A Killer Kebab

by Susannah Hardy

  “It’s no difference to me, honestly.” Actually, I was a little relieved. With Russ behind bars, at least for now, I wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to sabotage the project and I wouldn’t have to listen to his snarky comments. Still, my guilt-meter ticked up a notch. I wasn’t entirely sure the authorities had the correct murderer in custody. But I had nothing concrete to base that on, so for now there was no point in saying anything.

  “No worries. I’ll have you open in time for Thanksgiving. Don’t look for me today, though. I wasn’t sure how long the restaurant would be closed to me, so I told Liza I’d go and look at some things she needs done at the castle.”

  An idea popped into my head. “You wouldn’t happen to have room for a passenger, would you?” Melanie could hardly avoid me if I was right there in front of her. And Liza was sure to have something delicious on the lunch menu. It was hard to work up much enthusiasm for cooking just for myself.

  “Sure. Meet me at the docks at eleven. Dress warm. There won’t be many more days we can get over to the island safely.” He rang off.

  My prior suspicions about Steve flitted through my mind. But the police must have checked him out due to his wife’s connection to Jim MacNamara. And he must have passed, because otherwise they’d have him in custody. I was worrying needlessly. It didn’t take long for me to plan out my Thanksgiving menu and fire off an order to my suppliers. I threw in a load of laundry, then returned to the kitchen.

  Gladys’s recipes still sat in disarray where I’d left them on the prep counter. The project would need to be started again from scratch, since the crime scene techs had clearly been shuffling through the random bits of paper. I began to sort again, separating the recipes into categories. So far, the pile I called “Casseroles Made with Canned Cream Soups” was the biggest. Hardly surprising. Gladys was a 1960s housewife. As unglamorous as it was, I was, myself, guilty of a hankering for an occasional tuna noodle casserole with a crispy top crust of crushed potato chips.

  Finishing the sort of what was on the counter, I reached into the shoe box for another handful and spread out the contents. A small envelope among the grease-spotted index cards and yellowing newspaper clippings caught my eye.

  “Formica Cleaner” was penciled on the outside in a spidery hand. The flap was unsealed and I lifted it gingerly. The envelope contained a slightly yellowed piece of paper, folded into a square. I left the paper inside and put the envelope into the “Miscellaneous” pile, along with “Hair Conditioner” (a mix of eggs and mayonnaise, yuck) and “Hand Cream” (no idea what some of those ingredients were).

  After an hour, I sat back and raised my arms over my head in a stretch. About two-thirds of the recipes were still in the box, but the piles on the counter had grown. I’d made a good dent and I was having fun. But it was time to go meet Steve at the docks.

  EIGHT

  My teeth chattered as I made my way over the side of the boat, none too gracefully due to the big puffy parka I was wearing. Steve offered me a hand, then led me into the little pilot house, a five-by-five-foot-square room situated toward the bow of the boat. I went inside and sat down on a cushioned bench. It was none too warm, but compared to being out in the frosty wind, it was almost tropical.

  “Welcome aboard Witch of November,” Steve said.

  “Do you change the name every month, or is it just a coincidence?”

  Steve laughed. “No, it would be too complicated to change the marine registration and have the name restenciled on the stern that often.” He throttled up. “Just sit back and relax.”

  Relax. Right. While I’d recently learned to drive a boat, out of necessity, I would not have had the confidence or experience to take one out myself this late in the season, so I was both slightly nervous and very grateful for the ride. And I couldn’t help thinking about the song the boat’s name had come from. Seemed like bad luck to name a boat from a line in a song about a tragic shipwreck. But maybe it meant something else. Maybe his wife, Jennifer, had been born in November.

  A light chop on the water made the ride a little bumpy. Later in the winter, the river would freeze over, becoming a layer of ice over liquid water beneath, where the fish and other aquatic creatures somehow survived the frigid temperatures. It was common for the air above to reach twenty degrees below zero, and sometimes it went even colder. But right now the water was clear of ice.

  “So,” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the whine of the twin outboard engines. “What does Liza have you doing at the Spa today that can’t wait till spring?”

  Steve smiled. “There’s no shortage of repairs and maintenance that need to be done in a property that old and that large. But she wants me to inspect the integrity of the building and the roof, on the castle and on all the outbuildings. It’ll take me a couple of hours, as long as the snow didn’t stick. I hope you don’t need to get back for anything right away.”

  Er, no. I’d braved it out this morning, but a murder had been committed in my home and business. I wasn’t all that eager to go back, truth be told. “Nope. You take your time.”

  Steve assessed me. “I wouldn’t want to spend too much time there alone either. Have you got someone to come and stay with you?” He was matter-of-fact, not looking for an invitation.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” Woman up, Georgiana Gertrude. I’d have to make peace with staying there soon. Might as well make it now as later. “I’ll lock myself in my room tonight.”

  “Well, we’ve got spare rooms now that my two older sons are off on their own. One of which I’m currently occupying.” Ouch. His brow furrowed. “On second thought, if I were you, I’d stay in the house where a murder was committed instead of mine right now. It’ll be pleasanter.”

  Poor Steve. He was such a decent guy, and his wife had dumped all over him. I wished Jennifer were here right now so I could give her a piece of my mind. But of course, it was none of my business. My new mantra.

  “Don’t worry about me.” I hoped my words were convincing. “The . . . cleaning company has apparently been in and taken care of . . . everything. It’s all gone.”

  Steve stared off into the distance, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “Uh, oh, yeah.” He gave his head a small shake. “Almost there,” he said.

  Ahead of us I could see the turrets and peaks of the Valentine Island Spa, my best friend and newfound cousin’s ultra-exclusive resort. It was not the only castle in the Thousand Islands, Boldt and Singer castles being more famous and open to tours, but Castle Grant was impressive all the same. Liza had inherited the property in a state of disrepair fifteen years ago, and by hard work and acute business savvy had brought it back to its former glory. Catering to the rich and famous, the Spa was a popular place for Hollywood actresses and billionaire trophy wives to come and lose a little weight, get some expert skin care with Liza’s proprietary homemade products, or hide out in luxury while they recovered from plastic surgery.

  Right now, the Spa was home to my mother, television actress Melanie Ashley. Someday, I hoped, we might have a good enough relationship that I could tell her how ridiculous her stage name was. For now, I just called her Melanie. We were still figuring out our relationship but I thought it might work out. Someday.

  Steve pulled up at the dock and cut the engines. He tossed a rope over a cleat on the dock and pulled us in close, then secured the bow and stern with a few deft sailors’ knots. We climbed up onto the boards, which seemed to be made of some kind of composite decking material, not wood. She’d have to pull the dock soon, or it would be frozen in until spring.

  Steve offered me an arm and we made our way up the stone walkway to the big double doors of the castle. He opened the door and gestured me in. “Tell Liza I’m here and looking at the outbuildings and the exterior while the light is still good.”

  “Of course.” I ducked inside before any more cold air blasted in. I shuddered to think about the heatin
g bill for this place, though by this time of year there were only a handful of guests, so Liza had shut down and blocked off most of the rooms to conserve energy. Even so, it had to be expensive, if the bills for the Bonaparte House were anything to go by.

  The big entrance hall had a tile floor done in an intricate black and white pattern. The walls of the round space were wainscoted in oak, which had darkened over the years to a rich deep brown. Overhead, a massive crystal chandelier sparkled over a round oak table set with a large silver bowl filled with bright green apples and sprigs of rosemary. Very pretty. And it wasn’t like Liza could get fresh flowers this time of year. The gardens were long cut back and covered for the winter.

  Liza came from behind one of the oak doors that lined the space to greet me, elegant as always with her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and understated makeup on her flawless skin. She wore a long-sleeved rust-colored sweater over black leggings and knee-high black boots with bronze buckles and a medium-sized heel. I felt a bit, as I always did around her, like a roadside daisy next to a hothouse orchid. But my general unstylishness never seemed to bother Liza. She loved me anyway.

  “I am so glad to see you,” she said, giving me a hug. “Come on in and warm up.” She took my coat and hung it up in a closet concealed behind one of the other oak doors, then handed me a pair of slippers. I kicked off my boots and put on the warm slippers gratefully. “Come on out to the kitchen. There’s soup and salad. I’m down to a skeleton crew so I can’t serve you in the dining room.”

  “That’s fine, of course. You know I’m not fussy.”

  “And I know you’re never happier than when you’re in a kitchen.”

  She knew me so well. We traipsed down twisty corridors for what seemed like forever but was only a few minutes at most. Like most houses of this size and importance, the kitchens were far away from the living and entertaining areas so as not to disturb family and guests with such mundane details as where their food was being prepared. The last hallway finally opened up into a large, bright room with what seemed like miles of stainless steel counters, some with cabinets underneath, and punctuated by the occasional sink and a huge commercial range. Dozens of copper-bottomed pots and pans hung from black iron racks suspended from the high ceiling. It was similar to the kitchen at the Bonaparte House—if the Bonaparte House were pumped up on steroids. And yet, though I’d never say this to Liza, I preferred the smaller, cozier atmosphere of my restaurant, with its mismatched cookware and white, utilitarian walls.

  I parked myself at a stool at one of the counters. Liza placed a steaming bowl of velvety orange soup in front of me. “Butternut squash?” I asked, hoping I was right.

  “Yes. It’s vegan.” She set down another bowl in front of me, this one containing crispy onions, which I spooned on top of the soup, then took a bite. The combination of sweet, savory, and crunchy hit every right note with me, making me forget that it was healthy. A Perrier with a twist of lemon, and a simple green salad with toasted pecans and a sprinkle of bleu cheese (decidedly not vegan) in a light vinaigrette, completed the meal.

  Liza sat down across from me and tucked into her soup. Her trim frame belied a healthy appetite. Of course, she owned this spa and had personal trainers and state-of-the-art fitness equipment available at any time during the regular season, so she could eat pretty much whatever she wanted.

  “How’s Melanie?” I couldn’t decide whether I liked the soup or the salad better, so I alternated bites. “She’s not returning my calls.”

  Liza looked at me with her big blue eyes, then caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You know I value confidentiality here above all things.”

  What was coming? I had no idea, but braced myself. “Yes, of course. Your clients expect and deserve that.” Had I just said that? What if she decided not to tell me now?

  “Well, for any other client, I would never divulge this without express permission. But now that we know we’re all family, that changes things a bit.” She stirred her soup as she spoke. “Melanie made me promise not to tell you this, and I only agreed because she swore she’d tell you herself.”

  Now my curiosity was piqued. “I have no idea what you’re about to say.”

  “Oh, it’s not that big a deal, really. She and Caitlyn have been sick for a couple of days. Some stomach bug. So I moved my few remaining spa guests over to another wing and left the two of them to recuperate privately.”

  I relaxed. So my mother and her assistant had tummy troubles. Big deal. “Why wouldn’t one of them tell me? I mean, everybody is under the weather once in a while.”

  “Well, there’s an . . . intestinal component to this bug. I don’t think it’s a secret so much as it’s just . . . nasty, and Melanie doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  A little snort escaped my lips. “She probably doesn’t want somebody reporting it to the tabloids. You know how they love her.”

  “That was my take on it too. Don’t tell her I told you, but if you were to, say, head for her suite without my knowing about it, you could check on her.” She forked up some salad and a pecan fell back onto the plate.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind, I may just do a bit of exploring of the castle after lunch.” I smiled. “Oh, by the way. I ran into Lydia Ames yesterday. You know, Jim MacNamara’s assistant? We need to get a copy of the trust documents to see if there’s any kind of genealogy in any of the files.”

  Liza looked thoughtful. “You know, that’s a good idea. Let’s put this to bed once and for all so we can all breathe easier. The last thing we need is another cousin popping out of the woodwork and ending up dead, all because of some hundred-year-old legal maneuverings by a bitter, vindictive old man who wanted to stick it to his heirs.” She tapped the handle end of her fork on the counter. “And frankly”—she glanced around, even though we’d been alone the entire time we’d been here in the kitchen—“I’d like to know how much money we are talking about. I’m pretty sure Steve Murdoch is going to come back in here and tell me that my roof needs repairs and all my masonry needs repointing.”

  I whistled softly. “That’s going to set you back some.”

  “It will cost a fortune,” she said matter-of-factly. “Probably in the six figures. I’ve got money, of course. You know I don’t live extravagantly, and my clients pay extremely well to stay here. But I’d hoped to build an indoor pool in the spring, and maybe hire a celebrity chef next summer, just to shake things up.”

  “A celebrity chef?” I leaned forward, eager to find out more. “Which one do you have in mind?”

  “Oh, maybe that tall, gorgeous blond one—the Australian?”

  Brilliant. I knew I liked Liza for a reason. “Get him, and I’ll leave Sophie and Dolly in charge of the Bonaparte House and camp out here for a week.”

  She grinned. “Yes, I’m pretty sure my clients would appreciate his . . . cooking.”

  Footsteps sounded from the direction of the back door. “Hi, Steve,” Liza said over my shoulder. “Come on in and have something to eat?” He was back early, which might mean nothing—or everything—needed to be replaced or repaired.

  He looked over the remains of our lunch and smiled ruefully. “That looks, uh, delicious. But no.”

  “How about some stew made from grass-fed beef and organic potatoes?” Liza inquired playfully, giving her head a little tilt that caused her ponytail to swing. Interesting.

  “Well, if you put it that way . . .” He plunked himself down at the counter. “We can talk about what I found outside.”

  Three seemed to be a crowd, and it was time I went upstairs to see my mother anyway. “Liza, Steve, I’ll leave you to talk about, uh, whatever. Send me a text when you’re ready to leave and I’ll meet you in the foyer.”

  I made my way back through the maze of hallways and to the grand carved staircase that led to the guest rooms and suites on the second floor. Because my mother had bee
n staying here, recuperating from surgery for several weeks, the route through this part of the castle was firmly embedded in my memory banks. I went down the long upstairs hallway, past the Clover Room, where I stayed when I spent the night here, and stopped two doors down. I took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. When no one answered, I knocked again, then gingerly opened the door and stepped inside.

  This two-bedroom suite had creamy white walls and was decorated in shades of rose and gold. Elegant, feminine, and pretty. I crossed the sitting area and knocked on my mother’s bedroom door. There was the sound of movement, then a weak voice said, “Come in.”

  Melanie lay propped up on about eight pillows under a pink puffy comforter. She was wearing a satin bed jacket, a thing I’d never seen outside of old Doris Day movies. Her normally big hair was flat on one side, as if she’d been lying on it, and her grayish pallor confirmed it—she really was ill.

  If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it.

  “Melanie, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

  “And if I had, what would you have done? Come over here and caught whatever this plague is from me?”

  She had a point. But still, she could have at least taken my calls and let me know.

  “Where’s Caitlyn?”

  Melanie sat up and took a sip of water from a crystal glass on the night table. “She’s in her room with the same illness.” That was hardly a surprise. Caitlyn was on duty with Melanie twenty-four/seven. She’d never taken a day off, let alone a vacation, in all the months I’d known her.

  “I won’t stay long, and I’ll check on her before I leave.”

  Melanie nodded weakly, then looked as though she might be about to throw up. There was a basin at the ready on the floor by the bed, I noted with relief. “Can I get you anything? Some ginger ale maybe, or some crackers?”

  She did a dry heave, which made me feel a little queasy myself. “No, thanks,” she said when she recovered. “Liza either comes herself or sends somebody”—another dry heave—“to check on us every couple of hours.”