“Sold.” The waiter slipped away, leaving me to relax and drink in the atmosphere. Around me, conversations ebbed and flowed, punctuated by the clink of glasses and silver on plates, by the sound of corks popping and laughter rising.
“Pepper. What a nice surprise.” Danielle appeared at my table, like a genie I’d summoned. She wore a simple charcoal gray tunic over black pants, a black-and-white scarf looped around her long neck. I felt like an awkward freshman awed by an older student’s senior project.
The server delivered my cocktail. An unspoken message passed between them, and he left us. She sat across from me.
“My first time here,” I said. “No wonder Tamara wanted to work with you.”
She closed her eyes, as if to fight off a wave of emotion. “Hard to believe it’s only been two days. Feels like a lifetime.”
I knew the feeling. We sat in silence as I tried to decide which of the hundred questions swirling in my mind to ask first. Danielle solved my dilemma.
“A few weeks after we opened, Tamara came to me with a proposal. Told me I’d prompted her to pursue her dream. I thought that was flattery at first, but the more we talked, the more I liked her. Her passion inspired confidence—as a chef should.” The server set a glass of ice and a bottle of Perrier in front of her. She reached out a trembling hand, fingers quieting when they tightened around her glass.
“What does it take to start a successful restaurant?”
“The Big Three—concept, chef, location. If one is weak, the venture will fail. Look around here.” She gestured with open hands. “I knew I wanted this place to be different from my others. Urban but inviting. A place where you might meet a friend for a drink and stay for dinner on the spur of the moment. Food that’s interesting, but not too weird.”
“Foodie, without being precious,” I said.
“Exactly. You want a team leader, not a one-man show, if you want the place to last.”
“So you were open to developing her idea?”
“In partnership, yes. She had the fire. I like a heat seeker.”
“What about location? Don’t you worry about competition?” I could eat my way down Magenta’s block for a week and be happy.
She shook her head, revealing dark streaks in her blond bob—not roots in need of touch-up, but a carefully planned look that said, “I’m so artfully not planning anything.”
“No. Put two or three compatible restaurants close together and they all prosper. You create a hub, a magnet. Just don’t pair two Italian joints, or French sit-down and a pizza parlor. You want to attract the same crowd, then offer a choice.” She sipped her mineral water.
“Would opening Tamarack next to Tamarind have given you a similar advantage? Ethnic paired with what—modern American?”
Her well-defined brows darted toward each other. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t crazy about the location. Near the Center, people are focused on events, not food. They’re rushing to get to the opera or the Dylan concert, so they’re not going to have that second drink or stay for dessert. But more and more companies are locating nearby—”
“South Lake Union’s hot,” I said, mentally ticking off a few big names headquartered there.
“—and her plan looked solid. I wasn’t sure Tamarind would give us that synchronistic boost, but Tamara made a good case. She’d done the due diligence—talked to the neighbors, counted foot traffic, even worked out parking validation.”
“But you still weren’t convinced.”
One corner of her mouth curved up in a question mark. “It was nothing, really. That part of the block has an iffy reputation.”
“Ghosts?” I said, remembering Tamara’s comment, though it was hard to imagine this sophisticated businesswoman quelling at the specter of a specter.
“Maybe. It had a strange—what? Aura? I think I mentioned at the scene, we had questions about the wiring. She wanted to dig around before we spent a ton of money.”
“Right. She mentioned electrical problems.”
At precisely that moment, Kristen arrived. “Lemondrop, up,” she told the server and introduced herself to Danielle. Then, to me, “More problems at the shop?”
“Tamarack,” Danielle said. “Power outages, practically every visit. Odd noises. A smell. Like—and this is weird—like cinnamon.”
My rib cage froze. When I’d walked into the empty space, I’d found myself remembering a trip my family took to Mexico when I was a kid and the cinnamon-chile cocoa we drank. Still one of my comfort foods. Olfactory memory is like that: You’re back in your great-grandmother’s tiny, dark house or dreaming of your college boyfriend before you notice that you’re smelling rosewater or Geoffrey Beene’s Grey Flannel. I had thought I smelled cinnamon and chile but dismissed it.
Now I knew the chiles were real. What about the cinnamon?
The hostess whispered in Danielle’s ear. “Excuse me,” she said and followed the woman to the far corner of the dining room.
“What did you find out?” Kristen asked. “Isn’t this drink gorgeous?”
“The building was giving them fits, but that’s par for the course. Let’s eat.” I was suddenly starving. We picked a few small plates to share, and I ordered another Negroni. The sweet vermouth balanced the bitter liqueur perfectly, and nothing refreshes a Friday-night brain better than citrus.
“Sorry for the interruption.” Danielle slid into her chair. “Problem solved—the AC started blasting a table for no reason. A restaurateur has to be a Jack—or Jill—of all trades.”
“And a casting director,” I said. “Lots of parts to fill. I seem to remember a review, right after you opened here, saying expansion had improved the quality of your food. How did you manage that?”
“If you’re good at what you do—if you cast the right people in the right roles—then expansion gives you opportunities to do more things. And not one egg drops where it shouldn’t. There are chefs who are great cooks, and chefs who are great restaurateurs.”
“What would you call Alex Howard?” Kristen beat me to the question.
Our server brought our food and a champagne Negroni for Danielle. “Great chefs are not always easy to work for. Getting fired upset Tamara, but didn’t surprise her. Still, to kill her . . .”
“Say it wasn’t him.” I watched reluctance cross her face. “Who else knew about her plans? Who would have been angry with her?”
“A few of my people knew. My business partner, our accountant, my office assistant.” She sipped her drink. “I can’t blame the police for sniffing around us.”
What could Danielle gain from Tamara’s death? A way out of the deal? But while she’d had her hesitations about the location, she’d given it the go-ahead.
“I didn’t know Tamara well,” I said, “but her enthusiasm was contagious. I’d been looking forward to working with her.”
Beneath the glamourous hair and makeup, a shadow crossed Danielle’s face. Sadness, or guilt?
I scooped up a bite of the wilted kale salad. “What is this cheese?”
“Cambozola. Similar to Gorgonzola, but creamier. Not so sharp and blue-y.”
“You start staffing yet?” Kristen said. “Big job.”
Danielle snapped a seeded breadstick in two. “She had a cook she wanted me to interview, and a couple of servers. Somehow, I doubt any of Howard’s employees will be applying for a job here anytime soon.”
“Dweek?” I swallowed my bite of salad and repeated myself. “Tariq?”
“No. She approached me with him in tow, but he didn’t pass the test.” She waved half a breadstick toward the kitchen. “I asked them each to cook a meal for me—standard request. She was terrific—efficient, curious, hardworking. Top-notch food. She’d already begun planning her menu. Every meeting, she brought me sample dishes. Her pastries and desserts were superb.”
“What about him?�
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“He’s watched too many TV cooking shows. Lots of talent, no focus. Easily upset. Dishes weren’t ready at the same time. If he can’t handle a three-course for a four-top by himself, he’s not ready for full service.”
Made sense to me. But to Tariq?
The glorious Negroni triggered another thought.
“What about a bartender? Cocktails were key to the concept. A guy like Glassy could make the place.”
Danielle froze, breadstick in hand. Under the table, I touched Kristen’s knee, a signal to keep quiet.
“Glassy,” she finally said, “is Alex’s man. There are lines you don’t cross.”
I cast my mind back to our conversation this afternoon. Had he been hiding something? Or sending me signals I hadn’t quite grasped?
She slid off her seat, professional smile back in place. “I’m so glad you came in tonight. The drinks are on the house.”
“Danielle.” I reached out a hand. “Wednesday, at the scene, you said you came down because Tamara called you. What time was that? I—I need to know if I could have saved her, if I’d only gotten there a few minutes earlier.”
The smile wavered. She pulled her phone out of her tunic pocket and swiped her finger over the screen. Held it out for me to see the call. Received almost exactly an hour before I’d arrived.
That icy grip on my abdomen tightened. I reached for the last bit of gin.
She tapped the screen, and we heard Tamara, speaking from the grave. “I think I know what’s going on.” Her voice rose and sharpened, with an edge that could have been excitement or terror. “There’s nothing wrong with—”
A sound in the background broke up her words.
“But I won’t know for sure until—”
Though the ice in my drink had long melted, my blood froze.
Until what?
Fourteen
If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.
—Harry S. Truman
An eerie quiet greeted me back home. Though I see my neighbors mostly in passing, knowing they were away made the building feel a little empty and me a little lonely.
I knew it was all in my head, a reaction to the revelation from Danielle’s phone. The police had copied the recording, she assured us, so lab techs could analyze it. Had Tamara’s last words been a clue? Had she been trying to give Danielle a message—or a name?
The lights on Arf’s collar shone a dull blue-white, the loft light dim but not dark enough for a full glow. We’d reached the time of year when, even though you can’t see the sun, you know it’s coming back. The ultimate act of faith.
I slipped into my rain jacket and swapped my boots for running shoes. “Where to, boy?”
He indicated no preference, so I made for Second Ave. A crowd surged out the front doors of Benaroya Hall.
“The Symphony?” I asked a woman in a shiny red raincoat.
“Portland Cello Project,” she replied. “Cello like you never imagined.”
In truth, I don’t imagine cello much. “Thanks.”
We merged into the foot traffic going north, Arf trotting along happily. And if he’s happy, I’m happy. Some people say dogs know who they can trust and who’s out to hurt you. Others say they’re picking up on cues their humans give off. I don’t know.
At the moment, I didn’t care. He made me feel safe.
A fine mist caressed my skin. It didn’t exactly fall—it seemed to emerge from the air itself. The foot traffic thinned, and Arf tugged me toward the water.
“Hold on, boy. I’m in charge here.” Clearly not in agreement, Arf stuck his tail in the air, and I realized where we were. “Ha. You want more bones.”
I understood. Like a moth to a lightbulb, I was drawn to the scene not of a crime but of a confrontation that may have led to a crime. A confrontation I had inadvertently triggered.
The sidewalk tables stood empty, but at half past ten on a Friday night, the First Avenue Café buzzed. Were it any other night, were Alex on duty, I might have stopped in for a hello, a quick drink, a casual chat. Not that I’d done that recently, but it was tempting to polish the memory, to forget what a schmuck he’d been.
Still is, I corrected myself.
I glanced inside once more. If that wasn’t Ben standing at the bar, next to a woman with a cap of shiny black hair, it was his twin brother.
My rib cage tightened. He had every right to be there, and yet, I felt like it should have been me with him, spying in tandem. This was my case as much as his. But I hadn’t been willing to commit to working together, and he’d walked away.
“Heel, boy.” I headed downhill past the Café’s side door, glad for soles that gripped the wet pavement. Voices poured out of the alley, and I stopped. Angry voices. One big and booming, barely controlled, the other low and hard to hear.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want, you skinny pip-squeak. You got nothing. She’s dead, and everything she told you is hearsay.”
A slender man rushed past me, his dark skin a sharp contrast to the white jacket, open at the throat and marred by end-of-shift spatters. If Tariq noticed me, he gave no sign.
Why was the bar manager in the alley chewing out a line cook? And what did Glassy mean?
I pivoted, praying Arf would not whine for a bone as we passed the side door a second time. We dashed back up to First and rounded the corner just shy of a run. The mist felt thicker now, the soft yellow light of the Café barely spilling onto the sidewalk as we hurried past. I didn’t look for Ben.
I didn’t care what Cadfael would do. I only knew I needed to get away.
We passed Café Frida, the piquant aromas of the most creative south-of-the-border cuisine in Seattle merging with the street smells and the brine that clings to everything this close to the water. Outside Diego’s Lounge, clusters of the young and hip threaded their way in while others tumbled out, music trailing them. I recognized the strains of the Zak Davis Band, but did not dare linger to listen.
Slow down, Pepper. Breathe. Beside me, Arf showed no signs of fear or hyperalertness. The sounds and shadows I feared were little more than the rhythms of the city at night.
The mist grew heavier as we fled Belltown.
Two blocks later we neared the Market and cut down Post Alley. Irish music drifted out of the pub. A couple emerged from the Pink Door and dashed toward the parking garage. We wove down Pike Place past the shop. A few papers—job applications, I hoped, and the usual flyers and junk mail—had been stuffed in the door. I left them there.
Ahead on the sidewalk, a slight figure glanced back at me. The Market is a magnet for eccentrics, but this one caught my eye. Neither clearly male nor clearly female, dressed in shades of gray, a long red scarf, and a large, shapeless black hat. The figure took a left and disappeared.
I pulled up my hood. A trio of women descended from a second-floor restaurant, laughing as they all tried to fit under one umbrella.
My brother and sister Seattleites, out for the evening in pairs, trios, and crowds. Winding up and winding down.
And me, alone with my dog, hustling through the rain to our empty home, driven by the fear of imaginary things, invisible threats nipping at our heels.
* * *
“WHY is it,” I said Saturday morning as I flipped through a stack of job applications, “that every woman named Ginger or Rosemary thinks she’s destined to work here?”
Sandra lowered her dark head and peered over the top of her glasses, today’s frames red with black stripes. They made me dizzy. “A woman named Pepper has to ask?”
There are certain things you never tell certain people. I have never told Kristen what songs take a crowbar to get unstuck in my head, knowing she would take the least opportune moment to whistle a few notes of the theme to The Brady Bunch or “O Canada.” And I have never told Sandra my real name.
&
nbsp; “One Sage,” I said. “Weren’t there three the last time we hired?”
“Some names mature better than others. Grandma Sage has a good ring. But can you imagine Grandma Bambi or Nana Tiffani?”
“Point. But if a Harissa or an Epazote walks in, the job is hers.”
“Fenugreek,” Sandra said in a musing tone. “Ooh. Angelica.”
I’d stopped listening, my attention captured by a plain white piece of paper, the same size as the job apps.
“Boss?” Sandra said. “You’re white as a sheet.”
Wordlessly, I crooked a finger. She stepped closer and gazed down at the note. Blocky lettering, handwritten with your standard black marker.
Do you believe in ghosts?
They believe in you.
She sucked in her breath, and her hand flew to her mouth. Reed peered over her shoulder. “There were a couple of applications stuck in the door this morning. I tossed them on your stack. It must have been mixed in.” He sounded anxious.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s not your fault.” But was it a joke or a threat? I started to smooth the page out, then stopped, my hand freezing midair. It might be evidence.
Or a warning.
I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t disbelieve in ghosts. Most of the Market legends—and they are legion—have just enough basis in fact to seem real. Visitors often report seeing a man in a black suit and top hat dancing in the Atrium, near the original Market offices. Arthur Goodwin, who designed the building’s interior, had an office there—and was known to wear a top hat when he assigned the vendors their spaces. And he loved to dance.
Every Market merchant knows the story of Jacob, the name the owners of a bead shop Down Under gave to a youthful specter who regularly jumbled beads or dropped the perfect necklace in front of a customer. When the owners unsealed the wall to a small room behind their shop, they discovered piles of beads, notes they’d written, and coins. Speculation is that Jacob may have been one of the stable boys, young orphans who worked in the Market in its early days in exchange for blankets and a place to sleep.
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