Guilty as Cinnamon

by Leslie Budewitz

  I admit, I was stunned. Who’d a thunk it? The guy had been after me almost since the day I left him. In the last few months, he’d been in serious courtship mode. He’d treated me at my favorite restaurants. Taken me to the Mariners’ opening game, getting great seats on the third base line, buying kosher dogs and microbrews. Brought me flowers from the garden that had once been ours. But I’d kept my distance.

  And then, when I change my mind, he leaves. Either he’d grown a conscience when I wasn’t watching, or I was some pathetic freak. “Take care of our girl,” he’d told the dog, and walked away.

  “What does it all mean?” I asked the dog. He kept right on chewing.

  Images of the evening rolled through my brain: orange flames licking the pink stucco, crowds gathering in the street, the Public Market sign glowing red against the night sky.

  “That’s it, Arf. I know what to do about the sign.” I’d fallen hard for Fabiola’s idea of a lighted sign featuring our new logo—a vintage shaker pouring salt into the ocean.

  But the Historical Commission had told me repeatedly that signs hanging from the awning had to be rectangular and made of wood, as they were when our building was erected in the 1930s. Other buildings had shaped signs, or neon, but ours never had, and we couldn’t make that change now.

  But I had a new plan. We could paint the logo on a standard exterior sign, and hang an LED version, the modern green equivalent of neon, inside the front window. Smaller LED signs could shine out the clerestory windows, making spice a beacon for day or night.

  Funky. Vintage, but modern.

  “That’s us to a T, right, Arf?”

  He was too busy chewing his toy duck to say so, but I knew he agreed.

  * * *

  I woke the next morning knowing I should feel like everything was resolved. But instead, I had the nagging suspicion I’d overlooked something.

  The shower is the perfect place to wash away unwanted thoughts. Or to think them through. Ashwani Patel had killed Tamara, formerly known as Ashley. I knew that. Alex, while far from innocent, was not a killer.

  What puzzled me was this: Tamara had asked Glassy to manage the bar at Tamarack before learning from Danielle the reason why he would never leave Alex Howard’s employ. The two men were bound at the hip, less by trust and affection than by mutual dishonesty. If one lost sight of the other, both were at risk of betrayal. The thefts from Danielle’s restaurant corporation—the stolen drinks scheme—had been years ago. The statute of limitations was long expired.

  But while the threat of criminal charges was long gone, and Danielle had vowed to keep to the high road, each man still had the ability to destroy the other’s life. Or at least, his ability to work, and to some men, that’s the same thing. Certainly it was to Alex, and maybe Glassy, too.

  Glassy had sworn that he’d kept Tamara’s planned defection a secret. But what if he had told Alex? Talk about their scheme had long died down, become nothing more than vague rumors, the facts known only to a few old hands.

  But what if Alex feared that Danielle might start the talk back up again? She had become an even more powerful player in the Seattle food scene than he. As far as I knew, she had never used her suspicions about the uncharged crimes against him.

  What if he believed that was about to end? That she had revealed the history to Tamara, who saw the stories as leverage against him and Glassy? What if he’d decided to silence Tamara as a message to Danielle, not knowing Tamara had a different target—Ashwani Patel.

  I stepped out and toweled off. You’re spinning your wheels, Pepper. Looking for motives that aren’t there.

  And as every police officer I knew would tell me, motive doesn’t prove a thing.

  * * *

  WHEN I got to the shop, it was abundantly clear that everything was not resolved.

  Orange cones and yellow crime scene tape marked off part of our exterior wall. The fire marshal had come and gone, and the electrician and a Market carpenter had ripped out a huge chunk of stucco to get at the damaged wires and framing.

  “So, what she did was this,” the electrician said, and explained how Lynette had set an electronic ignition switch, connected to a small timer, on the exterior wall where the power entered the building. She’d used a box of trash, mostly paper, to both hide the contraption and make sure the fire got a good start, then retreated to a nearby drinking establishment to wait.

  And when the sirens called, she couldn’t resist coming back to watch.

  “So you’re telling me the smoke and char make it look worse than it is,” I said.

  “No. I’m saying you were damn lucky. Five minutes later and the fire would have broken through to the interior.”

  Talk about a heat index. If that fire had reached the shop, more than our paprika would have been smoked. Someone would have seen the flames before long—a late-night diner, a security officer. Still, we could have been ruined—a Market institution destroyed, half a dozen people left unemployed, our customers set adrift.

  It’s okay, Pepper. The danger’s over. “What about today? Do we have power?”

  “Yes. Inspector needs to sign off before we close it up, but he’s on his way. Some plaster repair, a little painting, and you’re all set.” He reached for a tool. “Miracle, if you ask me.”

  Those old medieval harmonies began to play, and I sent the Universe a silent thank-you.

  Inside, I flicked the light switch, holding my breath momentarily. The chandeliers sparkled, the red lamp shone, the tiny green power button on the electronic scale glowed.

  All was well. Or would be, when we found the right hires. Before I knew it, Zak would be gone.

  Once again, I found myself explaining near-disaster to my staff and springing for treats.

  “So Lynette was behind all the electrical problems?” Kristen bit into a pain aux raisins.

  “Not the first incident, last week when the ceiling lights flickered. That was probably caused by work up the hill at the kitchen shop—our power supply is linked to theirs. When she read in the paper that Tamara had been killed while looking into electrical problems at the construction site, the lightbulb went off. So to speak.”

  “And she’s a vengeful witch who knows how to grab an opportunity when she sees one,” Sandra said, her tone bitter.

  More than you know. Plenty of time later to tell the staff the full extent of Lynette’s misdeeds. If we ever knew the full extent.

  Midmorning, Spencer and Tracy come in with more questions about Tamara, aka Ashley, and Patel, and to take a formal statement about the fire.

  “You are a magnet for trouble.” Tracy plucked a pastry out of the box. “You were right about the domestic abuse. Ashley Brown filed two reports, then retracted them—not uncommon, sorry to say. Without a cooperative victim, prosecutors were SOL.”

  “We’ve got our best records people sniffing down that money trail you found,” Spencer said. “You, and Tamara. Her notes will be an enormous help.”

  “When do you expect to file charges?”

  “Early next week, with any luck.” Her eyes narrowed. “You keep away from him. We don’t want to alert him, and we don’t want any more incidents.”

  On that, we were in complete agreement. “Before you interview Lynette, there’s something else you should know.”

  I’d lain awake a good part of the night, trying to decide how to tell Tracy about Alex and Lynette without raising his ire at Tag. “You distrusted me because you distrusted Tag. I only learned about the bar tab scam yesterday. You blamed Tag for losing a witness and tanking the investigation. But he’s made up for it.”

  Tracy wiped the last crumb off his chin. It landed on his lapel. “How do you figure that?”

  “Actors spend years in and out of disguise. Change their hair and voices, use makeup and costumes.” I described seeing Lynette in the Market several time
s since I’d fired her, each sighting coinciding with an incident—the ghost notes, the electrical problems, even the falling produce crates. “She wanted to scare me, and it worked. So did her disguise. In the months she worked here, Tag never recognized her, and you won’t, either.”

  He stared at me, openmouthed. I resisted the urge to brush the crumbs off his jacket.

  “Are you saying that your disgruntled employee and arsonist is Melissa the missing waitress?”

  “One and the same.”

  “What are the odds,” Spencer said, “of wrapping up two cases at the same time involving women passing themselves off as someone they aren’t?”

  Tamara created a new identity to escape the past. Lynette used a changing appearance to fool the world and enable her petty vengeance. Alex and Glassy had reshaped themselves from thugs into successful businessmen.

  In a million different ways, we all create ourselves every day.

  * * *

  AFTER his fireside heroics, Tag had been given the day off. Turned out that after leaving me, he’d gone back to the fire scene to make sure my shop was safe. The man took seriously that old police motto “To Serve and Protect.”

  Especially the protect part, especially when it came to me.

  He deserved a day of rest, but I worried about him. I kinda missed seeing him wheel through the Market.

  The UPS man brought the day’s deliveries, and Zak and Kristen started unpacking.

  “Oh, they’re here!” Kristen exclaimed. “Aren’t they the perfect wedding gift?”

  Heart-shaped white porcelain espresso cups and round saucers, in a boxed set. I’d seen a pair at Fabiola’s last fall, but it had taken us months to track down a supplier. Now all we needed were hordes of brides and wedding guests, to make the registry pay for itself.

  A fair amount of detailery had piled up while I was out investigating. I returned Tessa Spencer’s call and set up an interview. She sounded ideal, and another connection to the SPD couldn’t hurt. Responded to more calls, texts, and e-mails—amazing the ways technology has created for us to get behind.

  I crossed Pike Place to see Herb the Herb Man and confirm plans for our annual seedling sales. He’d provide the potted seedlings, we’d provide a rolling wire rack to sit outside during the day, and our customers could buy fresh herbs to grow themselves. A nod to the Spice Shop building’s history as the Market’s original Garden Center, and a benefit to us all.

  Sandra held out the phone when I walked back in. “A reporter. One you want to talk to.”

  “Buy you lunch and treat you to a free concert?” Ben said.

  “Not sure I can get away,” I said.

  “Go, go, go,” Sandra said in a stage whisper.

  “He’s so young,” I whispered back.

  “Give him a shot,” she mouthed.

  “Meet you at the fountain,” I told him.

  * * *

  “CLOSE call at your shop.” Ben sat next to me on the ledge around the International Fountain. “But you’re safe, thank God.”

  His gaze wasn’t exactly scorching, but it definitely raised my temperature. He wore a soft gray T-shirt, black jeans, and high-top sneakers. Arf promptly rested his head on Ben’s knee. I almost hadn’t brought the dog, after what happened the last time we came to the Center, but those big brown eyes had swayed me.

  “I think my heartbeat’s finally back to normal,” I said.

  Two women sat next to me. “Wait till you see this bowl,” one told the other. “Chihuly. It’s like a bolt of lightning struck a flower and made glass.”

  “I want you to know,” Ben said, “I called because I wanted to see you, not because I’m digging for news. And—here’s this. Hot off the presses.”

  He handed me a copy of his paper, open to a quarter page photo of me in the shop. I almost didn’t recognize myself. Ben watched, a tell-me-you-like-it look on his face. I started reading, speaking a few of the best lines out loud.

  “‘In the urban theater that is the Pike Place Market, Seattle Spice is a kaleidoscope of color and aroma, presided over by the Mistress of Spices, the tangy and bewitching Pepper Reece.’”

  “‘Tangy and bewitching’? What were you smoking when you wrote that?”

  “I’m a serious journalist. Every word is true.” Tiny crinkles formed around his eyes.

  “‘The shop feels like a party. “We don’t cater to food snobs, although they’re welcome,” Reece says, handing out samples of tea and setting out bowls of cinnamon bark for customers to try. “We think good food is for everyone, and that eating should be fun.”’”

  “I can’t believe this,” I said, tucking the folded paper in my bag. “Thank you. Let’s grab lunch before the concert.”

  “They’ve got food booths at the music venue. Part of the International Festival,” he said, standing and reaching for my hand. “It’s India Day.”

  Half sitting, half standing, leash in hand and mouth open, I must have looked like an idiot.

  “I thought you like Indian.” He sounded apologetic.

  I took his hand and clambered over the ledge. “I do. But I don’t know anything about Indian music, so let’s go listen.”

  The festival was surprisingly well attended for midday, midweek. We queued up at the Curry in a Hurry truck, and I worked to vanquish my unease.

  No use. As we neared the order window, a tall, dark-haired, man flipped chapatis on the griddle, his back to us. Patel. A blonde who reminded me of Tamara-Ashley took our order, giving me the willies. I’d glimpsed her behind him, the night of the murder. Did she know she was working for a man who’d borrowed money in his dead wife’s name to keep his restaurant afloat?

  Everyone in line wanted to pet the dog. Mr. Ambassador quickly became the subject of casual Q&A. “Airedale, or Welsh terrier?” “Airedale.” “How old is he?” “Five, the vet thinks.” “Can I pet him?” “If you don’t mind being licked to death.”

  A male voice boomed out our number, and we stepped forward to take our plates.

  “Thanks.” I smiled up at the face of a killer.

  Recognition struck, and a bead of sweat rolled down Ashwani Patel’s cheek.

  Thirty

  In ancient Rome, wealthy mourners added spices to funeral pyres to represent the triumph of life over death and disguise the smell of burning flesh. After the death of his wife Poppaea—from his kick to her stomach—Emperor Nero horrified accountants, politicians, and traders when he heaped a year’s worth of cinnamon and cassia on her funeral flames.

  —Jack Turner, Spice: The History of a Temptation

  “The sitar, I recognize,” I said as we sat on the sloping lawn, plates in hand. “But what are the other instruments?”

  “The man facing the sitar player has a sarod. You’ll hear them throw the melody back and forth. The drums are called tabla.”

  A swath of dark red fabric caught my eye, and I craned my neck to see around the barefoot men sitting on the portable stage. “What about the tiny woman in back, plucking strings?”

  Ben leaned to one side, then the other. “I can’t see her, but it’s probably the tambura, a four-string drone that fills in the bottom. Like a bass, but without the chording.”

  Turned out he knew quite a bit about Indian music. Between pieces, he explained the theory of the raga, a melody improvised on a basic scale, chosen to fit the time of day. “The heart of classical Indian music. This is Bhimpalasi, played from noon to two P.M.”

  When the last piece ended, the musicians rose and faced the audience. Smiles on their faces, hands in prayer position, they bowed deeply, then left the stage, the little lady in red trailing behind the men.

  A dozen singers took the stage. “Folk music,” Ben said. “I’ve heard this group before. Mostly Bengali songs, from Pakistan and North India.”

  “I need to talk to her.” The impulse
was irresistible, and inexplicable. I scrambled to my feet and took off, the dog behind me.

  “Talk to who? Pepper, wait,” Ben called as I threaded through the crowd, hoping I wasn’t too late to catch her.

  I worked my way to the side of the stage, turning my head, twisting my neck, searching.

  A rope strung between two metal posts barred backstage access. I rose up on tippy toes, trying to spot the little lady. The white-clad backs of the sitar and sarod players blocked my view as they chatted in a mix of English and Hindi.

  The tabla player, also in white, appeared out of nowhere. “May I help you?” His lilting accent emphasized the word “help,” but I did not know what help I needed.

  “I was hoping—I wanted to talk—”

  “What are you doing here?” Patel’s brusque baritone broke in. “Haven’t you done enough damage, getting Tamara fired, getting her killed? Don’t think I don’t know you sold that murderer the weapon.”

  “There you are.”

  I smelled her before I saw or heard her. She smelled like cinnamon.

  Her hand reached out for mine, the fingers strong, their touch soft. “I knew you would come. We know things they don’t.” The little lady’s dark eyes shone up at me, the ruby red bindi on her forehead glinting in the midday sun.

  “Can we talk? Are you able—” A single bark interrupted me. “Arf! No!”

  “He is a bad man.” She pointed, and I followed her gaze. “Not the very worst, but a very bad man.”

  Ashwani Patel raised a hand as if warding her off. His nostrils flared. and his full lips drew back, exposing gritted teeth. He lowered his hands and shoved me into the barricade. I went down hard, the skin on one hand ripping open as the heel scraped the rough concrete.

  Through gaps in the crowd, I saw Patel turn, probing frantically for a way out. A young woman in a lavender sari pushed a double stroller across his path. He swung his arm and knocked her aside. She staggered backward, crying, “My babies!” The stroller rolled down a slope toward the stage, and a young man dashed after it.