Grimm: The Chopping Block

by John Passarella

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As Monroe entered the Exotic Spice & Tea Shop, his gaze swept the relatively dark interior—dark-wood cabinets, shelves and countertops—searching for its current owner, Rosalee Calvert. Jars of varying shapes and sizes, from vials to jugs, lined every shelf and surface area, with a few notable exceptions for reference books, scales and the occasional mortar and pestle.

  Ostensibly a specialty herb and tea store, the spice shop was so much more than that. In addition to herbs, spices and teas, the shop contained rare and unusual ingredients the Wesen world had employed for centuries in the making of everything from life-saving remedies to deadly concoctions. Rosalee had become a de facto apothecary for the Wesen community in Portland. The human medical system would never understand and could never treat rare Wesen conditions and maladies. Where human medicine failed, Rosalee took over.

  She hadn’t always run the spice shop. Her brother, Freddy, had owned the place until two Skalengecks murdered him, at which time ownership had passed to Rosalee. Also reformed, Rosalee was a Fuchsbau, and she had become an important part of Monroe’s life. They had been dating for a while and, now that she had returned from caring for her sick aunt, they were in a good place.

  After spending the morning watching Decker flail around in anger and basically eat raw meat for brunch, Monroe needed to shake off his exposure to the man’s very non-reformed ways and spend time with someone who shared his values. So he’d headed to the spice shop as soon as Decker left to run some errands.

  Monroe hadn’t given up on helping his old friend onto a new path, but Decker was like radiation exposure for Monroe, and he could only spend so much time with him before the dose became lifestyle-lethal. A big reason why he’d separated himself from so many people in his past.

  The shop’s lone customer—a plump, silver-haired man in a dark suit, softly humming as he perused the merchandise, hands clasped behind his back—caught Monroe’s attention. Not a regular. Monroe couldn’t recall seeing him in the shop before. Every few seconds the man reached for a jar, briefly reviewed its ingredients and returned it to the shelf, tucking his hands behind his back again. A spice shop lookie loo? Or somebody who wanted to consider everything in the store before making a purchase. Either way, he appeared harmless.

  Rosalee stood behind the counter at the back of the shop, facing Juliette, as the two women chatted. Monroe heard something about a yellow lab and assumed the discussion concerned one of Juliette’s canine patients. He had volunteered to watch the shop while the two ladies went out for lunch. Ever since Bud, Rosalee and Monroe had woged for Juliette, she had made every effort to familiarize herself with the Wesen world, along with Nick’s place in it. Monroe gave her a lot of credit for handling with admirable equanimity what for her—or any human, for that matter—were shocking revelations.

  Monroe joined them at the counter.

  “Hi, Monroe,” Juliette said brightly.

  “Oh, how was your morning?” Rosalee asked. “You and your friend?”

  “Old friend,” Monroe said. “And it… could have gone better.” Couldn’t have gone much worse, he thought.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing that should keep you two from lunch,” Monroe said breezily, but the truth was he didn’t want to talk about it. He was embarrassed about some of his pre-reform actions and Decker represented a big part of those days. While he knew Rosalee had had her own troubles, he didn’t want to rehash his own indiscretions—especially with Juliette present. And that would all come out if he talked about how he wanted to help Decker reform. But who was he kidding? He feared Decker’s failure. The more people he told about Decker’s attempt at reforming, the more he would have to tell about his eventual failure. A poor attitude for a mentor to have, but the morning’s activities had given Monroe no reason to believe Decker could turn his life around. Moreover, Rosalee might worry about Monroe associating with a non-reformed Blutbad.

  “Go,” Monroe said, taking his place behind the counter. “We can talk about it later.”

  “Okay,” Rosalee said, but her lingering gaze told him she suspected something was amiss. Maybe she’d forget about it over lunch. “Anyway, thanks for watching the shop.” She smiled and squeezed his hand affectionately.

  “No problem.” Monroe indicated the rest of the shop with a sweep of his arm. “I think I can handle the rush.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, poking him in the chest with her index finger. “The lunch rush is coming.”

  Monroe turned to the side and indicated the elderly humming gentleman with a slight nod of his head.

  “What’s his story?”

  “Fairly new in town,” Rosalee said. “Name’s Oscar Cavendish. Recently discovered the shop. Mostly buys herbs and spices, nothing too exotic.”

  “Anything I should know about?” Monroe asked. “Special orders.”

  “Oh, right, almost forgot!” She reached under the counter for a small brown paper bag and placed it on the counter. “For Ben Dolan, his name’s on the bag. Tell him to rub some of this ointment on his gums after meals and before bedtime. His condition should be cured in a day or two.” In answer to the question Monroe posed with raised eyebrows, she added, “Seelengut with uncontrolled woging.”

  “Ah, Wesen hiccups,” Monroe said. “I hate when that happens.”

  Rosalee leaned in for a kiss. “And we’ll talk later. Okay?”

  “Right,” Monroe said. “Later.”

  But he hadn’t specified how much later.

  Cavendish eventually purchased an assortment of cooking spices, nothing unavailable in a regular grocery store. Maybe he appreciated the old world ambience of Rosalee’s spice shop. Nothing about the place—other than an electronic scale—would have looked out of place in the late nineteenth century.

  A few minutes later, a red-faced young Wesen man slipped into the shop, asking, “Is it ready?” as he hurried to the counter. Every ten seconds, he unwillingly woged into his Seelengut form, a process that would have looked like an extreme facial tic to humans. “She said it would be ready?”

  “You must be Ben Dolan,” Monroe said, handing him the bag with the ointment. As he rang up the sale, Monroe passed along Rosalee’s application instructions. “You should be fine in a day or two.”

  “Thank”—Ben woged; shifted back—“you!”

  The rest of the “lunch rush” produced a steady stream of light traffic, two or three people coming through the store at a time, but nothing Monroe couldn’t handle alone. He’d covered for Rosalee plenty of times in the past. And the familiarity of the routine allowed his mind to wander, and poke at the Decker dilemma.

  He’d told Decker that Pilates might not be the answer for him. And that was true, although he would’ve preferred to see his friend take another class or two before giving up. Of course, now that Decker was persona non grata at Portland Precision Pilates, they’d need to sign up at another studio. But knowing Decker’s impatience, Monroe dismissed that idea. No more Pilates. Fine. But there was more than one way to reform a Blutbad.

  Monroe picked up the phone and dialed Decker’s cell.

  “Hey, Decker,” Monroe said. “Yes, your old buddy, Monroe… I know, I know. But, like I told you, it’s a process… Right. I understand. But I had another idea if you’re willing… Okay, good. That’s the spirit! Now—have you ever tried t’ai chi?”

  * * *

  Nick and Hank had planned to meet Rebecca Miravalle at the dorm she’d shared with Marie Chang, until Rebecca told them Marie’s parents had removed her belongings three days ago and taken them back to Seattle. Instead, Nick drove through the Pearl District, two blocks east of Pacific Northwest College of Art to Jamison Square, which encompassed a full city block. Rebecca had told them to look for a frizzy redhead by the fountain.

  They passed a street vendor’s food cart—triggering an anticipatory rumble from Nick’s stomach—and followed the paved path angled to the center of the plaza. A steady s
tream of people strolled to and from the urban park’s main attraction, the interactive fountain where water spilled from rectangular slabs of basalt rock arranged in a rough row—a flattened V shape—of tiered steps. Water gradually filled the plaza in a shallow pool before draining away, only to refill again, in a continual cycle all day long.

  Parents watched as young children rushed into and out of the water, laughing and splashing each other. Some parents and teens waded in barefoot, pant cuffs rolled up. Others sat back in lawn chairs or lounged in picnic areas, enjoying an outdoor lunch break. At the far end of the fountain, a young man with sparse facial hair attempted Bob Dylan songs on an acoustic guitar plastered with decals.

  Nick pointed toward the near edge of the row of tiered steps.

  “There she is.”

  A redheaded girl wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat to shield her pale, freckled face from the sun, sat cross-legged on one of the stones set above the fountain level with a sketch pad propped up on her lap. Her attention alternated between the kids playing in the water and her drawing.

  Nick led the way around to the upper level, behind the row of tiered steps. Hank followed close behind on his crutches, giving the expanding pool of water a wide berth. Seemed like everywhere the case led them, Hank had to deal with treacherous terrain.

  Nick stopped a few feet from the redhead. Close enough to observe her talent with pencil art, but not so close that his sudden presence would startle her.

  She wore a distressed Nirvana t-shirt with jeans and Birkenstock sandals.

  “Rebecca Miravalle?” he asked.

  “Ah!” the young woman cried out as her pencil line sliced a sketched child’s ear.

  Looking up at them, she pressed her pencil hand atop her hat when a breeze fluttered the brim and threatened to dislodge it. She had an off-center lower lip ring and a small turquoise butterfly tattooed at the base of her neck, complete with a drawn shadow to give it a 3D effect.

  Nick’s hand dropped to the shield clipped to his belt.

  “Detectives Burkhardt and Griffin,” he said, nodding to Hank, who raised the gold shield which hung from the lanyard around his neck. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yeah, right, no prob,” she said, reflexively swiping a gum eraser over the errant line. “It’s cool. Just me, lost in my own little world. Big surprise.” She uncrossed her legs and hopped down off the stone. “Becky’s fine, by the way.”

  “As I said on the phone, we have a few questions about Marie Chang.”

  “Yeah, right, Ree,” Becky said. “You know, at first, I thought she flaked out on school.”

  “Was she under pressure?”

  “From school? I don’t know. Maybe. She was hyper-focused on her grades. Said a degree wasn’t enough anymore in this crappy economy. You had to stand out from the crowd. Make a name for yourself—a brand. She wanted people to ‘know the Marie Chang brand.’ She didn’t even know what that was yet, not really, but it’s all she talked about. She always said, ‘I need to excel, Becky. Mediocrity is not an option.’”

  “What about relationships?” Nick asked.

  “Not really,” Becky said. “She’d hang out in group settings, but never had time—never made time to date. She’d go on her long runs. Said it cleared her head.”

  “You said, at first you thought she left school…?”

  “For, like, a microsecond,” Becky said. “Thought maybe she dropped everything and went back home to Seattle. But the more I thought about it—I mean, who goes out for a run and leaves everything behind? Her money, her credit cards. I mean, willingly?”

  “Did her running follow a pattern?” Nick asked.

  “Daily,” Becky said, nodding. “But the times varied. Sometimes she’d run when she needed a break. Other times, she’d wait until after she’d finished everything.”

  “Did she know a man named Luis Posada?” Hank asked.

  “Luis—? No, not that I recall. Wait—what happened to Ree? You think she ran off with this Luis guy?”

  Nick looked at the children milling around and motioned her away from the fountain, closer to the row of trees backing it.

  “I’m sorry, Becky,” Nick began. “Marie’s remains were found yesterday, a few miles from here.”

  “Oh—oh, God!” The sketchpad slipped out of Becky’s hands, along with her pencil and eraser. She started to sit down, as if she still stood beside one of the fountain stones, and Nick caught her arm above her elbow to support her. “I thought maybe something… she was missing but…” She wiped at tears in the corners of her eyes. “How? An accident—or… it wasn’t—was it?”

  “We believe somebody murdered her,” Hank said, as gently as possible.

  “But—Marie? Why?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “How—how was she—?”

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss the details of the case,” Nick said.

  From what Captain Renard had told them, and what little of the case Nick had caught on the news, the press knew skeletal remains had been found at Claremont Park, but neither the condition of the bones nor the identities of the victims had been released. Nick had called Marie’s parents before seeking the meeting with Rebecca, while Hank had called Posada’s wife.

  “Did she suffer—much? Can you tell me that?”

  Hank shook his head sympathetically. “We don’t know.”

  “This Luis guy—? Did he—is he responsible?”

  “No,” Nick said quickly. “He’s not a suspect.”

  “Did Marie have any enemies?” Hank asked to change the topic. “Rivals? Maybe competing for the same awards or something?”

  “I don’t think so,” Becky said. “Nobody she ever mentioned. She wasn’t a social butterfly or anything, never attended any parties. She called those kinds of things distractions.”

  Becky looked down, attempting to regain her composure. She stared down at her sketch pad and pencil before crouching to pick them up, almost absent-mindedly.

  “Ree was quiet and focused. Never caused any problems. Not really. She might ask me to turn down my music when she was studying, but that’s… This is so awful, you know.” She pressed a hand to her mouth for a moment, trying to suppress a sudden sob. “Everything she worked so hard for, a name, a brand… and none of it matters anymore. Some creep took it all away from her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After a quick lunch purchased from the street vendor cart at Jamison Square and consumed in the confines of Nick’s Land Cruiser, the detectives headed across town to the Bell Cafe to interview Caitlin Stoop, who’d served Luis Posada his last meal and was quite possibly the last person—other than his killer—to see him alive.

  The cafe had a light breakfast and dinner crowd, with the bulk of its business coming through the doors between 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. While colorful chalkboard messages, flyers and menu inserts touted various breakfast and dinner specials in hopes of improving business at the bookends of the day, the cafe needed the midday crowd to stay afloat. Donna, the Bell Cafe manager, impressed this fact upon the detectives when she agreed to give Caitlin—one of her most efficient and affable servers—a ten-minute break ahead of schedule to answer their questions. Nick reminded her they were investigating a homicide, but promised not to take up much of Caitlin’s time.

  Donna motioned Caitlin over, and told her in a quiet voice to show the detectives to the back booth where staff took their breaks. Caitlin—a young woman with blond hair pinned up, wearing a white blouse with a small name-tag and black slacks—nodded to her supervisor and led Nick and Hank to the back of the restaurant. Once they’d sat down, Nick explained why they had come to question her.

  “I can’t believe Mr. Posada is really dead,” she said. “I mean, I knew him, saw him a couple times every week. Does his wife know?”

  “His family has been notified,” Hank said.

  She shook her head, somber. “I talked to the police a couple weeks back. Guess it w
as the day after he had lunch here that last time. I figured something was wrong, but I never suspected…”

  “What can you tell us about him?” Nick asked.

  Posada had been a regular at the cafe, and Caitlin had been his server on several occasions, often enough to pick up that he’d been a manager at Sanderson Landscaping. He’d worked his way up the ladder from part of a crew to a manager in a few years.

  “He would say ‘I shoveled my way to success so I appreciate honest work,’” Caitlin told them. “So he’d always leave a big tip. He was a gentleman. Always polite.”

  “He ate alone that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that unusual?” Hank asked.

  “He’d reserved a table for two, but said his lunch appointment cancelled,” she explained. “I didn’t question… but sometimes I got the feeling he wanted to eat alone and thought that might be weird or something?”

  “Did he seem nervous?” Nick asked. “Upset about anything?”

  “Said he was waiting to hear if they—his company, I mean—had won a bid on a big office campus job or something. Maybe it was a business park. Is there a difference? I don’t—anyway, I had the feeling it was a big deal for Sanderson, because of the size of the job. But that was just like him.”

  “How so?” Nick asked.

  “He was always thinking ahead to the next bid, the next big job,” she said. “That’s what motivated him. The next thing. The next challenge. Not what he’d accomplished yesterday. Like those investment commercials.”

  Nick and Hank exchanged a look.

  “You know—something about past performance doesn’t mean you’ll have that same success tomorrow. You know the ones I mean, right?”