PRAISE FOR
Assault and Pepper
“A potpourri of spices, a mélange of murder—Pepper and her crew serve up a tantalizing mystery and a fragrant treat for the senses.”
—Connie Archer, national bestselling author of the Soup Lover’s Mysteries
“There’s a savvy new amateur sleuth in town . . . Pepper Reece. Assault and Pepper is a smart blend of zesty characters, piquant spices, and scrumptious food. Set against the intriguing Seattle backdrop, this well-plotted whodunit is the perfect recipe for a great read.”
—Daryl Wood Gerber, national bestselling author of the Cookbook Nook Mysteries
“Leslie Budewitz writes . . . with a dash of humor and a half-turn of charm that will leave readers smiling.”
—J.J. Cook, national bestselling author of the Sweet Pepper Fire Brigade Mysteries
“An iconic Seattle setting, a smart and capable heroine, and a spicy investigation . . . What mystery reader could want more? Budewitz combines it all with effortless finesse.”
—Victoria Hamilton, national bestselling author of the Vintage Kitchen Mysteries
“Set in Seattle, this is the perfect read for a few hours of pure enjoyment.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Parsley, sage, rosemary and . . . murder . . . will add zing to your reading.”
—Barbara Ross, author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Leslie Budewitz
Food Lovers’ Village Mysteries
DEATH AL DENTE
CRIME RIB
BUTTER OFF DEAD
Spice Shop Mysteries
ASSAULT AND PEPPER
GUILTY AS CINNAMON
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
GUILTY AS CINNAMON
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Leslie Ann Budewitz.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14054-7
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2015
Cover art by Ben Perini.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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For the real-life Sandra, who lent me her name, with thanks for decades of friendship and inspiration
Contents
Praise for Assault and Pepper
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Leslie Budewitz
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments and Historical Note
Seattle Spice Shop Checklist
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Afterword
Recipes and Spice Notes
Note to the Reader
Acknowledgments and Historical Note
In my student days at Seattle University, and later as a young lawyer working downtown, I spent many happy hours in the Pike Place Market. I also drank many cups of tea in the tiny Market Spice Shop in the LaSalle/Creamery Building, where it’s been since 1911. My Seattle Spice Shop is not that shop, nor any other actual business. But if I have captured some of the flavor of the Market, then the magic of the tea is still working.
I have done my best to be faithful to the city of Seattle, but a city is not a stagnant thing. Shops and restaurants open and close. Buildings come down and go up. Public works projects run into obstacles—sometimes literally, as in the case of Big Bertha, the machine tunneling near the waterfront so the Alaskan Way Viaduct can be relocated underground. If the city on the page does not quite match the one you know or remember, please forgive me.
I’ve taken a few liberties with the Garden Center Building in the Market and the Pittman Automotive building on Western to create Pepper’s shop and loft. I’ve also moved the King County Archives to the King County Courthouse to make sleuthing more convenient, and rearranged the Festival schedule at Seattle Center. The building on Lower Queen Anne that houses Ashwani’s restaurant and the future Tamarack is fictional. Ripe, the First Avenue Café, and Magenta, Danielle’s flagship, also exist only in my mind, although Ripe draws loosely on my memories of a café that anchored the old Seafirst Building, now Safeco Plaza, twenty-some years ago. The Seattle Mystery Bookshop, where Jen works, is real—and if you’re in Seattle, you must go explore its treasure shelves.
The tales of ghosts in the Economy Market and the Butterworth Mortuary, and of young Jacob, who haunted the bead shop, are drawn from Market Ghost Stories by Mercedes Yaeger.
In writing this series and my Food Lovers’ Village Mysteries, set in northwest Montana, I discovered “kitchen lit.” A few favorites: Blood, Bones & Butter by Gabrielle Hamilton. Gritty, moody, and mouthwatering. Plus Chef Hamilton introduced me to the Negroni, and to a scam I’ve adapted on these pages. Sous Chef by Michael Gibney and Back of the House: The Secret Life of a Restaurant by Scott Haas take the reader behind the scenes in high-test kitchens. On a trip to Seattle, my husband found The Joy of Mixology by Gary Regan, which inspired Pepper’s cocktail recipes; it also provides fun facts about the origins and proper serving techniques for zillions of drinks. Cheers!
For spice history and trivia, I’ve drawn on The Spice and Herb Bible by Ian Hemphill, The Scents of Eden: A History of the Spice Trade by Charles Corn, and Spice: The History of a Temptation by Jack Turner, as well as cookbooks and food lit in my own collection.
Thanks to my husband, Don Beans, f
or sharing his knowledge of Indian music, and to our friend Ashwani Bindal for lending me his first name. My Facebook fans Katrina Elkinton Powers, Karen Wakeland, and Jill Jofko named the fictional Ashwani’s restaurants.
Penny Orwick and Mike Lancaster lent me their ski condo for several key days early in this book’s gestation, and again as I neared “The End.” Thanks to you—and to the mountain songbirds and pika who kept me company.
Hugs of thanks to Katherine Nyborg for the insider’s tour of Seattle Center. Once again, Lita Artis and Ken Gollersrud provided ground truthing, moral support, and a home base during research trips. (By research, of course, I mean eating.) Marlys Anderson-Hisaw and Derek Vandeberg fill me in on retail doings, and sell my books in a village bereft of a bookstore. Naturally, I made the mistakes all by myself.
Thanks to my agent Paige Wheeler at Creative Media Agency, Inc., my editor Robin Barletta and all the crew at Berkley Prime Crime, and the booksellers, librarians, reviewers, and bloggers who have championed the Spice Shop Mysteries. Most especially, thanks to my readers, who have fallen in love with my characters and traveled to the Northwest with us on the page.
And always, thanks to Don, aka Mr. Right, for unstinting encouragement, enthusiasm, and all-around good taste.
Seattle Spice Shop Checklist
Everyone you need to cook up a mystery!
THE SEATTLE SPICE SHOP STAFF
Pepper Reece—owner, ex–law firm HR manager
Sandra Piniella—assistant manager and mix master
Zak Davis—salesclerk by day, musician by night
Lynette Cobb—salesclerk who calls herself an actress
Reed Locke—part-time salesclerk, full-time college student
Kristen Gardiner—part-time salesclerk, Pepper’s oldest friend
the job applicants—oh, for the right one!
Arf the Dog
THE FLICK CHICKS
Pepper—she’ll never tell you her real name
Kristen—she knows, but she knows enough to keep her mouth shut
Laurel Halloran—deli owner, caterer, houseboat dweller
Seetha Sharma—still a bit of a mystery
MARKET MERCHANTS, RESIDENTS, AND FRIENDS
Ben Bradley—ace reporter
Jim and Hot Dog—men about town
Fabiola the Fabulous—graphic designer
Jen the Bookseller and Callie the Librarian—Pepper’s former law firm employees
Vinny—the Wine Merchant
Hal—ghost scholar
IN THE BIZ
Tamara Langston—aspiring chef-owner of Tamarack
Ashwani Patel—owner of the Indian restaurant next to Tamarack
Alex Howard—chef, businessman, rule breaker, heartbreaker
Danielle Bordeaux—successful restaurateur, Tamara’s business partner
Tariq Rose—a line cook in Howard’s employ
Scott “Scotty” or “Glassy” Glass—Howard’s longtime bar manager
SEATTLE’S FINEST
Officer Tag Buhner—aka Bike Boy, aka Officer Hot Wheels, Pepper’s former husband
Detective Cheryl Spencer—homicide
Detective Michael Tracy—homicide
One
An ancient token of friendship as well as an ingredient in the anointing oils Moses used, cinnamon is one of the oldest-known spices, well traveled and heavily traded.
“Parsley poop.” The Indian silver chandeliers hanging from the Spice Shop’s high ceiling swayed, their flame-shaped bulbs flickering. The crystal candelabra they flanked burned on defiantly. As I stared up, unsure whether to curse the Market’s hodgepodge of ancient and modern wiring or the fixtures themselves, all three blinked, then went dark.
“Cash register’s got power,” Sandra called from behind the front counter. “And the red light district’s open.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the miniature lamp perched on the Chinese apothecary that displays our signature teas and accessories. The red silk shade glowed steadily, a beacon in the back corner.
“Better call the electrician,” I said at the exact moment as my customer asked, “Where’s your panel?” and Lynette, my newest and most annoying employee, said, “I’ll check the breakers.”
At the very next moment, the ceiling lights came back on, bright and steady.
Kristen started whistling the theme from Ghostbusters as she unwrapped a tall roll of paper sample cups for our special tea, black Assam spiced with cardamom, allspice, and orange. Any day now, we’d start serving an iced version alongside the hot brew made in the giant electric pot that looks like a Russian samovar.
“Don’t those ghosts know they should be sleeping this time of day?” Whether Sandra Piniella, my assistant manager, believes in ghosts, I don’t know, but she holds the wisecrack sacred.
This was one of those undecided mornings, common in a Seattle spring, that could turn gloomy or glorious, and the shop needed lights. I shrugged and turned back to Tamara Langston. I would let nothing—not even the magical, maddening Market—interfere with the prospect of becoming chief herb and spice supplier to this promising young chef, on the brink of launching the city’s hottest new bar and restaurant.
“Gotta love old buildings,” Tamara said. “The power in our new space has been giving me fits, too.”
“Tell me more about your plans.”
“Ingredient driven. Simple, yet adventurous. Food I love, prepared and presented in a way you’ll love.” An all-inclusive “you,” meaning anyone passionate for a great plate of food. Tamara vibrated with intensity, her presence boosting everyone around her to a higher frequency.
Maybe that’s what disrupted the lights. Like people whose personal magnetism stops watches and messes up computers. I’d known a few in my decade-plus as a law firm human resources manager, before buying Seattle Spice in the venerable Pike Place Market.
The chef was a fair-skinned blonde in her early thirties, roughly ten years younger than I. Thin and wiry—from hard work, not workouts—her features were too intense to call pretty. But she buzzed with an irresistible energy.
“Not vegetarian,” she continued, “but we will champion vegetables. And cocktails. We’ll pour the best gin in town.”
“I’m sold. We can get anything you need. Our supply networks circle the globe.” I gestured to the map on the wall, speckled with pushpins showing the sources of our hundreds of herbs and spices. In the year and a half since I’d bought the place, I’d worked hard to expand our offerings. To not follow trends, but set them. Peppers were hot, as was almost anything new. Especially the new and hot.
I like to think beyond that. So did Tamara.
“Tamarack is all about flavor,” she said, her small hand, scarred by burns and knife blades, opening and closing as she pumped her lower arm. “Both bold and subtle. Spicing should complement the food, not dominate it.”
Music to my ears. “Love the name. Where’s the space?” She hadn’t said. Restaurateurs often keep plans under wraps as long as possible, then leak a few juicy hints, aiming to pique curiosity and build buzz.
“Lower Queen Anne.” She kept her tone low and cagey, though we had no other customers at the moment. “Next to Tamarind, the Indian place. I’m spending every spare moment there. The architect came up with the coolest design—woodsy but light filled. Like the best picnic you ever had, but no rain and no ants.”
Tamarack was a joint venture with Danielle Bordeaux, the visionary owner of half a dozen of Seattle’s favorite eateries and drinkeries. If I played this right, we might get her business, too.
“Great concept. Good location—near the Center, Queen Anne, Magnolia.” Near money.
“Aren’t you worried that the names are too similar—Tamarack and Tamarind?” Sandra swept by, a giant jar of Turkish bay leaves in her plump arms.
�
�I like the synchronicity. Our image will set us apart.” Tamara’s luminous green eyes shone. “Not to mention the line streaming out our door.”
“Isn’t that space haunted?” Black Sharpie in hand, Lynette paused in her task of checking items off a delivery list.
“Ghosts, shmosts,” Tamara said.
“Let me give you a sample of those Ceylon quills.” True cinnamon, my finest grade, still called by the ancient name of the island where it originated. I pulled a jar off the shelf and carried it to the front counter.
“Alex giving you a hard time about leaving for a competitor?” I twisted off the lid and reached for clean tongs. Tamara’s silence snagged my attention and I looked up.
“I—haven’t told him yet.”
Behind her, Lynette straightened, glancing from Tamara to me.
“I want to get all the details in place first,” Tamara said, the words breathy and rushed. “Finish the build-out. Nail down sourcing. Recruit the key staff.”
I read between the lines. “And you don’t want to tell him until you’re ready to draw another paycheck.”
The creases in her forehead and the red stains blooming on her white flour cheeks told me I’d guessed right.
“Our lips are sealed. You don’t honestly expect him to be surprised, do you? Or behave rashly?”
As lead sous for the First Avenue Café, the flagship of Alex Howard’s restaurant empire, Tamara knew the man well. He bought his spices from me, even after I’d ended our fling—too fast and furious to call it a relationship—last September. Tall, dark, hawkishly handsome, and one heck of a chef, he boasted the legendary temper and bravado as well as the cooking skills. Rumors of his cutthroat business practices swirled through Seattle’s food community, but he’d always been fair with me.
In business, at least.
“Not a chance I’m willing to take,” she said. I reached for her shopping basket brimming with fresh produce, but she tucked the samples into her own green-and-white-striped tote. The quills were for her, not the Café. “I’m dying to try your ghost chiles. Alex makes a terrific relish out of them, but he won’t let anyone else handle it, so I’ll have to work up a recipe myself.”
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