Guilty as Cinnamon

by Leslie Budewitz

  Oh, Alex. Why can you never use your chefly discipline in the rest of your life?

  “Don’t forget,” Tracy said, one hand smoothing the front of his jacket, tiny crumbs falling to the floor. “All the records, on time. Or there will be consequences.”

  Good cop, bad cop. The cliché lives.

  My staff fell in beside me, like a row of suspects in a lineup, as we watched them leave.

  “The world, she be a strange place,” Sandra said.

  “Thanks for running interference with the chocolatier. What did you tell her?”

  “The truth. Sort of.” She paused. I waited. “I told her the police regularly consult you on murder investigations.”

  That would set Market tongues wagging.

  Eight

  Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.

  —Satchel Paige, Hall of Fame pitcher

  Reed and I worked well after closing until I sent him home, his shaggy-on-purpose black hair tugged and tousled. More tedious than difficult, compiling the records required much finger twisting, cross-referencing, and screen shifting that left us both cramped and bleary-eyed.

  A few restaurants keep late hours, but the Market was largely deserted when Arf and I emerged at half past seven. I needed food, and we both needed to stretch our legs, so we ambled down to the waterfront and Ivar’s Fish Bar at Pier 54.

  “Fish and chips,” I told the man behind the counter.

  I zipped up my jacket and tried not to worry. But I’d walked down here to think, and sometimes the line blurs.

  Even on a coolish, dampish Thursday night in April, the waterfront hummed. Traffic sped by on Alaskan Way. Ferries chugged across the Sound—one blew its horn to signal “incoming,” and a few minutes later, a dozen cars clanged off Pier 52 and disappeared into the city.

  A pride of teenage boys leaned over the rail between Ivar’s and the ferry terminal, ogling the Leschi, the city’s newest and shiniest fireboat. Good to see kids still dream of being firefighters and not just computer programmers. Although fire departments need IT whizzes, and computers catch fire, so there may be some crossover.

  I carried my dinner to a table overlooking the water, the harbor with its giant orange cranes to the south. Arf sat beside me expectantly. “Good boy. Two chips. Here’s the first.” He took the potato in his mouth, then lowered himself as if to savor the treat, though I knew it was already sliding down his gullet.

  I hadn’t had a dog since kidhood, but the adjustment had been fairly easy. Sam, his former owner, had bounced between SROs—single room occupancy units—shelters, and the streets. Arf had been a faithful companion, always alert and on guard, but he’d relaxed a few notches since joining me in loft living.

  While Sam had always kept him clean and well-groomed, regular meals of good-quality food had turned him from scrawny to healthy, and I had to keep track of the treats my Market neighbors offered. And limit the fries.

  Sam had gone back to Memphis, and his sister had sent a Christmas package stuffed with jars of BBQ sauces, tins of hot spice rubs, and other Tennessee treats. Her card said he’d settled in well, the voices quieter lately, but that every time she suggested he consider another dog, Sam said there weren’t no other dog for him.

  I understood.

  Somewhere in the depths of my tote, my phone chirped. I let it go to voice mail, enjoying the salt air on my cheeks and the hot cod melting in my mouth. Alex’s arrest must have been announced in time to lead off the six o’clock news. Kristen had called me at five after six and every five minutes thereafter until I texted her back, saying, I know—I’m okay—working late—tell you more tomorrow. Laurel had shown more reserve, calling once to say she’d heard, call her if I needed to talk, and what a relief it must be to Tamara’s family to have a suspect in custody.

  Tamara. I knew nothing about her family or friends. She and I had only met a few times. She’d served me a bowl of curried clams, perfectly spiced, when I made a delivery during family meal, when the staff eats. She’d come into the shop with Alex around Christmastime, and I’d thought of her as his human shield—an excuse to deflect personal conversation while he browsed, brainstorming new combinations.

  And then, two days ago.

  Egad. That had only been two days.

  What else did I know about her? Ambitious. Single, I suspected—no wedding rings and no mention of a husband or kids. Was a cat prowling an empty apartment at this moment, hungry and afraid?

  Alex had been furious with her, and with me. But who else might have done the deed? Not to blame the victim, but if you’d ticked one person off enough to kill you, you might have made others mad, too.

  I sipped my Coke and stroked Arf’s head. Fought off the rumble rising in my chest, the dizzying feel of being back in the construction site, her body stretched out before me. That sensation of fear after the fact.

  And then, a wave of relief that I’d ended my involvement with Alex. Because it seemed clear that no woman’s influence could have stopped him from acting out his rage, the deep sense of betrayal that Tamara’s departure triggered. Or had it been her failure to confide in him that set him off?

  I poked at the corner of my eye. Breathed out long and slow. Slipped the dog another chip.

  “We’re okay now, aren’t we, Arf?”

  We finished our dinner on Ivar’s deck, the salty, green smell of the water and its undertones of diesel mingling with the scents of hot oil and fish. The Coke bubbles tickled my nose, and the cod tickled my tummy. The dog let out a noisy sigh and leaned against my leg.

  We were okay.

  * * *

  I kicked off my shoes and hung my jacket on the coat tree inside my door. Plopped my tote on the table behind the couch. Arf sauntered over to the wall of windows and tucked himself into his bed. (Lucky dog—beds everywhere he goes.)

  Me, I poured a glass of the Sangiovese Laurel hadn’t finished last night and curled up on the soft caramel couch. My book was on my nightstand, so I reached for the latest issue of Saveur, then remembered the phone messages. Stretched for my tote, half falling off the couch in the process.

  And I’d barely touched my wine.

  I remedied that problem, then leaned into the big cushions and studied the little screen. A few messages and texts that could wait till tomorrow. A reply text from Kristen, telling me to watch the news.

  The last call had come from an unknown name and number. I frowned and punched the button to listen.

  My blood froze. Alex, an edge of anxiety in his voice. “Pepper, you’ve heard the news. They’ve thrown me in the slammer. I need your help. I know that sounds crazy, after the way I blew up at you. But I’m innocent.”

  Innocent was the last thing Alex Howard was. Not guilty of murder, maybe, but hardly innocent.

  He rushed on. “I saw what you did last fall, when everyone else was convinced the wrong person was guilty as sin. Gotta go. Visiting hours Friday morning, Pepper. Please.”

  A magic word from the mouth of a difficult man. I tossed the phone aside, refilled my wineglass, and dug for the remote in the basket on my packing crate coffee table. I so rarely watch TV news that I didn’t remember which channel showed who when.

  The TV—a smallish flat screen—hangs above the gas fireplace in the corner of the living room, making it visible from everywhere in the loft except the bathroom and the far back of the kitchen. Local news hasn’t been the same since Jean Enersen retired. First female TV anchor in the country, she’d led the nightly reports since the year I was born. This new guy might be fine, but he isn’t Jean.

  “Tonight, we bring you news of an unexpected arrest. Tamara Langston, sous chef at the famed First Avenue Café, was found dead Wednesday evening at the site of a new restaurant she planned to open on Lower Queen Anne.” The screen switched from a talking head to footage of EMTs carrying Tamara’s body out of the
construction site. I hadn’t noticed the cameras or reporters. “Police initially refused to state how she died or whether foul play was suspected. This afternoon, they made an arrest.”

  The cameras shifted to Alex, hands cuffed in front of him, being led out the side door of his building. I sank onto the couch, clutching the remote. “Alex Howard, a nationally renowned chef and owner of several of the city’s best-known eateries, was arrested outside his headquarters in downtown Seattle. A police department spokesman says he will be charged with first-degree murder in Langston’s death, but was unable to provide details on the murder or the cause of death. More as this story develops.”

  In the background, I glimpsed Scott Glass and a few other employees.

  “Holy moly.” Arf lifted his head at the sound. “It’s okay, boy.”

  It was most definitely not okay.

  I lowered the volume, letting images of a bus accident on I-405, a mayoral press conference, and a flooded storm drain in West Seattle roll by. Sipped my wine, the deep, fruity notes leaving a slightly tannic taste on my tongue and throat.

  Why ask me for help? Because of what I’d done last fall, he’d said, when I forced my help on a person who hadn’t wanted it. I’d been a bit of a terrier, convinced police had it wrong.

  And I’d been right. Naturally, Detective Tracy considered my actions intentional interference with an official investigation. That he still had to hold his nose to look at me made Sandra’s wisecrack to the chocolatier about him “consulting” me particularly rich.

  I knew what Tag would say about Alex’s plea, and not just because he dislikes on principle anyone romantically interested in me. Kristen, too—she was always polite when Alex came in, but she has no patience for anyone who hurts her friends.

  Laurel, for all her sympathy for the victim, champions justice for the wrongly accused as well. She’s never been keen on Alex, but I could almost hear her advice: “What matters is what you believe, Pepper. Is he calling on you for the right reasons? Or is he lying to you?”

  Lying, or using me? I had no sway with the police, despite what he believed.

  Truth was, I didn’t know why he’d called. Desperation? For some reason, he trusted me—though I did not trust him. But a liar isn’t necessarily a killer. Thank goodness. Because we all lie a little.

  He’d lied a lot.

  I needed to know who’d killed Tamara. Because I found her and that linked us forever. And if she had been killed with my peppers, I had to know who and why.

  Could I dig around without being committed to Alex’s cause? Assuage my own guilt while probing his?

  Arf made a moaning noise in his sleep, his front paws scrabbling the canvas bedcover, one leg kicking out behind him.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I said in a reassuring tone, not knowing whether it was or not. Because who knows what dogs dream of?

  Nine

  Sugar and spice and everything nice,

  That’s what little girls are made of.

  —19th-century nursery rhyme

  I deleted the first three messages on the shop phone Friday morning. No, I did not want to “share my story” with the NBC affiliate, nor the ABC station, nor the CBS channel.

  But my finger hesitated when I heard the fourth message. “Pepper, it’s Ben Bradley. I just heard you found the chef’s body in the restaurant. I’m so sorry—that must have been awful. I hope it’s not presumptuous, but if there’s any chance you’d like to talk about it, for the paper, please give me a call.”

  “Please,” he’d said. “The magic word,” my father had called it when we were kids. Alex had used it, too, last night. I’m a sucker for the word “please.”

  Later. After I make up my mind how involved I’m going to get. Because even the magic word has its limits.

  I hopped a bus to the jail and breezed through the security line. I’d made enough trips here last fall to know the routine.

  Nobody looks good in felony red. It’s a peculiar shade, designed to clash with every skin tone. On Alex, with his olive complexion and morning-after-arrest stubble, it reminded me of those dried pepper garlands people bring back from vacation in Mexico and hang in their kitchen, then forget to use or dust.

  “I spent two hours explaining myself to high-priced lawyers who claim they believe I’m innocent, but they sure as hell don’t act like it,” he said, his voice low, worried but seductive. His knuckles were white as he gripped the phone, his dark eyes boring through the Plexiglas between us.

  I had not stayed up late. I had left the restless dreams to my sweet dog. It had only taken me two glasses of wine and three slices of brie on seasoned flatbread crackers to convince myself that I could guard against manipulation. That I could use helping Alex as an excuse to dig up info to help me find Tamara’s killer. That I could draw lines in the sand and solve my problems. If I helped free him or jail him, I could live with either outcome.

  Drawing those lines wasn’t so easy, sitting here before him. But I had one distinct advantage: I could walk out anytime.

  “So here’s the deal. You have to be honest. One hint that you’re lying to me, that you’re whitewashing the teeniest detail, and I will not come back. I won’t lie for you, and I won’t withhold the truth.”

  He glared at the ultimatum. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, then he nodded once.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said.

  “Nothing.” He sensed my sternness and backed down. “Okay. Tuesday, when I found out that Tamara was planning to leave, I was upset, I admit. Partly at her—after all the opportunities I gave her, she buddies up to my chief competitor to open a joint in a neighborhood she knew I had eyes on.”

  Alex owned four or five restaurants, but I’d had no idea he wanted a foothold near the Center.

  “You should have seen it coming. She was young, talented, ambitious.”

  “You know me, Pepper. I blow up, but it blows over.” He waved his free hand in the air, the burn scar inside his right wrist a ragged ribbon. “We agreed it would be best for her to leave right away, to focus on her new venture.”

  She agreed? That surprised me. The new place was weeks from needing her full-time—and giving her a paycheck. Tamara hadn’t seemed ready to cut the cord.

  But he might have used the opportunity to corral the rest of his crew, to squelch any ideas they might have about leaving. To prevent poaching.

  “So who’ll take her spot? Tariq?”

  Alex snorted. “He’s not ready. An exec from another joint will step in until I decide who should do what.”

  “Alex, you’ve got to give your full attention to your defense. You can’t be thinking about pots and pans while you’re in here.”

  Prison jumpsuits aren’t designed for restless men. The buttons strained their holes as Alex’s chest swelled in anger spiked with frustration and anxiety, his face pinched in humiliation over the loss of control.

  “I am still Alex Howard.”

  And that was the gist of the problem. No matter how much he begged me to be his eyes and ears on the streets of Seattle, he would never fully trust me—or anyone else. I sympathized with his lawyers.

  “Who were her friends? She have enemies? Where did she live, with whom?”

  “We were her family.”

  “Who else?”

  He didn’t know. Or wouldn’t say. Alex was the kind of boss who managed to learn everything he wanted to know, in and out of the restaurant, one way or another. One more reason Tamara’s plans pissed him off: His intelligence network had failed him.

  “Ops can tell you where she lived. Fremont or Wallingford?”

  “I found her right after six. Tell me where you were all afternoon.”

  He tried to lean back in the plastic chair, but the intercom’s metal phone cord jerked him up short. “Got to the restaurant early afternoon. Can’t say exactly w
hen.”

  “And before that?”

  He glared. I glared. He deflated, dignity melting like butter in a hot pan, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one heard. He leaned forward and spoke in a low simmer.

  “Okay, I admit, I followed her. But Pepper, you can’t tell them that. They’ll think for sure I did it.”

  I wanted to strangle him. I strangled the receiver instead. “To her new restaurant? Why? To try to stop her from leaving?”

  “No.” His eyebrows narrowed and his mouth opened in protest. “Danielle turns everything into gold. If I’m going to stay a major player, and compete with my own trainees, I need the details of every new joint.”

  “You check up on every rumor you hear?”

  “If it’s somebody doing something interesting, or that might cut into our business, yeah.”

  “What time?”

  “Two o’clock? Two thirty? Last thing I did before I went to the restaurant.”

  Where scads of people had seen him. People who depend on him for their paycheck and might not tell me if they’d seen him step out. I needed to confirm his whereabouts and find out when Tamara had spoken to Danielle. That call narrowed the window for time of death.

  “How—how did she die?” he asked, his voice breaking.

  “I’d be guessing,” I said, fudging a pinch, “so I don’t think I should tell you.”

  “Tell me she didn’t suffer.”

  I’d read somewhere that death is rarely truly instantaneous. My face betrayed me. He bent over, head to his knees, his hands in fists.

  “Alex,” I said a few moments later. “Time’s nearly up. Do you know when you’re scheduled for a bail hearing?”

  He raised his head slowly, eyes red and wet. “They say sometime next week, but I told them to light a fire under the judge. They can take my passport. I’ve got people to feed.”

  “You honestly think people will come to your restaurant, once they hear?”