[SS01] Assault and Pepper

by Leslie Budewitz

  Alex had sent a text at half past twelve. I’d glanced at the phone on my nightstand, read the message—So sorry. Friend showed up unexpectedly for the wine show. I’ll make it up to you—and returned to the cold comforts of Brother Cadfael’s Benedictine Abbey.

  Clutching the sacred caffeine, eyes scraped raw, cut finger throbbing, stomach sour with that hollow feeling left by tears of disproportionate anger and hurt, I stepped out of the elevator and lumbered through the Main Arcade to Pike Place. To the hustle and bustle of Monday morning, the clatter of wheels on cobble, the stuttery clang of metal doors creaking up their rollers and latching loudly into place. Waved to the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.

  And stopped dead in my tracks.

  What in blue blazes was my Mustang doing in the middle of the intersection? Off-kilter, its right front wheel perched on the curb next to the Spice Shop, blocking traffic and forcing peds to detour.

  I broke into a trot. Not so easy with a tote on one shoulder, coffee in hand, and cobbles under foot, but—my car . . .

  Next thought: My father will kill me.

  Third thought: But I’d parked it yesterday, in the secure, covered lot at my own building. How . . .

  Fourth: Why does the bad stuff always happen on Tag’s shift?

  On foot, his wheels leaning against the side of my shop, Mr. Bicycle Cop surveyed the shiny dark blue Mustang. My father had pampered it for more than forty years, since he came back from Vietnam, bought it from his commanding officer’s widow, and drove it from San Diego to St. Louis to Seattle, where it had lived a safe and happy life ever since.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. And it’s not your car.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s my dad’s.” Tag knew that. Up the hill, Olerud got off his bike and crouched, studying the ground.

  “No, it’s not.” Tag pointed at the plates. “And they didn’t pull a switcheroo. See the venting behind the door? Slightly different model.”

  Sure enough. Tag might prefer two wheels, but he has an eye for automotive details.

  “So whose is it? And how did it get here?” The heat of the cup stung my cut finger. I switched hands.

  “Dunno yet. Glove box is locked. Waiting for dispatch on the registration.” Tag went on. “Eyewitnesses saw it parked up the street, right below First. Just lucky it hit the curb where it did.”

  But for the curb, it would have rolled into Pike Place, plowed through the street filled with farm stands and foot traffic, then smashed into the daystalls on the opposite side. I shuddered and glanced back up Pine.

  “The hill doesn’t look that steep.”

  “Pepper! You’re okay! We wondered what happened when we saw your car.”

  Angie, with Sylvie right behind her.

  “It’s not mine,” I began, catching sight over their shoulder of Yvonne’s worried face. “I’m okay,” I called to her. “Nobody’s hurt.”

  The girls looked relieved. Yvonne nodded curtly and turned back to her sunflowers.

  “Towing unit’s on the way,” Tag said. “They’ll check it out.” Olerud beckoned and Tag trotted up the hill.

  “Poor, sweet car,” I uttered, giving the Mustang a consoling pat on the hood. The mere sight of that front bumper scraped and bent hurt. Whoever owned it was in for a nasty shock.

  The tow truck came and went before we opened, leaving no sign of a problem except a gouge in the concrete. Zak arrived, less bedraggled than yesterday, but no less unhappy. I rubbed his arm in a sisterly way. “I’ll talk to her.”

  And we got down to the business of selling spice.

  Half past ten, the cavalry arrived.

  “Heard you had a little trouble this morning,” Detective Tracy said, a button on his camel-hair jacket hanging loose.

  “No. Oh, you mean the car. Well, Officer Buhner knew right away that it wasn’t mine, and it didn’t hit the building, thank goodness. But what’s a runaway car got to do with you?”

  “Maybe nothing.” He scanned the upper shelves as if he expected prehistoric creatures to emerge. “But anything out of the ordinary that happens near the scene of a homicide catches my attention.”

  Made sense, but I didn’t have to like it.

  “It’s odd,” Tracy said, “that a car nearly identical to yours would plunge down the street and crash to a stop at your front door. And a vintage car at that—not your average Toyota Corolla.”

  “Have you found the owner yet? He must live nearby, if he parked here overnight. But I’ve never noticed another car like mine in the neighborhood.”

  “Belongs to a winemaker from Walla Walla staying with a friend nearby. Came in for a wine show or whatever they’re called, and parked on the street. Not the brightest grape in the bunch.”

  That car, overnight on a downtown street? I had to agree. “Good story to take home and tell at tasting parties,” I said. “But it obviously has nothing to do with Doc or Tory.”

  He gave me that enigmatic smile that makes me want to strangle him. “Nothing’s obvious, when it comes to Ms. Finch.”

  True enough. “Doesn’t she have to be arraigned soon?”

  “Within fourteen days of filing charges,” Tracy said.

  “Meanwhile she sits in jail?”

  “The smart ones start working on their defense. If they have a defense.”

  If blood could boil.

  A few minutes later, I stepped outside to gauge the foot traffic. A typically slow Monday. Spencer, looking like she’d just stepped out of Nordy’s, emerged from Upper Post Alley and stopped on the sidewalk, studying her notebook. A moment later, Tracy joined her. They spoke briefly before crossing the street.

  More witness interviews, I guessed. Looking for more evidence implicating Tory.

  Leaving me to find the real killer.

  • • •

  IN its early days, no doubt the King County Courthouse conveyed authority and dignity, and a heavy dose of civic pride. Built of pale gray granite quarried north of the city, with the decorative frills typical of the early twentieth century, it had suffered mightily from its 1960s modernization, the early grandeur not yet completely restored.

  My last trip inside the courthouse had been to finalize my divorce. The present errand was only slightly less unnerving.

  “I’m here to pick up some records,” I told the woman behind the counter in the Clerk’s Office. “Online request. For Tory Finch.” Fingers crossed that no one asked for ID or cross-checked the jail roster.

  I waited on a long high-backed bench, phone in hand. A voice mail from Laurel, reminding me of Flick Chicks tomorrow night. A text from Tag telling me he shouldn’t tell me but they’d located the owner of the other Mustang and all was well. Sweet of him, though Tracy had already spilled the beans.

  And one from Alex, saying he’d swing by the next chance he got.

  “Ms. Finch?” The clerk had returned to the window, but held no documents. “Sorry, but your records haven’t been copied yet. We’re shorthanded—one out sick, one on maternity leave. Thursday’s my best guess.”

  “Thursday?” What if they figured out by then that I wasn’t Tory? She was in enough trouble already. But begging would get me nowhere.

  “Or maybe Friday. We’ll call you.”

  A block away at the jail, an eery quiet filled the waiting room. Slow day. The guard sang out my name a few minutes after I cleared security.

  Tory fidgeted in the orange plastic chair, her expression a mixture of fear and relief.

  “I thought hard about what you said. I’m meeting my public defender this afternoon.” She gripped the handset like the pull cord on a parachute. “I didn’t do it, Pepper. Say you believe me.”

  “I believe you.” We locked eyes. “Zak’s beside himself. Why don’t you want to see him?”

  She bowed her head, resting her forehead on the
heel of her free hand. “It’s complicated,” she said, echoing my words to him.

  “You do love him, don’t you?” The picture in her bedroom said yes.

  “Of course.” Her head snapped up. “But he’s . . . he’s ready to settle down. Get married. Start a family.” The flush in her cheeks reminded me of the dried rose petals we buy from an herbalist in Carnation. “And I want that, too. But I’ve got things I need to do first.”

  That bite in my jaw again. She’s not you, Pepper, waiting for Tag. Waiting too long. She’s still young.

  “Like proving yourself as an artist. Like proving your father wrong.”

  Her body tensed. My hand rose and reached toward hers, toward the Plexiglas separating us, willing but unable to breach the divide. Her golden brown eyes, so like her father’s, welled but she held back the tears.

  “He wanted me to be an X-ray tech. Called art a dead end. But it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “He was trying to protect you.”

  “No. He never believed in me.”

  No point offering false reassurance. “Tory, who could have killed him? Who wanted him dead?”

  Her shoulders sank. “I keep asking myself. My stepmother? After all these years? He was good to her, far as I could tell.” She tilted her head, brow furrowed. “When he was trying to talk to me, he said something about the clinic arrangements, making things right. But I can’t remember everything he said—I was too upset.”

  “Who else could have been that angry with him? Someone burned in a business deal?”

  “He always seemed to be at odds with someone. Doctors always think they’re right, you know? But who? You gotta be pretty pissed off to plan murder. Especially—I mean, you know, what would be the point?”

  Before I could ask what the heck she meant, she went on, knuckles white against the black handset. “Pepper, what do I do?”

  “First, prove you didn’t kill him. Then live a full life. Marry Zak and have funny little bald babies who can sing and rock, and draw and paint. Make art. Make love. Make dinner. Make your life all the proof you need.”

  Silence fell, as if everyone in the visiting room had heard us. Then the chatter resumed.

  She’d already hung up her handset when I remembered my other question. “Tory, did you take Sam to see your father?” Had something gone wrong, explaining the animosity between the two men?

  The guard gripped Tory’s upper arm firmly, leading her away. “What?” I thought she said. I repeated myself. She said something I couldn’t hear. I tried to read her lips as she said it again.

  But it made no sense. When shop talk turned to sports, Tory turned a blind eye and a deaf ear.

  So why tell me to go see Ken Griffey, the Mariners’ long-retired All-Star centerfielder?

  Twenty

  In the first century AD, Pliny the Elder reported that Arabs fooled their Mediterranean neighbors into believing that cassia, cinnamon, and other spices came from deep in Africa, to keep the trade to themselves—and keep prices high.

  —Ian Hemphill, The Spice and Herb Bible

  First stop after jail: a late lunch. I dropped into the Thai place near the courthouse, half expecting to see the Dynamic Duo, but no such luck.

  Plenty of other cops, in uniform and out. Several smiled blandly, as if unsure whether they knew me.

  At the next table, a young woman wearing a leopard print tunic over black tights, gray leg warmers, and fuzzy boots pulled a pen out of her felted wool bag. A little early in the year for such a warm outfit, given the clear skies and temps in the high seventies, but better than the UGGs and sundress combo I’d spotted over the weekend. Her companion, a dark-haired man of about twenty-five, favored green camo, a red bandanna tied around his head Jimi Hendrix style. No eavesdropping, I swear, but their voices tingled with excitement as they filled out the application for a marriage license.

  Making me all the more determined to get Tory out of jail.

  Outside, I called the Public Defender’s Office. Tory’s attorney was with a client, so I left a voice mail. A supportive employer wanting to help had to be a good sign.

  Next on my list: Scout out Damien Finch’s office.

  Like Rome and San Francisco, Seattle is a city of hills—although our forebears tore one down in a series of cuts and scrapes known as the Denny Regrade, and leveled a few other high points. In my skirt-and-heels days, I’d joined the ranks of office rats who scurried uphill from First to Sixth by escalator. My own office building could be entered on Third and exited on Fourth, no sweat.

  But the escalator route still leaves a trek to cross I-5 and scale First Hill, Seattle’s first “good” neighborhood, once nicknamed Profanity Hill but now known as Pill Hill. Medical offices had long replaced the railroad tycoons’ mansions, orbiting the hospitals like moons circling Jupiter.

  Despite last night’s self-induced trauma and this morning’s Mustang shock, my conversation with Tory left me hopeful.

  And the green curry with eggplant left me fortified.

  As usual, the sight of the Cathedral and its twin towers struck a deep chord, and medieval harmonies sounded in my mind’s ear. (Not a phenomenon I confess to just anyone, not wanting to spend the rest of my days locked in a tiny room in the psych ward.) The trees had begun changing color, scattering rubies, amber, and gold nuggets on the sidewalks and narrow, car-lined streets.

  The crew was already at work at Jimmy’s Pantry in the Cathedral basement. More volunteers would arrive later. Between four and five o’clock, they’d serve a hot meal and distribute bags of food. I breathed in the homey scent of a vat of simmering chicken stock. Just like a soup kitchen ought to smell.

  I handed the director my monthly offering—a bag of herbs and spices, outdated but perfectly usable. She thanked me with a radiant smile.

  “A quick question,” I said. “Do you know a man named Sam? Tall, black, sixty or a little older. Usually has a dog with him. One of those black-and-tan terriers.” I’d never had a dog, didn’t know much about the different breeds.

  “Arf. He’s a mix, mostly Airedale, I think. Sam comes in quite often, usually with Jim, the man with the burns.” She tilted her head, trying to recall. “Now that you mention it, I’m not sure I’ve seen Sam in a few days. Jim might have come in alone yesterday.”

  “Any idea where Sam lives?”

  She shook her head. “Some of our clients don’t like to stay put. Thanks for the spices.” She picked up the bag and headed back to work.

  I’d pushed my luck and been dismissed.

  • • •

  THE address Google had given me belonged to a glass-front building near Swedish Hospital. I held the door for a gaunt man rolling a walker and he flashed me a toothy smile. Inside, a signboard listed the building’s occupants. Before I could read it, a glass door opened and a man in a white coat, stethoscope around his neck, held it for a slim, sixty-ish woman in a cherry red suit. His sandy hair tinged with gray, rosy cheeks, and round glasses gave him the look of Bill Gates crossed with Sunny Jim, the peanut butter poster child who’d smiled at freeway traffic from atop the factory for decades, until a fire destroyed the empty building a few years ago.

  The cut of her pencil skirt and collarless jacket, along with her tastefully clunky gold bracelet and necklace, spoke of a woman accustomed to dressing for the evening, not the office.

  The door opened again and a tall, thin man emerged. Vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He kissed the woman on the cheek, nodded curtly to the doctor, and hustled out the door.

  The woman laid her long, red-tipped fingers on the doctor’s sleeve, saying something too low for me to hear. He flushed uncomfortably. And I knew beyond a reasonable doubt as the highlighted blonde in the spiky red heels swept past me without a glance that this was Marianne Finch in action.

  She who hesitates loses her mark. I gave
her a moment, then followed, brain racing.

  I had given her a moment too long. She slid gracefully into a yellow taxi idling in the covered drop-off zone.

  As she did, her eyes met mine.

  Back inside the lobby, I read the names stenciled on the door Marianne and the doctor had exited. I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh.

  “Pepper Reece. Any chance for a minute with Dr. Griffey?” I asked the receptionist. “Personal, not medical.”

  She opened her mouth, presumably to say something like “Make an appointment, he’s booked three weeks out, and I’ll need a copy of your insurance card,” when the man himself stepped from behind a rolling rack of files.

  “Do I know you?” He cocked his head and squinted.

  “It’s about Tory Finch.”

  “Ah. Stephanie, hold my calls,” he told the receptionist. She hit a buzzer and the lock on the door between the clinic offices and the waiting room clicked open. I followed the white-coated doctor down the hall to a starkly unadorned room. The only spots of color besides his cheeks were his maroon-and-white-striped tie and a fake ficus in the corner.

  “Ken Griffey. Not that Ken Griffey,” he said, enjoying the familiar joke. His pleasure faded quickly as we shook hands. “Terrible business. I would never have thought she could—”

  “She didn’t,” I said. “She swears it, and I believe her.”

  “None of us wants to think someone we like capable of hurting us. Defeats our belief in our own good judgment. But from what I hear, the evidence is conclusive.” He leaned back in his black leather chair, steepling his fingers. “Not sure what I can do for you, Ms. Reece.”

  “I saw you with Mrs. Finch when I came in.”

  Griffey spoke as if delivering bad news to a patient. “Marianne is devastated. We expected it at some point, of course, but not like this. And the impact on the clinic . . .”

  “Surgeons start work early, right? So why was your partner slumming in the Market every morning, disguised as a homeless man?”

  His eyes narrowed. “A homeless man? You must have him confused with one of Tory’s projects.”