Guilty as Cinnamon

by Leslie Budewitz

“Is that—a dog?”

  I followed her shell-shocked gaze to the front counter, where a furry brown snout poked out.

  She grabbed her bag—black patent leather in a style the Queen might carry; it matched her low-heeled sling-backs—and slid out of the booth like a greased pig.

  “She might be allergic,” Reed said as she disappeared out the front door.

  “Or going on an interview to prove she’s job hunting so she can keep her unemployment benefits.” I sighed and sent the Universe a silent prayer. One great candidate and I’ll be happy. Two would be ideal, but I’ll count my blessings if you’ll please pretty please send me one perfect employee.

  Hey, how will the Powers That Be know what you want if you don’t tell them?

  * * *

  LIKE most Seattleites, I’d had little reason to explore the halls of the new SPD HQ. Tag worked patrol most of our time together, based in the West Precinct that runs from SoDo and the International District north to Queen Anne Hill. Not that HQ is all that new anymore—ten years maybe, a super-eco-green building, both modern sleek and a good fit with its historic neighbors.

  I passed through security and reclaimed my bag, pleased that the computer system Reed and I had worked hard to implement had made the shop records so easy to compile.

  But I am the daughter of activists—a Vietnam vet turned dove and a hippie chick who’d been arrested a dozen times or more at marches, protests, and sit-ins. Our house mantra had been “Question authority.”

  My folks had raised their eyebrows when I married a cop. But they’d accepted Tag, who was a bit of an anomaly in his own well-heeled, suburban family. And they’d been quietly relieved when I left him.

  Their voices murmured in my head. Should I be so quick to hand over my records?

  Yes, I decided. The cops had a warrant. I had no legal grounds to withhold my customers’ identities from the police. And if it helped flush out a killer . . .

  But I could at least insist on getting something in exchange.

  “This is everything?” Tracy said a few minutes later in the homicide detectives’ office. He flipped through the half-inch stack of records like a ten-cent garage sale paperback that might give him cooties.

  “I brought you everything that warrant asks for. Look, I know you and Tag don’t like each other. But I’ve never given you any reason to distrust me.”

  Tracy’s eyes, so dark the pupils nearly merged with the irises, bore into me. Wherever Spencer was, I missed her.

  “Is that true now, Mrs. Buhner? Oh, that’s right, you prefer Ms. Reece.”

  My cheeks burned. I hadn’t told him everything I knew last fall as soon as I knew it. But eventually, I’d spilled it all—including a few details he should have rooted out for himself without an amateur’s help. Apparently the insult still rankled.

  “And of course,” he said, as if about to pronounce a truth universally acknowledged, “there is the matter of your judgment. A food expert with such questionable taste . . .”

  His words trailed off but left no doubt that he was referring not to my taste in food but to my taste in men. To Tag, and Alex.

  “I’ve given you all the information you asked for. And if you think I sold the murder weapon”—using the term loosely—“don’t you think you should tell me more about what happened? Who might have wanted to kill Tamara?”

  “Besides your ex-boyfriend? No, I don’t think we need to tell you anything, Ms. Reece. You didn’t kill her. You don’t have any stake in this.”

  How did they know that? Police aren’t fans of the obvious conclusions the rest of us draw every day. (Arguing with a cop or a lawyer can be so frustrating. They cross-examine you and demand your “evidence.”) Then it dawned on me. “You’ve already investigated me.”

  He smiled, eyelids lowered partway, deciding what I deserved to know. “Your employees confirm you were in your shop all afternoon. Surveillance cameras from the ATM up the block show you park your Mustang and start down the street. Barely a minute later, you called 911. Killers don’t normally call us.”

  The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. “You saw the killer? On the video?”

  His expression turned bitter, one of the five primary tastes. But he wasn’t going to tell me what the video showed. He thwacked my sales records with his fingers. “We’ll go over these with a fine-tooth comb.”

  As I walked back to the front entry, the chill seeped deeper into my bones. Had the killer been hiding in Tamarack while I was up front? Had I barely escaped being his next victim, before he—or she—escaped out the back?

  You don’t have any stake in this, Tracy had said. Maybe he believed that. But to me, it looked like someone was doing his—or her—best to make this crime very personal.

  Eleven

  Though early European spice traders faced scurvy and dysentery, head hunters and cannibals, dervish winds and razor-sharp reefs, the rewards were so enticing that they often exaggerated the perils to deter interlopers flying the flags of rival nations.

  If he answered his phone, the story was his.

  No such luck. I hung up before Mr. Ben Reporter’s voice mail finished telling me to leave a message. I believe in the right to change my mind.

  I stopped for the light at Fourth and Marion, where my old office building faces off with the city library. The tall black box from 1969 still looks elegant, if no longer modern, and Vertebrae, the giant Henry Moore bronze out front, is one of my favorite outdoor sculptures. Across the street sits the library. Some days, I adore its angled glass and steel mesh; other days, it looks like a cross between a mushroom and a UFO built out of Legos.

  Today was a Lego day. Though the problem might be my own skewed perspective. Going to jail messes with the mind.

  Aack—why didn’t I think of her first? The brainstorm sent me digging for the phone I’d already tossed back into my tote. A minute later, somewhere on the forty-second floor, the best legal researcher I knew answered.

  “Got a project for you, about Alex Howard and the body I found.”

  A sixtyish woman in a pale gray raincoat shot me a nervous glance and edged away. I gave her the sweetest smile I could manage while talking murder. The light changed, and I let her race ahead of me before crossing the street and angling up the wide plaza steps to Ripe.

  Callie joined me quicker than you could say, “Fig and prosciutto panino, please.”

  Laurel serves a coffee blend so rich and creamy it nearly makes me swoon. We carried our mugs to a corner table for a good huddle.

  “Alex Howard,” Callie said with a note of skepticism. “I thought you guys broke up.”

  “He’s a son of a gumbo. But I don’t believe he killed her. And I’m not doing this to save his neck.” I took a sip, letting the hot liquid cool on my tongue. “They won’t confirm the manner of death, but it’s obvious they suspect death by bhut capsicum. Ghost chile. That puts me right in the thick of this—because he bought his supply from me.”

  Callie stared, one blunt-fingered hand flat against her chest. “Who else had access to—what did you call it, boot cap—?”

  “Bhut capsicum is the botanical name. Less commonly called bhut jolokia. Bhut C, for short.”

  “So who else with access might have wanted her dead?”

  “That’s the question. Dig up everything you can on Tamara.” The secret to investigation, I’d learned, is to start with the victim. Callie knew all the public databases and had subscriptions to a few private services. Everything she did would be legal and aboveboard. No hacking, no misrepresentation.

  “You two can’t be up to any good.” Laurel slid our plates onto the table and pulled up a chair. My sandwich came with her popular arugula, fennel, and cucumber salad. Nestled alongside the lovely spring greens and sliced fennel drizzled in a lemony mustard vinaigrette lay a single hot pepper.

  I picked it
up by the tip of the tail, like a dead mouse, and set it on the edge of Callie’s plate. She burst out laughing and so did I. Before Laurel could demand an explanation, an employee called her name. She scooted back her chair and left, shaking her head.

  I wiped the corner of my eye with a knuckle—even mild peppers can set those tender tissues on fire—and picked up my sandwich, blessedly still warm. The contrast between salt and sweet, creamy cheese and crunchy grilled bread sang in my mouth like a heavenly choir.

  After the law firm fiasco had left us both temporarily unemployed, Callie signed on with a few good lawyers who’d been as shocked as the rest of us but quickly formed their own partnership. The part-time job left her more time to spend with her five-year-old, an adventuresome little guy—I’d helped her out once when he fed gravel through an antique nutmeg grinder in an attempt to make sand.

  “What a bizarre way to kill,” she said. “Do you think he planned it? He whoever—not necessarily Alex.”

  “That’s been bothering me. I gave her a tiny sample, too small to do lasting harm. I can’t think why she would have had it with her—the space was weeks from ready to stock. And no one walks around with a big bag of hot chile powder without a reason.”

  Ever the librarian, Callie made a few notes. “So you’re looking for—?”

  I sat back, licking a drop of cheese from my thumb before ticking items off on my fingers. “Addresses, employment history. Friends, relatives.”

  “Litigation,” she added. “Collections actions, criminal history.” Callie had taught the firm’s legal assistants how to research, and they spent hours compiling dossiers from online and paper records for plaintiffs, defendants, witnesses, even potential jurors.

  “Business licenses, building permit apps, health department records,” I said. “The restaurant name is Tamarack, but I don’t know the corporate name.”

  Would Danielle find a new chef and move forward, or drop the plans and leave the building, partially finished, for the next tenant? It already had a bad rep. Who would have enough ice in their veins to open a restaurant in a space where a woman had been killed?

  “And property records,” I continued. “Though I doubt she owned much—most young single chefs don’t.”

  “Are we sure she’s single?”

  “No. No wedding ring, but in her line of work that’s no proof. Stick with Washington for now. If we find a trail leading her here from another state, we can expand the search. And this time, I’m paying you, so track your hours. No arguments.” I grabbed the check.

  “No dice. But you can comp me a new pepper mill.”

  We gazed lovingly at the pastry case on our way out, and I vowed to give her a baking book she drooled over on every visit to the shop, aptly titled Sugar Rush.

  Because we all need an extra dose of sweetness now and then.

  * * *

  ON my way into the Market, I paused at the corner newsstand to scan the headlines.

  The daily paper led with the same image the TV cameras had used last night. CHEF ARRESTED IN EMPLOYEE MURDER. It wouldn’t be long before the more tabloidal rags sprouted the puns: CHOPPED CHEF; MURDER ON THE MENU; ALEX IN CHAINS, a play on the name of one of Seattle’s most popular grunge bands. I’d seen them in the early ’90s in the Belltown club now home to Café Frida and Diego’s Lounge, where Zak’s band regularly takes the stage.

  I bought a copy and headed down Pike, reading as I walked. Two paragraphs in, I stopped in my tracks.

  “Sorry,” I muttered to the man who’d bumped into me.

  “Hello, Miz Pepper. How are you this fine day?”

  No hint of the South in Jim’s rusty voice, but he’d adopted Sam’s habitual name for me. Jim and his sidekick, Hot Dog, a fortyish former boxer with a dicky heart, flanked me now. Since Sam’s return to Memphis, they’d stopped by the shop regularly. To check on Arf, they said, but I had an idea Sam had extracted a promise to keep an eye on me. Two of the three-hundred-plus Market residents, they spend as much time outside as in. What do I want with walls? Jim had once asked, though he’d been without often enough to appreciate them.

  Jim stood on my right, giving me the unscarred left side of his face and his good eye, a deep, clear blue.

  “Gentlemen. Good to see you.” I stuffed the newspaper into my tote. “Nice of the rain to stop so I could read while walking.”

  “You look worried.” Half of Jim’s face mirrored my expression, the other half immobile.

  “I fired Lynette.” She had not treated the men any better than she’d treated customers.

  He grinned, or half his face did. “So why aren’t you jumping for joy?”

  “Zak’s moving on. Landed his dream job, in a music studio.”

  “No! Well, good for him. He’s a good kid,” Jim said. On my left, Hot Dog groaned in sympathy. They knew what a help Zak had been to me, and to Tory.

  “Either of you fellows ever want a job, say the word.”

  They each muttered a polite “no, thank you,” then with a wave and a “you take care,” they moseyed on.

  Friday afternoons get busy, but this early, foot traffic was light. I zipped up Pike Place, exchanging friendly greetings and waves along the way.

  Ben stood outside my building, his sage green shirt a nice complement to the ancient pink stucco.

  “Saw your number on my screen and took a chance on catching you at the shop.” His eyes were full of concern, giving me a warm, pleasant feeling.

  Warmth, mixed with unease. If we were going to be mutual sources, pushing each other for info, that probably closed the door on anything deeper than friendship.

  Not that romance was ever a serious prospect anywhere but in my employees’ overactive imaginations.

  I needed details that would help me prove I hadn’t armed a killer, unwittingly or not. And, when you find a dead body, you feel a connection that drives you to seek answers.

  At least, I do.

  “What I want to know,” I said, hitching my tote higher on my shoulder and crossing my arms, “is why half the reporters in town are calling me to talk about Alex Howard and Tamara Langston. And why are you so interested in a crime story? Aren’t you the ‘what’s going on around town’ reporter?”

  “The food and fun guy,” he said, his tone light, his expression stopping shy of a wink. “Yeah, but I did crime and general catastrophe for a few years. This has a food angle, so when I heard your name . . .” He had the grace to pink up a shade or two.

  “And how did you hear my name?” I hadn’t been identified on TV last night or in the paper.

  “My source at SPD,” he said.

  Right. I knew a little about those “sources” from my thirteen years as a police wife. On TV cop shows, reporters say “my source” as if hinting at some super-secret, deep, dark, carefully cultivated, borderline backroom relationship. Sometimes that is the case. More often, it’s a dance between the reporters and the Public Relations officers. One side wants news; the other wants to control it, managing what gets out when and how it sounds.

  Ben followed me inside. Kristen waggled her eyebrows suggestively. I ignored her, bending down to pet my dog and buy myself a moment to think. Find out what he knows, and go from there.

  Tracy’s wisecrack about my judgment and my taste in men floated through my frontal cortex. It had stung, because it wasn’t entirely wrong. In both my careers—HR and retail—I lived and died, and kept my staff employed, by my judgment. But in other arenas . . .

  I gave Arf’s ear a playful tug and stood, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

  You’re a story to him, Pepper. Don’t go thinking it’s anything more than that.

  So I did the hospitable thing. I poured two cups of tea and handed Ben one, gesturing toward the nook.

  “So what’s the scuttle on me?” I slid into the booth, my back to the wall for
a view of the shop, my tone airy.

  “That you’re smart, gutsy, and very attractive. All of which I knew. That you’ve made the Spice Shop cool again, rescuing it from financial near-ruin.” He set his phone on the table and opened his notebook. “And that you have a knack for finding dead bodies.”

  Apparently two could play the smart-aleck game. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “Says your source?”

  “My source,” he repeated, his tone self-conscious, “says you found Ms. Langston’s body, and that you had a professional relationship with her, supplying herbs and spices to her employer, Alex Howard. Who has been arrested, as you’ve heard.”

  “And you think I can help?”

  “Well, you did know him. And, I saw you leaving the jail this morning.”

  So he saw you. Call him on his own bluff. “Right,” I said. “After you left the morning press briefing. With your source.” He colored a second time, and I felt a twinge of regret for my snarky tone.

  “They wouldn’t have arrested Howard if they didn’t think they had probable cause,” he said.

  A magic phrase in the legal world. As I’d often heard Tag explain the term, it means reasonable grounds to believe, based on facts, that evidence of a particular crime will be found in a particular place or that a particular person is guilty of a particular crime. Suspicion alone is never enough. The facts are key.

  “So what facts did they reveal?”

  Ben consulted his notes. “The victim worked as a sous chef in Howard’s First Avenue Café. Snazzy joint. Named one of the country’s hottest new restaurants when it opened. Makes all the ‘Best of’ lists. He’s got a knack for getting great publicity, and I hear the food is that good.”

  Yep. It is.

  “He lives the good life. Fast cars, fast crowd.” He showed me a photo on his phone. Alex in chef’s whites, king of the dining room. He scrolled to the next shot, Alex standing at the edge of a vineyard, clinking glasses with a gorgeous blonde. “A modern playboy.”

  I raised the tea to my face, hiding my blushing cheeks. I knew the woman, from a distance. She drove a classic Mustang similar to mine and owned an award-winning winery. And a good portion of Alex’s affections.