One Feta in the Grave Read online

  The Kitchen Kebab Mystery Series

  by Tina Kashian

  Hummus and Homicide

  Stabbed in the Baklava

  One Feta in the Grave

  ONE FETA IN THE GRAVE

  Tina Kashian

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  Author’s Note

  RECIPES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  About the Author

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Tina Sickler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1351-3

  First Kensington Mass Market Edition: March 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1352-0 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1352-4 (e-book)

  For Laura

  Never stop reaching for your dreams.

  I love you.

  CHAPTER 1

  “It looks like a giant nose.”

  Lucy Berberian’s lips twitched at the words her longtime friend Katie Watson whispered into her ear.

  “No. I think it’s an oversized ear. Wait, it’s a . . .” Lucy bit her lip, afraid to voice what other body part she thought was displayed, then suddenly realized the artist’s true intent. “It’s a big snail!”

  Both women looked at each other, then burst out laughing, drawing the attention of a group of serious-looking men and women holding clipboards who were gathered around a sand sculpture a few yards away.

  Lucy scanned the beach, noting the dozens of impressive sand sculptures. It was Sunday, the opening day of the Ocean Crest sand sculpture contest, the first event of many to celebrate the weeklong beach festival in the small Jersey shore town. The festival offered numerous activities on the boardwalk and on the beach. Surfing, beach volleyball, and soccer competitions would thrill tourists and beachgoers alike while a wine and food tasting event would offer delicious morsels from local restaurants to satisfy adventurous palates. Visitors would wander among the temporary tents set up on the boardwalk while local musicians performed beneath the bandstand. And all during the week, shops would continue to sell beach clothing, boogie boards, pails and shovels, hermit crabs, and dozens of other summer-themed knickknacks. The amusement pier’s old-fashioned wooden roller coaster and Ferris wheel operated late into the evening, and spectacular fireworks ended the festivities Saturday night.

  The festival was important for the local merchants and the town. It was mid-August, and soon after, the season would wind down and the small town that could easily swell to triple its population during the summer months would shrink to its after-season size following Labor Day.

  The sand sculpture contest kicked off the festival, and local artists had molded unique creations. Mermaids, Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, intricate castles, and a variety of marine life including sea turtles, horseshoe crabs, and fish fascinated onlookers. A lifelike sculpture of C-3PO alongside R2-D2 from Star Wars drew kids of all ages.

  Clipboards in hand, Lucy and Katie walked from creation to creation and marked their scores on their judging sheets.

  Katie chewed on her pencil as she stared at the snail sculpture. “I’m not sure how to score this one.”

  Lucy cocked her head to the side and squinted at the sculpture. “It’s very detailed. I’m giving it a high score for creativity.”

  “I suppose.” Katie didn’t look convinced.

  A flash of red on the beach caught Lucy’s eye. A pretty, blond teenager in a fire-engine-red bikini flirted with a lifeguard sitting in his guard stand. Her brunette girlfriend stood next to her smiling.

  “The one in the red looks like you did in high school,” Lucy said. Katie was tall and slender with straight blond hair and blue eyes.

  “You think so? I don’t remember being that flirtatious, and the curvy brunette looks like you now.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “My bikini days are long over. And you always flirted with the lifeguards.”

  “The good old days,” Katie said.

  They burst out laughing. They’d been best friends since grade school, but were physical opposites. Lucy was shorter with dark, curly hair that never cooperated in the summer humidity, and her eyes were a deep brown. The two women came from different cultural backgrounds as well. Lucy was a first-generation American—a mix of Armenian, Greek, and Lebanese—and Katie had discovered, after recently putting together a family tree, that one of her ancestors fought under General Washington in the Revolutionary War.

  Their differences never mattered. They were like sisters, and when Lucy had quit her job as a Philadelphia attorney and returned home, Katie had welcomed her back with open arms and offered Lucy her guest bedroom in the cozy rancher she shared with her husband, Bill, an Ocean Crest police officer.

  They marked down their scores and turned to the next sculpture—an adorable sand snowman with shiny black shells for its eyes and a small conch shell for its nose—when angry voices drew their attention.

  “You’re biased and everyone knows it! How the hell did you get to be a judge?”

  Lucy recognized the man as Harold Harper, a boardwalk business owner. Harold was stocky with reddish hair parted on one side and the beginnings of a goatee on his square chin. He wore a striped tank top, wrinkled khaki shorts, and sandals.

  “What’s it to you? Mind your own business.”

  Lucy didn’t know the second man. Tall and thin, he had a shock of white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a tattoo of Wile E. Coyote on his right bicep. His untucked, white, T-shirt and army green shorts emphasized his height and lankiness.

  “I’m also a judge. I’m making it my business,” Harold said.

  Lucy turned to Katie. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s Harold Harper and Archie Kincaid,” Katie said. “Archie came to town a year ago and opened Seaside Gifts, a store on the boardwalk. I issued his mercantile license at the town hall.”

  Katie worked at the Ocean Crest town hall and handled real estate taxes, zoning, pet licenses, and business licenses.

  “Archie’s going at it pretty good with Harold,” Lucy said.

  “They own shops next to each other on the board
walk. Sparks fly whenever they’re within five feet of each other.”

  Their combative stances reminded Lucy of the TV commercials advertising a big mixed martial arts fight at one of the large Atlantic City casinos. Was it all bravado or could they really pack a punch?

  Katie vigorously fanned her red cheeks with her clipboard. “If it has something to do with the judging, then I have to get involved.”

  Katie was the head judge on the judging committee for the sand sculpture contest. The committee appointed six additional judges and everyone’s scores would be anonymously tallied. Lucy was one of the appointed judges.

  Lucy had also been recruited to oversee the food and wine tasting event, which was part of the festival and would take place on the boardwalk. As the new manager of Kebab Kitchen, her family-owned Mediterranean restaurant, Lucy had been the perfect fit for the job. She’d also wanted to give back to the town who had warmly embraced her after she’d returned home months ago.

  Harold and Archie glowered at each other and were starting to cause a scene. Several tourists had stopped on the beach to watch.

  Lucy eyed them warily. “Maybe you should call Bill.” A man in uniform carrying a gun could quickly calm down a fight between two idiots.

  “I can handle it,” Katie said, stiffening her spine as she approached the pair. “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”

  “He should be disqualified as a judge,” Harold said, pointing his pen at Archie.

  “Shut up, Harper! No one wants to hear your opinion,” Archie countered.

  This wasn’t going well. If things escalated, then Lucy would call Bill on her cell phone.

  “Why do you think he should be disqualified?” Katie asked.

  “His nephew created that.” Harold motioned to a sand sculpture of a sea serpent attacking a castle. “I glimpsed at his scores. He gave everyone lower scores and his nephew a ten. A ten! No one should get a perfect score.”

  Lucy had already judged the sculpture in question, and she tended to agree. The face of the serpent was not detailed, and one wall of the castle was starting to crumble. It was average, certainly not a ten—not when the competition was stiff and there were a lot of spectacular sculptures.

  “Is this true about your nephew?” Katie asked.

  Archie shrugged. “Neil is an aspiring artist and happened to enter this year.”

  Katie frowned. “Then as the head judge of the judging committee, I have to agree with Mr. Harper.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The judging agreement you signed specifically says no family members are permitted to compete,” Katie said.

  “I didn’t see that in the agreement,” Archie protested.

  “Maybe you should have read the fine print,” Harold scoffed.

  Archie whirled on Harold. “Maybe I should wallop you.”

  “You’re nothing but a bully,” Harold taunted.

  “Mr. Harper, please.” Katie said, holding up her hand. She turned to Archie. “Mr. Kincaid, I’m afraid you have to step down as a judge. There is a five-thousand-dollar prize at stake, and we can’t afford an appearance of impropriety.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Archie looked at her in disbelief.

  “No. I’m quite serious.”

  Harold laughed, and a smug look crossed his face.

  Rather than address his adversary, Archie stalked forward to stand toe to toe with Katie. “Are you accusing me of cheating?”

  Katie was taken aback, but she didn’t back down. She placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not accusing you of anything, just stating fact. The agreement was clear.”

  Archie jerked his head at Harold. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  “Nope, but I sure am enjoying it,” Harold drawled.

  Archie ignored the barb and turned back to Katie. “What if I refuse to step down as a judge?”

  Katie raised her chin. “Then your nephew’s sculpture will have to be disqualified.”

  Archie’s brows snapped downward like two angry caterpillars. “If you’d just keep your nose where it belongs instead of favoring Harold, lady, the rest of this judging would go on without a hitch.”

  Katie’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say to me?” Her fist clenched at her side, and Lucy feared her friend would be the one doing the walloping. Lucy was painfully aware that everyone’s attention was focused on the pair.

  “Just calm down, Katie.” Lucy rushed forward to grab hold of her arm.

  Lucy felt Katie’s muscles tighten. “Like I said, either you step down or your nephew’s sculpture will be eliminated from the competition.”

  “Let’s move on,” Lucy urged. “We can report everything to the festival committee and let them toss out his scores.”

  When neither seemed willing to break the standoff, Lucy tugged on Katie’s arm. A group of children, dressed in bathing suits and holding pails and sand shovels, had gathered to stand behind the adults and stare, mouths agape.

  Archie had enough sense to look contrite, and he backed up a step. “If those are my options, then I’ll step down as judge.” He extended his clipboard.

  Lucy sprang forward and took the clipboard rather than risk Katie hitting him over the head with it. Together they watched as Archie stormed off the beach.

  “You okay?” Lucy asked after they’d moved on.

  Katie rubbed her temple. “Yeah. I just lost my temper.”

  “I don’t blame you. Archie acted like a jerk. But Harold was no better in my opinion. He really pushed Archie’s buttons. Why do they hate each other?”

  “Like I said, they are boardwalk business neighbors. Harold called the township and complained that Archie’s using cutthroat business tactics.”

  “How?”

  “They both mostly sell T-shirts, boogie boards, bathing suits, all the other usual beach items. Harold claims Archie has slashed his prices below cost just to put Harold out of business. He claims Archie will turn around and raise his prices after Harold is forced to close his store.”

  Lucy knew boardwalk business owners had a little over three months—from Memorial Day to Labor Day—to earn their yearly living. The beach town was bursting at its seams with tourists during the season, and there was ample business to sell similar wares. But at the same time, it fed a competitive business nature.

  “What can the town do?” Lucy asked.

  “Nothing. It’s a free economy.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Both men are stubborn as mules.”

  Katie let out a slow breath. “I’m just glad it ended before those two came to blows and one ended up dead.”

  * * *

  The industrial KitchenAid mixer whirred and mixed the dough to a creamy smoothness. Inside the oven, the first trays of date cookies were almost finished, and they released their delicious smell into the restaurant’s kitchen.

  The oven timer dinged. “They look perfect,” Lucy’s mother, Angela Berberian, said.

  “I need to make five more trays.” Lucy wiped her hands on a clean dishcloth and peered into the oven.

  Angela reached for a white apron emblazoned with Kebab Kitchen’s name in green letters. “I’ll help.”

  The restaurant would serve cookies and baklava for dessert at the upcoming wine and food tasting event. Their head chef, Azad, would prepare his own savory dishes. Azad was creative, and Lucy couldn’t wait to hear what he planned to serve.

  The date cookies were a family favorite. Lucy’s ten-year-old niece, Niari, was a typical picky tween eater. She wouldn’t touch a date, let alone eat one. But the family recipe had fooled her. Niari had bitten into one of the soft cookies, mistakenly believed they were chocolate filled, and loved them. When Lucy had told her that they were stuffed with dates, not chocolate, Niari’s eyes had widened like disks and her mouth had formed a perfect O, then she’d simply shrugged, and finished her cookie.

  “Remove the trays before they overbake,” her mother said.

  Lucy reached for silicone mittens, p
ulled the trays out of the oven, and set them on the worktable to cool on racks. They smelled like heaven and her mouth watered at the sight. Each cookie was slightly brown and looked like a half-moon stuffed ravioli.

  “Perfect,” her mother said.

  Lucy beamed. Angela Berberian didn’t hand out praise easily. Her mother was the former chef of Kebab Kitchen and was a tyrant in the kitchen. At only five feet tall, she was tiny, but formidable. Anyone who’d ever worked with her knew better than to underestimate her culinary skill or to serve a dish that didn’t meet her high standards. Angela wore her hair in her signature sixties beehive and the gold cross necklace she never removed.

  Lucy had always believed life had played a cruel trick on her when she’d been born into her family. Her parents had opened Kebab Kitchen thirty years ago, and other than Lucy, every member of her family could cook. Her sister, Emma, could whip up a family meal for her husband, Max, and their daughter, Niari, in little time. Her father, Raffi, grew up knowing how to marinate and grill the perfect shish kebab.

  Lucy had been the only one who couldn’t boil water or scramble an egg, let alone prepare a tray of baklava. She’d gone to law school instead and had worked at a Philadelphia firm for eight years. But since returning home and taking over management of the restaurant, she’d been determined to learn.

  It hadn’t been easy. Lucy had spent hours in the kitchen with her mother learning how to make baklava, hummus, grape leaves stuffed with meat and rice, and other savory Mediterranean dishes. Frustrated and often overheated, there were times she wanted to quit, but she’d stuck with it, and she’d surprised everyone, mostly herself.

  Her dishes came out not only edible, but good.

  Not as good as her mother’s or Azad’s, but Lucy was more than pleased with her success. Plus, it wasn’t as if she was taking over as head chef anytime soon. Lucy liked managing. Nothing was more satisfying than when the kitchen and dining room ran smoothly, and their customers enjoyed their meals.