Deadly Debut Read online

  Leila examined her veil inch by inch. “Did any beads come off? It was so expensive!”

  Eve dressed in her costume and tied the scarf around her hips. She watched Leila sit in front of the mirror, take a bite of her favorite Turkish delight, and start painting her cheeks.

  “I’m not dancing Raks al Assaya tonight,” Leila said wearily. “I’m too old for that. It’s so hard to jump with all these pounds I put on thanks to my break-up.”

  She held out the box of Turkish delight. “You want a sugar fix?”

  “No, thanks.” Eve was only two years younger than Leila, but half her size. She intended to stay that way. “You gotta lose weight. You’re only thirty-eight. How will you ever again dance Raks al Assaya?”

  “Inşallah, I won’t have to dance at all,” Leila laughed. “I’ll be a married woman soon. I’ll stay home and wait for my husband. It’ll be wonderful.”

  “Lock the door when I leave, before some idiot barges in again.” Eve covered herself with her veil and stepped out into the velvet tent. She heard the bolt click behind her. The lighted shamadan Ali had prepared for her stood on a tray. Eve carefully placed it on her head, framed it with her arms in a Pharaoh-like fashion and closed her eyes to summon the spirit of the dance. But, instead of the usual thrill, she had a strange feeling that somebody was watching her from behind.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she heard Mehmet announce into the mic. “The Aladdin’s Cave is proud to present to you its most beautiful pearl!”

  Balancing the shamadan on her head, Eve tried to look back, but saw only the thick black folds of the tent. The band started a taksim—the slow beginning of a dance without the drums, played only with violin, flute, and oud, a distant relative of a lute. Eve had no time to look around for what she sensed. She had to dance. Maybe it was just her imagination.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mehmet shouted to the cheering crowd again. “Please put your hands together for the gorgeous and glorious Eve Gülnar!”

  Eve stepped out of the tent with an elegant Persian walk. The shamadan candles glowed in the darkness, casting shadows on the many faces. Eve glided along, oblivious to the crowd, her wrists drawing graceful circles in the air, her body swaying from side to side, carried by the music. For her, the dance wasn’t an instrument of seduction, but a mystical trance.

  The music changed to the old Egyptian, country-style beat. Following the rhythm, Eve started a hip-lifting walk. She reached the center of the floor and switched to the ribcage circles and undulations while slowly descending onto her knees. Her entire body snaked under the shamadan as if she were born without bones. Mesmerized, the crowd drank in her every move with the thirst of desert Bedouins.

  Eve tilted backward slowly, until her shoulders almost touched the floor. Arms spread out, she nearly lay on the parquet, but her head still held the shamadan upright. The crowd moaned in awe. The back dip was the culmination of the Candlelight Dance. Her body rising and falling like ocean waves, Eve returned to an upright position and slowly rose to her feet. With a toss of her head, she flipped off the shamadan and caught it in the air. Like a genie from a bottle, Ali emerged next to her to take the shamadan into his helping hands.

  The band started playing the Karshilama, a quick, cabaret-styled Turkish favorite. Eve whirled around the floor, her veil flying after her like a golden flame. The crowd cheered, screamed, and whistled. Vasilakos tossed a bunch of singles at her, and she swept her veil over him as a thank-you. She danced around the Turkish table, pausing at every chair to impress them with her hip-drops and snaps, her figure-eights and mayas, her snaking rib-circles and taunting chest-thrusts. The Turks cheered and clapped. When she wrapped her veil over the birthday boy’s neck and pulled him out to dance, his friends joined him, tossing singles, fives, and tens in the air. A few Turks chased Eve, trying to tuck twenties into her hip scarf. She wanted to send a flying kiss to Roy for tipping her off about the partying Turks, but didn’t see him at the bar. Holding hands, the Turks formed a circle and danced around Eve. After a few minutes, everyone in the Cave jumped and swayed, even those who had never before danced to a Middle Eastern beat.

  Finally, the oud and violin broke in, and Eve hopped up on her toes, sweeping around the Cave in an extreme, running shimmy. Her hips vibrated so fast, the twenties the Turks had tucked into her hip scarf blew away, flying through the air. The beads and coins jiggled and quivered around her hips as if gravity no longer held them. Eve circled the floor one last time, sent good-bye kisses to the crowd, threw an obligatory smile to Boris Rublev —and disappeared into the velvet tent.

  COVERED head to toe by her gorgeous veil, Leila lay back in her chair. She was still dressed in her harem pants and a white bra.

  “Leila!” Eve called, surprised. “You’re on! Wake up! Get moving!”

  Leila didn’t respond. Through the transparent silk, her face appeared calm and peaceful as if she were asleep. But the delicate peacock embroidery of the scarf was ripped, and the twisted red marks on her throat didn’t look like smudges of lipstick. Shocked by a sudden realization, Eve gasped, holding her hands to her throat. Her strong legs had carried her through the long dance, but now they felt soft and rubbery.

  Through the thin red fabric, Eve held her henna-painted palm to Leila’s neck, to feel the woman’s pulse.

  There was none.

  “SHE was strangled with her own veil,” Eve said to the officer. “The beads scratched her neck. They were all over the floor.”

  “Forensics will determine cause of death,” he replied, securing the entrance to the dressing room with yellow crime-scene tape. No one was allowed in or out of the restaurant until the detectives and forensics finished their work.

  “You’re saying no one could’ve sneaked in?” he asked again, skeptically.

  “To get to the tent you must walk through the dance floor,” Eve explained one more time. “I would’ve noticed.”

  “And you said someone was in the tent?”

  “I’m not sure,” Eve shook her head. “It was just a feeling. But he couldn’t leave the tent without passing by me on the floor.”

  “Well, he certainly didn’t climb out the window, ’cause there is none.” The officer shrugged. “And if you heard her lock the door behind you, she had to open it for him willingly. She must’ve known him. Do you know if she had any enemies?”

  “She had a lot of fans in this place.” Eve sighed. “But enemies . . . ? Not that I know of.”

  “Hey, Nick.” The second officer stuck his head into the tent and gave Eve an up-and-down look. “If you’re done, they’ve got good coffee here. Turkish coffee!”

  Nick left, and Eve breathed out with relief. His penetrating stares made her uncomfortable. She was cold, too, but her clothes were inside the dressing room, which was now a crime scene. The situation felt unreal. Eve wrapped herself in her veil, sat down on one of the tent pillows, and started thinking.

  Enemies. Somehow, Eve felt Leila’s death was connected to her crazy marriage plan. Grabbing a husband the way Leila had was weird. What if she’d pissed him off by ruining his wedding? What if he wanted to restore the arrangement and get rid of Leila? Poor, stupid Leila thought she finally had a husband lined up, but the man had killed her.

  Eve’s theory seemed to make sense. The only man a near-naked Leila would open the door for was her fiancé. So, Eve’s longtime suspicion that Leila’s mysterious lover worked in the Cave must be true. That’s why Leila had been so secretive about it. But who could he be?

  Absentmindedly, Eve began fiddling with the beads and coins of her Salaam Alaikum scarf. Her grandmother used to twist the rosary, even when she wasn’t praying. She said it gave her wisdom.

  “Could it be Mehmet?” Eve asked the beads. Mehmet was married, but Eve had heard rumors of him hitting on young belly dancers. Maybe Leila was ashamed of having an affair with a married man and made up the bride story. Little lies didn’t bother her. Maybe she was hoping Mehmet would divorce Faisel. Maybe s
he’d threatened to tell Faisel, and Mehmet had killed her. Maybe she’d even told Faisel. It was just like Leila, trying to get married at any price, even “not her own kind.”

  Damn! Eve flung the beads away. Here was the biggest flaw in her logic. Mehmet was Turkish and therefore Muslim. He was exactly “Leila’s own kind.” Eve could see Leila turning a wife into an unwanted bride, but Leila wouldn’t say her boyfriend wasn’t her own kind if he was.

  If the boyfriend wasn’t Turkish and Muslim, who was he? Vasilakos, the Greek? He had propositioned women at the Cave. But he was old and without a wife or a bride. He admired Leila, but who didn’t? Every time she danced, the men went wild. Eve started fiddling with the beads again. No, Vasilakos was too ridiculous a thought. It had to be somebody younger.

  Alfonso? He sure drooled over Leila. Just look how he’d acted earlier, when he’d burst into the dressing room. Maybe he’d promised to marry her to get her into bed. Eve found Alfonso repulsive, but Leila was so obsessed with marriage that looks might not have mattered to her. She saw marriage as the ultimate success, the highest conceivable point of her life, with no possible ambition beyond. What Eve deemed a death sentence, Leila viewed as paradise. Still, Eve couldn’t believe Leila would give herself to Alfonso over all her other offers.

  Eve continued to play with the beads and think. People often overlooked unlikely suspects to find out later that the butler did it. Maybe Alfonso, the busboy, had killed Leila. Maybe he wasn’t her boyfriend. Maybe he’d just wanted to try his chances. He hid behind the tent, after she threw him out of the dressing room, and waited. Why hadn’t Eve thought of that before?

  Eve jumped to her feet and ran out of the tent. She looked around the Cave, inside the kitchen, and even the men’s restroom, but couldn’t find Alfonso.

  “Ayshe . . .” She stopped a young waitress carrying cups of Turkish coffee to the customers who still wanted their dinners and deserts, even in the midst of the police investigation. “Have you seen Alfonso?”

  “Sh-sh,” Ayshe held her finger to her lips. “Don’t say his name. Mehmet hid him in the cellar.”

  “Mehmet—what?”

  “Don’t ask me.” Ayshe raised her palm defensively. “I don’t own the place. You want coffee? This one’s no sugar.”

  “Why is he hiding Al? He thinks Al did it?”

  “Speak to Mehmet.” Ayshe darted away. “I don’t make the rules here.”

  Eve saw Mehmet at the bar, pouring himself a drink. Apparently, alcohol was not a sin tonight.

  “Allah, what an unfortunate girl!” Mehmet whined to Eve. “Why did she have to die in my restaurant? Didn’t she dance in other places, too?”

  “Mehmet, why did you hide Al in the cellar?”

  “Sh-sh!” Mehmet brought his voice down. “What else could I do? He doesn’t have a green card. They find him, I’m in trouble. And he gets deported.”

  “He might’ve killed Leila! He broke into the dressing room and—”

  “He told me,” Mehmet cut her off, his eyes darting around. “He was so scared when the police came, he wet his pants. He’s an idiot, but no killer. Besides, I sent him to the cellar to find a bottle of 1995 Greek Amethystos, right before I announced your number. He spent half an hour searching for it.”

  Eve looked Mehmet in the eye. “And where were you when I danced?”

  Mehmet twitched, spilling wine on the counter. “What do you mean? Are you saying I . . . ?”

  “I’m just asking where you were,” Eve said. “You stood at the mic when I started dancing, but later you disappeared.”

  “Allah, the merciful.” Mehmet covered his face with his hand, squishing his puffy cheeks with his fingers. “Now people are gonna start asking questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “I don’t know. People always ask questions. You’re asking questions.”

  “I have an important question. Do you know who Leila’s boyfriend was?”

  Mehmet downed his wine. “How do I know? Maybe she had a dozen of them.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “She got around,” Mehmet grunted. “That’s why she couldn’t find a husband. No one would marry her. Her only chance was to find somebody American. They don’t care about that sort of thing.”

  “American,” Eve echoed. And then it hit her. Roy! Roy Robson, the ladies man, the playboy. Why hadn’t Eve thought of him before? Leila could easily have fallen for his Irish sweetness and bad-boy charm. Compared to Leila’s own kind, Roy was romantic, athletic, and charismatic. He probably bought flowers, kissed her hand, and treated her like an equal. He might’ve even promised to marry her. He didn’t realize how much of a problem Leila’s loss of virginity was for her. He was used to American women. While he would never have a bride chosen by his family, he always talked about marrying rich. A drinker and a gambler, he owed money to everybody. Maybe Roy had found a rich girlfriend and then dumped Leila. Maybe Leila went to talk to the woman and screwed up his plans. Maybe Roy needed to shut her up. But how did he get to the tent without Eve noticing?

  Eve twisted her thinking beads again. Roy was at the bar when she started the Karshilama, but he was gone when she danced with the Turks. Yet, she hadn’t seen him pass her on the floor. Could he have slipped by while the Turks danced around her? That was it! The floor was packed, everyone was dancing and he—

  “Excuse me, miss,” a harsh voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked up and saw officers Nick Donahue and Paul Carella standing next to her. Mehmet was gone.

  “Yes, Officer?”

  “Did you say Leila Farsakoðlu was still alive when you left the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you were the last person to see her alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you could’ve killed her, gone out, performed, returned to the dressing room, and claimed you found her dead.”

  Eve’s eyes rounded in shock.

  “Is that true, Ms. Gülnar?”

  “No,” Eve whispered, shaking her head. “I found her dead when I came back.”

  “We’re not at all sure that’s true.”

  The absurdity of the situation left Eve speechless.

  “In any case, Ms. Gülnar,” said Paul Carella, “We’re going to escort you back to the tent, and you’re to remain there until the detectives arrive.”

  IN the tent, Eve threw herself on a pillow and wrapped her hands around her head. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She was being accused of Leila’s murder. How would she prove anything if she was stuck inside the tent and couldn’t even walk around asking questions?

  Ayshe poked her head in.

  “You look like you danced with a demon,” Ayshe said. “You want some coffee? Mehmet said we can use Petakzade tonight. It’s the best.”

  “Coffee,” Eve uttered, staring into the distance with unseeing eyes. “Yeah.”

  Ayshe disappeared. Mehmet came in.

  “Is that true—they think you killed her?” He plopped on the pillow next to Eve. “What are they, idiots? You’re half her size!”

  “Mehmet, where’s Roy?”

  “I’m sure he’s around. The cops aren’t letting anybody out.”

  “Where were you when I danced?” she asked again. “You never answered me.”

  “Allah, why do you think I killed the poor girl?” Mehmet raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t think you killed her, but you think I did. Where’s the justice?”

  “I just want to know if you saw anyone come in or out of the tent.”

  Mehmet sighed. “I don’t know. I wasn’t even on the floor. I went to the cellar because Alfonso couldn’t find that Amethystos bottle. I looked everywhere and couldn’t find it either. I called Roy at the bar and told him to ask the customer if he’d be satisfied with a 2000 Amethystos. He said ‘no,’ and Roy came down to help us look for the cursed bottle, but we still couldn’t find it. I’m out of it.”

  “So Roy was in the cellar with you?
”

  “Yes. Why are you asking? You think Roy did it?”

  “Somebody did it. Somebody Leila knew. She opened the door for him.”

  Mehmet took a deep breath and threw a quick look around.

  “I’ll tell you who did it.”

  “You know?” Eve was stunned.

  “Of course! Isn’t it obvious? Who do you think is capable of murder here? Who do you think I pray to never have in my restaurant?”

  Eve was perplexed. “Who?”

  “The Russian.” Mehmet shook his fists in the air. “Boris. The mafioso. I pray to Allah to keep him away from me, but he always comes.”

  “Why would he kill her?”

  “Does the mafia need a reason? Maybe she threatened to tell his wife they had an affair. Not a smart move with a Russian mafioso. They’re even brutal to their own people. And now it’s me who’s in trouble!”

  “Does he have a wife?”

  “He had a few of them . . . I heard.”

  Eve twisted the beads. Boris. He was neither Turkish nor Muslim. Why hadn’t she thought of him? He was capable of murder. He’d been at his table when she began dancing with the shamadan. He was at his table when she ran back into the tent. But was he there all the time in-between?

  “We have to tell the police.”

  “Are you nuts?” Mehmet hissed. “Even if they arrest him, the lawyers will bail him out, and my restaurant will get blown up. Or worse, I’ll get shot.”

  “What if the cops arrest me?”

  “Inşallah, they won’t.”

  Eve buried her face into her hands, ready to cry. Mehmet patted her on her shoulder in a soothing gesture. Just at that moment, Ayshe and Ali walked in carrying a tray of Turkish coffees.

  “Have some.” Ayshe lowered herself onto a pillow and handed Eve a cup. “Are you crying?”

  “They think I killed Leila,” Eve sobbed.

  “Unbelievable,” Ali whispered.

  Roy burst into the tent.

  “Are these fucking pigs harassing you? They have no right! Don’t talk to them without a lawyer. I know a good one. He’ll get you off the hook. He reduced my charges of gambling to a misdemeanor.”