“Did they try your chocolates? And September’s getting to be almost as popular for weddings as June. I’ll talk to Josh. Meanwhile, we’ll test steak rubs, and I’ll get those hibiscus blossoms.” Egad. I’d turned almost as chatty as Mary Jean. A side effect of theobromine, or of my guilt in forgetting her order?
She rummaged in her bag, a cloth tote that dwarfed mine, and handed me a shiny brown box tied with her signature raspberry pink ribbon. “Samples. I made them as a gift for a new hotel concierge, but you take them for Josh.”
I sent a silent prayer that the stars aligned.
Whew. I dashed to the office and called my dried flower source. I could have six ounces this week, at a shipping cost triple the not-inconsiderable price of the blossoms, or I could get two pounds, free shipping, for less than the combined total of the smaller order. I bit the bullet, then beckoned Cayenne. Despite lacking Sandra’s experience, she’d proven herself an adept taste tester and recipe designer.
“Think beyond tea,” I said after explaining how much hibiscus I’d had to order. The wheels started turning as she hustled off to greet a customer.
Alas, no time to squeeze in any research. My to-do list for the shop was much too long, and that’s the list that pays the bills.
Sandra and I were deep into a project that kept one of us in the office, on the phone, for at least an hour every day. Today was my turn, and if I blew it off, she’d blow her top. And I wasn’t about to add to her stress level or mine by doing that. I sipped a tall glass of our iced tea and settled into the chair with our list of potential commercial customers. Today’s targets had bought from us in the past. Customers leave for a variety of reasons. Spice follows the chef, and when a new man or woman takes over a kitchen, they often bring their own suppliers. But with a personal nudge, the door may open.
So far, we were batting .500. Half the folks we’d called had agreed to try a few samples. We had a good on-base percentage—quite a few had ordered a product or two. None had made us their main source, but I didn’t honestly expect any restaurant or producer to ditch their suppliers and switch all their loyalty to us—grand slams are as rare in business as in baseball.
“Put me in, coach—I’m ready to play,” as the old John Fogerty song says.
We were banking on the blends. I’d turned Sandra loose, and our offerings had become far more adventuresome. The Spice Shop founder, Jane Rasmussen, had been a visionary, one of the urban pioneers who revitalized the Market in the 1970s. But her idea of spice mixes ended with lemon pepper and an Italian blend.
The times, they do change.
For the next hour, I pitched our wares, our sources, our reliability, and our prices. Promised samples, and made appointments for private tastings.
My last call was to the owner of a specialty canning company who’d reached out to us. His longtime salt supplier had changed hands, and the quality no longer measured up. Could I do better? You bet.
“I should be able to get those samples shipped off today, tomorrow at the latest.”
“That’s great,” he said. “My rival got Adolfo’d, and I don’t want to suffer the same fate.”
“Adolfo’d?” New word, but I feared I knew its meaning.
“Yeah, Nancy Adolfo. New reviewer for Northwest Cuisine. She reviewed the pickle company down in Tumwater. They make good stuff. Been around for ages. She said their kosher dills were soft and the spicing lacked imagination.”
If you’re craving a pickle, you’re probably not seeking imaginative spicing. You want crunch and familiar flavor. “They buy caraway and mustard seed from me.”
“She even griped because she couldn’t park in front of their shop—too many customers. We should all have such problems. Stay clear—she’s vicious.”
The image of Adolfo’s sharp little teeth popped into my head. All the better to eat you with, my dear.
We hung up, and when I stood, I literally shook off the dread. Customers pick up on negativity.
I put on a friendly face and headed out to the shop floor to pack up the salt samples. I gathered my jars and stepped behind the front counter. Set them down and bent to scratch Arf’s ears. When I straightened, Kristen was standing in front of the cash register, gazing into outer space.
“Earth to Kristen.”
She jerked her head toward mine, one hand flying to the silver-flecked scarf around her neck. “Pepper, you startled me. I was thinking about the bracelet. I don’t know what’s worse—that someone may have broken into my house, or that someone I know is a thief.”
I stared at her, thoughts sparking, a jar of North Sea flake salt in my hand. A customer approached. Kristen weighed out his basil, thyme, and red pepper flakes and suggested he try our “perfect for pasta” Italian blend, in the refillable jar. Few customers—especially the male variety—refuse her. She added the blend to his order, and he left, whistling.
I’d been wondering how the killer got into Bonnie’s studio, and why a woman would leave her door unlocked. More likely, I realized now, the killer had left it open.
“Neighborhood thugs. That’s who Mr. Adams blames for Bonnie’s murder,” I said. “He lives across the street.”
“You said her place didn’t look ransacked. Burglars and thugs would have made a mess, searching for cash and jewelry.”
Our eyes locked. “No mess at your house.”
And that meant the murder and the theft had something in common, besides the links between Kristen, Bonnie, and me. Both the killer and the thief had, in all likelihood, known us. No common criminal, despite Mr. Adams’s theories, but someone who had walked into Kristen’s house—her home, her warm, gracious, welcoming home—and walked out carrying thousands of dollars’ worth of jewels. And who had then sauntered into Bonnie’s studio—and taken her life.
Someone connected to the deaths of Roger Russell and Walter Strasburg? That, I wasn’t sure about. But if that’s the direction Detective Tracy thought the evidence pointed, then he would point Detective Washington at my mother.
And that was terrifying.
“So who had a key to her studio?” Kristen asked.
I weighed out salt and dumped it into a bag. “Hannah, who sublet her the place, but wanted it back. The landlord, maintenance people, property managers. Though why they would kill her, I can’t imagine.”
Kristen picked up the jars of salt, cradling them like twins. “Then find Hannah.”
Fifteen
Greeks and Romans burned thyme bunches to purify their homes and temples and to build courage in those who inhaled its smoke.
—Michelle Schoffro Cook, “All About Thyme,” Mother Earth Living
I hoped Josh Gibson was a workaholic, like most entrepreneurs—though one who stayed in his shop more often than I’d been staying in mine.
The sight of cars idling in every parking spot told me a dance class was just letting out. As I glanced in my rearview mirror, a dozen girls and a couple of boys surged up the hillside on the south end of the building. By the time I’d circled around, a space had opened in front of the gift shop.
The Dr Pepper cooler in the window called to me. Someday. I opened the door, a bundle of cards advertising our wedding registry in hand. The owner was out, and the salesclerk hadn’t known Bonnie or Hannah. I refilled my slot in the rack labeled “More gifts from the heart.”
In the window of the dress shop next door, closed on Mondays, wigged mannequins showed off bridal cream puffs—yards of white lace and satin festooned with seed pearls or glass beads. In a corner of the display, a headless dress form held a one-shouldered emerald green silk, above the knee.
If I ever have another wedding . . . Unlikely. Especially the way my life was going. Focus on the challenge at hand, Pepper.
Inside the bakery, two women about my age sat at the front table, drinking espresso and chatting with girls flush from class. The familiar tw
inge of regret over not having children—at having waited for Tag, only to find out it was too late for both my body and our marriage—zinged through me.
“Josh around?” I asked the barista over the noise of her machine and the alt-rock blaring through the speakers. She flicked her eyes toward the kitchen. Through the open window, I saw the baker/chef/delivery man’s bandanna-wrapped head bob in and out of view. “Thanks.”
I stood at the pass-through and watched Josh work. He pulled two huge trays of roasted eggplant out of the oven and slid in two of summer squash. Poured olive oil into a giant bowl full of chopped onion and spread the glistening white chunks on a waiting tray. Threw handfuls of herbs on a cutting board. Turned to grab a knife and spotted me.
“You’re still cooking this time of day?” I said.
“The fun never stops. Roasted veggie salad for tomorrow.” He pointed the knife toward ingredients piled on the worktable behind him. “Prep cook makes the tossed salad fresh every morning, but I make our deli staples every afternoon.”
“I hate to interrupt, but I was wondering—” I started, at the same moment he said, “Any news?”
“You took the words out of my mouth,” I said. “So I guess the answer is no, for both of us.”
“Cops keep finding excuses to pop in, me being an important witness and all, but I notice they keep their lips zipped tight.” He stretched out of view and reappeared, a green water bottle in hand.
“You mean because you found her? Yeah, that does get their attention.” As I knew too well.
He drank, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Apparently, I was the last person to see her alive. Except the killer.”
“What?” With all the commotion Saturday, and Josh speeding off to the wedding, I’d missed that.
“About nine thirty Friday. We close at six thirty, but I was sitting up front, working on my dairy order. Surprised me to see her walk by—most nights, she worked even later than me. Lots of times, I took dinner to her—leftover quiche, a day-old brownie.”
“No chance you saw anyone else, I suppose.”
“Sorry. Right after that, I headed upstairs to my place. Baker’s hours on top of owner’s hours make for a long day.”
And the circles under his eyes.
“The Market Master’s pushing me to find a place for her stuff, because I knew her,” I said.
“He called me, too. I suppose I’ll have to clean out her studio and apartment, unless I hear from a relative pretty quick. And find a new tenant.”
Before I could ask if that wasn’t Hannah’s responsibility, I remembered the other reason for my visit. “I nearly forgot.” I slid my tote off my shoulder and dug around for Mary Jean’s truffles. “I heard one of your counter people say you’d lost your chocolatier. A woman in the Market might fit the bill. You’ll make a killing from the dance moms alone.”
The word “killing” hung in the air between us. Josh set his water bottle on the pass-through counter, wiped his hands on the white apron tied over his black-and-white pants, and reached for the box.
“So your tenants have keys to the main door. Cleaning people? Anyone else? Any idea who would have a key to her studio?”
“Street-level tenants and the dance school have their own doors—they don’t have keys to the main entry. I clean the hall and stairway—not very well, I’m afraid. The studio . . .” Box in hand, he sagged against the counter.
Patience . . .
“They say don’t mix business and pleasure, but for me, they’ve always run together. And I guess I didn’t know where to draw the line.” He exhaled heavily. “The tenant who sublet to Bonnie—”
“Hannah Hart. I’ve been wanting to talk to her, but no one seems to know where she is. Bonnie was a friend. I’m hoping Hannah remembers something helpful.”
He studied the floor. “When I decided to start my own restaurant, my parents urged me to buy rental property. They put up half, and I borrowed the rest. The rents pay for the place, and that’s giving me time to develop the business. Anyway, the building came fully occupied, including Hannah.” He paused, face flushed. “She’s quite—alluring, and I wasn’t thinking. Not with my brain, anyway.”
“What? You mean you’re her boyfriend?”
“Ah. I see our reputation precedes us,” he said wryly.
I set my tote on the floor. “Mr. Adams said she and her boyfriend fought a lot, but he didn’t mention any names.”
“I finally called it quits. Her lease was running out, and I told her I wouldn’t renew it. She blew up and moved out early. Not that I minded, but then Bonnie moved in, and I had no idea no what was going on. Turns out, Hannah rented the place to her without telling me.”
“Whoa. Wait.” My brain felt like it was caught in the high-speed mixer bolted to the worktable. “How could she sublease without your permission? And why? To help you out, or cause you trouble?”
“Oh, trouble, no question. Hang on.” He sprang across the kitchen, out of sight, and I heard him shuffling papers. A minute later, he was back, waving a newspaper.
“I kept the advertisement as evidence.” He began flipping to the back. “In case I had to evict Bonnie, or whatever.”
I reached through the window and stopped him, then drew his attention to the front page. The page showing me in my black apron, standing next to the old samovar. MISTRESS OF SPICE, the headline proclaimed.
The same article Bonnie had read and kept. What did this coincidence say about the Universe?
Poor Bonnie. She claimed she wanted a home and yet she chose a temporary arrangement. Did she sense that it wouldn’t work out?
Was he saying—? “Josh. You don’t mean Hannah would kill someone to make trouble for you?”
“No. I don’t know.” His fingers grazed his forehead, ran over the bandanna, and tugged at his hair. “No, she would never go that far. Ever since she left, I’ve been expecting a time bomb to go off. But murder? I can’t imagine that.”
I couldn’t see the connection, either. “You said you might need to evict Bonnie. Why?”
He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his biceps bulging below his white T-shirt sleeves. “She was a great tenant. But Hannah stuck herself in the middle, overcharging and interfering, telling Bonnie to contact her if she had a problem, not me, because I’m an ass—” His voice had risen, and a woman standing at the counter while her young son chose a cookie glared at him. “Sorry,” he called, then to me, “Big-shot downtown lawyer I talked to said change the locks, wait till the lease expires, then write Bonnie a new lease. But I didn’t trust Hannah not to have some trick up her sleeve.”
I didn’t tell him Hannah had been pestering Bonnie to give her back the space—that little trick he’d feared. “At least she doesn’t have a key anymore.”
The tips of his ears reddened. “We’ve been so busy, I never called the locksmith.”
Holy cardamom.
So Hannah could have let herself in Friday night and confronted Bonnie. But it’s a long way from using someone to get revenge on an ex-lover to murder.
For that matter, Josh had a key, too. But as much turmoil as Hannah’s petty scheme was causing him, he had no beef with Bonnie—and getting rid of her would not have solved the Hannah problem.
Besides, Mr. Adams had seen someone speeding away. Josh lived upstairs.
“One more thing. Mr. Adams across the street said there have been questionable people hanging around. Thugs, he called them.”
He stuffed his hand in a big oven mitt. “Lou worries too much. Any guy under thirty wearing baggy pants, he thinks they’re a gang member. Last week, he saw a couple of guys he didn’t like the looks of, and he hobbled over to warn me, in front of my customers. They were just doing odd jobs for the dance school.”
“I suppose even gang members get a cookie craving now and then.”
Sixteen
I love cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in the food.
—Cook’s motto
“Got a special shipment of a Walla Walla white.” Vinny disappeared behind a stack of boxes, but his voice trailed after him. “Crisp, light, with a hint of grapefruit. From all that Central Washington desert sunshine.”
“Thanks, Vinny. It’s steak night, so I need a red. I’m working on rubs using cocoa, espresso, and a bit of heat, so—”
He reappeared. “So you want something bold, but not overpowering. Lemme show you this primo Pinot from Benton-Lane in Oregon, in the Willamette Valley.”
“Sounds too rich for me.”
“Nah. Get a good Pinot Noir, the fruit and tannins pair with beef like . . .” He kissed the ends of his fingertips, eyelids fluttering as he raised his face heavenward. “And your employee discount makes it affordable.”
I am not in Vinny’s employ, thank goodness, but he likes me and always gives me a good price. Not a sign of unrequited romance; just a sweet touch.
I walked out carrying two bottles, the second from a small winery near Paso Robles in central California, having promised to give Vinny a report on the steak rub tasting and a free jar of the final product. Not all Market merchants work together like we do, but it’s high on my list of job perks.
Arf and I strolled through the park, then down Western to the loft. After my chat with Josh, I’d wanted to talk to Bonnie’s neighbors in the building. But with Sandra off today, I’d had to rush back before closing. And I wanted to think over my approach carefully. If I found Hannah first, I might not need to ask Josh’s tenants to dish on their landlord and his love life.
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