Stabbed in the Baklava

by Tina Kashian

  “Please call me Sam. No dancin’? No datin’? So, what can I help ya with?”

  “Henry Simms. We understand you helped him place sports bets,” Katie said.

  All humor vanished from Sam’s expression. His face shuttered and he looked away. Lucy glared at Katie. Her friend had never learned the fine art of subtlety. They needed Sam Turner to speak up, not clam up.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Now, I don’t know what he told you, but—”

  “He didn’t tell us anything. Henry Simms is dead,” Lucy said.

  Sam’s eyes darted to her in shock. “Henry’s dead?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Lucy lowered her voice.

  He shrugged. “I don’t live in town, and it’s not like we are . . . were best friends. I helped him with his entertainment.” All trace of his country accent vanished.

  “You mean his sports bets?” Katie said.

  Sam took a swig of his beer and swallowed. “Henry had a fondness for the Philadelphia teams. He also loved boxing. Why are you asking?”

  “Don’t worry. We’re not undercover police or the Gaming Commission,” Lucy said.

  “Then who are you? And what do you care about Henry?”

  “We are friends of his wife, Holly,” Lucy said. “We want to settle his debts quietly before his affliction for gambling gets out.” It was a small lie, but they needed to know the truth about Henry Simms’s risky behavior at the bank. Lucy looked him square in the eye as she waited for his response. Investigating murders had one result: she was definitely getting better at deception.

  Sam rotated the kinks out of his neck and took another drink of beer before continuing. “I get it. You want to hide his problem from the rest of the family before people like me start crawling out of the woodwork to knock on his door and demand our cash.”

  “Exactly,” Katie said.

  Sam’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “Perfect. Henry owed me two hundred and fifty.”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars?” Katie asked.

  “No. Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  Lucy’s and Katie’s jaws dropped.

  “He owed you that much cash just from betting on sports teams?” Lucy gripped the back of a bar stool.

  “Sure. A couple bad bets can add up fast.”

  “And you didn’t require payment up front?”

  “I’ve placed bets for Henry for years. There’s a matter of trust involved between a bookie and a long-time customer. We conducted business over the phone. Henry always pays up. Or, I guess I should say he always paid up.”

  “When was he going to pay you?” Katie asked.

  “Next week. I would have shown up at his home if he failed to meet me. I take it you ladies will speak with his wife and meet me instead?” Sam said.

  Lucy wasn’t surprised he still expected a huge lump cash payment after he’d learned Henry was dead. Bookies weren’t ethical—they operated illegal cash businesses. He probably expected Henry’s widow to pay. But what if Holly never knew Henry had gambled? Would Sam begin threatening tactics? Looking at the old geezer, he didn’t seem that intimidating, but what did she know? Maybe he’d hire a few of the muscular cowboys in the club to do his dirty work for him?

  Lucy’s pulse skittered as a disturbing thought occurred to her. Now that they’d gotten involved, what if Sam expected her or Katie to make good on Henry’s debt? Would his “muscle men” show up at Katie’s doorstep looking for cash?

  Holy crap.

  “We’ll talk with Henry’s widow.” Lucy did plan to have a conversation with Holly. They needed to learn what the widow knew about her late husband.

  Sam tipped his Stetson. “Much obliged. It will save me a hassle.” The band returned from a short break and began playing another lively tune. “Are you sure you two ladies don’t want to learn the two-step?”

  “We’re sure, but thank you anyway,” Lucy said.

  Sam shrugged. “Suit yourselves.” He hopped off the stool and strode toward the dance floor, took the hand of a middle-aged brunette as he passed by, and twirled her onto the hardwood.

  “He’s smooth for his age,” Lucy said.

  Katie nodded. “I guess it comes with his occupation.”

  They left the country bar and sat in Katie’s jeep. Katie started the engine, but kept the car in park and gripped the steering wheel. “I still can’t believe the amount of debt Henry had racked up.”

  “Sam will want payment. Either from Holly or someone else,” Lucy said.

  “By someone else you don’t mean us, do you?” Katie asked.

  Lucy stirred uneasily in her seat. “I sure hope not. But what if he shows up at your doorstep?”

  Katie’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I’ll set Bill on him.”

  “It must be nice to have a husband who’s a cop.”

  Katie offered a big smile. “I won’t lie. It comes in handy at times.”

  For a moment, Lucy felt a stab of jealousy. Katie and Bill had been together since after high school. No matter what Katie did, Bill would always be there for her and vice versa. Lucy wondered if she’d ever find that kind of devotion in a man.

  “Let’s not worry about Sam’s money-collecting efforts for now. We need to focus on Henry’s gambling.”

  Lucy nodded. “You’re right.”

  “Henry’s debt was considerable. No wonder he was taking risks with the loans at his bank. He was probably living week by week, paying off lost bets, then turning around and doing it all over again. How’d Henry get away with it?” Katie asked.

  Lucy pulled her seat belt across her lap and clicked it into place. “I don’t think he did, entirely. You said Henry was on probation. I can only guess he wasn’t fired because he was the CEO. He must have had friends in high places.” It may not be ethical, but it wouldn’t be the first time big banks had gotten away with fraudulent activity. Lucy had read law school cases where bank executives had stolen millions . . . sometimes billions . . . from unsuspecting customers by charging wrongful bank fees or questionable loan practices.

  Katie pulled out of the parking spot and headed back to Ocean Crest. She drove below the speed limit, and this time Lucy suspected it was because she was thinking about all they had learned. They both were.

  “It explains a lot,” Katie said.

  It did. If Henry was always strapped for cash, then he’d do anything to get it. “We already suspect he’d stolen bank funds from clients. And chances are he also sold pictures of Scarlet and Bradford’s wedding to the paparazzi. When I ran into Mae Bancroft earlier today at Holloway’s, I saw photos of the wedding reception in one of the tabloids by the checkout aisle. Victoria had taken Henry’s cell phone, but I think she was too late, and Henry had already sold them for cash.”

  Katie whistled. “What if Henry had dealt with more than one bookie?”

  “It’s possible.” Lucy drew her lips in thoughtfully. “And if he did, then more people had motive to want Henry Simms dead.”

  CHAPTER 11

  When Lucy walked into the restaurant the next day, both Azad and Butch were hard at work in the kitchen. Emma read from a slip of paper taped to the back of her order pad. “Tonight’s specials are baba ghanoush for an appetizer, a fattoush salad of mixed greens, vegetables, and pita chips, and main entrees of chicken kebab and stuffed peppers and zucchini with meat and rice.”

  Lucy licked her lips. Baba ghanoush, the eggplant and sesame seed dip, was a popular item on the menu. “Sounds delicious.”

  Emma tucked the pad into the front pocket of her waitress apron. “It’s a full staff tonight. Mom and Dad are helping. Sally and I are waitressing.”

  Lucy entered the dining room through the swinging doors and was happy to see that half of the tables and booths were already occupied. Her father was at the hostess stand greeting and seating customers as they entered. Her mother was behind the register. Working part-time had been good for her parents and was easing them into retirement. Her fathe
r was teaching Lucy how to manage the books, inventory, and the payroll, and her mother was teaching her how to cook. Lucy was quickly mastering the books and paperwork, but the cooking lessons were an entirely different challenge and were taking more time and effort.

  “We’re booked for tonight, Lucy.” Her father patted the weathered, black reservation book.

  Lucy eyed the book speculatively. “Have you thought about a computerized reservation system? I left quotes from a couple vendors in the office for you to review.”

  “Your mother and I have thought about it and decided against it,” Raffi said.

  “Dad, change is nothing to be afraid of,” she argued.

  “Tell that to the storage room.”

  Lucy cringed. The haphazard status of the storage room kept returning to haunt her. “That’s different, Dad. I had no control over the strike at the shelving manufacturer, and I certainly couldn’t help that our handyman injured his back.”

  “Who’s to say something similar won’t happen if you install an expensive computer system?” Raffi asked. “My method has worked for thirty years without a hitch. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it.”

  Lucy frowned. There was no doubt that Raffi Berberian was mulish.

  But she was learning from the best. One step at a time, Lucy, she thought. She remained confident that she would wear her parents down.

  Her father stepped close and touched her cheek. “You know we are proud of you.”

  Lucy could never stay mad at her father for long. He could be gruff and he never minced words, but he was affectionate with his daughters. “Thanks, Dad. But you know I won’t give up.”

  He broke into a wide, open smile. “You wouldn’t be a Berberian if you did.” The front door opened and Raffi gathered menus to seat a family of five.

  A steady stream of hungry customers was in line for the hummus bar. “It’s been a good tourist season so far,” her mother said. “I came up with new hummus recipes of Greek olive, edamame, and spicy jalapeño hummus. Customers like the flavors.”

  “Sounds delicious. Make sure you wrap some hummus and baklava for Katie and Bill. They’ve been asking.”

  Her mother’s face lit up whenever anyone complimented her cooking. “Of course. I’ll include tonight’s special.”

  “They’d like that, Mom,” Lucy said.

  After making the rounds and chatting with customers, Lucy returned to the kitchen to find Azad plating one of the dinner specials. He set the dish on the stainless-steel counter beneath the heat lamps and called out number three. Each waitress had a specific number, and when the chef called it out, the waitress knew one of her orders was ready. Sally was number three. Lucy had always been number six when she’d waitressed. It was another one of the old systems that Lucy wanted to computerize.

  Azad waved her over as soon as he saw her. “Hey, Lucy. Can I talk with you in private?”

  “Sure.”

  He wiped his hands on a towel and motioned for her to follow him to an isolated corner of the kitchen. His features were tense and a trickle of anxiety ran down her spine.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucy asked.

  “Detective Clemmons wants me to go to the station for questioning tomorrow.”

  Her anxiety heightened. Had Clemmons come up with more evidence against Azad? And if he had, then why ask for Azad to come to the station for questioning? Wouldn’t Clemmons have shown up at the restaurant with a warrant for his arrest?

  Her reasoning should reassure her, but it didn’t. “You need a lawyer,” Lucy said.

  “You think I need one?”

  “I know you do.”

  “Can you do it?”

  She sighed in exasperation. “Azad, I’m not a criminal attorney. I practiced patent law. I could patent Detective Clemmons’s handcuffs—if they hadn’t already been patented—but I can’t defend you. Plus, I’m your employer and I was present at the wedding. It’s a huge conflict of interest.”

  He sighed. “All right.”

  “Call Clyde Winters. He’s local and handles criminal matters like municipal court cases and DUIs. Municipal court can get pretty busy during tourist season.”

  Azad’s head snapped up. “He’s like a hundred years old!”

  She hadn’t seen the town’s lawyer in a decade. Was it true? The only criminal defense lawyers she knew were in Philadelphia. “Then I’ll give you a good recommendation for—”

  Her cell phone rang and cut her off. Lucy pulled it out of her back pocket and caught a glimpse of the cell phone case with a picture of her holding Gadoo. “Hello?”

  “It’s Katie. Can you talk?”

  “I’m with Azad in the kitchen. What’s up?”

  “Ditch him.”

  “Hold on.” Lucy covered the receiver and looked at Azad. He was watching her with a hopeful expression. “I need to take this privately.”

  She hurried into the small office in the corner of the storage room, shut the door, and sat on the chair in front of a desk littered with order forms, invoices, and payroll sheets. “I’m alone. What’s wrong?”

  “I did some digging while I was at work. It turns out there was a million-dollar life insurance policy on Henry Simms.”

  Lucy’s pulse leaped. “A million dollars is a boatload of money.”

  “No kidding. It gets better. Holly Simms is the beneficiary, and the policy was purchased only three months ago,” Katie said.

  “Can someone collect life insurance benefits if the insured is murdered?” Lucy asked.

  “Yes, as long as the beneficiary isn’t the murderer.”

  Lucy processed this information. She’d thought Henry’s murder had been a spur of the moment killing. It’s not like anyone would have known the catering van would be in the parking lot and shish kebab skewers would be available inside.

  But what if she was wrong and the murder had been premeditated? What if the skewer just happened to be convenient, but the killer would have murdered Henry by another method anyway?

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Katie said. “What are you thinking?”

  Lucy fidgeted with the paperwork on the desk. “What if Holly knew about Henry’s affair with Cressida earlier than we thought?”

  “You mean before the wedding rehearsal?” Katie asked.

  “Victoria said Holly didn’t say a word when she saw Cressida Connolly in Henry’s arms at the church rehearsal. Only that Holly looked furious. Victoria assumed Holly had just learned of the affair, but what if Holly had already known about it?”

  “You think she knew her husband was cheating, and as a result, she took out a million-dollar life insurance policy on him?” Katie asked.

  “What if, and she gets away with it?”

  “Then I’d say Holly had motive, time, and means to plan her husband’s murder. We need to talk with her,” Katie said.

  Lucy’s palm grew sweaty as she clutched the phone. She hadn’t forgotten about Azad’s scheduled meeting with Detective Clemmons. “I agree. But there’s something else I need to do first.”

  * * *

  The Ocean Crest police station was located in the center of town in a redbrick building across from the library. The station also housed the town hall and municipal court, but had its own separate entrance. The same young, freckle-faced officer who had accompanied Bill Watson to the crime scene at Castle of the Sea sat behind the desk when Lucy entered the vestibule. He looked up from a sports magazine as Lucy approached the counter.

  She rested her hands on the counter and smiled. “I’m here to see Detective Clemmons.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes,” she fibbed. “I’m Lucy Berberian and it’s about what happened at Scarlet Westwood’s wedding.”

  “I remember you.” He pointed to one of the closed doors at the back of the station. “That’s the detective’s office.”

  Lucy didn’t have to strain to read the nameplate. She already knew which office belonged to Clemmons. The detective had summoned her here f
or questioning a few months ago for a different murder.

  She made sure to smile at the young officer again, then walked farther into the station. Cops in uniform were busy typing up reports on their computers, talking on the telephone, cracking wise jokes at each other across their desks, and tossing balled-up pieces of paper into overfilled wastepaper baskets. Ever since Lucy was a kid, the town hired extra officers during the busy summer months, the locals referring to them as “rent-a-cops.”

  She glanced down to see a handful of carbon copies of traffic tickets on an officer’s desk. Fines from expired parking meters issued to tourists during the summer provided a solid source of revenue for the small shore town. Of course, the tickets also meant a busy municipal court season. Once again, she thought of Clyde Winters and hoped Azad had contacted him or another attorney.

  She rapped on Detective Clemmons’s office door.

  “What?” a voice grumbled from behind the door.

  Lucy opened the door. Clemmons sat behind his desk holding a cup of coffee. A white, powdered doughnut rested on a napkin in front of him.

  Really? she thought. Doughnuts and cops were the ultimate cliché.

  He lowered his cup and glared. “Ms. Berberian, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Lucy stepped into his office. Clemmons wore a white shirt and solid blue tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His jacket hung on a coatrack in the corner. The air-conditioning was blasting from the overhead vent, and the room was frigid.

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms under her lightweight running jacket. “I understand Azad Zakarian is coming in today for further questioning.”

  “Why am I not surprised you know?” A cold, congested expression settled on his face.

  “I’m sure you remember that we work together. He told me.”

  The detective’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I see. I didn’t realize I needed your approval to summon a suspect.”

  Katie’s comment that he was hungry for a promotion and that he believed solving the murder quickly would help him achieve that goal made Lucy uneasy. It also justified today’s visit. If the detective was focused on Azad as the main suspect, then she needed to inform him what they’d learned and have him consider other suspects. But how to tell him without admitting that she and Katie had been investigating on their own?