Hummus and Homicide

by Tina Kashian

  Katie frowned. “Like what?”

  “You said Heather visited Guido the day she died to deliver an inspection report?”

  “That’s right,” Katie said.

  “She ate at Kebab Kitchen’s hummus bar even though she complained about it in her written report. Maybe she also ate or drank something from the pizzeria that day.”

  Katie’s eyes widened. “Good thinking.”

  The pair hurried back inside the pizzeria. Guido wasn’t in sight. Lucy stopped the same tattooed waiter they had flagged down when they first entered the restaurant. “I’d like to get a pizza to go.”

  “Sure.” The waiter pulled out his pad and pencil. He was chewing a large wad of pink bubble gum. “What size?”

  “A large pizza. By the way, were you working the afternoon the health inspector came in the other day?” Lucy asked.

  “Tall, red-haired woman with a tight outfit and a bad attitude?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Sure. I remember her. Why?” he asked.

  “Did she eat anything here that day?”

  The waiter chewed his gum and shook his head. “Nope. Just an iced tea to go. I remember because she’d insisted it had to be fresh and unsweetened. She was a picky lady . . . a real pain in the butt.”

  * * *

  Katie and Lucy were back in the Jeep with a steaming pizza on Lucy’s lap.

  “Heather ordered iced tea to go from the Hot Cheese Pizzeria after she inspected the place. That’s also what she drank at Kebab Kitchen the day she died,” Lucy said.

  Katie turned onto Ocean Avenue and accelerated as they drove down the main street. Lucy cringed as the car hit a pothole. A block later, they passed a police car and Katie waved. The blond officer wasn’t her dark-haired husband, but instead of turning on his lights and attempting to pull her over for speeding he waved back.

  “You think someone slipped Heather a lethal dose of cyanide in her iced tea?” Katie asked.

  “We won’t know what was in her system until the tox results. But what if?” Lucy asked.

  “It’s a good theory. It’s not like Guido Morelli is upset she’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “The pizza’s really good.” Katie took a bite out of a slice as cheese and sauce dripped onto her paper plate. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

  Lucy’s stomach grumbled. “I was saving my calories for later, but you’ve convinced me,” she said as she helped herself to a slice. Her first bite of warm pizza crust topped with homemade sauce and cheese was heavenly. Katie was right. It was delicious. Lucy quickly finished her slice.

  Sitting at Katie’s kitchen table, the small flat screen TV on the counter was turned to a cooking channel. A handsome male chef was demonstrating how to cut open a ripe avocado, remove the pit, and make guacamole. Prominent muscles were visible beneath his apron, and Lucy wondered how many hours the young chef spent in the gym versus the kitchen. Her mother loved to watch cooking shows, and Lucy had never understood the fascination. After cooking all day in the restaurant, how could she want to go home and watch someone else cook? Or was her mother just tuning in to watch the cute TV chefs?

  Lucy frowned as a sudden thought occurred to her. “I need to search Kebab Kitchen.”

  Katie lowered her pizza. “For what?”

  “Cyanide, of course. I should have thought to search the restaurant before. Sodium cyanide and potassium cyanide are both white powders. If Heather was poisoned, it makes sense that it would be a white powder, not a gas. A powder could be mixed into her drink or sprinkled on her food.”

  “Do you think you’ll find rat poison?”

  Lucy wrinkled her nose. “I doubt my parents keep rat poison in the place.”

  “It would be a waste of your time,” Katie said.

  “Why?”

  “The police have already searched the restaurant and took everything they wanted from that night, remember?”

  “Maybe they missed something. I have to check.”

  “How do you plan to search the place? Your parents, Emma, or Butch are always around.”

  Lucy had already thought of a good time. “I’ll go bright and early before anyone gets there.”

  Katie eyed her, then went back to her pizza. “Suit yourself.”

  The wind chimes from the front porch tinkled and swayed from the afternoon breeze. Moments later, the scrape of a key in the lock alerted them that Bill was home from his shift.

  The front door opened and Bill stepped inside, dressed in his policeman’s uniform. He removed his hat and ran his hand over his buzz cut.

  Lucy pushed back her chair and stood. Every time she saw Bill, she struggled with the urge to interrogate him to find out if he’d learned anything, however small, about the investigation into Heather’s death.

  “Hey,” Katie said, her tone dry, but her eyes lit up as they traveled up and down Bill’s muscular frame in his uniform. “Any news you’d like to share with us?”

  Bill’s jaw tensed. “You know I’m not supposed—”

  “It would be nice to hear it before it’s in print, Bill,” Katie said.

  “You’re not going to let it go, are you?” Bill asked.

  “Not a chance,” Katie said, “But my stubborn nature is one of the reasons you love me.”

  “Fine. I suppose Lucy does have a right to know and be prepared,” Bill said. “We looked into Heather’s cell phone records. She received a call during the time when she was in Kebab Kitchen.”

  “Just like I told you,” Lucy said.

  “It was a burner phone and untraceable,” Bill said.

  Disappointment settled in Lucy’s chest at the dead end.

  “Anything else?” Katie asked.

  “All I can tell you is that the department sent the food and trash it collected from Kebab Kitchen from the night Heather Banks died to the state lab for testing. The results take time.” He hesitated, then took a deep breath before continuing. “But after the coroner’s report, Detective Clemmons is convinced what Heather ate caused her death. He wants to go on record and announce it as a suspicious death and call in the county prosecutor.”

  Lucy’s stomach dropped. “Kebab Kitchen might as well close its doors!”

  Bill’s gaze snapped to Lucy’s. At her dismayed expression, his jaw eased. “He won’t say how he thinks Heather died, only that her death is suspicious.”

  Clemmons’ announcement would have terrible consequences for the restaurant. And summoning the county prosecutor could cause even more trouble. “He doesn’t have to spell out how. People will assume it was from the food.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Katie asked, hands on her hips. “Isn’t Clemmons jumping the gun?”

  “It’s out of my hands,” Bill said.

  Lucy swallowed her panic. There had to be something she could do. “What about Heather’s gambling habit?”

  “That’s right. Heather needed money to support her addiction,” Katie chimed in.

  “What are you two talking about?”

  Lucy didn’t know if she’d made a grave error in telling Bill what they’d learned. Maybe the police knew about the gambling already. But if they didn’t, the police had the resources to confirm whether it was true.

  The cat’s out of the bag now, Lucy thought. She might as well tell Bill everything they’d learned and hope the police and Calvin Clemmons would investigate every lead.

  “We talked to ah . . . someone who said Heather had a bad gambling habit and may have been accepting bribes in exchange for giving certain restaurants a pass for health violations,” Lucy said.

  Bill’s eyes narrowed and he pinned them with a cold glare. “You two aren’t supposed to get involved. Promise me you are not messing with police business.”

  Katie smiled sweetly. “Just look into it, okay?” She took a plate from the counter, put a large piece of pizza on it, and handed it to her husband.

  Bill wasn’t entirely pacified, but his wife’s smil
e—combined with the hot pizza—had the intended effect. He accepted the plate and sat at the table to eat.

  * * *

  At five o’clock sharp Tuesday morning, Lucy walked into Kebab Kitchen prepared for some serious snooping with a flashlight and a pocket full of plastic baggies.

  She hit the storage room first, shining the flashlight into every dark corner. Nothing looked suspicious. Bags of flour, yeast, and salt were the closest items that resembled white powder, but she could tell by their scent and texture that they were not cyanide. Not surprisingly, she didn’t find any rat poison. She walked away empty-handed from the kitchen and dining room as well.

  She headed back into the storage room but walked straight to her parents’ office in the corner. Turning the knob, she stepped inside the small room. The surface of the oak desk was clear except for a desk blotter and a stack of time cards. The tall metal shelves in the corner were packed with small boxes and canned food samples from different salesmen that visited the restaurant. If her mother liked a new product, her father would order it for the restaurant. Her mother was picky, and as a result, the shelves were full of unopened cans and boxes of food samples that they would donate to a local food kitchen.

  The only two items that resembled white powder was a glass jar of generic seasoning salt and a box of dishwashing detergent. Lucy opened the box of detergent and sniffed the contents, when an all-too familiar voice pierced the silence.

  “Lucy, what are you doing here so early?”

  Lucy jumped in surprise and dropped the box of detergent. It landed on the tile floor with a solid thud that split the box open. White powder spilled out on her sneakers and the floor in a cloud. Her hand flew to her chest, and she whirled to see Angela standing in the doorway.

  “Mom! You scared me half to death.”

  Her mother’s brow furrowed and her eyes lowered to the mess on the floor. The scent of the dishwashing detergent—strong lemon and chlorine—filled the room.

  “Sorry about the mess. I was hoping to come in early and start on the payroll to help you and Dad out.” Lucy crossed her fingers behind her back at the little white lie.

  Her mother eyed her curiously as she repinned a loose lock of hair back into her beehive. “I have a large catering order. You can help me in the kitchen instead.”

  Lucy was relieved her mother didn’t ask more questions. She already felt guilty for her clandestine search of the place. “Sure. I’ll clean up and meet you in the kitchen.”

  Lucy found a mop in the storage room and cleaned the office floor. Her yoga pants and sneakers were another matter entirely. She brushed her pants off with her hands, but remnants of white powder could still be seen on the black fabric and between the laces of her shoes. She may have been discovered, but at least she hadn’t found cyanide in the restaurant. Katie was right. Since the police had taken all the leftover food Heather had eaten, Lucy’s family would just have to wait for the results.

  By the time Lucy finished cleaning and entered the kitchen, her mother was kneading dough on the wooden prep table. Her oversized apron swallowed her five-foot frame. The industrial mixer that could hold fifty pounds of dough sat in the corner. The ovens behind her were set on PREHEAT. A small TV was mounted in the corner and an infomercial for wrinkle cream was playing.

  The smell of yeast and flour wafted over to Lucy. “What are you making?”

  “I’m filling a catering order for an out-of-town wedding. They want five dozen choreg, twenty trays of baklava, and ten tubs of hummus. Thank goodness for our catering business. Out-of-towners don’t seem concerned like the locals.”

  Choreg was a type of bread that was flaky and slightly sweet, and traditionally served warm with Munster cheese. Baklava, the dessert with layers of buttered and flaky sheets of phyllo dough and walnuts and cinnamon, was Lucy’s favorite. On the side of the prep table sat a bowl of chick peas soaking in water and a large jar of tahini—sesame paste delivered by Big Al—which would be used to make different varieties of hummus.

  “When’s the wedding?” Lucy asked.

  “I have three days to fill the order.”

  “That’s a lot of food and not a lot of time. Where’s Butch?”

  “He has his regular days off to spend with his family. You’re here now.”

  Lucy didn’t want to point out that she wasn’t supposed to be there that early, but held her tongue. Her mother clearly needed help. Three days wasn’t much time to prepare all that food, but Lucy knew the large order would keep her mother busy and her mind off their troubles.

  Angela stopped kneading dough and pointed with a finger coated in flour to where the aprons hung on hooks in the wall. “Pick an apron and wash your hands, Lucy.”

  Just a week ago, Lucy never would have wanted to, but today she found she wasn’t dismayed to spend time with her mother in the kitchen. Her mother was an exceptional cook—self-taught by her own grandmother and mother-in-law. Lucy hadn’t inherited her mother’s talent. Emma, on the other hand, could cook well, but sadly Max didn’t love Mediterranean cuisine. He preferred his hamburgers and steaks grilled without any seasonings or spices.

  Lucy tied her apron and rolled up her sleeves while Angela cut a large piece of dough and put it on the work surface in front of her. “The dough is cold,” Lucy pointed out.

  “It’s supposed to be. I prepared the dough yesterday and let it rise in the refrigerator overnight.”

  Lucy realized how little she knew about her mother’s recipes and cooking in general. She’d never cared in the past when she’d worked late nights in the city. All that had been important to her then was memorizing every good take-out restaurant phone number by heart. But things had changed now that she’d returned to Ocean Crest and Kebab Kitchen. Watching her mother, Lucy was surprised that she wanted to learn.

  A lively tune sounded from the TV, and Lucy looked up at the screen. The infomercial had ended and a young, handsome chef with blond hair and a dazzling smile stood in a high-tech kitchen with stainless steel appliances. He was the same celebrity chef Lucy had noticed while watching the cooking channel at Katie’s house.

  “Ah,” Angela said. “It’s Cooking Kurt. I like his recipes.”

  Looking at the appreciative expression on her mother’s face, Lucy didn’t think it was only Kurt’s recipes she liked. Lucy bit her cheek to keep from chuckling.

  “What next?” Lucy asked as her mother’s attention returned to the prep table.

  Together they kneaded small fistfuls of dough, rolled it into three pieces, and braided it into a small personal sized loaf. Lucy then brushed each choreg with egg wash to make it shiny, and they put the full trays into the oven.

  Her mother wiped her hands on a towel. “The police think that Banks woman was poisoned from my hummus,” she said, her voice troubled.

  Lucy looked up startled. They’d been working side by side for a half hour without a word. “The truth will come out when the toxicology results are final. Remember what Bill said?”

  “The police are pressured to quickly place blame,” Angela said.

  It was true, but how did she know that? Her mother always had a sixth sense that had driven Lucy crazy as a kid. It was one of the reasons she could never sneak out of the house as a teenager, drink beer underage, or get involved in mischief.

  “I’m doing what I can, Mom. I promise.”

  “I know. You’re a good girl, Lucy. We need to find you a husband.”

  “Mom,” Lucy said, a note of whining in her voice. “Do you have to talk about men every time we’re alone?”

  “It’s my job as a mother to see you happy.” She kneaded the dough with a bit more force.

  “I am happy.”

  She was, wasn’t she? Had she been happy at the law firm? Looking back, she couldn’t say she was. The stress of working long hours in hopes of achieving partner status hadn’t worked out for her. But the truth was since coming back to Ocean Crest, she’d been more relaxed, even with finding a dead body and be
coming an amateur sleuth. She valued the time she’d spent with Katie, her sister, Sally, and her parents . . . even Azad.

  Good grief. Her mother must never know she’d met Azad for a coffee date. And it had been a date of sorts even if they’d talked business. But if her mother learned the truth, she’d rush out and pick out china patterns and linens.

  Lucy decided to quickly change the topic of conversation. “I’m glad the catering end is doing well since the restaurant is slow.” She pulled on an oven mitt and took a tray out of the oven. The baked choreg smelled delicious and her mouth watered. How long had it been since she’d had one?

  “How soon do you and Dad want to sell?” Lucy asked.

  “Within the next year assuming we have a buyer. But who would make an offer now?”

  “Don’t think of it, Mom.”

  “How can I not? I only hope Azad hasn’t changed his mind.”

  Lucy held the tray in midair as a nagging thought returned. Azad would benefit if the value of the restaurant plummeted by thousands. He could buy it cheap, afford to modernize the place, then make his money back in record time.

  “Set that down before you burn yourself,” Angela chided.

  Lucy dropped the tray and it rattled on the counter. “You said Azad went to culinary school?”

  “That’s right. He’s always wanted his own place, and he’s been saving.” There was a clear note of pride in her voice.

  “Culinary school is pricey. He must have debt,” Lucy said.

  Angela shrugged as she kneaded fresh dough. “I guess so.”

  “Then how can he afford to buy the restaurant?”

  “I’m the chef. Your father handles the finances. Ask him if you want details.”

  Her explanation didn’t put Lucy’s mind at ease. Azad had already told her that he hoped her father would give him a mortgage for fair market value. Whether that was true or Azad received a business loan from a bank, money and greed were motives for murder. If Azad wanted to buy the restaurant, he’d have to pay not only for the building, restaurant equipment and all the supplies, but for the business as well. If the business was suffering, her parents would most likely lower their price.