A Killer Kebab Read online

  I sat up straight. Brenda turned her head toward me. “That’s what I was just about to say. I saw him walking this way earlier today.”

  “What time?”

  She paused, as if thinking. “Must have been about three o’clock. I left my apartment right after the rerun of last week’s ‘’Squatch Caller’ show. That’s the one where they sit around and make gizmos that sound like a Bigfoot? Anyway, he was headed this direction, not that I saw him go into the restaurant or anything.”

  Something niggled at the back of my mind. “What was he wearing?”

  Brenda didn’t hesitate. “Long black coat, the kind Clive the funeral guy wears? Black fedora on his head, and carrying a briefcase.”

  The body lying on my floor had not been wearing a topcoat. Nor had I seen one hanging at the kitchen door when I hung up my own coat. And I hadn’t seen a briefcase. Not that I’d searched the whole restaurant, but it seemed odd.

  Tim walked up to the ambulance that rolled to a stop in the parking lot. He pointed the attendants inside then turned toward us, sitting at the picnic table in the growing dark. “Georgie, you probably heard that. It’s Jim MacNamara. Any idea why he’d be here?”

  I shook my head. “Not unless it was about my divorce. But Spiro and I have everything worked out. We’re just waiting for the time to expire before we can get the decree. So no, I can’t think of any reason he’d come to see me in person, rather than just calling. Or having his secretary, Lydia, call.”

  Tim looked thoughtful. “Well, you won’t be able to stay here tonight, of course, or tomorrow either probably while the crime scene techs are processing the site.”

  Deep down I’d known that, but it was still disconcerting. Where was I going to sleep tonight? I had a key to Spiro and Inky’s restaurant, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me crashing upstairs. But they were spending most of their time at Inky’s house near his tattoo shop near Fort Drum. And I did not relish the thought of being alone in that big place with another killer on the loose.

  There was Midge, my friend who ran the T-Shirt Emporium, but she and Roger from the jewelry shop were on a trip to California to visit her son. And of course my best friend and newfound cousin, Liza Grant, would take me in. My mother, with whom I’d recently reunited, was staying there, at least until Liza closed up her exclusive spa at Thanksgiving. But the castle that housed her and her business was situated on one of the islands that dotted the St. Lawrence—and it was getting dark, and it was November, and it was about twenty-five degrees out right now. Definitely not safe to take a boat ride. One tiny problem and I’d be bobbing like a Georgie ice cube in a St. Lawrence River cocktail. Liza had access to a helicopter for her guests, but this hardly qualified as an emergency big enough for that. So the Camelot hotel, it was.

  Brenda adjusted the hand-knit cap that covered her bright red curls. “Uh, you can stay with me if you want. I’ve got a pull-out couch and I just got groceries.”

  My heart warmed. “I don’t know what to say. That’s so nice of you. But I don’t want to put you out. I’m sure there’ll be a room for me at the Camelot.”

  Brenda nodded. “Just as well. I’ve got to do my books tonight.”

  “But why don’t we go grab a bite to eat, my treat?” I was rattled by the murder, and I wasn’t quite ready to be alone. “The pizza shop is open.”

  “Sounds good. I didn’t find much on my returnable route, not that I expected to. It’ll all still be here tomorrow.” She stood. “Let’s go. It’s cold out.”

  The back door of the restaurant opened, and two EMTs and a gurney rolled out and across the frozen ground toward the ambulance. The body was covered with a blanket but the shape was unmistakable. My gyro spit, if it was my gyro spit, and I just knew it was, had not been removed. A lump formed in my throat. When would the death and the killing end?

  Tim came toward me. “You know the drill, Georgie. Don’t leave town, and you’ll be needed for questioning.”

  I sighed. Yes, I knew the drill.

  “I’ll be down at the pizza shop, then over at the Camelot. Can I go get my purse? It’s in my office.”

  “Better let me bring it out to you,” he said.

  * * *

  The interior of the Casa di Pizza was dimly lit and in need of an update, but it was warm and it smelled like heaven. A delicious yeasty aroma wafted out toward us as we sat ourselves at a blue vinyl booth well away from the door so we wouldn’t be blasted by cold air every time a customer came in.

  The lone server on duty came toward us with menus. I didn’t recognize her, which was unusual in a village the size of the Bay, this time of the year. She filled water glasses and set them in front of each of us. “Let’s get an appetizer and some salad before the pizza,” I said to Brenda, who nodded. “What do you like?”

  “How about the sampler platter? Wings, potato skins, mozzarella sticks?”

  She was playing my comfort-food song. I’d pay for it tomorrow but it sounded wonderful tonight. I nodded to the server. “Sampler platter, a pitcher of Molson’s, and two house salads. And a pizza with everything?” I looked to Brenda for confirmation and she nodded.

  The server took down the order, though I would have thought she’d have been able to remember it since we seemed to be the only people in the place. “What kind of dressing for the salads?” she asked.

  “Thousand Island,” Brenda and I said in unison.

  “Jinx, buy me a Coke,” Brenda said, emitting a laugh that rattled in her throat. I knew she’d given up smoking a few months ago but it was clear she was still suffering the effects of her years of puffery.

  “You want a Coke too?” The server looked perplexed.

  “Just an expression,” I assured her. “The pitcher of beer will be fine.”

  I leaned back in the booth. It had been a while since I’d been in here, probably since last fall. The place hadn’t changed much. Built somewhere around the turn of the last century, as was most of downtown with the exception of the Bonaparte House, which was quite a bit older, it had exposed brick walls and a high ceiling covered in embossed, white-painted tin squares. Booths flanked the walls, and a number of tables marched down the center of the room. At the back was a chest-high counter where our server was now placing our order, and beyond that was the kitchen. There were apartments upstairs for the college-age seasonal help. In fact, I’d lived here with three other girls crammed into a two-bedroom, one-bath unit the summer I took my first job at the Bonaparte House. Which seemed like a glacial epoch or two ago.

  Brenda and I tucked into the appetizers when our slightly clueless server set the plate in front of us. I dipped a mozzarella stick into the cup of marinara and took a bite. Perfect. Crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside, and topped with a spicy tomato sauce. “So,” I said. “How’s business?”

  Brenda wiped her fingers on her paper napkin, then took a sip of beer. “It was a good year. I made enough to cover my winter expenses, and there’s enough extra to buy a second boat. I’m getting an intern next summer.”

  “An intern? Is there enough, uh, business for that?” I put a potato skin on my plate and added a dollop of sour cream.

  “There is if you place collection units on the islands and empty them every few days.” She broke into a self-satisfied smile.

  Wow. That was brilliant. Islands were, well, islands. Trash had to go somewhere, as did recyclables. “What a great idea. Let me know if you need capital.” I had some money put away, money I hoped would someday be enough to buy the Bonaparte House from my mother-in-law. But Brenda seemed like a good investment.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m good for now and I like to keep my overhead low. That way I can put more into my IRA.”

  There was so much more to this woman than met the eye. She continued to surprise me.

  Our salads arrived. But they weren’t delivered by our server extraordin
aire. Franco Riccardi, the owner of the Casa, set two salads down before us. Each was covered in the pinkish dressing named for the Thousand Islands.

  “Mind if I join you lovely ladies for a moment?” Franco asked.

  I scooched over on the vinyl booth. “Not at all,” I said.

  “Brenda.” He nodded in her direction. Everybody knew Brenda.

  “Is it true that Jim MacNamara’s dead?” His big brown eyes searched my face.

  I sighed. “I think so. I found him at the restaurant, lying on the floor.” Probably best not to give out too much information, not that it wouldn’t get out from other sources.

  “Damn. He was a good customer. Though I use a lawyer in Watertown for most things.”

  “He’s handling my divorce. I suppose his son will take charge of the law firm now. But he’s only been out of law school a couple of years.”

  Franco’s lips turned down at the corners. “Not impressed with that kid. His father made him get a job one summer to build his character and he picked here. Refused to wash dishes or bus tables, but agreed to make deliveries. I would have fired him but I was doing his old man a favor.”

  I forked up some salad. The dressing was creamy, tangy, and textured with bits of sweet pickle and finely chopped hard-boiled egg. It was tangier than the version we served at the Bonaparte House. Of course, every restaurant in the Thousand Islands had its own version, all claiming to be the original.

  Franco looked at me expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

  “It’s good. Lemony. Is it a new recipe?”

  Franco leaned forward. His excitement was almost palpable. “Actually,” he said, looking around. “It’s a new old recipe. I was cleaning out some junk in one of the third-floor rooms and I came across it in a box of old cookbooks. It was a handwritten recipe dated 1907.”

  I thought of Gladys’s recipe box, the contents of which were now strewn all over my prep counter. I hoped the crime scene techs would leave everything alone. I’d feel awful if something happened to one of her mother’s recipes.

  “You think it’s an original?”

  “Well, that would be the Holy Grail of salad dressings, wouldn’t it?” Franco grinned. “Who knows? It’s the earliest one I’ve heard of. And guess what?” His dark eyes sparkled.

  “What?” Brenda seemed interested. I never would have figured her for a food history buff, but Thousand Islanders are proud of their namesake condiment.

  “It isn’t even called Thousand Island dressing,” Franco announced. “Of course, you can tell by the ingredients—it can’t be anything else—but it’s called ‘Sophias Sauce.’ No apostrophe.”

  “Sophia? I’d always heard it was invented by Oscar of the Waldorf. The guy who invented the Waldorf salad and Veal Oscar?”

  Brenda piped up. “That’s what they say on the Lady Liberty boat. The tour guides say that Oscar was making dinner for George Boldt and ran out of dressing, so he used the ingredients he had and whipped up Thousand Island dressing.”

  I nodded. “That’s the story I’ve heard too.”

  Franco grinned. “Those tour guides also tell you that if you look down into the St. Lawrence at a certain spot, you can see the international border between the U.S. and Canada.”

  I nodded. Not that I’d been on a tour boat in years, but my customers at the Bonaparte House were always asking if some of the things they’d heard were true. “So what makes you think this is the one?” I ate another bite of salad. “It’s tasty. What is that? Worcestershire sauce? It has a deeper flavor and it’s not as sweet as what we serve at the Bonaparte House.”

  “That’s right,” Franco said. “I’ll make a copy of the recipe for you and have somebody bring it over to the restaurant.”

  Brenda frowned, ever so slightly. “You’re not going to try to copyright it or trademark it or anything? That woman at the River Rock Resort says she’s got the original recipe and I heard she’s trying to get it declared legally hers.”

  Franco scoffed. “Angela Wainwright? She mixes mayonnaise and ketchup, slaps it on some zebra mussels, and calls it fine cuisine.”

  I had to laugh. The River Rock was located on some prime riverfront property but it was not known for its food. It would have been a blessing if those invasive zebra mussels were edible, actually. Maybe we could get rid of them. “You sure you want to give it away?”

  “The way I see it, this recipe belongs to Bonaparte Bay and the other towns of the Thousand Islands.” He leaned forward. “In fact, as soon as I can find somebody to do it for me, I’m going to post the recipe on my website. And I’m giving a copy to the Bay Blurb. I hope they run it on the front page.”

  Angela wouldn’t be happy about that, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. It wasn’t like there was any way to prove her recipe was the first.

  Franco rose. “I’ve taken enough of your time, ladies. Here’s your pizza. Do you need another pitcher?”

  We both shook our heads as the steaming cheese-fest was set in front of us. Brenda and I were still on our first glasses. At this rate, we’d leave most of the pitcher on the table.

  And come to think of it, Brenda seemed to have curtailed her drinking. A lot. It had been customary to see her making her Dumpster rounds with a little buzz on most of the time. Well, good for her. Maybe she realized she needed a clear head if she wanted to expand her business empire.

  After all the appetizers and the salad, I could only eat one slice of pizza. We asked the waitress to box up the rest and I sent it home with Brenda. I paid, leaving a generous tip even though the server probably didn’t deserve it, and we left the Casa. Brenda went toward her apartment, I headed for the drugstore.

  My shopping basket soon contained my overnight essentials: toothbrush, trial-size toothpaste, fresh package of unattractive but serviceable underwear, and a souvenir T-shirt to sleep in. I tossed in a bar of dark chocolate and a trashy gossip magazine. Hopefully, my mother, the famous television actress, would not be featured in this issue. Since her injuries a few weeks ago, she’d been staying at my friend Liza’s spa, located in the castle on Valentine Island just a short boat ride away from Bonaparte Bay. Liza would be closing up the Spa at Thanksgiving, so Melanie—I still couldn’t bring myself to call her “Mom”—would have to find some new digs. Guilt pricked at me. I had the whole Bonaparte House to myself for the winter. I should invite her to come and stay with me. In fact I had, but Melanie, who was perhaps not quite as self-absorbed as I’d thought, told me she preferred to stay at the Spa, where she could pay people to take care of her. And by doing so she was giving me space to process having her back in my life.

  I placed my items on the counter and the teenage cashier began ringing them up. “Hey, Georgie,” a voice said behind me.

  FOUR

  I turned around to see Steve Murdoch. His jaw was set and a furrow deep enough to plant corn creased his brow.

  “Steve? Are you okay?” Clearly, he wasn’t. The tiny black cloud I’d noticed surrounding him earlier at the Bonaparte House was now a full-blown thunderstorm. The skin of my arms broke out into goose bumps.

  “Okay?” His voice was hard and bitter. “In less than thirty minutes, as long as it takes me to get squiffed, I’ll be just fine.”

  I glanced down. He had one hand in his jacket pocket and the other held a six-pack of beer. Crap. Steve was a recovering alcoholic with a lot of years of sobriety under his belt. Was I supposed to remind him of that? What if I said the wrong thing? I had no idea who his Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor was, which might have been a good thing because now I wouldn’t have to make a decision about whether to butt in. There were probably guidelines about this situation somewhere on the Internet, but there was no time or means to look anything up. So I just said, “Do you want to talk?”

  He emitted a bitter snort. “Talking sounds good. Right after I drink this six-pack.”


  “Can I . . . call someone for you?” Lame, lame, lame.

  Steve eyed me. “Like who? My wife?” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and held up a disk about the size of a half dollar. His sobriety chip. He tossed it and it sailed along the bank of cash registers like a Frisbee, then hit the counter and landed in front of the jewelry display. “She’s home crying over Jim MacNamara. I’m glad that son of a bitch is dead.”

  I heard the cashier suck in a breath. Steve’s tone was low and menacing.

  I took an involuntary step away from him. I couldn’t help the thought that popped into my head. Steve clearly hated Jim MacNamara. He had access to my ladies’ room and to my kitchen. Could he have killed the lawyer while I was out getting my hair done? “Where’s Ewan?” I said softly.

  A look of horror replaced the rage on Steve’s face at my reference to his son. He blinked, his eyes traveling from the cashier, who had her hand on the phone, to me, then down to his own hand. His fingers relaxed their grip and he reached around me to set the six-pack on the counter. “I won’t be needing this,” he said, and trudged toward the glass doors.

  I handed the cashier my credit card, my foot tapping as I willed her to hurry. While she ran the card, I went to the jewelry counter and picked up Steve’s chip. I rubbed the edges and read the number: fifteen years. How bad would things have to get before someone would throw away fifteen years of sobriety? I signed the electronic pad, grabbed my bright orange plastic bag, and left the store.

  Steve was leaned up against the brick building. His chest rose and fell as he breathed deep and exhaled in turn, emitting frosty clouds that glowed white in the exterior lighting.

  “I’m a cheap date,” he said with a small laugh. “In the old days it would have taken at least a two-fer to get me where I needed to be.”

  He used the Canadian phrase for a case of beer. I couldn’t imagine downing twenty-four beers in one sitting. Twenty-four dark chocolate bars? Maybe.