Guilty as Cinnamon

by Leslie Budewitz

  We finished dinner and wine, giggling about my employees researching Ben on Google, and Laurel called a cab. Arf and I traipsed downstairs to wait with her, then took a quick spin around the block. Walking the dog at night never worries me—no one wants to bother a woman with her own personal guardian.

  Funny how a day, or an event, changes your perspective. We walk every evening, and it’s much the same, one night to the next. But tonight, the air felt different. As though the loss of one person—a woman I barely knew—had changed the world.

  Back in the loft, Alf settled onto his bed by the windows—he’s got another in the bedroom—and worked on a chew toy. I cleaned up the kitchen and made a cup of decaf spice tea, the shop’s own blend. They say the olfactory sense is the most closely linked to memory, and it always is for me. The scent transports me back to childhood, when my mother often took Kristen and me along on Market shopping trips and let us sip the special, grown-up treat. Not until after I’d bought the shop did I wonder if I’d been groomed for the job all along and hadn’t recognized it until after a fifteen-year detour into another career.

  While the tea steeped, its fragrance filling the air, I tuned in to a late-night pop and jazz show on public radio. Why, I wondered, had I caught a whiff of cinnamon in Tamara’s building? We sell more cinnamon in winter, for holiday baking, but it’s popular year-round. Our most popular spice.

  We sell so much of it, the smell must have gotten stuck deep in the fibers of my nose. In my clothes, maybe—friends say spicy scents waft off of me, even when I’m away from the shop and out of my work clothes.

  I changed into jammies, then settled into my red leather reading chair with my tea and The Servant’s Tale. My obsession with medieval mysteries began with a box of Brother Cadfael paperbacks my mother had left in my storage locker in the building’s garage. I’d worked my way through all twenty novels and a short-story collection. Jen at the Mystery Bookshop, a former paralegal in my firm, had recommended Margaret Frazer’s Sister Frevisse series, set in a fifteenth-century English convent, as a follow-up. One book and I was hooked. A niece of Thomas Chaucer, son of Geoffrey, Frevisse had left her parents’ life of pilgrimage for one of solitude, prayer, and devotion.

  Or so she thought.

  But she’d learned a lesson that I was struggling to grasp: Death intrudes wherever it will.

  Six

  In 1851, Doc Maynard suggested the new town on Elliot Bay in Oregon Territory be named Seattle, after the Duwamish Indian chief Sealth—said See-ALTH or See-AA-TLE. Sealth may well have been horrified—members of his tribe had a superstitious dread of having their names mentioned after death.

  —Murray Morgan, Skid Road: An Informal Portrait of Seattle

  Thursday dawned—I use the term loosely—so gray and drizzly that I felt lower than a termite’s tits, as my grandfather used to say. And that was before remembering that I’d found a dead woman twelve hours ago.

  “Holy nutmeg,” I swore as my foot snared the edge of Arf’s bed. My right shoulder slammed into the bathroom door frame, and pain shot up my arm. I clutched it and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.

  Part of what my friends and relatives call my “Forty Freak-out” had been to chop off my meticulously cut brown hair and trade it for a spiky, gelled do that says cutting-edge on good days and bedhead gone wrong on bad.

  “A shower will fix it,” I told the mirror before it could tell me I looked like Sleeping Beauty’s evil stepmother with a hangover and without her wig.

  Buying the loft less than a month after I left Tag had been uncharacteristically impulsive, and I had never regretted it. Despite all the challenges of build-out, the ongoing frustrations with the developer, the uncertainty over the Viaduct, and the “reimagining” of the waterfront, I absolutely, seriously heart the place. Everything in it I love and chose on purpose.

  Between the sleepless night, memories of Tamara, and all the problems at the shop, I’d almost forgotten how much I love the loft. But while the shower heated and I rubbed my shoulder, my gaze settled on a playful bit of “shower art” I’d found in the Market—a turquoise fairy godmother in a pink frame, with the slogan “I will rescue myself, thanks”—and the burdens eased a bit. By the time I’d dried off and pulled on a fresh pair of black pants and a matching T-shirt, I was a new woman.

  Even if my hair still looked like I’d stuck my finger in a socket.

  Arf, on the other hand, is almost always in a cheery mood. The greetings from the Market regulars as we dodged puddles and drips on our way up the long steps from Western to Pike Place were intended as much for him as for me.

  I’d stayed up too late reading, slipping into bed well after midnight. At two thirty A.M, Tamara had appeared to me draped in Sister Frevisse’s white wimple, silver sneakers poking out beneath the hem of a nun’s dark gown. “Time for Lauds,” she’d urged, but I knew it was a dream. No way would a chef get up in the middle of the night to pray, even if she was dead. Mercifully, she let me sleep through Prime until my alarm—the modern version of prayer bells—rang at six thirty.

  But it’s impossible to grump my way through the Market morning chaos, even in the rain. Especially in the rain, when people keep on doing what they do despite the damp and chill. Their steadiness and commitment remind me that what we do here matters. At the law firm, my job was to take care of the people who did the real work. Important in its way, but I’d often felt like an invisible cog.

  Here, though, we’re all hands-on.

  At the well-placed bakery at the top of the steps, I ordered a latte and an applejack and leaned against a pillar to wait. This may be my favorite part of the day in the Market, watching the flower sellers and farm vendors, their wares so fresh they’re practically still growing. At eight, they’d already been going a good hour. Farther north, the arts and craft vendors get a more leisurely start.

  My coffee appeared on the countertop without a word from the blond waif working the espresso machine. A new face—with so many bakeries and coffee shops in the Market, I like to spread my business around, and I sometimes lose track of who works where.

  A poet, this one. Instead of my name, she’d written on the cup:

  For the lovely lady with the pensive eyes.

  I bought a bundle of coral pink ranunculus to arrange with white lilacs and some foliage I couldn’t identify for the mixing nook, and late paperwhites with orange centers for the front counter, where space is tight.

  As I crossed Pike Place, the sweet floral scents mingled with diesel fumes from delivery vans and trucks. Clutching my coffee and the flowers in one hand, my jute tote over my unbruised left shoulder, I unlocked the shop door and crossed the threshold. I am struck every morning by the power of scent to transform us, in space, time, and memory. Sharing that may be the best part of my job.

  Sandra and Zak arrived, shaking off the rain I’d just missed. I finished setting up the cash drawer, and we readied the space for the day. The coffee and pastry had brightened my mood, as had the flowers and morning routine. Good thing—Zak’s resignation put us in double doo-doo now, and I needed a little caffeine-and-sugar-induced optimism.

  In my office refuge, I texted Laurel—knee-deep in Ripe’s morning bustle—to check in. Called two women who’d inquired about the openings. One had already found another job; the other would come in this afternoon. I called the Market office to check for job hunters, then e-mailed my old boss and texted a few former law firm employees I hoped would have the right contacts. Dithered over posting a HIRING sign. In the Market, signs tend to prompt inquiries from the curious but not the qualified.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dug out our sign to put it in the front window.

  “Hey. I heard. It’s awful. How are you?” Kristen wrapped her arms around me from behind.

  I touched her hand. “Better, when I don’t think about it.”

  She p
ropped on the edge of the desk. Shop staff wear black pants, black or white shirts with the shop logo, and bib-front black aprons. Kristen always adds accents. I’d put the kibosh on the black-and-white feather boa that shed like a snake, and she hadn’t worn the off-white muffler her daughter had crocheted since Sandra told her it looked like overcooked spaghetti. (In Sandra’s defense, it did—and she hadn’t known it was an eleven-year-old’s first attempt.) Today, Kristen’s silver infinity scarf triggered an instant replay of Tamara’s silver running shoe.

  It’s not just scents that summon memories.

  “I talked to my neighbor, but she can’t work full-time.” Kristen gave me an apologetic smile. “Any chance for short shifts?”

  “Not with Zak leaving, too.”

  “Makes sense. I thought I’d start searching online for a new samovar.”

  “Perfect.” I wheeled my chair back, careful to avoid her feet, and let her sit.

  Kristen may have a weekly manicure appointment and a hefty credit card limit at Nordstrom’s, but when it comes to a shopping challenge, she’s pure terrier. She came in to help out after I bought the place, and loved it so much she’d stayed.

  Speaking of terriers, time to take mine for a brisk walk. I changed my black climbers for ankle-high Wellies and headed out front. “Hook up,” I said, and Arf sat, letting me click the leash on his collar.

  Fat, angry clouds hung like bruises above the city, weighting down the urban steel, concrete, and glass with an extra layer of drear. The rain had stopped. Arf never minds a puddle or two, and my feet were prepared, so we strode up Pike Place to the park. He pooped, I scooped, and we paused at the wrought iron rail to watch the tugs and ferries ply the cold, gray waters.

  On our way back, I noticed Alex’s operations manager—Ops, he calls her. Her real name always escapes me. She rounded the corner of Pike Place and started up Virginia to First Ave, the woven shopping basket in her hand sagging with produce. Why was she making the supply run?

  You ninny, I told myself. Someone has to fill in for Tamara, who’d hauled that same basket into my shop two days ago.

  A sign that things were a bit topsy-turvy at the Café, after the murder of a sous chef. The heat of embarrassment crept up my throat as I realized I’d been too peeved by his tirade, after Lynette narked on Tamara’s business plans, to call Alex and offer my condolences.

  Shame on me.

  “Hey, you own the Spice Shop, right? I’m the new chocolate shop.” A petite strawberry blonde with freckles scattered across her fair cheeks stuck out a small hand. “Mary Jean Popovich.”

  “Oh, Down Under?” The name for the Market’s maze of lower levels. “Pepper Reece. And this is Arf.”

  “I’ve been wanting to talk,” she said, letting Arf sniff the back of her hand. “We’re doing plain single-source bars and molded chocolates to start, but we’re working on a truffle line, and I’d like to source some flavorings. Green tea, chiles, ginger. Maybe you can add some exotic touches.”

  “Sure. And you can suggest a good cocoa for a steak rub.” Some amazing cross-pollination occurs when you cram hundreds of entrepreneurs into nine acres seven days a week.

  Back at the Spice Shop, Kristen knelt before the bookshelves, duster in hand. She always cleans when she’s frustrated.

  “No luck?” I said.

  “‘I’m sorry, ma’am. That item is discontinued for lack of interest.’” She mimicked a snooty customer service rep. “Well, I’m interested.”

  “You call that restaurant supply service Laurel recommended?”

  “They’re checking their warehouse. Cross your fingers.”

  “Both hands,” I said, echoing our childhood ritual.

  Zak restocked the loose tea supply while Sandra helped a young couple choosing spices for their new kitchen. I heard Sandra say, “Wedding registry?” and watched the man blush while the woman turned her head slightly. Not yet.

  I spent the rest of the morning making orders—we finally had a decent handle on inventory, thanks to months of measuring and tracking sales. Jane’s eyeball method didn’t cut it in the modern world. Restaurant and producer sales are key, and you can’t be out when a chef or a pickle maker calls in a pinch.

  Kristen and Fabiola had been urging me to expand the commercial side of the business. We rent a production facility a few hours a week to mix and package our teas, blends, and Spice of the Month Club mailings. Our own warehouse and equipment would make those operations easier, but the very idea makes my brain freeze. Capital and staff—a double headache.

  Business picked up a bit after lunch, but was slow enough that I wondered whether we needed to replace both Zak and Lynette.

  We did. No way around it.

  Twice I reached for the phone to call Alex, and twice I chickened out. Condolences are not text-able. A teacher customer says her biggest challenge these days is to get kids to look her in the eyes and interact. It’s not just kids.

  Kristen left and Reed arrived. Outside, I stared at the awning, praying for inspiration, when Tag wheeled up. He dismounted, a bad sign, and slowly removed his sunglasses.

  Another bad sign.

  “Pep. Sorry, but I’ve got to cancel tonight.” He fiddled with his glasses, staring at the wet street.

  “Oh-kay. What’s up?” I hate when he makes me fish for explanations.

  He adjusted the strap of his glasses. “Um, well, I’ve got to, um.” He exhaled a breath big enough to knock a smaller woman over. “We’ve made an arrest in your murder, and we’re waiting for the search warrant. Hate like the dickens that you found another body and you’re all mixed up in this, but I want you to know, I didn’t ask for the assignment.”

  “Whoa, Tag.” I held up a hand. We hadn’t talked since yesterday, but no doubt the police grapevine buzzed about his ex-wife who kept finding bodies. I’d forgotten to tell him, which said a lot about our relationship. Or rather, our divorce. But that one word shoved everything else aside. “It’s murder? For sure? And you’re on the search squad?”

  He sagged with misery.

  I grabbed his arm. “Tag, what aren’t you telling me?”

  His eyes finally met mine. “You’ll think I think he’s an SOB who had it coming. I told you to stay away from him.”

  Shock shoved frustration out of the picture as I realized what he was going to say next.

  “We’ve arrested Alex Howard,” he continued. “We’re charging him with Tamara Langston’s murder.”

  * * *

  TAG was right: I did think he thought Alex an SOB who had “it” coming—whatever “it” was. During my fling with Alex, Tag had made his disdain clear as gin.

  But Tag had warned me away from Alex because he was a player, not because he was a killer. And since Tag had played around, too, I’d dismissed his attitude as jealousy mixed with protectiveness. Though I gave him no encouragement, Tag showed too much of both.

  And ultimately, I’d ended things with Alex on my own, not because of Bike Boy’s hints and innuendo.

  After Tag left, I stood in the back of the shop, pondering. Had there been more to his caution? Cops hear all kinds of talk, and it isn’t always easy to tell the true and false apart. And veteran officers sometimes develop what experts call hypervigilance and an overinflated ego with undertones of self-doubt and insecurity.

  Their ex-wives have less sympathetic words.

  Tag had told me more than he was supposed to—neither the arrest nor Alex’s name had been made public yet—so back in the shop, I had to bite my tongue. But I’ve never been very good at keeping my emotions to myself.

  “Sandra, you and Mr. Right want to go to a ball game? Tag had to cancel. Seats on the third base line.” My father had rejoiced, in his quiet way, when big league baseball returned to Seattle in 1977, and we’d often gone to games as a family. I didn’t want to go alone. Not tonight. Too many thou
ghts swirling in my head, too much acid roiling in my tummy, to enjoy myself.

  “You bet,” she said. “It would do him good—the job cuts at his work have him worried.”

  Kristen followed me to the back room. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “No! How can you even ask that? We’re just friends.” Not that Tag hadn’t expressed interest, but he’d been a gentleman. Despite our recent evenings out, we weren’t dating, exactly. More like trying to figure out what “just friends” means. We’d known each other twenty years, been married thirteen, divorced two. I like him. Don’t trust him. Can’t live with him. But we do have fun together.

  “Because,” she said, as if explaining to a two-year-old why she had to keep her diaper on at the park, “of the look on your face.”

  “It’s not what you think.” She thought I was upset over the cancellation, that work had won out over private life as it often does in cop marriages. In every marriage, far as I could tell. Even though we weren’t married anymore.

  “So, are you going to tell me?”

  I looked her in the eye—she was my oldest, bestest friend in the world, and I owed her that—and told her the truth. “No.”

  Seven

  Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails,

  That’s what little boys are made of.

  —19th-century nursery rhyme

  Don’t tell my father I let Arf ride in the Mustang. I put a sturdy cover on the leather seat, but this car is his baby. Bought it in San Diego from his commanding officer’s widow when he came back from Vietnam. Drove it to St. Louis to see his parents, then to Seattle—the farthest city he could reach in the Lower Forty-Eight—where it had lived a sheltered life ever since. He’d entrusted it to me when he and my mother decamped for Costa Rica.

  And I know it’s not the safest place for the dog, but he loves it. The skies had cleared, so I put the top down and the two of us sped north on 99 toward Greenwood, Tag’s spare house key in my pocket.