Not that either of them would care.
Tag couldn’t understand why finding Tamara’s body meant I had to get involved. And he wouldn’t understand why I’d feel guilty if she’d been killed with my chiles. Does a gun dealer feel responsible when a customer shoots and kills, or turns the gun on himself? Does a car salesman feel guilty when a buyer crashes?
Maybe I didn’t need to be involved. Maybe I should back off.
I stuffed veggies and a hot falafel into half a pita and spooned in the lemon-tahini sauce. Carried my dinner to the table and curled up on a pale pink wrought iron chair topped with a floral print pillow.
Laurel would say I think too much, and on that, she and Tag would be in rare agreement. But if those were my chiles, then I knew the killer. And I needed to help bring him to justice.
After I worked out who he—or she—was.
My tote sat on the other chair. I dug out my copy of the ghost chile customer list. Sip, eat, read, repeat. The list ran the gamut of restaurants and food producers, and covered five counties. The incestuous nature of the restaurant biz meant Tamara could have known any of them.
I sat back, swirling the wine. A fruity aroma—it comes from grapes, after all—but I tasted cherry and blackberry, with earthy undertones and spice notes. This variety reminded me of visits to the tobacco shop. And cinnamon.
After more than a year and a half owning Seattle Spice, I knew most of my customers personally. I’d made a point of calling on the commercial accounts, so they could put a face to my name and I could identify their needs, figure out how to help them. When they call to place an order, I always take a moment to chat.
None of them seemed like a killer. And none had any connection that I knew to Tamara, Alex, or Tariq. But then, I hadn’t known that Alex and Glassy knew Patel. Or that they had worked with Danielle, as I surmised from her comments—and that she had apparently called Glassy after our Friday night conversation.
While I consider myself a major player in the innovative spice market, I’m hardly alone. Either Alex or Tariq could have bought bhut C from one of my competitors.
I took my plate to the kitchen and refilled my wine. Turned off the TV and turned on the CD player. Set the shuffle mode—randomness fit my mood. Sat in the red corner chair, sipping and staring out the tall windows as night crept in. I had been assuming Tamara’s killer was connected to her through food, because I was—and because she was killed with a spice. I’d assumed that the motive was tied to her leaving one restaurant to start another.
Logical enough, but murder isn’t logical.
People kill for a million reasons. To get something. To stop something. To keep someone else from getting something. To protect someone. To cover up a past crime, or prevent a future one.
To keep secrets hidden.
Tamara’s coworkers had given me no clues. Time to try her roommate again. Or I could call my customers and dig—say I was checking in, and wanted to reassure them that I would have ghost chiles available soon, when the furor died down. (Better not say “died.”) And if they mentioned Tamara, then follow up.
Chancy, but investigation—like business—takes risk. And it would have to wait till Monday.
Getting nowhere can be exhausting.
But I had one other motive I would never admit to Tag. The mysterious note slipped in with the job applications had pricked my conscience. Do you believe in ghosts? They believe in you.
Foolish as it might sound, I felt Tamara reaching out, asking me to find her killer.
I only wished she’d given me a little more to work with.
Eighteen
A yawn is a silent scream for coffee.
—Author unknown, on the Internet
“I never worked with Alex,” Laurel said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if Danielle did.”
My ever-changing cast of employees had wreaked havoc on the Spice Shop’s schedule the past few months. Sandra and I had settled on alternating Sundays, and she took Mondays off. That gave me one day to myself every other week, a day to start with Laurel, drinking too much coffee over brunch, then walking it off.
Today, we sat in her kitchen. The alder interior glowed warmly in the shy sunlight, doubled by the reflective water outside. The roar of a big powerboat surged through the open window. We rocked gently on the wake.
Laurel stirred cream and honey into her mug. “She has a phenomenal palate and a dead-on sense of what makes diners keep coming back. Plenty of ego, but she keeps it in check.”
“Tamara’s phone call to Danielle clears her of suspicion,” I said, cradling my mug and letting the heavenly steam soften my skin. “Besides, she had nothing to gain from killing Tamara, and a lot to lose. If she’d changed her mind about Tamarack, there were easier ways to pull the plug.”
I plucked a warm date bran muffin from a basket on the table, split it open with my thumbs, and reached for the butter. “There’s something she’s not telling me. She seems so friendly and frank that you think she’s wide open, but when you replay the conversation later, you realize she keeps her cards close to her chest. Or is it vest?”
Laurel dragged one hand through her hair, an amethyst drop earring peeking through the wild gray-brown curls. “Necessary self-protection when you’re both a woman and the boss.” She slid out of the booth and bent to peer into the oven. Satisfied, she drew out a porcelain baking dish of sausage patties. Fennel and oregano scented the air. She tossed green onions and red bell pepper into a hot, buttery pan.
Friends who cook well are gifts from the gods. Or goddesses.
Upstairs, feet hit the floor. Laurel smiled. “The smell of coffee means nothing to that boy, but sausage? Better than any alarm clock.”
She cracked eggs into a bowl, stirred the vegetables, plucked a whisk out of a crock. “A busy kitchen doesn’t have to be a difficult place to work. Some chefs enjoy the stress. They make a kind of cult out of the craziness. That never worked for me.”
“Male-female thing?”
She slid the vegetables onto a plate and added more butter to the pan. “Don’t know. It’s easier for women to create a different working atmosphere because we don’t face the same expectations. You walk into a female chef’s domain, you already know things are going to be different.”
“I’m almost positive she told Scott Glass she’d talked with me. But why? Do you know him?”
Laurel shook her head. “Only by reputation. One of the best bar guys in the business. He and Alex are thick as thieves.”
“Nobody I talked to, including Danielle, thought Tariq up to the challenge of running a kitchen. I wonder why Tamara suggested him.”
“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe he tumbled to her plans and insisted she take him, too.” Laurel topped off my coffee, then turned back to the stove to scramble the eggs.
“Oh. Blackmail that backfired. Hadn’t thought of that. Hello, Snowball.” A giant white fur ball jumped on to the bench beside me, and I scratched behind her ear.
In bare feet and striped pajama pants, Gabe kissed his mother and me, then poured himself juice and dropped to the floor beside Arf. The cat ignored them both.
By unspoken agreement, Laurel and I left all talk of murder behind, reveling in the joy of cat, dog, sleepy teenager, and delicious food.
We picked the topic up as we left the weathered dock and climbed the wooden steps. Young leaves danced on branches, and the morning air carried the lively smell of early spring.
At the corner of Eastlake and Louisa, Laurel stopped. Two water bugs had been carved into a concrete marker, labeled LEPTODORA on one side and TRANSPARENT CARNIVORES on another. Thick teal and cobalt glass rectangles bore the street names, a green compass star in the corner. Like their live counterparts, the carved water bugs have a prehistoric, creepy-cartoonish look. Gabe had told me all about them, one afternoon on the dock. They eat other bugs.
&n
bsp; “Sounds like you’ve eliminated Tariq,” Laurel said.
“Not sure. He makes a great suspect. He’s impulsive, he’s arrogant, and he tracked her to the construction site to confront her. But the time of death’s clearly fixed by her phone call to Danielle and my discovery of the body. And by then, he should have been at work, but I haven’t confirmed that yet.”
She clucked her tongue. “If he’d been that late, you’d have heard about it from the staff.”
When I’d mentioned Tariq, they’d all just shaken their heads. In his own world, one had said. Surprised they’ve put up with him this long, another told me. But he cooks great.
We strolled down Eastlake. “The women in the salon couldn’t pinpoint when they saw him. Safe to assume he wanted to confront her about not telling him the plan had changed.”
“I hate to say this, Pepper, but if you’re trying to eliminate Alex, you’re not succeeding.”
“I’m not trying to eliminate him. I’m trying—oh pooh.” I threw up my hands, accidentally thwacking Laurel’s shoulder. “Sorry. I don’t know what I’m trying to do. I thought it was important to discover where the killer got the chiles, to eliminate any suspicion that I had a part in the killing. A conspiracy. But much as he hated to admit it, even Tracy said they didn’t suspect me of direct involvement—killers don’t call the cops.”
“Neither do accomplices.” We paused in front of our favorite home decor shop, where Laurel and I had found the antique metal lawn chairs that sit outside her front door and my favorite reading lamp. Closed—my credit card was safe. “So you’re worried that you facilitated the crime. Unwittingly. But it’s no crime to sell peppers, even if someone does use them to kill. You could never have predicted that.”
“When everything happened last fall, I expected the customers to run for the hills. Instead, foot traffic increased and the curious browsers actually bought stuff. But this—”
“Except the tea.”
“Yeah, though tea sales bounced back pretty quickly. And not one of my commercial accounts ever mentioned it. But this is the second time the Spice Shop’s been linked to homicide in less than a year. If someone commits murder with my spices, it taints me. The police are contacting everybody who bought bhut C from me. Treating them like suspects.” We reached the next corner and another bug in the pavement.
“And you found her.”
“And I found her.” Alone among my friends, Laurel seemed to grasp that finding a dead person links you to them. It’s as though you owe them justice in this world so they can rest more easily in the next. “Plus I can’t help feeling Tamara would still be alive if I hadn’t chided Lynette for mistreating a customer.”
She snorted. “That woman. Don’t waste one more half second thinking about her. You are absolutely not responsible for her ratting to Alex or for his reaction.”
My head knew she was right, but my gut disagreed. “Then there’s the note left in the door. It’s like I’m waiting for something else to happen.”
“The note was a prank.” Laurel tempers her woo-woo side with a heavy dose of cook’s practicality. “A Market jokester.”
“No shortage of those.”
“Humans,” Laurel said. “They drive you buggy.”
No arguing with that.
Nineteen
Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.
—Roger Nichols and Paul Williams, “Rainy Days and Mondays”
You can’t keep a dog dry on a rainy day. The uneven cobbles on Pike Place had become a watery ecosystem, a map of a thousand tiny rivers.
Most mornings, I love being here alone. When I first started working in the law firm, it surprised me that so many lawyers came in super early. No phones, they said. No interruptions. Just fresh coffee and a fresh mind. Less true now that smartphones have taken over the world.
I reached for the light switch behind the front counter. Frowned. Jiggled the switch.
Nothing. My frown deepened. No lights on the electronic scale or the cash register. I crossed the shop to the tea corner and switched on the red lamp.
It did not light up.
I opened the front door and stepped outside. Across the street, the big green enameled lights under the North Arcade roof glowed brightly. Lights shone through the windows in the Triangle Building. I peered up Pine. Both the kitchen shop and the inn had power.
I swore softly and dug in my tote for my cell phone. Called the PDA office—the Public Development Authority, aka the landlord—and was informed that no one else had reported a problem and that a maintenance staffer would be over “as soon as I can find one.”
Somewhere in the back rooms of my mind, the other shoe hit the floor.
Nothing so frustrating as a routine interrupted. I couldn’t turn on the lights, and I couldn’t start the tea. I could grumble, and I did, muttering as I straightened jars on shelves, aligned displays, and let my fingers do the worrying. Old buildings—things go wrong. I’d been lucky so far.
“You’re SOL,” the Market electrician told me half an hour later. We were due to open in ten minutes. The maintenance man held a large yellow-and-white umbrella over us as the electrician crouched and pointed to a power connection box on the exterior wall. “That wire is fried. We’re gonna have to open up your wall and run a new line.”
“How long will that take? What do I do for power in the meantime? And how did it happen?”
He held up both hands. “Won’t know how long till I get in there. As for how, somebody did this on purpose.”
A jolt shot through me.
“Show me what you’ve got,” another voice said.
The rain and bad news had kept me from hearing Tag approach. On the bike, rain or shine, but wearing a waterproof jacket and long pants. And the sunglasses. As the electrician explained, I realized that he’d called the police when he found the burnt wiring. Tag nodded, clicked on his radio, and barked into it.
He clicked off and our eyes met. “You’re calling the fire marshal? Isn’t that overkill?” I was cold and wet and angry, and taking it out on him.
He followed me inside, leaving his partner, Olerud, to watch over the scene. “Pepper, this is serious business. Someone tampered with your building.”
“I get that.” I wasn’t pacing; I was stomping. “Believe me, I get that. But you heard the man. It’s an inconvenience, not a fire danger. Somebody wants to mess with my business, and maybe my head. But they aren’t out to hurt me physically.”
“Not yet.” His cold, flat voice echoed my unspoken thoughts. “What did you do over the weekend to trigger this?”
“What did I do? What makes you think—?”
A knock on the door caught my attention. Zak, visibly surprised to find it locked. I opened the door and fished a twenty out of my pocket. “Minor electrical problem. They’ll have it fixed in no time. Will you run and get coffee for all of us?”
“Sure.” He raised a hand to greet Tag, then loped down Pike Place. His last week. Whatever would I do without him?
Focus, Pepper. One problem at a time.
The trouble-ache in my gut worsened when the CSU van arrived. Spencer and Tracy pulled up behind the van, she bounding up Pike in a stylish black raincoat, he trudging behind, tugging an old beige trench over his rumpled sport coat. They disappeared from view, no doubt conferring with Olerud and the CSU crew.
Inside, Tag and I alternated glaring at and ignoring each other. Yesterday, when I’d left Laurel and gone home to clean the loft, do laundry, and think too much, I had thought oh-so-briefly that maybe Tag was right and I should leave the investigation alone. Trust the system. He was part of that system, and I trust him to do his job well. Spencer, too, and Tracy, mostly kinda sorta. But I couldn’t shake the sensation of a hand drawing me deeper in.
Tamara’s hand, or my imagination?
I fumbled my way throug
h the semidarkness to my office and extracted the note from the locked drawer. When I returned to the shop floor, Spencer and Tracy were waiting for me.
“Why is it,” Tracy said, “that you can’t stay away from trouble?”
Before I could ask whether he really wanted my answer, the scrape of Tag’s bicycle cleats on the wood floor snagged my attention. He folded his arms and shot Tracy an irritated look. Tracy glared back, contempt on his face.
“Pepper, so sorry for the disruption of your business.” Spencer stepped forward, blocking the two men from each other’s view. “Our folks will wrap things up quickly so the electrician can get to work.”
“Okay. But why are you here? Since when does tampering with electrical service bring out the homicide squad?”
“Attempted arson, Pepper. Like I was trying to explain when you wouldn’t listen.” Tag trotted out his photographic memory of the Washington criminal code. “Knowingly or maliciously causing a fire or explosion that endangers human life or a building where people are.”
“But we just lost power. We weren’t in any danger.”
“That’s not so clear,” Spencer said. “And anytime a potential felony remotely touches a witness to another felony, we’re on it.”
For the nano-est of seconds, I wondered how close the nearest defibrillator was.
The shock reminded me of the folder in my hand. I laid it open on my front counter. “We found this stuffed in our front door Saturday morning. At first, I thought it was a prank, but now . . .”
Tag trained his flashlight on the note, and the three cops read over my shoulder.
“Whoever left it knew I found the body. You gave out my name at your press briefing Friday, but it didn’t make the papers until Saturday. So maybe the culprit’s an early riser who reads the newspaper.” As if that narrowed it down.
“Who knew you found the body?” Spencer said.
“My staff. A few friends.” I ticked off names. “Danielle Bordeaux and whoever she told. Anyone who saw me at the scene. But doesn’t this prove Alex isn’t the killer? He’s in jail. And why would he ask me for help, then threaten me?”
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