“Have you seen either the man or the woman?”
Matt squinted at the photo of the woman and child in the rain. “I see rain. You can barely tell there are people in this picture.”
I asked them to keep their eyes open and keep their distance. “If you think you see one of them, let me know right away. And if I’m not around, tell Officer Buhner.”
That widened all eyes. They all knew my tug-of-war with Tag.
“Thanks. Now, Cayenne has something she’d like to share.”
All eyes turned to Cayenne, who was much loved despite her occasional impatience and smart-aleck remarks. Or because of them.
“You all know I’ve needed extra time off lately, and that I haven’t exactly been myself. Pepper’s known the reason for a while now, but it’s time to tell the rest of you.” She paused. “I’m guessing from the whispers and the looks some of you have been giving me that you think I’m pregnant. I’m not. I have MS. Multiple sclerosis.”
Sandra gasped. Kristen pressed her hands into prayer position, fingers on her lips. Even Matt, usually so calm, looked shocked.
“I can still do almost everything. But no ladders, and no heavy boxes.” She gave me an apologetic smile, no doubt recalling the day a box slipped out of her hands. I’d caught it and wrenched my shoulder.
“We may need to juggle the schedule to accommodate Cayenne’s medical appointments or if she has a flare-up,” I said. Employee scheduling can be a huge headache. Working HR, I’d found that the more predictable the schedule, the more reliable the employee, particularly those juggling other jobs or child care. But the Spice Shop staff had always been flexible.
“We’ll help out every way we can,” Kristen said. “You know that.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Sandra reached for Cayenne and they embraced, both visibly struggling not to burst into tears. So was I.
“I’m not noble,” Cayenne said, her jaw tight, her voice quivering. “I’m not brave. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t want to hear stories about other people with MS. And I don’t want your medical advice.” She turned to Reed. “Except for you. Last summer, when I started falling and thought my knee was messed up, you said I should see your dad for acupuncture. Your dad.” She stopped. No one else spoke. “Your dad knew what it was right away and got me in to see a great neurologist, without scaring me. I will never forget that.”
She kissed Reed’s cheek, and he blushed.
I exhaled, then glanced up at the clock. “Time to get spicy,” I said, and wiped the back of my hand across my eyes.
The mood was subdued as each employee started the morning tasks. Reed slipped out the side door, heading to class.
I stood by the nook as Matt wrestled with the samovar and Sandra straightened a display. Rolled my shoulders and arched my back.
“Told you not to skip yoga last week,” Kristen said. “The more you miss, the harder it is to go back.”
I stuck out my tongue.
“You knew,” she said, her gaze on Cayenne, who was behind the counter, measuring tea for Matt, “and you didn’t tell me. You let us think she was pregnant.”
“I never said that. I just didn’t correct you when you guessed. And you weren’t the only one—Matt and Sandra thought the same thing. But it wasn’t my secret to share.”
She grunted. That reminded me of my grunting friend, Detective Tracy. Surely he’d be at the public meeting tonight. With real news, I hoped. I’d bought a newspaper on my way in and flipped through it quickly before stashing it in my office. The annual update on Pat’s murder was on the front page. I’d skimmed it, noting official statements from the police chief and the Agent-in-Charge of the local FBI office. Both said they had nothing to share with the public “at this time,” but that there had been developments and the investigation was ongoing. I read that as a reference to Maddie’s shooting, which the article did not mention.
“Is the owner in?” I heard a customer ask when I returned to the shop floor. “She’s always been so helpful.”
“Here she is,” Cayenne said, gesturing.
I didn’t know the woman, so I introduced myself. “Pepper Reece, Mistress of Spice.”
“I was remembering a shorter, older woman with white hair.” She ran her fingers across her temples, evoking the coronet of braids the former owner always wore.
“Ah, Jane Rasmussen. She sold me the shop two years ago this month and retired to the San Juans.”
“Well, that tells you how long it’s been since I’ve stopped in.”
“You only come to the Market when I come to town,” her companion said. She said it “mah-ket,” her New England accent strong.
“Then, may I suggest that your spice cabinet might need a refresh?” They laughed and agreed, and we got to work filling their shopping baskets.
Nineteen
Pottery shards found in northern Germany establish that hunter-gatherers six thousand years ago spiced their food with crushed garlic mustard seeds they foraged, giving roasted fish and venison a peppery flavor, in what researchers call the earliest known use of spice.
“WE’RE FIRST-TIMERS,” SANDRA TOLD THE SERVER WHEN WE were seated and had ordered iced tea. “What do you do better than any other kitchen?”
“Oh, easy,” he replied. He wore black, like all the front-of-house staff, including a knee-length black apron, and a man bun. I’d thought—hoped—man buns had gone out of style. “Crab cakes. The chef makes his own spice blend. There’s nothing else like it.”
We’d see about that.
“They’re served with our house slaw—red cabbage with green beans, white beans, and cherry tomatoes—and toasted Seattle sourdough. A little retro and a lot of fun.”
“Sold,” I said. “In fact, that spice blend sounds intriguing. Is it in any other dishes?”
The server pointed to two other items and we ordered one of each to share. Fingers crossed that we weren’t being too obvious.
The place was about half full, decent for midweek. The three tables nearest us were taken by pairs of women. A spot for ladies who lunch. Like us.
Sandra leaned forward, her red-and-white zebra striped glasses low on her nose. “Love being a spice spy,” she whispered.
The atmosphere was hip, but like the slaw, slightly retro. Not self-consciously so, like those places where you’re sure the designer spent days hopping from one thrift shop to another and was determined to cram in every 1950s cast-off she’d found. Instrumental versions of American standards and tunes from the 1960s played. Leather chairs sat at square wooden tables. The flatware had a decent heft. Okay, canning jars as water glasses are a trend better left to picnics and sandwich joints, but I quibble.
“Nice menu,” Sandra said. “Modern American with a Northwest accent. Not too precious.”
“Meaning they aren’t sprinkling hazelnuts and wild hop berries on everything?”
“Exactly.” She reached for her water. The twist of her lips said she shared my opinion of the canning jars. “Will Cayenne really be able to keep working? I’m not sure I know how to work with a disabled employee.”
“Don’t think of her that way. She’s still Cayenne, but there’s some things she can’t do.” The server delivered our iced tea and I took a sip. Nicely flavored, with a hint of lemon grass. “Like you can’t figure out Instagram.”
“Ha, ha.”
We talked about the shop and the changes we’d made in the last two years. We talked about Matt’s revelation about his parents, which had been news to her, too, and how to be compassionate without being overbearing. We talked about Maddie and the shooting, and how hard it is to know what to do when a friend is in pain, physical or otherwise. Then our plates came.
And they were beautiful.
“Hmm,” she said of the crab cakes. “Good uniformity and color—nice browning. Maybe a little scant on the crab meat. But you can’t judge the insides by t
he outsides.”
Her tone told me she was talking about more than fish.
I cut a bite and dipped it in the sauce. “Nice.” I followed with a fork full of slaw. “Sturdy. The flavors don’t compete with the crab cakes, but they don’t stand out, either. Wouldn’t be hard to spark it up, though. Use a citrus champagne vinegar instead of the basic white wine vinaigrette.”
She moved on to the next dish and gave a similar assessment.
“What do you think about the spice blend?” I kept my voice low.
“If it’s not the same as Edgar’s, it’s close.” She gestured to the dishes on the table. “All of it is close, but not quite.”
“I give the place six months.”
“You’re too optimistic.”
I didn’t notice our server approach until he spoke. “How are the crab cakes?”
“Very nice,” Sandra replied. “Tell us about the spices. Sweet paprika, marjoram, and . . .”
I recognized her technique. Laurel uses it, too. Show that you’ve detected some of the flavors and a knowledgeable server will fill in the rest. Alas, our server either didn’t know or had been trained not to play along.
“The chef’s special blend,” he said. “That’s all I know.”
“Special it is,” I replied. He bowed slightly and left.
“The hard part,” I said, “will be talking to Edgar.”
“That,” Sandra said, “is why you are the boss and I a mere servant.”
On my way back from the restroom, I passed the kitchen, partially open for show. I paused to watch the blades and flames. Was that Tariq?
As if he felt me staring at him or heard me saying his name to myself, the slender young man raised his head. Recognition struck, but he quickly closed it off and returned to his work.
Was Tariq Rose the answer to our questions? Was he the problem? How could I find out?
Back at the table, I paid the bill—in cash, so I didn’t give myself away—and ignored the “what’s up, boss?” look on Sandra’s face. Normally, I leave my business card. Unlike food critics, I want chefs to know I’ve been there. I want to introduce myself and open the door for future spice talk.
Not this time.
“Thanks—lunch was great!” I called out as we passed the kitchen. “My compliments to the cooks!”
Outside, Sandra headed for the car. “Give me two minutes,” I said, then circled around the side of the building. The parallel did not escape me—I had often chatted with Edgar in the alley outside Alex Howard’s First Avenue Café, and here I was in another back alley, hoping to catch a word with one of Edgar’s old coworkers.
The alley was empty. Had Tariq not caught my signal? Had he not been able to sneak away?
Then the gray steel door opened and Tariq stepped out, unsnapping the collar of his coat. His white cotton T-shirt contrasted starkly with his dark skin.
“Posh,” he called, using Alex Howard’s nickname for me, Posh Spice. “What are you doing here? Scouting? Want me to introduce you to Chef?”
“No, no, that’s fine. We were in the mood for crab cakes and heard they were good here.”
“You like ’em?”
“Very nice,” I said.
His narrow face broke into a grin. “I made those.”
“Good job. Have you eaten Edgar’s crab cakes? At Speziato. Similar spicing.”
The grin disappeared, the brows furrowed. Tariq’s reputation as a hothead, along with some unfortunate timing, had made him a target of suspicion in a murder last winter. I’d never been sure, though, whether he was a genuine firebrand or put on a show of bad temper in imitation of Alex, his one-time boss, who was admirable in the kitchen and other small spaces, but not a model of decorum.
I explained. “You can see why Edgar and I are worried. No one else has access to that recipe.”
“You don’t think I stole it? How could I?” He threw up his hands, his voice rising. “Why is everybody so quick to point the finger at me?”
“No one’s accusing you of anything, Tariq. I know you haven’t been in Edgar’s kitchen. I’m just hoping you can help me.” If he knew I’d briefly suspected him of murder, I hoped he also knew that I’d helped clear him. “Who knows, Edgar might need another cook as good as you some day.”
“You trying to bribe me into spying for you?”
“No. Just asking you to keep your eyes and ears open.” I reached in my tote for my card case. “If you see any reason to think somebody here might have acted inappropriately—”
“If somebody here is a thief?”
“—then call me. Edgar and I will both be grateful.”
He gave me a long look, as though trying to decide whether to trust me. I held out a card. He took it.
Then we both got back to other things.
KRISTEN texted that I was cleared for a visit, so I dropped Sandra off at the bus stop on Madison. Midday, midweek, no point searching for a spot on the street. I pulled into the hospital’s parking garage. I turned off the engine and sat a moment.
You can’t barge into the hospital room of someone you see a few times a year without a plan. Even if you do have a free pass to get you by the dragons at the gate.
But I did genuinely care about Maddie. The distance between us the last couple of years wasn’t her fault; it was mine. Nothing had happened. It was just part of life.
Except that, in a way, something had happened.
The night of their housewarming party, I’d overheard Maddie and another old classmate talking about a large contribution Maddie had just made to the foundation the other woman ran.
“We couldn’t do this without your financial assistance,” our mutual friend had said.
“I’d rather be doing the work,” Maddie had replied. “Helping kids and families directly. Maybe working on affordable housing or to strengthen communities. Not just giving money.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Oh, that ship sailed a long time ago. Back in college.” Then they’d come around the corner, and run smack into me. Maddie had been so shocked she’d dropped her lipstick and the tube had rolled down the stairs as the three of us watched, oddly mesmerized.
That ship had sailed because of me. I’d taken the opportunity Maddie had desperately wanted, and I’d wasted it. Part of me knew that was old news—we’d been in college then—but part of me still felt like a schmuck.
This wasn’t the time to bring up old tensions. That wouldn’t help her, and it wouldn’t help Laurel.
And it sure as heck wouldn’t help me.
Tell the truth. Even if Maddie wasn’t fully communicative yet, Tim might be able to fill in a few blanks. I’d be up front, tell them straight off the bat that I was asking questions to help both Maddie and Laurel. That’s what Cadfael would do. And take a gift, as Perveen Mistry had in the latest Massey mystery. Gifts open doors. Of course, the gift Perveen took the dowager maharani had created complications of its own. I rummaged in the box of books in my trunk, mysteries I’d packed up to take to Flick Chicks last night then forgotten. Maddie wouldn’t be up for reading yet, not after a shot to the head, so a book might be pointless. But it was a gift of hope, wasn’t it, a sign that I believed she would recover.
And I did. Anybody else, I might have my doubts. But I never doubted Maddie Petrosian.
This called for something absorbing, but not demanding. In Farleigh Field by Rhys Bowen went into my tote. A World War II mystery, though not bloody or violent. For the lighter touch, I added the latest Dandy Gilver by Catriona McPherson. I might not know how to pronounce the woman’s name, but I sure liked the books.
The elevator door opened and I took a deep breath, then headed for the ominous double doors of the ICU. The same burly guard sat at the desk—Ramon, if I remembered right. And beside him stood Officer Kimberly Clark.
Don’t call her Lovely Rita, I told myself. Don’
t whistle the tune. Remember you’re on a mission.
Another round of calming breaths. “I’m here to see Madeleine Petrosian,” I said, ignoring the uniformed officer and her gun.
“Name?”
One of the doors opened just as I opened my mouth, and Tim Peterson stepped halfway out.
“Pepper, you’re here,” he said. “Friend of the family,” he told Ramon.
I couldn’t help glancing at Officer Clark. Pepper is an unusual name, though not as unusual as my legal name. I felt her eyes following me until the door closed.
The Solace of Bay Leaves Page 16