by Tina Kashian
Azad still had his house, but he was furious about the way he’d been treated by Henry, that he’d still had to pay his attorney, and because he’d missed out on a unique business opportunity.
Lucy cradled her mug. “That’s theft and a big breach of Henry’s fiduciary responsibilities. Why wasn’t he fired?”
Katie shrugged. “Maybe they couldn’t prove it and put him on probation.”
“If Henry was desperate enough for money to risk his job by stealing from the bank, we need to find out why. Was he a drug user, a gambler, or was he just outright greedy and living a life of luxury?”
“All good questions.”
“I’m going to ask around,” Lucy said. “I make daily deposits at the bank for the restaurant, and I know the teller, Betty.”
Katie sipped her coffee. “Good idea. I’ll try to pump Francesca Thompson for more information.”
Lucy snapped her fingers. “I thought of something else. When Victoria was arguing with Henry, he mentioned something about Scarlet’s new perfume line. Henry wanted to leak news of Scarlet’s wedding to the press in order to boost the launch.”
“You mean Scarlet’s Passion?” Katie set down her mug.
Scarlet’s Passion? That sounded cheesy to Lucy and certainly not something she’d buy for herself. Maybe teenagers would go for it.
“You’ve heard of it?” Lucy asked.
“It’s been in the tabloids for months, and there’s been talk around town about it, too. Scarlet is preparing to start her own line of fragrances, body wash, and lotions. Her husband, Bradford, is backing her with a hefty sum of his own cash and a loan from Henry’s bank.”
“I never heard.”
“That’s because you keep your head buried in the sand when it comes to gossip.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Lucy argued. “I heard Scarlet planned to film a scene on the Ocean Crest beach.”
“That’s because I told you.”
Lucy ignored the barb, even if it was true, and steered the conversation back on track. “Maybe Francesca’s right. What if Henry embezzled funds from Bradford’s and Scarlet’s accounts, and they found out?”
“It’s possible. Better yet, what if Henry had money problems, and he ‘borrowed’ the money and failed to return it?” Katie asked.
“It would make both Bradford and Scarlet suspects. Money and greed are always good motives for murder,” Lucy said.
“Then the million-dollar question is: who was angry enough to kill? Victoria, Scarlet, or Bradford?” Katie asked.
“I don’t know.” Lucy nibbled her scone. “Victoria was pretty upset. Henry mentioned that he got her the job as wedding planner because of his friendship with the groom. That set her off. But I still can’t help but wonder, is that reason enough to kill someone?”
“Who knows? All I do know is that the list of suspects is growing. If Clemmons is smart he’ll look into all of them. But I don’t have much faith in the detective,” Katie said.
Lucy leaned back in her chair. “My father wants us to help Azad. My mother is dead set against it.”
“What do you think?” Katie asked.
“I think it doesn’t look good for Azad, but he doesn’t want me to get involved either.”
“He doesn’t?”
Lucy frowned as she recalled their conversation. “He says there’s a killer out there and he’s worried that I could get hurt.” Azad had said more than that—he’d brought up their past and said he still cared for her.
A lot.
The trouble was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go down that path again. Especially now that they were working together.
“So what are you going to do?” Katie asked.
“It’s not in my nature to sit back while someone I care for gets arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“You still care for Azad?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that I care for him as a friend and a coworker only.”
“Hmm,” Katie said in a way that suggested she didn’t believe a word Lucy said. “Well, I’m glad you’re committed to solving this crime, because I have a plan.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Katie ignored her teasing tone and pulled out a second sheet of paper from the folder. “Other than digging into Henry’s past and why he needed cash, we can start with the obvious suspect.”
“Victoria Redding?”
“The wedding planner, yes. But I was thinking of Holly.”
“Who?”
“Holly Simms is Henry’s wife. She owns a McMansion in the new development on the edge of town. Scarlet and Bradford recently purchased a shore house nearby when they decided to film in Ocean Crest. Victoria is staying at the Sandpiper Bed and Breakfast.”
“I’m surprised everyone hasn’t hightailed it out of town,” Lucy said.
“They can’t. Clemmons requested the entire bridal party to stay in Ocean Crest until the investigation is complete. If any one of them flees, they’ll look guilty.”
“How convenient for us,” Lucy said.
“We can talk to Victoria first, but then we need to interrogate Holly.”
“What about Bill?”
Katie looked at her blankly. “What about him?”
“Don’t act dumb. Aren’t you worried about what he’ll say? He warned us to keep our noses out of this one.”
Katie shook her head. “I’m not worried. Bill was removed from the case because there’s a conflict of interest. I was at the wedding and Detective Clemmons questioned me at the scene.”
Lucy drew in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then slowly let it out. “Prosecutor Walsh scares me. The first time we met, she warned me that any involvement on my part could harm Bill’s career in the police department.”
“We’ll be careful. What should scare you more than that prosecutor is if your longtime ‘friend’ and current head chef gets arrested for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“Fine,” Lucy said. “We approach Victoria and Holly. But why would they even talk to us? We can’t just knock on their doors and ask to interrogate them like the police.”
“You’re right. We can’t. So what do we do?”
Lucy grinned as a thought occurred to her. “We get creative, just like we did during our last murder investigation.”
CHAPTER 8
Lucy left Lola’s Coffee Shop and returned to the restaurant. She found Sally in the kitchen standing by the industrial-sized coffee urn. The scent of freshly brewing coffee wafted to her and made her mouth water. Ridiculous. She’d just had a cappuccino.
How much coffee could one person drink in a day?
“Hey, Lucy. Your mother had to step out to run an errand. She said she’d be right back,” Sally said.
Tall and skinny with short dark hair, Sally looked like Olive Oyl from the Popeye cartoon. Chatty and friendly, she’d been a waitress at Kebab Kitchen for years, and customers loved her. Her parents often joked that Sally was a walking directory of local folk and should run for mayor. Sally had also become a good friend to Lucy since her return home.
Lucy eyed the long prep table. An array of ingredients and herbs was already spread out—finely chopped parsley, eggs, blocks of butter on a tray, a mound of grated cheese she couldn’t name, and phyllo dough. “What’s all this?”
“Angela has a catering job. They ordered six dozen cheese boeregs.”
“Six dozen?” Lucy knew the flaky phyllo pastry with cheese filling was a popular appetizer on their menu. They could be made into bite-size pieces and served on platters carried around by liveried servers and offered as hors d’oeuvres to guests at parties. But six dozen sounded like a lot to Lucy.
“It’s for a baby shower,” Sally added.
Lucy reached for the butter tray. “Azad mentioned a baby shower. It’s a big order, and my mom’s only supposed to work part-time. I can help. I just learned how to clarify butter.”
“I’m sure she’d be grateful,” Sally said.
&nb
sp; Lucy looked up. “Thanks. You’re the only person here that doesn’t crack jokes about my lack of culinary talent. Even Emma teases me sometimes.”
Sally grinned. “That would be the pot calling the kettle black. I can serve the food, but I can’t cook worth a damn. Besides, how will you learn if you don’t get your hands dirty?”
Lucy nodded. “My point exactly.”
Her mother had been teaching her, albeit slowly, how to cook Armenian, Lebanese, and Greek dishes and pastries. Lucy knew she’d never replace Azad or Butch, but if she was going to successfully manage Kebab Kitchen she should at least have an understanding of how to make the food.
Lucy had surprised herself over the past months. So far, she’d already learned how to make baklava and hummus. Both had their own challenges. The sheets of paper-thin phyllo dough used to make baklava tore easily. The measurements of garlic, lemon, and tahini for the hummus could be tricky when made in large batches.
While Lucy was growing up, everyone in her family knew how to cook, but Lucy would have rather had a bikini wax than turn on the oven. Angela was a perfectionist, and Lucy had never lived up to her mother’s expectations in the kitchen in the past.
But things had changed. She was still anxious in the kitchen, but she’d learned not to panic and flee at the sight and smell of burnt baklava.
“Any luck figuring out who killed the best man at Scarlet’s wedding?” Sally asked.
The butter tray slipped from Lucy’s fingers to land on the prep table with a thud. Another form of anxiety trickled down her spine that had nothing to do with cooking. “What do you mean? You know my mom forbid me to get involved.”
Sally winked. “But I know you. And Katie, too.” She leaned across the table and placed a forefinger across her lips. “Mum’s the word about it. Good luck.” The coffee urn hissed as it finished brewing, and Sally straightened. “I’d better get back to my tables. Mr. Krutcher insists on freshly brewed coffee and gets crankier by the minute until he gets his caffeine.” Sally filled a pot and waved on her way out of the kitchen.
Lucy turned her attention back to the ingredients spread out before her. She had no idea how to make cheese boereg. If only her mother kept a recipe book. But Angela knew every recipe by heart and never bothered to write them down.
Lucy reached for a saucepan. She may not know how to make it, but she could start on one of the few tasks she did know how to do until her mother returned.
Lucy slipped on a white apron embroidered with KEBAB KITCHEN in green letters, tied it at her waist, and spent the next fifteen minutes clarifying the butter. She heated the butter in the saucepan until it melted, then removed the white foam on the surface with a spoon. Her mother had told her that the foam contained the salt and it should be discarded. Once the butter cooled, Lucy poured it into another saucepan, discarded any excess solids left behind, and headed for the prep table.
“Lucy! What are you doing?”
Lucy started and turned to see her mother standing behind her.
Angela’s hands were planted on her hips. Her signature beehive was perfect, even this late in the afternoon. Anyone who didn’t know better might think it was a wig.
“Sally said you have a catering order for a baby shower. I already started with the butter.”
Angela’s gaze lowered to the saucepan in Lucy’s hands, and a satisfied look crossed her face. “Good. You can learn some more.” She washed her hands and put on her own apron. It was long on her petite frame, but somehow, she still managed to give off the vibe of a general . . . or a dictator depending on your perspective.
Lucy assumed her mother would double check her work, and she steeled herself for a critical comment about her lack of technique. But Angela picked up a remote, aimed it at a corner-mounted television, and turned it on.
“Cooking Kurt comes on soon. I like to watch his show when I work.”
Seconds later, a familiar jingle of the food channel sounded and a handsome blond man in a chef’s coat standing in an ultramodern kitchen with sleek, stainless-steel appliances and a quartz countertop appeared on the screen. He flashed a white smile that had to be bleached and bent down to pick up a roasting pan. His muscles bunched beneath his tight chef’s coat, and Lucy couldn’t help but wonder if the entire maneuver wasn’t planned to show off his masculinity and tight rear.
A corner of Lucy’s mouth twisted upward. “You like his recipes?”
“Of course.” Her mother was too preoccupied with watching the hot chef to catch the mocking tone in Lucy’s voice.
Lucy had no doubt that her mother could outcook the celebrity chef any day. Taught by her mother and mother-in-law, Angela created dishes that melted in your mouth.
“What makes your boereg so good, Mom?”
Her mother reluctantly tore her gaze away from the TV and reached for a large mixing bowl. “The trick is the Muenster cheese. I don’t use cottage cheese or mozzarella, only Muenster. It’s my secret. Now help me mix the cheese, eggs, and chopped parsley.”
“Got it.” Lucy cracked and beat the eggs, then combined all the ingredients and mixed them together.
“The trickiest part is the phyllo dough. We want miniature cheese-filled pastries, so we must cut each sheet into thirds.”
The sight of the phyllo dough still made Lucy’s pulse pound in trepidation. Each sheet was as thin as newspaper and could tear and dry out quickly. She’d learned how to use it to make baklava, but preparing the miniature boereg seemed much more difficult because they were so small.
“Butter the dough, and add a teaspoon of the cheese mixture.”
Lucy copied her mother and dipped a pastry brush in the saucepan, buttered a phyllo strip, then added a teaspoonful of cheese mixture to the edge of the dough. “Sally said you need six dozen.”
Angela continued working. “I did. I don’t need that many now.”
Something in her mother’s tone made Lucy raise her head to look at her. A gleam of anxiety flashed across Angela’s face, but it was gone so quickly Lucy imagined it was a quirk of sunlight from an overhead window reflecting off the stainless-steel oven.
“What do you mean you did, but no longer?”
Her mother shrugged a skinny shoulder as she buttered pastry. “I told the customer we couldn’t provide as much food.”
Lucy didn’t get it. Her mother had never said no to a customer or limited orders. She’d taken immense pride in the business and worked tirelessly in the past to increase the catering arm of the restaurant.
A sudden thought occurred to Lucy. “Did you limit the order because you’re working part-time hours now? You know I’m willing to step in and help.”
“Fold the cheese-filled phyllo into triangles, just like an American flag,” Angela instructed.
Lucy glared at her, frowning. “Don’t ignore me, Mom.”
Her mother’s lips thinned in irritation. “Then don’t interrupt while I’m teaching you.”
“Fine. Fold it like a flag, right?” Lucy’s first attempt to fold the cheese-filled phyllo was messy and the edges didn’t quite match.
“Press your fingers at the corners to seal the dough and keep the cheese from oozing out while they bake. Then brush the ends with butter before placing them on a baking sheet.”
Lucy did as her mother instructed, and after a dozen or so attempts, her folded triangles looked better.
Angela placed her first tray in the oven and moved on to her second. Lucy looked down at her work. She hadn’t even come close to filling her first tray.
How did her mother work so quickly?
Lucy’s thoughts returned to her unanswered question. Her mother was avoiding answering it, but why? Something was clearly up, and Lucy could be just as mulish as her mother when she wanted the truth.
“Now tell me the truth,” Lucy said. “Why’d you limit the catering order?”
Angela sighed in exasperation. “It has nothing to do with my work hours. It’s because we have no way to get all the food there with
out the van. Our catering profit margin isn’t big to begin with and it will cost us too much money to rent another van. The catering equipment, especially the two tall, rolling carts, won’t fit in any of our cars.”
Damn. Lucy should have thought of that. The murder had more consequences than she’d initially thought. First Azad, now their future catering jobs. What was next?
She straightened as a thought occurred to her. “I’ll talk to Bill.”
Angela waved her pastry brush. “Why? What can he do? You said Detective Clemmons took the van as evidence.”
It was true. Plus, Bill wasn’t technically assigned to the case. If she wanted to get the van back, she’d have to deal with Clemmons. And what chance did she have against the biased detective? Not to mention the fact that the murder was unsolved, and the van was a key piece of evidence.
What a mess.
“Mom, promise me you won’t tell any of our future catering customers that you have to limit their orders,” Lucy said.
Angela eyed her with a critical squint. “Why? You’re not getting involved in this murder business, are you?”
Lucy’s nerves tensed. She had no choice but to lie. Her mother would blow a gasket if she knew Lucy and Katie were investigating on their own.
“Of course not,” Lucy said, “but I can ask. If the police refuse, then Azad and I will make as many trips as necessary with the food. He has a pickup truck, not a car, and we’ll tie down the two catering carts with a dozen bungee cords if we have to.”
Lucy wasn’t even sure that would work. The rolling carts had large Dutch doors and were heavy. Would they even fit in the back of Azad’s pickup?
Angela’s eyes lit. “You and Azad. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Oh, no. She recognized that matchmaking gleam in her mother’s eyes.
“Mom,” she whined. “Stop trying to hook us up.”
“Why not? You’re not getting any younger, Lucy. You’re wasting all your childbearing years. You spent years away working, and you still have no marriage prospects. I want grandchildren.”
Lucy clenched her jaw as a primitive warning sounded in her brain. Arguing about men and her biological clock with her mother was maddening and a subject Lucy did her best to avoid. “I was building my career as a lawyer. And now, I’m working in the family business. Neither was or is a waste of time.”
