A Killer Kebab

by Susannah Hardy

  I pulled a couple of bottled waters from my shoulder bag and set one in front of each woman. “Drink,” I ordered. “You’re off your IVs now and you need to keep hydrated.”

  Liza complied. Melanie gave a huff and an eye roll. She must be feeling generous with her scorn today. Normally, I liked to do these debriefings with a glass of wine and some kind of delicious snack, but the hospital vending machine seemed to be fresh out of both.

  “From what I’ve been able to piece together, Lydia Ames, who’s now in the county lockup, engineered everything. As you know, she worked for Jim MacNamara for years. When she found out he was skimming from the Bloodworth Trust, she demanded to be let in on the action. According to our new lawyer, who I went into St. Lawrence County to get—”

  “Good idea,” Liza interrupted. “Better to have someone a little farther removed from all this.”

  “That’s what I thought too. Anyway, according to the new lawyer, Lydia was the one who came up with the idea of altering the trust documents to hide the missing money. It’ll take months before all the various bank accounts can be traced. Lydia had her own, Jim MacNamara had his own, plus most of the money is probably in offshore accounts under assumed names, or buried inside shell corporations or something.”

  Melanie gave another eye roll. “Do we even know if there’s any money left?”

  “The lawyer’s just getting started. We won’t know that for a while.”

  “I guess,” Melanie said dramatically, “my summer stock theater at our old family farm will have to wait. Unless I can charm some investors . . .” Her gaze went toward the windows overlooking the St. Lawrence River, no doubt thinking who in her acquaintance might be charmable. I certainly wasn’t.

  “Maybe we can talk about that later,” Liza said, her voice thoughtful.

  “Back to the story—” I gave Melanie what I hoped was a pointed stare. Which she ignored. “When Jim MacNamara took up with Jennifer Murdoch, Lydia thought Jim was going to try to cut her out of the deal. Jennifer was demanding, and pushy, and she had Jim wrapped around her little finger. It wasn’t too big a leap to think that Jim might start trying to pressure Lydia into giving up some of her share of the money. Maybe Jim had something on her, something that hasn’t come to light yet.”

  Liza said, “Let me guess. The trust was almost empty at that point, because between Jim and Lydia, over the years, they’d diverted nearly all the money. And since the trust was about to vest in February, and it was quite possible that one of us was going to question what had happened to the millions that were supposed to be there, Lydia decided to make a preemptive strike. She killed Jim, using Zach Brundage to set up Russ Riley.”

  I nodded. “Right. And because Jim MacNamara had been Russ’s lawyer the last time he’d been in trouble, Lydia knew that Russ was the perfect fall guy. He had an ax to grind against my family, and she knew about the argument Russ had had with Jim. It was simple for her to have Zach go to the police saying he’d overheard the argument.”

  “And then,” Liza said, “she set about getting rid of the rest of the heirs to the trust. Some, like our cousins Big Dom and Doreen, were already gone, killed by people with their own interest in the trust.” She swallowed, no doubt remembering who had killed Doreen and why. She went on, “And she hired Piper Preston to poison our food, either to weaken us, or to kill us outright. If there were no heirs, there would be no one to question what happened to the money. Or at least no one who would care all that much.”

  “And Lydia was good at altering documents,” I said. “She could have directed the authorities to Jim’s skimmed investments, after she covered her own tracks, of course. Jim was dead, and so, in her scenario, were all the heirs. Lydia was banking on the fact, pun intended, that Jim would take the whole blame and no one would look closely at her, a mere assistant.”

  Melanie was still looking out over the water. I had a feeling she was probably wondering if she could pull off Blanche DuBois and how much it would cost to put on Streetcar. But she surprised me by pulling herself back into the conversation. “What about that little brat, the son?”

  “Ben’s up to his eyeballs too,” I said. “In salad dressing. He was working with a company called Tripler Enterprises to put together some kind of licensing deal with one of the big home shopping channels.”

  “Tripler. Triple R,” Liza said. “River Rock Resort? Angela Wainwright?” I was pleased to see her take another sip out of the bottle of water.

  “Right. Angela needs money to fix up the River Rock and pay the mortgage on her condo. So she, or Ben, or both of them together, came up with this idea to trademark Thousand Island dressing. To make it stand out, they needed an original, proprietary recipe—or at least one they could say was an original recipe—until they could get the stuff through the trademark process and into production.”

  “Seems like a dumb idea,” Melanie said matter-of-factly. “Stuff’s been around for a hundred years. How much could it be worth?” She examined the nails on her right hand and frowned. She’d be wanting a manicure when she got out of here.

  “Yes and no,” I said. “If she could get the name trademarked, she could hold every restaurant owner along the river hostage. According to the new lawyer, if she owned the trademark, she could try to prevent all of us from offering Thousand Island dressing on the menu. Of course, we could call it something else, but it’s a tradition here. One of the things that makes us who we are. She might even be able to take on some of the national salad dressing brands, make them pay her to use the name. There was potential for some money, even if it wasn’t guaranteed.”

  “Angela’s not the type to physically hurt anyone. So who beat up Franco and ransacked his restaurant?” Liza asked.

  “The new lawyer says that Ben MacNamara confessed to doing it, that Angela wasn’t involved. Once his father was killed, Ben got desperate. He’d been working on the salad dressing deal, but now he needed it to go through immediately because he couldn’t figure out how to access the Bloodworth Trust money his father and Lydia had skimmed. He used Piper as a go-between with Angela, because he wanted to keep the potential trademark and licensing quiet until the paperwork was filed and didn’t want anyone guessing what they were doing.”

  Liza nodded. “He probably didn’t know where his next paycheck was coming from.”

  “Right. He needed that money even more after his father died, because he wanted to try to take over the Silver Lake development project. If he could have managed it, he would have set himself up for life.”

  “So what happens to all the clients of that law firm?” Melanie said. “Including us. Are we just out of luck?” She had moved on to examining the nails of her other hand.

  “Our new lawyer says that since Jim is dead, and Ben is likely to go to jail for assault and battery—maybe even attempted murder—the state bar counsel will have to appoint another attorney to come in and contact every client the MacNamaras had, inform them of what happened, and help them find new representation.”

  Liza leaned forward and patted my arm. “I can’t really miss what I never had, so it won’t be too hard for me to wait to see if any Bloodworth Trust money ever shows up.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Melanie said.

  Liza ignored her. “Not that it wouldn’t come in handy, with my repair bills coming up. But I’m more concerned about you, Georgie. How much longer will you have to wait for your divorce?”

  The same thought had crossed my mind. I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure freedom is in my sights.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Whew.” I blew out a breath, raised my forearm, and wiped my brow, which was damp with perspiration, while I surveyed myself in the mirror of the Bonaparte House’s brand-new ladies’ room. Face flushed, I pressed a damp paper towel to my cheeks and combed my hair, then repositioned a bright orange gerbera daisy in the creamy vase on the counter. I ga
ve the dish of potpourri a little stir to release its spicy fragrance. The walls seemed to glow with a pale yellow light when the afternoon sun hit them, just as I’d imagined they’d look when I chose the color what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Steve and his new crew, minus Russ and Zach, had finished the renovations on schedule. All traces of the murder of James MacNamara were gone, replaced with brand-new tile and new fixtures. I closed my eyes. No, I couldn’t feel him here, so I had to assume he was at that great country club in the sky, sitting at the celestial nineteenth hole with a scotch and soda in front of him and deciding whose wife he was going after next. I washed up and stuck my hands into the new high-speed dryer, which had the approximate power of a jet engine, then headed back out to the dining rooms.

  The Bonaparte House was full on Thanksgiving Day for the first time ever and it appeared the experiment was a success. Cal, Inky, Spiro, and I had set up the tables for larger than normal parties, and Dolly and I had prepared a buffet turkey dinner with all the trimmings—including a few nontraditional ones like Greek salad and dolmades (brined grape leaves stuffed with rice and lamb), which turned out to be a nice foil for the heavy American fare. We’d gone through a dozen assorted pies, and it looked like we’d calculated just about right, as my guests seemed to be winding down with coffee, tea, and conversation and there were only a few desserts on the serving table.

  Ten dollars from every dinner was being split between the food pantry and the school PTOs. My mother-in-law, Sophie, would have a fit if she knew, since she wasn’t terribly civic-minded—okay, not at all civic-minded—but I’d sworn my family to secrecy. And speaking of my family, they were all here except for Sophie and her cousin Marina, who were enjoying the Aegean sunshine on the other side of the world. Melanie and Liza sat together at a table up front with Inky and Spiro. Melanie was sticking her fork into her pumpkin pie and twisting it around, deliberately not taking a bite, while the others seemed to be enjoying their desserts with gusto. Melanie and Caitlyn were staying at the Camelot now that Liza’s spa had closed up for the winter, and she’d be heading back to California right after Christmas to begin taping her show again. We’d settled into a tentative relationship, even though she’d refused my offer again to stay with me while she recovered. We’d never have a conventional mother-daughter relationship—largely because Melanie had a hard time admitting she had a daughter who was approaching middle age—but it was good enough for now.

  Steve Murdoch sat on the other side of Liza. The two of them appeared to be deep in conversation. I smiled. Steve had some things to work out, now that Jennifer had left town, but I couldn’t help wondering if something—someone—better might be on the horizon for him. He’d decided to go ahead and purchase the Silver Lake property. Old Lady Turnbull’s granddaughter was going to get to go to medical school after all. But Steve had changed his mind about developing the lakefront. Instead, he was selling the land to a forever wild trust at a very small profit. Not that anyone asked my opinion, but I approved. It made me happy to think that that beautiful shoreline would be preserved.

  Russ Riley sat with Dolly—whom I’d insisted needed to sit down and take a break—his stepfather, Harold, and his sister, Brandy. Russ had been released from prison quickly once the real murderer had been caught. And he’d gotten what he wanted. His hunting land had been protected by Steve’s purchase. But Russ’s probation officer and the court had come down hard on him when they learned he’d violated his probation and left the state for Florida just before returning to the North Country, and just before he’d been arrested on suspicion of murder. He could now walk the woods to his heart’s content, but carrying a firearm was out of the question. There’d be no legal hunting for him for years. He claimed he had no intention of going back to jail by violating his probation again, so if he was telling the truth, the Silver Lake deer were safe for now.

  Brandy had agreed to trap and take the big orange cat home to live in her barn, which was a bit of a relief for me. She said she’d let me know whether the cat would be called Hortense or Horace.

  Franco and Marielle had stopped in to say hello on their way to a family Thanksgiving of their own.

  An arm snaked around my shoulders. I turned to see Cal’s smiling face. “Great job here, Mom.”

  I smiled back. “I couldn’t have done it without you and Dad and Inky and Dolly.” My heart swelled with love for my baby girl turned young woman and I reached up and tucked a lock of her shiny dark hair behind her ear, making the dangly silver earrings she wore dance in the dim light from the candles on the tables. Now I’d have to go wash my hands again before I touched anything food-related, but I didn’t care. She’d be leaving me again after Christmas to go back to Greece and back to school, and I’d have to let her go.

  “Say, Mom?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and wrinkled her nose, the way she’d done since she was a child when she had something to tell me and wasn’t sure how I’d react.

  “Yes, sweetie?” Please don’t let her say she’s leaving early. Though of course I’d let her go if she asked.

  “Um, I know it’s Thanksgiving night and all, but do you think once the dishes are done and the food’s packed up . . . would you mind . . .”

  “Spit it out, Cal.”

  “Well, Ewan Murdoch asked me to go the movies in Watertown tonight.” Her eyes searched my face. “I won’t go if you’re going to be alone, though.”

  My heart gave a little squeeze. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ewan sitting next to his father, his mother conspicuously absent. He cut his eyes in our direction, obviously trying not to be obvious. He was a good-looking guy like his father, with curly chestnut brown hair and brown eyes, and dressed in a tweed sports jacket he’d probably borrowed from Steve since it seemed a little big in the shoulders. The poor kid was going through a tough time, with his parents having just announced their breakup. He could probably use a night out with a pretty girl. I knew as well as anyone that Callista Nikolopatos was good company.

  “Oh, go on,” I said, giving her a gentle shove. “I’ll get Dad and Inky to help me wrap things up here, then I’ll invite them to stay over and we can watch old Cary Grant movies and eat the raspberry pie and vanilla ice cream I have hidden in the walk-in.”

  Her face split into a broad grin that was worth every penny we’d paid for expert orthodontic work when she was younger. She gave me a hug. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you too. Now go ask Ewan and Steve if they need a refill on their coffee.” She headed off to do my bidding.

  I had no idea if Inky and Spiro would want to stay. Probably not, though Dolly’s pie was a pretty good incentive. They had their own lives to lead now, and I didn’t need anybody feeling sorry for lonely old me. A lump formed in my throat. I could feel plenty sorry for myself all on my own. And I had pie to keep me company.

  My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. The dining room seemed under control, so I headed out into the hallway and toward my office to take the call. I frowned as I reached for the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. The phone continued to buzz. A look at the screen told me I’d missed a call from Jack and my heart sank. I tried the doorknob again and felt resistance. This wasn’t funny. I knew I hadn’t locked the door, and the key was right where it belonged—in the top drawer of my desk inside the office.

  Well, heck. Now I’d have to see if Inky with his illegal but useful skills could either pick the lock or go in through the window that faced the employee parking lot and open the door from the inside. Blowing out a sigh, I spun on my heel to go find him.

  A gentle breath of air kissed the back of my neck and the hinges of the big oak door creaked behind me. The muscles of my back stiffened. I turned around, slowly.

  Jack Conway stood in the door frame, grinning his movie star smile and looking better than any raspberry pie ever could. He reached out his long arms and drew me close, pulled me into my off
ice, and shut the door. I pressed my cheek against the soft wool of his dark sweater as tears welled up into my eyes. I hoped I didn’t ruin the sweater with my waterworks. His chin rested on my hair, which I knew probably smelled like the restaurant kitchen, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Jack pulled back and looked into my eyes, his hands coming to rest on my waist. “Miss me?”

  “You know I did,” I sniffed. Darn it, I forbade myself to cry. Jack couldn’t help that his job with the Coast Guard sometimes took him away for weeks at a time, or that he couldn’t tell me exactly what he did or where he was going.

  “I’ve just been out at Gladys’s house, turning on the furnace to warm the place up. I don’t suppose you’d like to come out there later to help me decorate for the holidays?” He ran his hands around to the small of my back, leaving a trail of warmth that spread pleasantly to . . . other places. I stepped forward into his embrace.

  “Funny, you don’t look like Martha Stewart,” I said.

  “You wound me. My scones are things of beauty.”

  I laughed. “I’ll bet they are. Will there be a fire in the fireplace?”

  “What kind of host-in-someone-else’s-home would I be if I didn’t make a fire?”

  I wrapped my arms around him a little tighter, brazen hussy that I was. Maybe this would be a good night for Cal to stay with her father after the movie. “Do you even know where Gladys keeps the decorations?”

  He pulled one hand away from my back, and I was disappointed at the loss of contact. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out his closed fist, which he raised above his head. His fingers uncurled to reveal a sprig of dark green leaves attached to white, waxy berries. Mistletoe.