Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol Page A

on?
    â€œSo? Hurry up with whatever it is you have to say.”
    â€œBecause Osman Bey was killed after that quarrel with me, they think I killed him.”
    â€œWho does?”
    â€œThe police,” I said, “and his brothers.”
    â€œI don’t know about the police, but it’s a bit strange for the brothers to believe that.”
    There was a short silence, then she added, “Is this some sort of practical joke?” This woman’s brain seemed to work pretty well.
    â€œIt’s hardly a joking matter, is it?” I said.
    There was another silence. I was biting my lips, a habit that I hate.
    â€œHow did you find me? And what do you want?” asked the woman finally.
    â€œI thought you might be able to help me find the real killer. I got your phone number from Habibe Hanım.” I couldn’t recall Habibe’s surname.
    â€œHabibe?” she said. Another silence. Meanwhile, Habibe’s surname came back to me.
    â€œBüyüktuna,” I said.

    â€œYes, I know who she is,” she said. “How do you two know each other?”
    â€œI met her because of all this,” I replied. A long silence.
    â€œÄ°nci Hanım…” I started, but was unable to finish my sentence.
    â€œI’d like to find the killer even more than you would. But I don’t think I know anything that’s of any use to you. More’s the pity,” she said with a deep sigh. “You said you had a shop in Kuledibi. What do you sell? Chandeliers?”
    â€œCrime fiction,” I said, thinking she would dismiss this as stupid.
    â€œYou’re not serious? I adore crime fiction. I love Lawrence Block’s burglar. Who is your favourite?” Her voice was rising with excitement and I now recognized it as a voice that could only belong to a crime-fiction fan. Was this conversation all a dream? Or was I really talking to a gangster’s moll who loved detective stories?
    â€œMine? At the moment, my favourite is Minette Walters, but it’s always changing.”
    â€œMinette Walters? I haven’t read any of hers,” she remarked, her voice rising in pitch to that of a spoiled little girl. “Well, in that case, bring a Minette Walters with you when you come, and let’s see if I like it.”
    Before putting the phone down, she said something else. Actually, it was a prophecy.
    â€œYou know, I sense you’re going to solve this crime. My senses are very powerful. When we meet, I’ll do a tarot reading for you.”
    Â 
    She had said she wanted to meet somewhere where we could sit outside, so that we weren’t exposed to cigarette smoke, and I had asked her whereabouts she lived. The only open-air place I could think of in her area was the Bebek Café. Selim and I had been going there for breakfast recently, so perhaps it wasn’t the best choice for me. However, it was a good place for Ä°nci and me to meet, even if it risked reviving memories of happier days.

    Bebek is one of the districts along the European shore of the Bosphorus, in my view the loveliest. If I were richer, or if rents were lower, I would definitely live there. Selim lived in a beautifully renovated old house on one of the hills just behind Bebek. I didn’t like using the past tense for him, but I had to face up to reality. He was now relegated to my past. I was feeling pretty adamant about that.
    Â 
    I couldn’t face opening up the shutters and struggling with the locks again in order to pick up a Minette Walters from the shop, but I didn’t want to take her a used book from home. She might not have appreciated that. I, on the other hand, love books that have already been read by others. You sometimes find things between the pages. I don’t mean anything romantic like a pressed flower, but maybe a tea stain or a cake crumb. It amuses me, especially if someone I know has read the book.
    I went to Candan’s shop. She was also an