to help Lucy oversee the reception. They didn’t need any more staff. Castle of the Sea had a full staff of servers, dishwashers, and bartenders. Kebab Kitchen was responsible for the mezze—or appetizers—for the cocktail hour, the main course, and baklava for dessert. The wedding cake was made by Cutie’s Cupcakes bakery, and Lucy knew that anything Susan Cutie made would be a stunning and mouthwatering confection. The lemon meringue pie was Lucy’s favorite.

  Her mom shook a finger at her. “Remember what I told you. Don’t interfere with Azad while he’s cooking. I know how you two can be at times. You need to oversee the servers and make sure the dinner hour runs smoothly. Don’t argue with him or get in his way.”

  “Why would I argue with him or—”

  Angela clutched Lucy’s chin and lowered her face to place a kiss on her forehead. “I’m proud of you, Lucy. Now go give that home wrecker a perfect wedding. If her marriage goes bad, it will be her fault, not ours.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “It’s stunning! No wonder they call it Castle of the Sea.” Lucy’s gaze was riveted on their destination as Azad drove them in the catering van up a long, winding drive. The sprawling mansion resembled a southern plantation with its white Corinthian columns, front portico, and wrought-iron balconies. But instead of an expansive front lawn, the mansion was located at the top of a hill overlooking the spar
kling Atlantic Ocean. It was early afternoon, and the sun was a flaming ball in the sky. Gulls circled above, and a cool ocean breeze carried through the open window and brushed tendrils of wayward curls that had escaped Lucy’s ponytail.

  Azad wound around the building and turned up a hill to the service entrance. “Wait until you see the inside of this place.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “I went to a bachelor party here about five years ago while you were working in Philly.”

  “A bachelor party? Who could afford to have it here?” The classy establishment seemed like the last place to hold a bachelor party. She couldn’t imagine drunk thirty- and forty-year-old men with beer bongs, loud music, and heaven forbid—strippers.

  “My boss at the time could afford it.”

  Once again, she was reminded that Azad had worked at a five-star Atlantic City casino restaurant. Not for the first time she wondered if he regretted leaving his sous chef job to become head chef at Kebab Kitchen. The Mediterranean restaurant wasn’t luxuriously decorated, pricey, or even famous. It was a small and intimate family place, much like Ocean Crest itself.

  Lucy’s gaze returned to the window. Ocean Crest hadn’t changed much over the years. Of course, McMansions had been built on every remaining square inch of available land—which hadn’t been much. Beach property in New Jersey continued to climb in value, and her brother-in-law, Max, did well with rentals as the self-professed real estate king in town. But Lucy hadn’t seen anything as grand in the small town as Castle of the Sea.

  The catering van jostled as they drove over the first of several speed bumps to ensure visitors moved cautiously on the resort grounds. Pots, pans, and trays rattled in the back. The van was old and her father had purchased it from a local Protestant Church that had used it to transport senior citizens to church as well as to weekly outings of bingo, Saturday spaghetti dinners, and ball games. He’d removed all ten seats and converted it to Kebab Kitchen’s catering van.

  Azad pulled into the service lot and shifted the van into reverse to get close to the service entrance.

  Lucy glanced in the rearview mirror. “Be careful. This thing handles like a boat.”

  With one hand on the wheel and the other stretched behind Lucy’s seat, Azad looked out the rear window as he maneuvered the van. “I know what I’m doing. I want to get closer to the back door to unload.”

  “I know, but—”

  There was a sudden, loud bang and pots and pans crashed to the floor.

  Azad jammed on the brake, threw the van into park, and killed the engine. They both hopped out and ran to the back. A dent the size of a softball marred the bumper where it had rammed into a concrete pole. A nearby sign said in big, black letters, FIRE ZONE, NO PARKING.

  Azad’s brows knit together as he surveyed the damage. “You think your dad will notice?”

  Lucy looked at him in disbelief, but at his crestfallen expression she stopped herself from blurting out, “I told you so.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’ll tell him something hit us.”

  He opened the rear doors of the van, and his frown deepened. “Damn. One of the baklava trays tipped over.”

  Lucy came close to peer inside. The floor was littered with walnut and cinnamon pastry. She reached inside to pick up the fallen tray. “It’s a good thing we made extra.”

  “Let me help with that.” Azad grabbed a broom mounted on the inside of the van and began sweeping up the mess. “We have to wait for Butch and Katie before we begin unloading anyway.”

  Lucy used a dustpan to collect the baklava, and disposed of the waste in one of the trash bags they carried in the van. When they were finished, Azad set the broom aside. “Here come Butch and Katie now.”

  A battered blue 1970 Buick pulled up beside them. Two of the doors were different colors. Butch liked to refurbish “junkers,” as he called them, and turn them into classic cars. Once a year Ocean Crest had a car show, and Butch always entered.

  Katie stepped out of the car and shielded her eyes from the sun with the back of her hand. “Oh, my gosh! What do you think it costs to have a wedding here?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Lucy said. Even the back of the building appeared welcoming with a striped awning above a wide set of double doors.

  “I’m dying to see the ballroom.”

  Lucy gave Katie a conspiring wink. “Maybe we should ditch the aprons and crash the wedding.”

  Katie chuckled. “Now you’re talking. We can pretend we’re back in high school when we snuck into Lois Webster’s party when her parents were away.”

  “Those were the days.”

  Katie Watson had been Lucy’s friend since grade school. They were physical opposites of each other. Katie was tall and slender with poker-straight blond hair and blue eyes, whereas Lucy was petite at five foot three, had brown eyes, and shoulder-length, curly dark hair that never cooperated in the humid Jersey summers. The two also came from vastly different cultural backgrounds. Katie’s family tree could be traced back to the Pilgrims while Lucy was a first generation American. Katie’s mom had packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in her school lunch box, and Lucy had shown up with hummus and pita. None of it made a difference. They’d been best friends forever, and since she’d returned to Ocean Crest, Lucy had been staying with Katie and her husband Bill, an Ocean Crest police officer.

  “Everything looks great, Lucy Lou,” Butch called out as he peered inside the now tidied van.

  Butch had been the line cook at Kebab Kitchen since Lucy was in kindergarten. A large and tall African American man, he had the broadest shoulders and chest of any man she’d ever seen. He always wore a checkered bandana on his head and had a gold front tooth that flashed whenever he smiled. He also had a propensity to call her nicknames, and “Lucy Lou” was his favorite.

  “Let’s get started,” Lucy said.

  Together, the four of them unloaded the rolling catering carts and everything else in the van. The food had been packed in air-tight containers stored on the shelves of the carts. The lamb and chicken were marinating in olive oil and spices and would be threaded on shish-kebab skewers and grilled over charcoal. Because of the difference in cooking times, the vegetable skewers would be served separately. The lentil soup was in large tureens and ready to be heated. The remaining hot food would be prepared in the kitchen. The cold items—the tubs of hummus, tabbouleh salad, and sliced vegetables for dipping, had already been prepared and were stored in the refrigerated cart.

  Lucy stepped into the kitchen, then stopped short to gaze around in admiration. The kitchen of Castle of the Sea was brand spanking new with stainless-steel appliances, plenty of worktables, top-notch gas ranges, and a full-length hood for maximum ventilation. There wasn’t a scratch on the tables, or a dent or smudge of a handprint on the shiny appliances. She couldn’t help but compare it with Kebab Kitchen’s smaller and older kitchen. She’d only been the restaurant manager for a short while, but she had a running list of tasks to accomplish—from refreshing and updating the decor, to replacing one of the grills, to adding new shelving in the storage room.

  She also knew she’d be up against her father for every change. She felt like a boxer preparing for a big Atlantic City fight.

  Azad whistled between his teeth. “This is a chef’s dream come true.”

  Lucy set an empty stockpot on the counter. She couldn’t help the words that came out of her mouth. “Even an amateur like me can appreciate it.”

  Azad looked at her in surprise, then threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t worry. I like our place best.”

  She felt an unwelcome surge of excitement. Our place? Was he flirting with her?

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d suggested he’d like to resume romantic relations. A few months ago, things had heated up between them, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to take that leap. He’d broken her heart in the past—and even putting aside that they were now working together—she’d sw
orn she wouldn’t be a glutton for punishment and risk heartache again.

  Fortunately, she didn’t need to contemplate that matter much further. Butch returned from his second trip carrying more stockpots, and Azad turned into a serious chef, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “The first thing we have to do is preheat the grills and ovens. Once I assemble the shish kebab skewers, Butch can help me grill. Meanwhile, we need to finish the cold appetizers and—”

  “You’re late.”

  All four of them turned to see Victoria Redding standing in the kitchen doorway holding open the doors that led into the ballroom. Dressed in a full-length, dark green, sequined gown with her hair styled in an elaborate chignon, the older woman looked like she should be the mother of the bride rather than the wedding planner.

  Lucy glanced at her wristwatch. “We’re exactly on time.”

  Victoria gave her a haughty look, then let the swinging doors close behind her. The clipped sound of her stilettos—dyed the exact shade of green as her gown—echoed across the ceramic floor as she approached. The scent of her floral perfume made Lucy’s nose twitch with the need to sneeze. “The ceremony is over and the couple is taking pictures by the gazebo for the next two hours or so,” Victoria said. “Cocktail hour is at five sharp.”

  Lucy straightened her shoulders. “I assure you, Ms. Redding, we’re ready.”

  Victoria ignored her. “Don’t forget tables two and thirteen each have a vegetarian and table nineteen has someone who insists on a gluten-free menu.”

  “We have it covered,” Lucy insisted.

  “Be sure that you do.” Victoria turned on her heel and stormed from the kitchen.

  Katie whistled. “She’s a piece of work.”

  “You have no idea. She was harassing me all last week over changes to the menu.”

  Lucy had modified their initial menu three times over the course of the past seven days. It had been maddening and inefficient. Lucy was no stranger to stress and pressure. She’d had her fair share of demanding clients at the law firm, but this was worse. No matter how much she’d planned, she feared something could go wrong. Or worse, that she’d never satisfy the finicky wedding planner.