Guilty as Cinnamon

by Leslie Budewitz

  Tag snorted. “You don’t get it about him, do you?”

  I longed to wear glasses so I could give him a withering, teacher-glaring-over-the-tops-of-the-lenses look. I gave him my best substitute. “I get that you and Alex despise each other. What you don’t get is that I am not flattered and I don’t care.”

  Tracy cleared his throat. “He is still in custody, but he has people.”

  Oh-kay. So someone in his circle had leaked word about the chiles. But the rest? If one of his cronies wanted to make sure I stayed on the case, surely I’d proven my commitment when I went digging at Danielle’s, then quizzed folks at the Café. “You think whoever messed with the electricity also left the note?”

  “A possibility,” Spencer said. She unfolded an evidence bag and slipped the note inside. “Who handled this?”

  “Reed and me. It spooked me enough to put it in the file as soon as I found it with the job applications.”

  “But not enough to report it,” Tag said.

  “You’d have told me you weren’t the ghostbuster squad.” He glowered. Tracy snickered, and Spencer stifled a laugh. “And just so you know, I’m not the one who leaked word about the ghost chiles to the press.”

  Tag and Tracy looked skeptical. I was debating whether to out Alex as the informer-by-proxy when the maintenance man knocked at the door.

  “Sorry, Pepper. I tried to find you a generator, but they’re all being used—we’re pumping water like mad. And in this rain, I can’t say when one will be free.”

  My face felt like someone had tied weights to my jaw and cheekbones. The officers departed. Outside, CSU took photos and prints and did other detective stuff. I dug around in the back room and scored one flashlight, sans batteries, and one headlight on an elastic band, perfect for crawling around plugging in printers and other gadgetry.

  Zak returned with coffee and pastry, and I sent him out for batteries and more flashlights. Dang, I was going to miss him.

  Monday mornings may be quiet, but we were not going to close.

  “Better whip up a sign,” I told Kristen a little while later. It was Sandra’s day off, and Kristen had managed to get here earlier than usual. “‘Lights out—but we’re open!’”

  I folded one arm across my chest, my other hand cupping my chin. Ever since Tamara had come into the shop last week, things had been going wrong. Minor at first, the strange incidents seemed to be escalating. Who, and why?

  And what next?

  “Pepper, you see a black Sharpie anywhere?” Behind the front counter, Kristen’s flashlight beam zigged and zagged.

  “In the drawer next to the box cutter and price labels.”

  “Not there. I’ll have to write big and go over and over my lines.”

  Zak got the old-fashioned manual scale down from its display shelf. “Good thing you kept this.”

  The first shopper arrived, her expression puzzled. I handed her a flashlight. “Power outage. Imagine you’re camping.”

  Her face lit up, and she prowled the aisles, filling her basket with teas and spice blends. I took her credit card number and promised to run the transaction as soon as the system was up and running.

  Midmorning, I took a quick stretch break and walked out the side door to check on the repairs. The rain had stopped, and the CSU crew had gone, but the electrician was nowhere in sight.

  I sighed and stepped back inside. Luckily, the phones worked and I could make calls in my windowless office, sipping the last of my cold coffee. First up, Ops, who answered her line, “This is Barbara.”

  She was loyalty and efficiency personified. I told her what I needed, but not why.

  “Sure, I can pull up those time cards,” she said. Clicking and clacking followed. “Oh, ri-i-ight. Wednesday. Tariq called around noon, saying he had an emergency and would be in late. But the sous got someone else to help him prep, so it didn’t throw us off.”

  Red flags waved. “What kind of emergency?”

  “Car? Apartment? He said, but I don’t remember.”

  “Alex didn’t mention it.”

  “He came in late, too. Midafternoon sometime. I don’t know why—he’s usually in the restaurant, or the office, well before noon. Oh. You don’t think he—Alex—Tariq . . .”

  “I don’t know what to think. When did Tariq clock in?”

  “Five fifteen. Prep should be done by then, and everyone ready for service. I think he and I need to have a talk.”

  The chill I got did not come from the power outage. “Thanks. Hey, heard anything yet about a memorial service for Tamara?”

  No word yet, but we promised to keep in touch and rang off.

  I sat back, hand to my mouth. If Tariq had gone straight to work from Tamarack, he could have been at the site as late as five o’clock. When Tamara called Danielle.

  His anger, I could understand. But had he killed her?

  “Pepper, your interview’s here,” Kristen said. “He’s—interesting.”

  Code word for “not likely”?

  I yanked off the headlight, ran a hand over my spikes, and put on my confident HR smile. Not easy when the chandeliers are dark and you’re operating in the weak, shadowy light that managed to push through the gray skies, find the windows, and filter down to the shop floor.

  The applicant’s most striking feature was his hair—shoulder-length red dreadlocks. We shook hands. Nice grip. I appreciated the effort to dress up—a shiny brown fake leather jacket over a white shirt, a vintage skinny tie, black pants, and those big boots the young guys wear that look like they’re about to fall off.

  We talked about the shop, then sat in the nook to review his application. “Taking a break,” he said, from a local culinary arts program. “Out of money, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for restaurant life. So when you called the career center, they called me.”

  Limited retail experience, but his interest in food and his outgoing personality were pluses.

  Applicants know what interviewers want to hear. They always assure us they’re serious about the job. I had my doubts. But if I found a full-timer with long-term prospects, he’d make a good second hire.

  What about the hair? Zak hadn’t fit my image of a retail clerk, either, with his tattoos and shaved skull, and he’d been a model employee, so I banished the temptation to dismiss Red Dreads on appearance alone. After all, the Market isn’t a law firm. Plus the black-and-white dress code and shop aprons make the staff readily identifiable.

  Not to mention, my own spiky locks raise eyebrows from time to time.

  “I’ll get back to you midweek.”

  I walked him to the door, then peeked around the corner to our exterior wall. A cluster of men in uniforms studied the damaged power supply. I crossed my fingers. The electrician gave me a thumbs-up. “Twenty minutes, tops.”

  Despite the threatening skies, I felt bathed in sunshine.

  Back inside, I returned a call from an herb grower on Whidbey Island about a new variety of chamomile and a culinary lavender I’d been searching for. She promised to send samples. I checked our inventory of packaging and mailing supplies and made an order list. Called Red Dreads’s former employers and his culinary school advisor, leaving messages.

  Stared at my customer list, summoning up the guts to make calls—a fishing expedition disguised as a client update.

  Decided to put that off until it felt less deceptive. No new job applications had come in. I had not found The One, so I tried the disconnected number again. No luck. I was about to feed the app to the shredder when a teeny little light went on—figuratively speaking.

  Out front, Reed had arrived for his afternoon shift. “Just who I needed to see. Any chance you know whether this app was tucked in the door with the ghost note?”

  He took a quick look. “Yeah, I think that was the one.”

  Spencer answered on t
he first ring. I explained my thinking.

  “So, basically, you’re saying the app is bogus and it was slipped into your door with the note so that if you picked them up right away, you’d see the app first.”

  “Right. Whoever left it wants to stay in the shadows.”

  “I’ll send someone down to bag and tag it.” Another pause. “Be careful, Pepper. This is getting a little creepy.”

  Took the words right out of my mouth.

  Twenty

  Enjoy Seattle weather. 10 million slugs can’t be wrong.

  —T-shirt popular in the Pacific Northwest

  The rain had stopped. Or paused—we had a couple of weeks to go in the semi-official rain season. I grabbed a slicker and a leash, and Arf and I sauntered out to clear our heads. Mine, anyway.

  One of the orchard girls—Angie, slightly taller than Sylvie—waved from the other side of Pike Place.

  “What’s going on?” she said after we crossed the street, gesturing toward my building. Arf nosed her leg, and she caressed his ear.

  “Electrical problems. Someone messed with the wires.”

  Her dark eyes widened. “Pepper, no. Are you okay?”

  “Rattled, but yeah. You get here early. See anyone hanging around?”

  Her shiny dark ponytail wagged back and forth. “Be careful.”

  I turned to Herb the Herb Man and asked the same question. Same answer. Then another thought occurred to me. “Herb, you sell fresh herbs to Alex Howard’s restaurants, don’t you? Any chance Tamara Langston talked to you about supplying her new place?”

  Tall and gangly, his hairline long receded, Herb reminded me of a clown minus the makeup. Nothing funny about him now, as his chin rose, his lips tight. “She talk to you?”

  Herb and Jane had come to the Market at about the same time, and stayed close. He never treats me as a competitor, nor I him. We send each other customers all the time. If he was eyeing me warily, it must be because he had planned to sell fresh herbs to Tamara, and my relationship with Alex gave him pause.

  “Yes.” I faced him straight on. “And I admit I’m partially to blame for Alex finding out. My employee told him.”

  “Behind your back!” Angie said from her adjacent space. “And you fired her.”

  Herb’s features softened. “I should have known you wouldn’t break a promise to keep quiet until it was time. Danielle sent her to me—I’ve been her supplier since she first opened her doors. It’s a shame, is what it is.”

  I reached out and squeezed his hand. “Change of subject. You ever hear about a ghost in the Garden Center Building?”

  He scratched one of the remaining reddish tufts stuck onto the side of his oblong head. “Not that I recall. Some people think ghost stories add to the Market’s mystique, but I’m a see-it-to-believe-it guy myself.”

  “Thanks, Herb.” I wove my way through the crowd, lost in thought. Clearly, Herb had had no beef with Tamara. Who did—and knew about her plans?

  “Pepper, watch out!”

  I turned toward the shout, instinctively jumping aside. A towering stack of produce crates tumbled down, crashing to the Arcade floor where I’d just stood. The crates splintered and spinach flew. Radishes and potatoes became miniature bowling balls, and carrots and tomatoes bounced and rolled across the floor. They struck shoppers’ feet and caromed off their legs, creating a clattery, splattery, goopy mess.

  “Holy rigatoni,” I said, gaping at the chaos.

  “Pepper, are you okay?” That was Angie, Herb towering behind her. “What happened?”

  “I must have brushed too close to the boxes.”

  “A clumsy shopper, not watching where he was going,” Herb speculated.

  “Not you,” a flower seller said, a Hmong woman not five feet tall. She made a shoving motion with both hands, then pointed toward the Desimone Bridge, which led to stairs down to the waterfront. “That person. Gone already.”

  I followed her gaze but saw no one.

  “Long gone.” The produce man glowered. “Some people.”

  “You mean, on purpose?” The light fixtures seemed to sway, and I steadied myself on the nearest pillar.

  The flower seller nodded. Vendors and shoppers were already picking up veggies and mopping up the damage. The produce man waved off my offer of help, saying, “Thank God you’re okay.”

  What was going on? Unsettled but grateful that no one had been hurt, I sought out a few more Marketeers who regularly supply the restaurant trade. Tamara had quizzed the butcher about the origins and availability of numerous cuts of beef, lamb, and more. She’d hinted to the cheese maker that she might want to do business, and talked serious bread with Misty the Baker.

  No one had noticed anyone unusual near my building. But they’re busy, and it takes a lot to stand out around here.

  And none of them had heard boo about a Garden Center ghost.

  So much for that theory.

  I’d picked up a few groceries on my rounds and decided to add one more item.

  “Funny you ask,” Vinny the wine merchant said. “She came in, musta been last Tuesday? Said she didn’t know much about wine and alcohol distribution and could I give her the nickel version. Now, why does a sous chef need that kind of detail? So I put two and two together and asked if she had a partner or were going out solo. Partner, she says, but she wanted to find her people herself. I respect that.”

  I waited patiently. There is absolutely no percentage in rushing Vinny.

  “So I tell her, Tamara, I says, you need a bar manager. A guy with experience. And she says she thought she had one but he turned her down. And did I maybe know someone.” He set a wineglass on the counter and showed me a chilled bottle of rosé. “From southern France, the Languedoc. Tastes like spring.”

  My French is as rusty as Bill W.’s corkscrew, but I’m pretty sure that region is not called the Leaky Duck. I perched on a stool. A tad early for wine tasting, but Vinny knows his stuff. Even if he can’t always pronounce it.

  Vinny also knows a lot about the Market ghosts, in part because the old Butterworth Mortuary, the most famously haunted building in the city, is a few doors away. “Vinny, you ever heard any ghost stories about my building?”

  He slid the glass toward me, the wine blushing deeply as if embarrassed to overhear gossip about other spirits.

  “Not as I recall. Now some folks think ghosts, the spirits of the dead, are electrical phenomena. So it makes sense to think one of them might be behind your troubles.” Vinny knew all about my troubles before I walked in. Like something in the air had whispered to him.

  “But do ghosts mangle power lines? This is terrific.” Bright, almost sparkly. Like a grape kissed a strawberry. I had a sudden urge to go on a picnic.

  “And affordable, ’specially after your discount.” He set an unopened bottle on the counter. “No reason why not.”

  “They don’t have bodies.” I swirled the glass to release more flavor and aroma. “How could they use tools?”

  “They got powers we can’t fathom. Your computers been working okay? Your watch?”

  “Now that you mention it, the cash register’s been a bit wonky lately. And we had a problem with the overhead lights last week. Tuesday.” The day I fired Lynette. Big day, as it turned out. I glanced at my bubble gum pink watch. When had I last looked at it? Not since eight fifteen, apparently, because that’s what time it said. I took another sip and reset my watch. “But why would we all of a sudden have a ghost, when we’ve never had one before?”

  “They like to show up on anniversaries,” Vinny said. “Big deal days, to remind the living of their presence.”

  I scrunched up my face. “If we don’t know who the ghost is, how would we know its birthday? And by your theory, it wouldn’t be Tamara—the glitchy stuff started before she was killed.” It started while she stood in my shop, very
much alive.

  Didn’t that make it more likely that the ghost had some connection to her?

  Ridiculous. All this ghost talk was nothing more than someone trying to drive me crazy, and I was not going to let them succeed.

  * * *

  WHAT’S ridiculous, I told myself a few minutes later, is how much I love my shop. It may be, if it’s not melodramatic to say so, the love of my life.

  The thought of losing it, of not selling spice, purveying adventure and flavor to cooks of all stripes, of this marvelous, maddening old building turning to ash, of not spending my days working amid all these amazing, crazy, wild, woolly people—the kaleidoscope that is the Market—made me sick to my stomach.

  I sniffed back tears. “No one is going to take this away from me.”

  “Nobody will, Pepper. We’re all behind you.” I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud until Kristen replied and wrapped an arm around me. We were standing on the sidewalk, under the ancient awning, waiting for the all clear from the electrician.

  Moments later, we began to gingerly plug in lights, the electronics, the teakettle. Kristen had relocated the cracked samovar to the mixing table, where it shone with pride of place, despite having been doomed to an ornamental existence.

  “You’re sure it was deliberate?” I asked the electrician.

  “No question. Your wiring was redone in the big redo forty years ago, and it’s been upgraded over time. But all these old buildings got some funky wires that don’t go anywhere. You got some in that wall. Your vandal cut the new wires and spliced ’em onto the old so it all looked right but nothing worked.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Zak said.

  “You bet. To the building and everyone in it, and to the person who did it. He knows just enough to do some real damage. Nursing a serious grudge, if you know what I mean.”

  My whole body burned. How dare he—they—whoever? “You said you found old wires in that wall. Where did they lead?”