Killing Thyme
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PRAISE FOR THE SPICE SHOP MYSTERIES
“Pepper and her crew serve up a tantalizing mystery and a fragrant treat for the senses.”
—Connie Archer, national bestselling author of the Soup Lover’s Mysteries
“[A] smart blend of zesty characters, piquant spices, and scrumptious food. Set against the intriguing Seattle backdrop, this well-plotted whodunit is the perfect recipe for a great read.”
—Daryl Wood Gerber, national bestselling author of the Cookbook Nook Mysteries
“[A] dash of humor and a half-turn of charm that will leave readers smiling.”
—J.J. Cook, national bestselling author of the Sweet Pepper Fire Brigade Mysteries
“An iconic Seattle setting, a smart and capable heroine, and a spicy investigation . . . Budewitz combines it all with effortless finesse.”
—Victoria Hamilton, national bestselling author of the Vintage Kitchen Mysteries
“Parsley, sage, rosemary and . . . murder . . . Will add zing to your reading.”
—Barbara Ross, author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries
“The perfect read for a few hours of pure enjoyment.”
—Suspense Magazine
“[A] treat for the senses . . . [A] worthy series debut by an award-winning author.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“[A] solid entry to the mystery genre thanks to Budewitz’s great descriptions, evocative setting, and engaging mystery.”
—The Billings Outpost
“This engaging cozy makes the most of its Seattle location, effectively weaves facts about spices and their uses throughout the narrative, and boasts the feisty Pepper at its center. Sure to appeal to fans of Susan Wittig Albert’s China Bayles herbal mysteries.”
—Booklist
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Leslie Budewitz
Food Lovers’ Village Mysteries
DEATH AL DENTE
CRIME RIB
BUTTER OFF DEAD
Spice Shop Mysteries
ASSAULT AND PEPPER
GUILTY AS CINNAMON
KILLING THYME
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Leslie Ann Budewitz
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN: 9780698140554
Cover art by Ben Perini
Cover design by Colleen Reinhart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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For the readers, who let me keep them up too late
Contents
Praise for The Spice Shop Mysteries
Also by Leslie Budewitz
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments and Historical Note
The Market Roll Call
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Recipes and Spice Notes
About the Author
Acknowledgments and Historical Note
The Emerald City, aka Seattle, is never the same place twice, nor the same to every visitor or reader. That’s part of its magic.
In the early 1990s, I volunteered at the Family Kitchen, a daily meals program at St. James Cathedral in Seattle run by Pacem in Terris, a Catholic Worker community. (Now the Cathedral Kitchen, operated by the parish, it continues to serve those in need.) While that program and the social justice advocates who started it inspired my fictional Grace House and Jimmy’s Pantry, the people and events here are completely my invention.
For an understanding of the Vietnam-era protests in Seattle, I drew on Rites of Passage: A Memoir of the Sixties in Seattle, by Walt Crowley, and the HistoryLink online archives. Although the “Catholic left” did engage in public protests in the early 1980s, the events that set in motion the present-day conflicts here are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual history is proof that even a writer’s imagination has its limits.
Pepper’s hibiscus flower and sea salt rub was inspired by a tin of Paradise Flower Salt rub given to me by Karyn Schwartz, proprietor of Sugarpill, a “culinary mercantile and apothecary” in Seattle’s Pike-Pine corridor.
Pepper consults The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating by Steven Kerry Brown. What she does with the information in that highly useful book is entirely my fault.
Thanks to all the booksellers and specialty retailers who have put the Spice Shop Mysteries in readers’ hands across the country. Seattle Mystery Bookshop has been a great partner in crime, even letting me borrow the shop on these pages. At home, Derek Vandeberg of Frame of Reference and Marlys Anderson-Hisaw of Roma’s Kitchen Shop continue to give my books a local boost. Amanda Bevill, owner of World Spice Merchants on Western Avenue in Seattle, offered insider knowledge of the spice business with a hearty dash of enthusiasm. Market staff, merchants, and vendors shared their time and knowledge with me. Like most writers, I’m an eavesdropper and a sponge, soaking up tales and tidbits that have wriggled their way, often much scrambled, into my stories. Thank you all for helping season the story stew.
I could not set a book in Seattle without the help and hospitality of Lita Artis and Ken Gollersrud. Thanks also to Debbie Burke for years of literary friendship and sharp eyes. I would not be a published writer without Sisters in Crime, and my pals in the Guppy chapter. Hugs and thanks to you all.
Thanks to my agent, Paige Wheeler of Creative Media Agency, Inc., my editors, Robin Barletta and Tom Colgan, and all the staff—editori
al, art, marketing, production, and more—at Berkley Prime Crime for shepherding my words into print and pixels, and into your hands.
Readers often ask who does my covers. Ben Perini brings the Spice Shop of my imagination to such delightful life. And, the dog.
My husband, Don Beans, aka Mr. Right, happily chops, stirs, and tastes every recipe, listens when I need an ear, and dives in when I need an idea. Plus, having an in-house doctor is every mystery writer’s dream.
The Market Roll Call
Your lineup for a tasty mystery!
THE SEATTLE SPICE SHOP STAFF
Pepper Reece—owner, ex–law firm HR manager
Sandra Piniella—assistant manager and mix master
Reed Locke—part-time salesclerk, full-time college student
Kristen Gardiner—part-time salesclerk, Pepper’s oldest friend
Cayenne Cooper—salesclerk, the spicy new hire
Matt Kemp—salesclerk, an experienced retail hand
Arf the Dog
THE FLICK CHICKS
Pepper—her real name is her secret, for now
Kristen—she knows, but she knows enough to keep her mouth shut
Laurel Halloran—deli owner, caterer, houseboat dweller
Seetha Sharma—still a bit of a mystery
MARKET MERCHANTS, RESIDENTS, AND FRIENDS
Glenn Abbott—Pepper’s next-door neighbor, a city council member
Jen the Bookseller and Callie the Librarian—Pepper’s former law firm employees
Mary Jean—the chatty chocolatier
Hot Dog—man about town
Vinny Delgado—the wine merchant
Ben Bradley—ace reporter, Pepper’s boyfriend
THE PAST MEETS THE PRESENT:
Lena Reece—Pepper’s mom, still the Earth Mother
Bonnie Clay—aka Bonnie Pretty Pots aka Peggy Manning
Terry Stinson—war protestor turned Uncle Sam and family man
Sharon Stinson—his loyal wife, dance mom
Brian Strasburg—not the best advertisement for the legal profession
Hannah Hart—displaced artist
SEATTLE’S FINEST
Officer Tag Buhner—aka Bike Boy and Officer Hot Wheels, Pepper’s former husband
Detective Cheryl Spencer—homicide
Detective Michael Tracy—homicide
Detective John Washington—cold case detective
One
To everything—turn, turn, turn
There is a season—turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
—Pete Seeger, “Turn! Turn! Turn!” adapted from Ecclesiastes 3:1–8
“Why is it called a salt pig?” Matt said. “Is that like salt pork?”
“No, silly. Salt pork is pork belly that’s cured by salting instead of smoking. Think bacon. My grandmother used it to flavor her Sunday pork and beans.” Cayenne’s dark eyes flickered open and shut in remembered rapture, long lashes brushing her high cheekbones.
The banter between the Spice Shop’s newest employees put a smile in my heart. No last-minute desperation hires this time. He knows retail; she knows food. And as their boss, I knew within days of hiring them that they would be great additions to the Pike Place Market, Seattle’s heart, soul, and stomach.
But Matt’s cocked head and half squint said her explanation hadn’t cleared up the muddle over the classic salt container.
“Some sources say it looks like a pig’s back end if you stand it sideways on its head.” Cayenne used a particularly porcine model—smooth, glossy, and pinky-beige—to demonstrate. “But I’ve also heard that pig is an ancient Scottish word for a clay pot.”
“That works for me.” Roundish, sixtyish, sporting the short, dark hair of an Italian pixie, Sandra lifted the lid off a celadon green oval jar and mimed scooping out salt with two fingers. “This one’s good. Lets you get a grip on the stuff.”
“That’s another thing I don’t get,” Matt said. He slid into the mixing nook beside the rest of us. Seeing the crew gathered for our Wednesday morning staff meeting, each sipping coffee or our custom-blended spice tea, a box of pastries open before us, gave me the satisfaction of a mother hen.
After all that upheaval . . . I perished the thought. As if he read my mind from where he lay under the table, Arf rested his muzzle on my knee. I rubbed a thumb on the magic spot on his forehead.
“A pinch is really a guess. Why not measure?” Matt continued. “And what about hygiene?”
“You measure with your eyes and your mouth,” Sandra said. “A recipe may look precise, but it’s a guideline. You can’t know how much salt your soup needs until you taste it. Is your broth salty? Are your carrots and onions on the sweet side? You taste, and balance.”
“Except when you’re baking,” I said, raising a finger. “Then you’re talking chemical reactions. But with herbs and spices, you have more freedom.”
“And cooks are trained to wash their hands a lot.” Cayenne set the salt pig back in the weathered wooden box and withdrew a rounded container. The lower half was glazed a rich, blue-streaked mahogany, the upper a cinnamon-speckled oatmeal. A hand-carved wooden spoon poked out of the almond-shaped opening in front. “Isn’t this wonderful, Pepper? The potter’s new to the Market.”
She handed me the earthenware pig. The opening allows easy access while keeping the salt free of kitchen dirt and drips. Salt is hydrophilic, so an unglazed interior absorbs moisture and keeps the salt from clumping. Nice, in Seattle’s damp clime.
“It’s food safe, obviously, and dishwasher safe,” Cayenne said.
“Are you her new sales rep?” Matt gibed.
“No. I just love her work, and I think we should carry it.”
“Wish we could. But if she sells through us, she’ll lose her Market permit. And the artists’ tables are a huge draw—she’ll do better on her own.” Cayenne opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “Hey, I don’t make the rules.” I set down the pig and reached for the potter’s card. “Bonnie Clay—Potter—Functional Sculpture. Oh, too funny.”
Blank faces stared at me. “Continuing the Scottish theme,” I said, “‘bonnie’ means pretty or attractive. So, her name translates to Pretty Pots.”
“Maybe she named herself,” Reed ventured. “Because of her work.”
Sandra snorted. “Ya think?”
She and Reed had come with the shop when I bought it nearly two years ago, and despite their differences in age and temperament, she treats him like a favorite puppy. Most days. Now, she ignored the wounded look on his gentle features, and he hunched over his tea, a lock of black hair flopping onto his forehead.
“Sorry, Cayenne,” I said. “Good find, but no go. I’ll take the samples back and talk to her.” We turned our attention to the long list of daily tasks. We’d all pitched in to train the newcomers while unpacking shipments, refilling hundreds of jars and canisters holding spices from around the world, making deliveries to restaurants, yada yada. Plus blending our own tea and spice mixes fresh every week. After years working all variety of retail, Matt had grasped our customer-first philosophy from the get-go. Cayenne oozes natural charm and has an encyclopedic knowledge of food. But she occasionally needs a reminder that no matter how busy she is sweeping up spilled thyme, the customer is never an interruption.
“Were you able to solve that glitch in the wedding registry software?” I asked Reed.
He opened his mouth, but Sandra spoke first. “There was no glitch. The bride has the same personality as her mother. The registry shows no gifts purchased because she has no friends.”
I suppressed a smile. The bridal mother had stomped in yesterday afternoon spewing complaints. We had wrongfully delayed sending her beloved daughter any gifts; our system bordered on false advertising, if not fraud; and we were not fit to kiss the hem
of the most beautiful bride in Seattle’s pearl-encrusted train. “Send the bride our thyme gift box as a thank-you for registering.”
A perennial best seller, thyme was also our featured Spice of the Month. By mid-June, most Seattle gardeners are deep into maintenance mode, so we’d arranged the last few seedlings in the center of our main display table. The slightest movement of air sent pleasant grassy notes swirling through the shop.
“Anything else?” Three bright-eyed heads shook “no.” “Great. Let’s have a spicy day.”
The fourth head stayed bowed, and its owner stayed put. I waited until the others had slid out of the booth and started their morning routine. “What’s up?”
A long silence. “I hate women who bawl at work.”
Sandra, my assistant manager, on the verge of tears? About as likely as Momzilla sending me roses to apologize for her hissy fit. But thirteen years working HR in a law firm, managing legal secretaries, assistants, and receptionists, had taught me to keep my mouth shut and leave room for her to speak in her own good time.
Sometimes you have to sit a little longer than your backside wants.
She wrapped her arms around her ample midsection and gripped her elbows, eyes damp and unfocused. “I—I can’t talk it about it, Pepper. Not yet.”
My mouth went dry. Was she ill? Selfishly, I worried about the shop—how could we manage without her?
The citrus-and-spice smell of our signature tea filled the air as Matt poured an extra-strength batch of hot brew into the giant cooler, the ice in the bottom crackling.
I touched her arm. “We’re here for you. Whatever you need.” Sometimes the clichés are true.
At ten o’clock, I sent Arf to his bed behind the front counter and unlocked the door. Two minutes later, Kristen swept in, a bubbly blond cloud.
My lifelong BFF and part-time staffer, she’d skipped this week’s huddle for a plotting session with her landscaper, arranging the final floral touches in her backyard. Two days till her annual shindig—a joint birthday party for the two of us, born two weeks apart. It was also a celebration that her family’s long-running remodel was finally finished and a chance to welcome my mother home for a visit from Costa Rica.