Damien Finch had mastered the art of gardening. But the art of dying?
A whole ’nuther story.
• • •
I headed down the street, aiming for the nearest arterial and a bus route, replaying my theories.
Tag always says in investigating, focus on the simplest explanation. That meant cross the widow off the list. Unless I found some reason Marianne would kill a dying man that didn’t also apply to her stepdaughter. In short, the price of eliminating Tory was to eliminate her not-evil stepmother.
I needed to confirm that Tory knew her father was ill. Marianne was certain Damien had told her, and it made sense. But why refuse to talk to a dying parent?
More puzzles.
That brought me back to Sam. I doubted he had the ability to plan so complicated a crime, even if he’d had the desire. Clearly he had not known who Doc was, or that the man was dying.
My own theories left me out of suspects. But what of Dr. Griffey? And those mysterious past business partners, from the clinic or other ventures.
A block from the Finch house, a yellow cab stood by the curb. A tall, dark man in black pants and a short black jacket leaned against the driver’s door.
“You waited?”
“You need a ride, yes, miss?”
How could I pass up such a sweet offer, even if it did cost me half an arm or part of a leg?
“Robbie,” I said, “Tory, Dr. Finch’s daughter?”
He nodded.
“She’s not my cousin. She works for me.”
He nodded again and we got in the cab. “You smell of spice, like she does.”
“You told me you saw her arguing with her father. Do you know what about?” I sucked on the lozenge he’d given me earlier and watched as he merged into traffic effortlessly. “And did you ever see her bring one of the street people to the clinic?”
“Oh, yes.” He flashed his big grin at the mirror. “She have a kind heart. She bring those men up, after hours. But then, they yelled, like I tell you, and she not come back. To the Market, to your shop?”
“Yes, please. Was one of those patients a black man who lives downtown, a man Tory knew from the Market?”
He exited the freeway at Olive and drove down the hill. “Oh, yes, indeed. I take him home for her once.”
Sam. I gripped the back of the front seat. “Where, Robbie? Do you remember? I need to find him. He might be in trouble.”
Robbie switched lanes. “To the Market. He say it’s his home. That’s all I know.”
He pulled up to the curb by the newsstand, and waved off my attempt to pay him. “You be kind and help find who killed the doctor. That be payment enough.”
Kindness, the fuel that makes the world go round. I watched him drive away. I had more questions for Tory, but visiting hours were over. Plus I really did have a shop to run.
And kindness doesn’t pay the bills.
Twenty-two
Now recognized as the fifth taste—along with sweet, salty, bitter, and sour—umami is a savory, brothy taste high in glutamates, like mushrooms, cured meats, or Parmesan on tomato sauce.
A yeasty note hit my nasal passages when I opened the shop’s front door. Either we were hosting a bakers’ convention, or Sandra was getting a jump on popcorn seasonings for winter and fooling around with brewer’s yeast.
No customers. No surprise, late on a Monday afternoon. Reed refilled tea canisters, while Sandra sat in the mixing nook, measuring and muttering.
Jars of yeast, cumin, and chili seasoning covered the table. “So are we going Back to the Future? Is it 1970 again? What is this?” I picked up a commercial jar of powdered buttermilk.
“I’m experimenting with a ranch dressing mix for popcorn. Retro, the way to your heart.”
“Touché. Make it the 1950s and I’ll love you forever. Where’s Zak?”
“Ha. I’ve heard that one before. I let our boy take off early, to visit Tory and meet with her lawyer. Figured you’d approve.”
I nodded.
“Boss.” She studied me over her pink-and-purple-striped cheaters, her playful brown peepers momentarily serious. “Hate to bring this up, but we don’t know when Tory will be back. And it’s not high summer, but we’re still busy.”
I stifled a groan. Our staffing shortage wasn’t going to resolve itself. Kristen had the day off, as a payback for Saturday. She was working more hours than she wanted, and Reed had classes most mornings. That left three of us full-time. “We’ve gotten a few inquiries lately. I’ll take a peek, see if the right person’s already in the file.”
“Thanks, boss.” Sandra pushed a group of jars aside and reached for the buttermilk, black pepper, and dill. “I put my picks for recipes using the blends on your desk.”
I poured a cup of spice tea and headed for the office. Gone the days of dropping off résumés and hoping for a call back. Most applications come through e-mail, not the front door, with paper apps used mainly for reference checks and to document the file after hiring. Both Sandra and Reed had filled out new apps this morning, and the personnel files were now complete and up-to-date.
Except, of course, for Tory’s.
I pushed the “on” button and waited for my laptop to spring to life. Crossed my fingers that all the backup files had downloaded properly.
Best shot might be to call the cooking schools and ask for a student in need of a part-time gig. Maybe a recent grad wanting daytime hours or a food job without the stresses of restaurant work. And I could put in a word with our suppliers and restaurant customers.
You’d think supertasters would dominate the food biz, but not so. Folks with extraordinary senses of taste and smell tend to be too sensitive to bitter and sweet, and to crave salt, possibly to tone down the other tastes. Better to hire a foodie with a high-average sense of taste and smell, like Sandra.
Or me. I’ve got a decent nose and a good palate. But I lack experience. Probably because I spend too little time with the spices and too much time handling inventory and invoices.
And investigating murder.
I clicked on the Job Openings folder. “Yay!” I cheered out loud when it opened, intact. One good candidate, the e-mail dated two weeks ago. I got out my phone and reached for a pen to take notes of the interview. No luck. I shuffled the papers—it’s much harder to keep a small space neat and tidy than the larger office I’d had at the law firm—and spotted not a pen but the warrant and inventory Tracy had left. I’d given them a cursory glance, simultaneously irked that a key employee was under arrest and my business subject to search, and grateful that they hadn’t closed me down.
Certainly I’d realized that their focus on the tea and service items meant they thought the threat originated inside the shop. Logical enough. But they’d stopped there, convinced they had their killer.
Now that I knew more about the case, and Tory’s relationship with her father, the inventory warranted a second look. If I understood better what they were thinking, maybe I could point them to someone else.
But who?
I tucked the inventory and recipes in my bag. Found a pen underneath yesterday’s mail. Called the applicant. No answer. I left a message.
My Thai lunch had long worn off. Time to get a move on, snare some of those darling fingerling potatoes I’d seen earlier at the farm stall. And tender stalks of broccolini. Its subtle sweetness and peppery kick give it a more interesting flavor than traditional broccoli or even broccoli rabe, and it pairs well with potatoes.
Ooh, a frittata. I nearly rubbed my hands in anticipation. Laurel had suggested one to showcase the savory blend, and this might be spot on.
Not quite on the same comfort food level as mac and cheese, but darned close. Especially with a hefty dose of grated Parmesan inside and more broiled on top to a perfect salty-gold crunch.
The larger produce sta
nds in the Market buy from the growers for resale. Some farmers or growers—the orchard girls, the flower sellers, Herb the Herb Man—are regulars in the daystalls. A few years ago, the Market started “Express Markets” scattered around downtown, where growers sell their own produce, flowers, honey, and other items. Downtown residents love it, and it’s a boon for workers who can’t get to the Market on their lunch breaks.
And several days a week, farmers set up tents on Pike Place, in the block across from the Spice Shop, to sell directly to the customer. Most run specialized operations, like the father and daughter who grow the tastiest tomatoes in the world, or the fruit seller with the juicer and smoothie machine.
My favorite, a lanky kid from the Skagit Valley, grows organic greens and a few other choice veggies. His father, a Superior Court judge who practiced in my firm before it went kaput, couldn’t have been more supportive of his son’s choice of a radically different path. Too bad Damien Finch hadn’t had his counsel.
“A pound each of the broccolini and the fingerlings. And a couple of small red onions.”
“Get an extra pound or two of taters,” he suggested. “Make a big old potato salad, sprinkle in some caraway and fresh dill.”
“If I bought that many potatoes, I’d eat them. And my hips would explode and I’d have to come work the fields with you.”
He grinned. “You’d be welcome, anytime.”
Up to the Creamery for eggs. I nestled the half carton safely into my bag and turned to leave.
“Pepper.” It was Angie Martinez, a bottle of kefir open in her hand. “How’s Tory? Zak said you saw her.”
“Hanging in there. I’ll tell her you asked.” Eureka moment. “Angie, if you know anyone who needs a part-time job, temporary, maybe longer . . .”
She thought a moment. “A friend at the deli is looking for more hours.”
“Send her in. One more thing. You’re outside all day. You see more than I do. Ever see Doc talking, arguing with anyone? Anywhere?” I’d already asked her questions about Doc and Tory, but people don’t always remember things the first time, or make the leap from one question to something else that might be more important.
But the answer was still no, darn it. I asked the Creamery staff the same question; got the same answer. Asked the beekeeper, the flower sellers, and Herb; more noes. Asked my farmer friend and his neighbors, all busy breaking down their tents for the day. All said no.
I paused to check my phone, then dropped it back into my tote. Back to the task of finding out who hated Doc. I scoured Post Alley, quizzing everyone who had a moment to talk before closing if they’d seen anything unusual.
No, no, no.
Jane always says a retailer’s job is to “get to yes.” I itched for “yes.”
The door to Vinny’s wine shop and tasting room opened and out stepped Alex Howard, his arm draped across the shoulder of a willowy blonde in a short skirt and high heels. She laughed and slipped her arm around his waist. They strolled away, eyes drinking in each other.
I leaned against a pillar, out of sight. Caught my breath. Alex had said his “friend”—I drew air quotes in my mind—was here for the wine show. Wine shows give winemakers opportunities to pitch their wares to restaurateurs, distributors, and shop owners. Organizers often invite specialty food producers and retailers—like the Spice Shop.
Until Alex’s late-night text, I hadn’t heard boo about a wine show.
Tracy had said the Mustang that wasn’t mine belonged to a winemaker.
Was it too strange, too much of a coincidence, to think that this had been a very small show, for one winemaker and one restaurateur?
And what were the odds that Alex would date two women who drive dark blue, late-sixties Mustangs? If we were dating. If he and this woman were dating.
Whoa, Pepper. Their sashay up the Alley might be suspicious, but don’t jump to conclusions.
Jumping to conclusions isn’t nearly as much exercise as running in circles.
I popped into Vinny’s. Asked if he’d seen Doc around the Market. Another no.
“I heard there’s some kind of winemakers’ deal going on in town. You involved?”
“Huh? No.” He shook his head. “Winemaker from Walla Walla was just here, but she’s dropping in on a few key customers. No trade show.”
Had she lied to Alex, or had he lied to me?
I breathed in calmness—for a yoga dropout, the aphorisms were coming in handy today. When Vinny asked what I’d picked up for dinner and suggested a nice Italian white from the Piedmont, I said yes.
Nice to finally hear the word.
• • •
I’M all for fun food adventures—the memory of Friday night’s flavor fiesta lingered on my taste buds—but we crave comfort food for good reason. After running around all day playing detective and fretting about my staff, my shop, and my car, comfort called.
I scrubbed the potatoes—no peeling; that’s where the vitamins are—and dropped them into an inch or two of broth in my mother’s cast-off cast iron skillet. Her Earth Mother pan. So glad healthy eating has evolved since those days of brown bread bricks speckled with wheat germ and toasted sunflower seeds. An era when cinnamon was the only spice in sight, although in Zen-hippy-activist households like ours, the occasional curry added an exotic touch. Back then, strict wholesome cooks banished salt to the pickle barrel and considered pepper completely unnecessary. I tried not to take it personally.
While the potatoes simmered, I sliced the onion and chopped the broccolini, careful to keep my injured finger out of the way. By the time I’d uncorked the wine, the potatoes had absorbed the broth and I added olive oil and the other vegetables. Poured a taste of wine and took a sip.
“Yes, Vinny,” I told the glass.
I adore my kitchen. Not just because I chose everything in it. When I cook here, I become one with the process. Nothing intrudes. Just me, my ingredients, and the elements—earth, air, fire, and water.
So when thoughts of The Case floated through my brain, I sent them packing. Beat eggs, added Parmesan, salt and pepper, and the Spice Shop’s special new Herbes de Provence, and poured the mixture into the skillet. Sprinkled on the last of the cheese and cooked the frittata until the eggs were set—about how long it took to drink half a glass of wine.
Heat releases the fragrance of herbs—more precisely, it breaks down the volatile oils, releasing their aromatic particles—and I sniffed the air, seeing how many I could detect. Not a fair test, since I knew what was in the blend, but I gave myself a passing grade, and slid the skillet under the broiler.
That gave me time to change my work clothes and refill my wineglass.
I set the inventory aside for later. It’s not comfort food if you distress yourself while eating.
Instead, I got lost in Brother Cadfael’s world, a foot tucked under my bottom, book in one hand, fork in the other. No sooner had King Stephen’s siege of Shrewsbury ended than a new widow asked Cadfael to investigate her husband’s murder. The twist? She was the woman he left behind decades ago when he marched off to save Jerusalem from the infidels.
I’d nearly finished my generous wedge, the eggs perfectly set, the cheese on top perfectly crisped, and was contemplating a perfect second when my phone rang.
Scaring the paprika out of me. Why was a phone ringing in the middle of Vespers?
For the umpteenth time today, I did something I hardly ever do. I answered without checking the caller.
“Pepper, you’re there.” Alex’s rich voice mingled notes of relief, irritation, and exasperation. (My sensory detection skills had been honed on the phone and in the office, after all. They aren’t limited to evaluating spices.)
Not exactly the last person I wanted to talk to, but well down the list. I’d been a lot more concerned about his safety, and open to his explanation, before I saw him escorting the winemak
er so, shall we say, attentively.
“You didn’t text me back,” he said.
“Sorry. I figured you were busy.” As I’d witnessed this afternoon. I knew I was overreacting, which only made me more irritated. I had no rights to him.
A long pause. “About last night. I won’t lie to you. An old friend showed up unexpectedly, and we got talking, and grabbed a bite, and before I knew it . . .”
She wasn’t old, and she’d looked like more than a friend.
“Then she had some trouble this morning and I had to give her a hand.”
Ah. Car trouble? Blue Mustang trouble?
“But I should have called you earlier last night,” he finished.
“You should have called me, period. You texted, more than six hours late. When you’re blowing someone off, you should at least call.” My own personal rule, made up on the spot.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” His tone cooled, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet I was the one who’d apologized.
The spasm in my jaw told me that wasn’t right.
But I’ve always been a one-man woman, and if a guy isn’t a one-woman man, then he isn’t the guy for me. Better to find that out sooner than later. To know what the deal-breakers are before they become heart-breakers,
And when someone says they won’t lie to you, they’re probably lying.
“Good night, Alex.” I tossed the phone into a wicker basket on the coffee crate.
Medieval mood broken, I brewed a cup of spice tea and settled on the couch to reread the warrant and inventory.
“Evidence of premeditated murder,” the warrant said. That meant planning and intent. No “crime of passion.” It meant they suspected Tory had purchased a poison, brought it to work, put it in a cup of our tea, and given it to her father.
[SS01] Assault and Pepper Page 18