A Killer Kebab

by Susannah Hardy

  There were only a few cars in the Jo-Jo’s parking lot, which was to be expected this time of night. Patty, the waitress who always seemed to be on duty no matter when I came in, looked a little disappointed when she saw me with Brenda. I couldn’t blame her. I usually came here with Jack, and she flirted up a storm with him. It was all in good fun and Jack never crossed any lines. Somebody was occupying our usual booth, which was just as well. I was missing him powerfully, and sitting there would just make me sad. So we took a booth in the back and ordered. A couple of colas, a bowl of chicken tortilla soup for me, and a beef stew for Brenda. She liked her red meat.

  While we waited for the food to arrive, Brenda pulled out her phone. It was one of those very large ones, somewhere in size between a normal phone and a small tablet. She put on a pair of reading glasses that looked very cute on her—the frames were a dark cherry red that made her blue eyes pop—then pulled out a slip of paper.

  She pressed some numbers into the search bar. “No hits on the license plate. I didn’t expect any, but it was worth a try.”

  Patty brought over our drinks and set them down. Her long pointy nails, polished to a high metallic purple shine, clicked on the Formica tabletop as she set down our paper-wrapped straws. She stared at the bruises on my face but didn’t ask and I felt a stab of self-consciousness. But apparently Patty wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, because she went back to her post behind the counter. Yeah, I missed Jack too.

  Brenda looked down at the paper through her glasses, then pressed the phone again. “This is more like it,” she said. “Here it is—1416 Sunset Boulevard. A two-bedroom, two-bathroom home built five years ago. It’s assessed at a quarter million. And it’s owned by someone, no, something, called Tripler Enterprises.”

  “Tripler?” I’d seen that name before, but where? Then I remembered. On a file on Lydia Ames’s desk. “Google that name, will you?” I leaned forward.

  Brenda did as I asked. She frowned, then swiped her thumb toward the top of the screen. And repeated the maneuver. She looked up at me over the tops of her glasses. “A bunch of things come up, but they look like companies in other states, and there’s a bunch of things that look like get-rich-quick schemes. I don’t see anything that looks like it’s based in the North Country. They must not have a website.”

  Hmmm. Maybe the woman with the long braid was the principal of Tripler, whatever that was. That would explain why she was meeting with Junior. But why after hours? Maybe—

  Maybe, just maybe, I was reading too much into it.

  But when it came to anything MacNamara, I was pretty sure I wasn’t.

  Our dinners arrived. I sprinkled some crispy tortilla strips, some shredded cheddar, and some chopped scallions on top and tucked in. Delicious. Just a tiny bit of pleasant heat on the back of the tongue, but nothing to make me run screaming for a glass of milk. Brenda took a big spoonful containing a hearty hunk of beef covered in dark brown gravy and lifted it to her lips.

  We ate in companionable silence, until Brenda picked up her baking powder biscuit and slathered some butter on it. “You gonna get Tim Arquette to check out your house tonight?”

  The tender piece of chicken I’d just swallowed stuck in my throat. Asking Harold to put up the plywood on the Casa, playing Mata Hari by following the mystery woman, eating a late dinner here at Jo-Jo’s, all these things were avoidance techniques. Truth was, I did not want to go home. No matter how good the alarm system—and it was a good one—or how thoroughly a BBPD deputy checked out the house, I’d been assaulted today.

  “No. I think I’ll stay at the Camelot again tonight. They’re going to put my name on a suite someday soon.” Plus I was going to need a long, hot soak in a Jacuzzi tub to combat the aches and pains that had already settled in. And the Bonaparte House plumbing just wasn’t up to the job.

  Brenda nodded. “That’s smart. Then I won’t worry about you.” She didn’t look up from her bowl as she said those kind words. I felt a warm fuzzy.

  “Thanks,” was all I said. Anything more would embarrass her. Or me.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next morning, I slept late. The beds were comfortable at the Camelot, and I felt warm and dry and safe. Unfortunately, I also felt achy and uncomfortable from my injuries from yesterday, every time I moved. My neck was stiff, and overnight I had grown a crop of blue-purple bruises splotched over my entire body. I’d left my bottle of painkillers in the bathroom, so I had to make a choice: stay in bed and lie perfectly still, or brave the pain, get up and take more pills. The pills won out.

  I looked at myself in the mirror as I ran the water cold. Gorgeous. My left cheekbone was the color of a Stanley plum. Even if I’d had makeup with me, which I didn’t, I doubted anything could cover that up. I filled a cup, then swallowed three pills, and went back to bed. I didn’t have anywhere to be for a while.

  When I woke up again a couple hours later, the edges of the pain had softened to a dull throb. My phone showed a text from the visiting nurse taking care of Melanie, Liza, and Caitlyn: All are stable. Conditions about the same. Will keep you informed.

  I was still worried about them, but they were getting professional care, better than I could provide myself. And first things first: today I needed to take Dolly to see Dr. Phelps. I could get the details from him about the patients at Castle Grant then and find out when they could be moved.

  It was an effort, but I threw off the covers. A half hour later, I was re-dressed in yesterday’s dusty clothes and putting my key in the lock at the Bonaparte House.

  Somehow, in the light of day, I wasn’t afraid to go into my own house, as I had been last night. Sleep had given me a better perspective. I could think of no reason I, personally, would be a target for someone. I’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time yesterday. In someone’s way.

  And whoever it was behind the attack on me, I was pretty sure they already had what they’d been looking for. Something had been taped under the platform on that dumbwaiter, and it was gone. So there was no reason to think I was still a target. That’s what common sense said anyway.

  I checked the alarm system. It was still operational. I would be fine.

  I went upstairs and took a shower, then changed into fresh clothes. What color sweater looked best with bruises? In the end, I just picked whatever was on top of the pile in my drawer.

  Moderately refreshed, I went back downstairs and made myself an egg on toast and a cup of coffee.

  There were a few minutes before it was time to leave to get Dolly, so I went back to work on Gladys’s recipes.

  The pile of molded gelatin salad recipes Brenda had been looking at went back into the shoe box. I couldn’t see a time, ever, when I’d make or serve one, so typing any up would be a waste of time. I reached for the cookie recipes and started inputting a molasses gingersnap that looked tasty.

  When I’d finished that one, I placed the card at the bottom of the pile. I rose to refill my coffee, and as I did so, I knocked some of the cards and slips of paper to the floor. I blew out a sigh. Bending down was going to hurt.

  I leaned forward from the waist, but that required me to put my neck at an odd angle that was too painful to sustain. So I went to my knees and began to gather everything up. Putting the papers into one hand, I used the other to grab onto the edge of the counter and pull myself to a standing position, then deposited the errant documents back on the surface in front of me.

  After that effort, head pounding dully, I deserved that second cup of coffee more than ever and went to make it.

  When I returned to the project, I began sorting again. It was only “Wild Game” and “Miscellaneous” that had fallen, and those hadn’t been large piles, so it was quick work. When I got to the envelope, the one marked “Formica Cleaner,” I realized that the recipe must have fallen out, because the envelope was empty, and there had been something inside when I first looked a
t it a few days ago. Brenda had asked for a copy of that one for her own counters. I set the envelope aside until the contents turned up.

  But they didn’t. I’d finished sorting everything into its proper pile.

  Which meant I must have missed a fallen paper.

  Which meant I was going to have to get down on my hands and knees again.

  Honestly, if it had been mine, not Gladys’s, I might have just let it go, to be found at some later date when the floor was cleaned. But it wasn’t mine. So down to the floor I went. It hurt just as much this time as it had the first.

  I finally located the paper, sticking partly out from under a movable stainless steel cart. Good thing it hadn’t gone any farther underneath. It might have taken me a long time to find it.

  Recipe in hand, I straightened. A fresh jolt of pain shot through me, from my neck out through my shoulders. Taking a few deep breaths helped somewhat. I went back to my seat and laid the recipe on the counter.

  After all that trouble, I was curious. What was in Formica cleaner anyway? I wondered what kind of cleaners were commercially available in the fifties and sixties. Maybe everybody made their own, or just used soap and water.

  The paper was yellowed, folded into a more or less symmetrical square. The edges were soft, not quite frayed, but clearly worn. I undid the first fold. If the paper turned out to be too brittle, I would just put it back and have to remain curious. I wouldn’t want to damage it.

  But I managed to keep it intact as I undid the second fold and set the document down.

  I was expecting the first ingredient to be water, or a soap of some kind. What I wasn’t expecting was to see the word “mayonnaise” followed by the word “ketchup.” Mayonnaise, well, maybe. That stuff was used for lots of nonfood things, including hair conditioner, though I’d never tried it. But ketchup for countertops? No way.

  I scanned through the rest of the ingredients, then read the title, which I hadn’t done before.

  This was not a recipe for a cleaner.

  This was a recipe for Thousand Island dressing. It couldn’t be anything else. And it was called Sophias Sauce, no apostrophe, just like Franco had told me. There was a second sheet of paper, folded behind the first.

  August 3, 1907

  Dearest Phoebe,

  Here is the recipe I told you about, the one I received from Mrs. Sophia LaLonde. I hope you will enjoy it.

  Fondly,

  May Irwin

  May Irwin. I knew that name, though I couldn’t have said how. I opened an Internet browser and looked her up.

  May had been a vaudeville actress, famous for singing songs that would not be considered appropriate today. She was also a composer, and engaged in the first kiss ever filmed, an affair that apparently went on for several minutes at the behest of Thomas Edison.

  And May had been a resident of the Thousand Islands, having built a large summer house on Club Island, and later having bought a farm on the mainland near the village of Clayton.

  I looked at the date of the letter: 1907. That was the date that Franco had said was on his recipe.

  I was willing to bet that May Irwin had written his recipe as well, though to whom we’d never know. The distinctive missing apostrophe, as well as the list of ingredients that I know I’d tasted that night at Franco’s, including the lemon juice and the Worcestershire sauce, made me certain this was the same recipe.

  I drew a deep breath. Now what? There was a piece of culinary history here in my hot little hand. The question was, what to do with it? It was worth something to somebody, that was for sure. And no one knew about it. Because if they did, it would already be gone.

  I pulled out my cell phone. “Kim? Sorry to call you so early.” The paper vibrated. My hand was shaking a little.

  Kim laughed. “Georgie, we keep accountant hours here, not restaurant hours. What’s up?”

  “Do you have a safe? I have something I need to keep, well, safe, for a day or two.”

  “Bring it in,” she said. “Of course we have a safe. And it’s wired into the alarm system.”

  “I’ll be there within half an hour. And thanks.” I clicked off.

  I had a couple more phone calls to make, but those would have to wait until later. It was time to go pick up Dolly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I dropped off the recipe and watched Kim lock it into the safe. She didn’t ask any questions, which I appreciated. It wasn’t my secret to tell, not yet.

  When I got to Dolly’s, I left the car running, with the window cracked open and the emergency brake engaged, while I knocked on the door. She must have been ready to go, because only a few seconds later she came outside, fully bundled up, with a big gauzy scarf over her teased-up hair. I took her arm to walk her to the car.

  “I’m moving under my own steam again,” she said. “But thanks.” She made it all the way to the front passenger side seat of my car before breaking into that rattly cough, which nevertheless sounded much less wet and intense than it had before. “Let’s get this over with.”

  My fearless Dolly was back. I was grateful. When Dolly was brave, it was easy for me to be brave too. “Shall we get some breakfast after the appointment?” I said. “Maybe at Jo-Jo’s?”

  “Let’s see what the doc says,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “I might not have any appetite once he tells me what the tests showed.”

  My stomach did a cannonball into the deep end. No. I wouldn’t think about this until it was forced on me. Not all former smokers developed cancer. “Okay,” I said, and left it at that.

  “How’s Russ? Is he doing okay?” The question had to be asked, for the sake of politeness, even though Dolly and I never stood on ceremony. And I didn’t care all that much, honestly.

  She tsked. “The usual. He’s his own worst enemy. Still mouthing off to the guards. Watch out.” She pointed ahead.

  A big black-and-white cow stood in the road. “That’d be one of the neighbor’s cows. Just pull in here.” She indicated a driveway on our right. “I’ll go let ’em know the cow’s out.” There was a small barn behind the house. Seemed big enough for only a few animals, so this cow probably represented most of the herd.

  “You want me to do it?” I wanted to keep Dolly warm and dry.

  “Naw. I want to thank her for bringing me a casserole anyway. I’ll be right back.”

  While Dolly was inside, I decided to make one of my phone calls. Gladys Mongomery seemed delighted when I told her what I’d found.

  “Well, how wonderful! Makes me want to jump on a plane from Florida right now to come and see it. But I’m hosting a dinner party tonight, then we’re all going dancing.”

  Gladys was an inspiration. I hoped when I was a senior I would be having half as much fun as she seemed to be. “How do you think that recipe got in the box?” I asked.

  “My grandmother was a friend of May Irwin,” Gladys said decisively. “Grandma used to talk about May’s parties, and how the men loved her because of that incredible curvy figure of hers. And how the women loved her because she was so funny and full of life. So it stands to reason May probably gave my grandmother the recipe. How it ended up in an envelope marked ‘Formica Cleaner’? Not a clue. I’m sure I never looked in that envelope. But there are lots of other recipes in there I never looked at either.”

  I outlined my plan for Gladys. Technically, it was her recipe, so I needed her permission.

  “What a lovely idea! Yes, of course. Handle it however you think best, dear. And say hello to my honorary nephew, Jack Conway, when next you see him.”

  Her words brought a little pang to my chest. It had been days since I heard from Jack. I didn’t know what he was doing, or where he was. Nor could I know. My guess was that he was working some kind of undercover operations—I couldn’t think what other kind of job would prevent him from at least talking to me. If h
e couldn’t be with me.

  Gladys must have realized she’d hit a nerve. “Oh, Georgie, I’m so sorry. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

  I shook it off. Dolly was stepping off the front porch. “It’s okay, Gladys.” It didn’t actually feel okay. “I’ll let you know when it’s done. And thanks. This is the right thing to do.”

  “Of course it is. Bye-bye, dear.” She disconnected.

  Dolly opened the door and got in. Her breathing was slightly labored, slightly quicker than it should be. She sat down and buckled herself in. A woman came out of the house, someone I’d never seen before, but I didn’t know everyone in Bonaparte Bay, especially those who lived on the outskirts of town. The cow was heading this way along the side of the road. The woman walked toward it.

  “Should we give her a ride?” I wasn’t sure what cow-human protocol was.

  “Naw, the car might spook the cow off into the wrong field. Just head back toward my house and we’ll take the long way around.” She leaned back in her seat.

  I did as instructed. This direction would take us back toward Silver Lake, then there was a road to the left that would take us back into Bonaparte Bay. Fortunately, we’d left early. I was still hoping for breakfast somewhere.

  We passed Old Lady Turnbull’s house. “Any news on Silver Lake?” I asked.

  “Deal with the lawyer’s dead, obviously. I heard the son might be interested. Then there’s Murdoch, the builder, still in the running.”

  So Ben MacNamara wanted to take over his father’s project? My gut feeling told me he didn’t have the experience or organizational skills required to pull off a job that big. And the other question was whether he had the resources to get it rolling. Presumably his father had—he had all that money from the Bloodworth Trust squirreled away somewhere. And Ben knew something about that, though how much I wasn’t sure. What if he knew about it, but couldn’t access it?

  And then there was Steve Murdoch. He could do this project in his sleep, and he stood to make even more money than the MacNamaras did, because he owned a construction company. He’d have to pay Mrs. Turnbull for the land, of course, but he’d only have to pay the cost of materials and his workers, with no upcharge for the design and build. It would be such a shame to mar that beautiful piece of pristine waterfront. But Steve was in the building business. It wasn’t like anyone could tell him not to do his job.