Stabbed in the Baklava

by Tina Kashian

  “How much seasoning?”

  “A little bit of crushed mint. A pinch of salt and pepper. I don’t measure. I just know.”

  Lucy’s lips turned downward. “That doesn’t help me at all.”

  “Watch and learn.”

  They worked side by side, making the filling, then began the tedious task of filling each individual grape leaf. “Lay the grape leaf shiny side down, add a teaspoon of filling by the stem end, fold the sides, then roll the tip of the leaf to form a cigar-shaped cylinder.”

  Lucy looked at the massive pile of filling, then at the dozens and dozens of grape leaves. If each only took a teaspoonful of filling, it would take forever. At least her mother had dropped the subject of Azad.

  “It’s not just the bank loan. What else is troubling you?” Angela asked.

  So much for that. Lucy should have known better than to think her mother would let the subject go. Her maternal instincts were on high alert. Lucy sighed and stopped rolling. “Azad lied again, Mom. He dated the maid of honor in the wedding, a woman named Cressida Connolly. I saw the picture in the paper.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  Lucy dropped her teaspoon on the worktable and stared at her mother. “You knew about Cressida?”

  “Azad’s always been like a son to us. He never really left the restaurant and worked part-time shifts if Butch was on vacation. You didn’t know about that woman because you left.”

  Frustration made her voice harsh. “I didn’t leave you. I was working.”

  Angela waved a hand as if there was no difference. “He dated that redhead briefly. They never were a good match.”

  “Why? Because you want me to be with Azad?”

  Her mother’s eyes flashed in a familiar display of impatience. “No, because they didn’t fit.”

  What does that mean ? A part of Lucy wanted to know. Needed to know. Who would Azad fit with?

  Her mother continued to wrap the grape leaves with remarkable dexterity and speed. Her leaves looked like tightly wrapped miniature Cuban cigars, whereas Lucy’s weren’t wrapped as neatly. Plus, her mother’s pot was almost half full, and Lucy hadn’t even managed to cover the bottom of her pot.

  “It was a long time ago,” Angela said as she wrapped two at a time. “You need to forget the past.”

  Lucy’s voice was hoarse with frustration. “It’s not just the past. He never even mentioned he’d dated Cressida, and it’s important to the murder case. The murder that I’m trying to solve in order to clear his name.”

  Angela sighed with exasperation. “I love you, Lucy, and I’m proud to have you as a daughter. But you are very stubborn.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you should give him another chance.”

  “You’ve always wanted us to be together. You just want to keep the restaurant in the family.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous!”

  Her mother stopped working, and her gaze bore into Lucy. “Open your eyes. Every time you walk in the room, he notices you. And every time he comes near, you become nervous and run away. Why is that?”

  Why indeed?

  Lucy was honest enough with herself to admit she was still attracted to Azad. He was as entwined in her past as her parents’ grapevine in her childhood home. Now, he was in her future as well.

  But what about motorcycle-riding Michael Citteroni? She was drawn to him, too.

  The truth was that she wasn’t ready to commit to either.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t forgive Azad. Her mother’s words rang true. The past was the past. She couldn’t hold a grudge for whom Azad dated after they’d broken up. And she couldn’t be mad at him for wanting to buy the restaurant before she even returned to Ocean Crest.

  “Help him, Lucy,” her mother said. “Find out who killed that man. Then do yourself a favor and find out how you feel.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Lucy was tired from standing and rolling dozens of grape leaves. Three large pots were simmering on the stove and the smell was a delicious distraction.

  “Hey, Mrs. Berberian. What are you cooking?”

  Lucy turned to see Azad enter the kitchen. He lifted a lid on one of the pots and smelled the simmering grape leaves.

  “Lucy made that pot,” her mother said.

  “It smells great. I’m impressed.”

  His dark gaze sought hers, and he studied her with a curious intensity. The way he looked at her suggested it wasn’t just her cooking that impressed him. Her pulse skittered alarmingly.

  Get a grip, Lucy.

  She’d been careful to avoid him in the kitchen. The only path from the dining room into the storage room and her office was through the kitchen, and she’d wait to race by when Azad was occupied at the worktable or at the stove and his back was to her. It may have been childish, but she didn’t want to face him just yet.

  Her mother took off her apron and set it on a peg on the wall. “I need to get back home and wake your father.”

  “It’s past nine o’clock. He can’t still be sleeping,” Lucy said. Her mother was simply trying to get her and Azad to spend some time alone together before the rest of the staff showed up.

  “You don’t know your father.” Angela motioned to the pots. “Let them simmer for an hour.” Then she turned and waved on her way out the door.

  “She keeps doing that, doesn’t she?” Azad asked.

  Lucy didn’t try to feign ignorance. “She wants us to talk.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. All we’ve talked about lately is restaurant business.”

  That’s because I wanted it that way. Or so she thought. Her mother’s words came back to her.

  “How’d it go with your mom today?” he asked.

  “She’s convinced she’ll make a chef out of me yet.”

  He chuckled. “Is my job in jeopardy?”

  “Hardly. You have nothing to worry about.”

  He looked at her strangely, then asked, “Hey, Lucy, do you want to go to dinner Sunday night? I know a quaint Italian place out of town.”

  Surprise coursed through her. Was he asking her out on a date?

  “Azad, I don’t know if—”

  “We can discuss the investigation.”

  Oh, that. She wanted to smack her forehead. Of course, it wasn’t a date. Had a simple conversation with her mother changed her perception of him completely?

  “Sunday’s good.”

  He flashed a charming grin. “Great. I’ll pick you up at six.” He placed the lid back on the simmering pot. “By the way, I meant what I said. Good job wrapping all of these. And they smell great, too.”

  With that, he left her in the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 17

  By the time Lucy finished hunting for supplies on the wooden pallets in the storage room in order to finish inventory that night, it was almost ten o’clock. What a mess. If the steel shelving wasn’t installed soon, she’d bust out her father’s old drill in her parents’ garage and attempt to do it herself.

  She contemplated going home to Katie’s, dressing in comfortable sweats, and collapsing in front of the TV to watch repeats of CSI with her friend, but then guilt won out. She’d eaten more than one slice of lemon meringue pie, as well as two pieces of baklava straight from the oven. There was no time to work out tomorrow since she’d promised her mother that she’d take her to Pages Bookstore, and she’d told Emma she’d babysit her niece in the evening. If she didn’t watch it, she’d have to lie down on the bed to zip up her jeans in the morning.

  Lucy trudged to her office where she kept workout clothes and a spare pair of running shoes. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt and refilling Gadoo’s food and water bowls, she locked the back door of the restaurant. She didn’t normally jog this late at night, but a full moon, combined with the streetlights, illuminated her path. The leaves of tall oak and sycamore trees shimmered and danced as she jogged
down Ocean Avenue.

  The exercise cleared her mind and she was able to sort through what she’d learned so far about the murder. Numerous people had reason to want Henry Simms dead. Henry’s embezzlement and reckless behavior as bank president provided plenty of motive for both Bradford and Scarlet. Then there was Henry’s infidelity. His wife, Holly, not only knew about the affair, but she knew the identity of her husband’s lover and hated Cressida Connolly with a vengeance. Holly may have a trust fund and not be desperate for the cash from the life insurance policy, but an angry, betrayed spouse could be deadly. Last, there was Cressida, and if Henry had lied to her about leaving his wife, then she too may have decided to get rid of her lover.

  The suspects were mounting, but Lucy was no closer to solving the murder.

  Crickets chirped and sang as Lucy passed cottages and small rental homes where lights twinkled in the windows and adults gathered around flat screen televisions after the children had gone to bed. Tricycles, beach carts, and beach toys were scattered across freshly cut lawns. Beach towels slung over second-floor railings to dry blew in the night breeze like colorful flags.

  She turned down Oyster Street and ran by the new McMansions that were recently constructed at the edge of town. Sprawling white stone facades, towering pillars, gabled roofs, and replicas of seminude Roman statues on well-tended lawns competed with each other. Holly lived in one of these houses, and Bradford and Scarlet in another. For all their luxury, Lucy disliked the garish and ostentatious homes and thought their seven-figure price tags outrageous, but she also knew it was the ocean-front views that truly made the houses worth a small fortune. Still, she much preferred Katie and Bill’s cozy ranch home.

  Soon she was on the stretch of road by the ocean and sweat beaded on her brow. A refreshing breeze cooled her skin and carried the scent of salt, sand dunes, and the sea. Her pace slowed as she passed the Sandpiper Bed and Breakfast and returned to the smaller homes.

  A dark sedan drove by slowly as she came to the end of the street, then accelerated. Lucy kept going. If tourists thought they could get a room, then they would be disappointed. The orange neon NO VACANCY sign flashed in the Sandpiper’s front window.

  When she came upon Ocean Avenue, Lucy stopped jogging and started walking to cool down and catch her breath. Traffic was light on the street, and for a long stretch she saw no one. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a car slide by. She wasn’t sure, but she thought it was the same dark sedan she’d seen before. The hair on the back of her neck rose. For the first time, she wondered why she’d left her cell phone behind. She’d decided not to listen to music tonight, preferring the night sounds of the crickets and the ocean waves.

  Not such a brilliant idea, Lucy.

  She was close to the restaurant, and her Toyota sat beneath the parking light.

  Just as she decided to sprint the rest of the way, the dark car made a sharp right, veered into the parking lot, and stopped next to her car.

  What the heck?

  The driver’s side door opened and a figure stepped out. The woman’s long blond hair, flawless profile, and curvaceous figure were unmistakable.

  Scarlet Westwood.

  Scarlet’s heels echoed off the blacktop as she shut the car door and halted by the hood. The socialite was dressed in a short, skintight black dress and red high heels. She looked like she was going to hit the Atlantic City nightclubs.

  Lucy walked the rest of the way and stopped before her. Scarlet tucked an errant blond curl behind her ear, and her diamond necklace glittered beneath the overhead light. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. Can we talk?”

  They hadn’t spoken since the day Scarlet had arrived at the restaurant with her wedding planner, Victoria Redding, and stated that she’d wanted Kebab Kitchen to cater her wedding. All communication since then had been through Victoria.

  A warning voice whispered in Lucy’s head, and she tried to suppress her jangling nerves. “Is this about the latest invoice I delivered to Ms. Redding?”

  “No. I understand you’ve been asking questions about Henry’s death.”

  Whoa. How did she know that? “I’m not sure—”

  “Victoria told me you came to see her.”

  “I did. Like I said, I had to deliver the final catering bill. There were some last minute adjustments because of the cost of the food.”

  “I don’t care about the bill,” Scarlet said, her voice tense.

  Denial was Lucy’s best option. “Then I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I also happened to see you in the park the other day. Do you always make it a practice to hide in the bushes?”

  Oh, no.

  Denial was blown out of the water. How on earth had Scarlet seen her? She’d been careful to wait until both Scarlet and Cressida had departed before crawling from beneath the bushes. Had Scarlet turned around and spotted her with Stan Slade?

  She studied the socialite as her mind whirled. What was the harm in Scarlet knowing that she’d been investigating? Maybe this was her chance to ask the woman a few questions of her own.

  “You’re right.” Lucy folded her arms across her chest. “I have been asking questions. The police consider my head chef a murder suspect. He didn’t kill Henry Simms.”

  “You think I did? Or Bradford?” Scarlet clenched her fists at her sides, and her face clouded with uneasiness.

  “I’m not sure what to think. All I know is that Henry abused his position as bank president and stole money from accounts. Your business account with Bradford was one of them.”

  Scarlet touched the diamond necklace at her throat. “Henry did steal. He needed cash, and fast, but he swore that he never intended to hurt Bradford. He planned to borrow the money and then return it before we noticed it was missing. He was wrong.”

  “You must have been angry.”

  “I was. He risked the launch of Scarlet’s Passion, my new line of fragrances. But I didn’t kill Henry,” Scarlet insisted.

  “What about Bradford? He must have been mad.”

  “You mean mad enough to kill?” Scarlet straightened her shoulders. “Yes, he was angry with Henry, but Bradford is not capable of murder. He’s sweet and kind and doesn’t have a killer bone in his body.”

  Bradford was a top Hollywood director and producer. Lucy doubted that a person reached that position by being sweet and kind—more likely driven and cutthroat. Was Scarlet lying? Or was she bamboozled by her new husband just as Cressida and Holly had been conned by Henry?

  “What about the money stolen from your account?” Lucy asked.

  “Henry eventually returned the money, and Bradford forgave him. Bradford wanted me to do the same. I admit it was a hard sell for me to forgive and forget, but I did it for him and because Scarlet’s Passion is still on a timely schedule to launch. Even though picking the best man is customarily the groom’s choice, we shared all the important wedding decisions. That’s why I agreed with Bradford’s decision and never replaced Henry as the best man.”

  Lucy wasn’t entirely convinced. Scarlet didn’t seem like the forgiving kind, even if that was what her husband truly wanted. Especially when Henry’s actions had almost compromised her new business venture.

  “What about the pictures that were sold to the tabloids?” Lucy asked. “You were adamant about the wedding staying out of the papers, and you went so far as to insist your guests place their cell phones and cameras in a basket before walking into the reception. Victoria saw Henry smuggle in his cell phone. You must have been livid.”

  “I know where you’re headed, but my anger over the tabloid pictures still didn’t make me go out and murder Henry. Plus, those pictures weren’t published until after Henry was murdered. Your theory that I saw red and turned around and stabbed Henry at my own wedding doesn’t hold up.”

  She had a point. Still, Henry’s underhanded dealings at the bank provided enough motive and Lucy wasn’t convinced of Bradford’s or Scarlet’s forgiveness.

&nb
sp; Lucy shifted her feet. “What about your maid of honor?”

  “Cressida? What about her?”

  “Her affair with Henry is no longer a secret.”

  Something flickered far back in Scarlet’s eyes. “I guess you heard more of our conversation than I thought.”

  Lucy had learned about the affair before then, but she didn’t point that out. “Cressida claims she’d convinced Henry to leave his wife, but Holly is adamant that Henry never would have left her.”

  “You think Cressida killed Henry?”

  “Maybe Cressida figured out that Henry never intended to get a divorce. She could have killed him.”

  Scarlet pulled her mouth in at the corners. “No way. I can’t imagine it.”

  At Lucy’s hesitation, Scarlet’s voice grew urgent. “Fine. I can’t vouch for Cressida or anyone else.” She pointed to her chest. “But you have to believe that I’m innocent. Bradford too.”

  Lucy remained skeptical, but something else was bothering her at the moment. Something bigger. “Why do you care what I believe? Why follow me here tonight to convince me of your innocence?”

  Scarlet didn’t miss a beat. “You’re a local. Plus, I heard you solved a murder in town a couple months ago that the police failed to figure out. You’re a smart lady, Lucy. And I always place my bets on the right person.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Pages Bookstore was located between Cutie’s Cupcakes and Magic’s Family Apothecary. It was a small, independently owned bookstore, and one of Lucy’s favorite places—other than Ocean Crest’s librar y—to pass extra time. She loved the cozy atmosphere of the store, which was crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves of books, magazines, and DVDs. The owner, Candace Kent, was an attractive young widow who always welcomed local authors to her store to sign their books. Her last author-signing was for local best-selling suspense author Paul Evans. Today, Candace had managed to outdo even that turnout, and the line extended out the front door.

  “There he is!” Lucy’s mother placed a shaky hand on her chest.

  Through the throng of people, Lucy spotted a tall, handsome blond in a tight chef’s coat sitting behind a table in the center of the store. A stack of glossy cookbooks rested beside him and a long line of customers were waiting to get signed copies of Cooking Kurt’s latest culinary masterpiece. A young female assistant stood to his right and opened a cookbook to the title page, inserted a recipe card, and handed it to Kurt to sign as each reader approached.