Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  Chai Another Day

  Spice Shop Mysteries

  ASSAULT AND PEPPER

  GUILTY AS CINNAMON

  KILLING THYME

  Chai Another Day

  A SPICE SHOP MYSTERY

  BY LESLIE BUDEWITZ

  Published 2019 by Seventh Street Books®

  Chai Another Day. Copyright © 2019 by Leslie Budewitz. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover images © Shutterstock, iStock

  Cover design by Jennifer Do

  Cover design © Start Science Fiction

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Start Science Fiction

  101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-63388-536-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-63388-537-0 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  In memory of

  Alice Margaret Budewitz

  1925–2018

  This is what happens when you feed a child books.

  Sugar and Spice

  Who’s Who In Pepper’s World

  THE SEATTLE SPICE SHOP STAFF

  Pepper Reece—Mistress of Spice

  Sandra Piniella—assistant manager and mix master

  Reed Locke—salesclerk, a child of the Market

  Cayenne Cooper—salesclerk with great promise

  Matt Kemp—salesclerk, career retail hand

  Arf the Dog

  THE FLICK CHICKS AND OTHER FRIENDS

  Pepper—more on her mind than movies

  Kristen Gardiner—Pepper’s BFF

  Laurel Halloran—restaurateur and widowed empty nester

  Seetha Sharma—engineer turned massage therapist

  FAMILY AND FRIENDS

  Lena Reece—Pepper’s house-hunting mom

  Nate Seward—Is the fisherman a reel catch?

  Glenn Abbott—city councilman and taste-tester

  Vinny Delgado—wine merchant

  THE PACIFIC IMPORTS CREW

  Joelle Chapman—designer extraordinaire

  Justin Chapman—her husband, disgraced lawyer

  Aimee McGillvray—runs Rainy Day Vintage

  Tony McGillvray—her brother

  Brandon and Jasmine Logan—furniture makers

  Melissa Kwan—the woman in black

  LAW ENFORCEMENT

  Tag Buhner—Pepper’s ex, on the bike patrol

  Detective Michael Tracy—homicide

  Detective Shawn Armstrong—homicide

  One

  “Food is a conversation.”

  —Jacques pepin

  ONLY A CERTIFIED NUT CASE WOULD TAKE A YOGA CLASS AT noon then head for a massage on a day hotter than a freshly pulled shot of espresso. That goes double in Seattle, where only the newest and grooviest of buildings boast A/C. Used to be, a hot August day meant seventy-five degrees, maybe eighty, with visitors smiling and natives melting. Walking down Eastlake Avenue, I should have felt a cool breeze rolling up from Lake Union, a few blocks away. But no. The day was so still the only waft of air I caught was tinged with exhaust from the delivery van idling on the side street.

  Welcome to the new Seattle, where climate is the only thing changing faster than the city’s skyline.

  Between running my spice shop in the Pike Place Market during the height of tourist season and keeping up with my mother, who’d returned to the city for the summer, life was full. Throw a new relationship into the mix and I was happier than the clams at the fish counter in the Market. Though they were on ice, which at the moment gave them the advantage.

  Happy, but tired. I’d probably fall asleep on Seetha’s massage table.

  The light changed and I stepped into the street. On Eastlake, a bus pulled into the stop with an electric swish, and passengers streamed off. A white guy in olive cargo pants sprinted up the hill and jumped on board moments before the bus drove off. I passed the corner café, a restaurant called Speziato—Italian for spicy— and a handful of other shops and businesses.

  Halfway down the block stood my destination, a two-story red brick building with the year 1928 carved into a sandstone block beside the front door. The building sat back from the sidewalk about ten feet, creating a delightful space—half alcove, half courtyard—bounded by the neighboring structures on the north and south, and a low stone wall streetside. Rainy Day Vintage, one of my favorite places, occupied the first floor. Seetha lived and worked her massage magic upstairs.

  I felt a fairy godmother’s pride, having suggested the vacant retail space when Aimee McGillvray said she was on the hunt. We’d met when she worked in a sprawling treasure trove of international antiques and imports, where I’d found some of the furniture for my loft. She’d become a Spice Shop customer and occasional yoga classmate, and opened this place last spring. A great fit, if I do say so myself.

  Aimee had converted the courtyard into a peaceful city retreat that invited lingering. Teak and iron chairs surrounded a mosaic-topped table, shaded by a striped beach umbrella. A colorful stack of ceramic planters filled the corner. Basil, parsley, and elegantly clownish nasturtiums in orange, red, and yellow thrived in window boxes. The neon sign in the window was off. Too bad. Aimee’s neon collection is to die for.

  A dog welded from discarded car parts and tools stood guard, his ears the business ends of well-aged trowels. I gave him a quick pat on the sprinkler head and pushed open the outer door. Inside the tiny vestibule, the door on the left led to the shop while a locked door on the right led to the apartments above. I punched the intercom for the apartments and grabbed the knob. Voices snared my attention, and I cocked my head, listening.

  A handful of words seeped through the closed shop door. “Don’t you tell me—”

  The buzzer sounded before I could find out what the speaker didn’t want to hear, and I jerked the door open. The reply was equally angry, but undecipherable. Aimee? I honestly couldn’t recognize the speaker, or tell if the other person was male or female.

  But it was none of my business, and my left shoulder ached for the ministrations of my waiting friend, so I closed the door behind me and trotted up the stairs.

  Seetha waved me in to her sanctuary with a graceful sweep of the arm. Her royal purple tank top and cotton drawstring shorts were perfect for the day, much better than my sticky T-shirt and knee-length yoga pants. The earthy tang of Nag Champa incense hung in the air.

  “You cut your hair,” I said. “It looks great.”

  “I went to your stylist.” She raked her fingers through the black chin-length bob. “She said she’d lost track of how many women with long hair had come in saying, ‘Cut it all off.’ I thought Seattle summers were supposed to be cool. But at least they’re not humid, like Boston.”

  “Oh, I forgot—this is your first full summer here.” I dropped my tote and yoga mat on the floor, and toed off my flip-flops. “I wish I could say it’s never like this, but the times, they are a changin’.”

  Seetha rents two of the three second-floor apartments, the one-bedroom in b
ack where she lives and the studio up front where she works. Aimee had recently taken over the two-bedroom on the other side.

  “Sing out when you’re ready.” She stepped behind the rice paper screen and I heard her washing her hands in the kitchen sink. A striking photo of a birch grove in full leaf hung on one dove gray wall, a poster of the seven chakras on another. I nodded toward the Kuan Yin statue in the corner and paused to inhale the tranquility of the space. Then I peeled off my sweaty yoga togs and slipped between the silky-soft bamboo sheets on the massage table. Either the argument downstairs had ended or the floors of the old brick building were thick enough to muffle the sound. I called to Seetha, closed my eyes, and let my breath begin to slow.

  Seetha padded into the room and switched on soft music. I’m not big on soft music, except in certain circumstances, but this was one of them. Tuneless, drumless, meant to mellow the mind without engaging it.

  My pal Laurel met Seetha shortly after she moved here, when one of her catering clients suggested Seetha for a massage. They hit it off and Laurel invited her to join our Tuesday night Flick Chicks confab for movies and girl-time. Both the yoga and bodywork were part of my mother’s self-care recommendations, now that I was closer to forty-five than forty.

  “Tell me what’s going on with your body,” Seetha said now.

  I described the ache in my shoulder, the result of catching a box of spice jars when one of my employees stumbled, and a few twinges from busy days and too much time on my feet. She folded back the sheet and laid one oiled hand between my shoulder blades.

  Simple magic. With each stroke of her hands across my upper back, I drifted deeper and deeper into an other-worldly state, half awake, half asleep, and completely content.

  She’d just started on my left trapezius when heavy steps pounding up the stairs broke my trance. A loud knock on the studio door followed, long and insistent.

  “Back in a sec,” Seetha said. I heard her cross the room and step into the hall. As earlier, the words were indistinct, but the urgency was clear. And the visitor was definitely female.

  Then Seetha was back. “Pepper, there’s a medical emergency downstairs. I’m going down to help until the EMTs arrive.” She sounded anxious, though I could tell she didn’t want to worry me.

  “Aimee?” I said, sitting up in alarm. Her shop had been dark when I arrived—unlike me, she closed on Mondays. The clock across the room read twenty minutes after one.

  “She’s fine. You rest. I’ll be back before you know it.” The door snicked shut behind her. Lying quietly was not my specialty, but it would do me good.

  I woke with a start and that realization that you’ve fallen asleep without intending to. A sleep so deep I’d only vaguely heard sirens, and thought them distant, not right outside. The clock read one-fifty. No sign of Seetha. A sense of dread snaked across my skin and into my brain. Clearly, the problem was serious after all.

  I sat up slowly and swung my legs off the table, giving blood and brain a moment to adjust. The sole window faced the street, so I pulled on my top and yoga pants and parted the blinds to peer out. A red-and-white ambulance blocked the near lane of traffic, its flashers off.

  My elbow struck a wind chime hanging from the window frame, and the sudden ringing startled me.

  Tote and mat in hand, I tiptoed downstairs. I’ve dealt with customer emergencies myself—fainting spells from the heat or low blood sugar, and in one terrifying instance, a heart attack. Thank goodness Market security and Medic One responded in no time and the man survived. I didn’t want to get in the way—I just wanted to let Seetha know I was leaving and would see her tomorrow at movie night.

  A box of medical gear propped open the door to the vintage shop. I heard none of the usual beep and clatter of industrious EMTs intent on their jobs. The silence scared me.

  Out in the courtyard, Aimee sat with her elbows on the table, hands clutching the top of her head. Seetha sat beside her, one hand on Aimee’s back. Despite the shadow from the beach umbrella, I could see the horror on Seetha’s face.

  And the blood.

  Two

  In the western world, chai has come to mean a milky black or green tea redolent with spice, but in many regions of India, “chai” simply means tea or tea with milk and sugar.

  “PEPPER REECE. NOT YOU AGAIN.”

  The familiar voice cut through the overheated air. I set the tray of water glasses and pitcher I’d fetched from Seetha’s apartment on the table and acknowledged the compact black man in a camel hair jacket stepping over the crime scene tape that separated the courtyard from the street.

  “Detective Tracy. Hello. Good to see you on the case.”

  He grunted. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you found another body.”

  Aimee gasped, her light brown eyes wide. “I—I found her. Joelle, I mean. I can’t believe . . .” Blood spatter covered the bodice of her sleeveless dress, a tropical print that could have been new or vintage.

  Michael Tracy and I had encountered each other several times in the past year, always over murder. I’d proven myself a useful observer and uncovered critical facts, but he hadn’t fully dropped his skepticism of me, and I didn’t blame him. The odds against the same spice shop owner repeatedly turning up at the scene of violent crime had to be astronomical.

  “Detective,” I said, slipping into one of the teak and iron chairs, “this is Aimee McGillvray, owner of Rainy Day Vintage. And Seetha Sharma, my friend and massage therapist. They each have an apartment upstairs.”

  “Nice commute,” Tracy interjected. “Aimee found her employee bleeding on the shop floor and called 911, then ran up to get Seetha, who was working on me. We told all this to the patrol officer.” I gestured toward the uniformed man standing a few feet away.

  “Tell me,” Tracy said. “She was still alive when I got to her,” Seetha said, “and I did CPR. But it was too late.”

  Tracy glanced at Aimee, who confirmed our summary with a nod, he grunted. Tracy grunts a lot.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “My partner, Detective Armstrong.”

  I’d never met the rail-thin Armstrong, though I’d heard his name from Tag, my ex, a cop who rides the downtown bicycle beat and swings through the Market regularly. But what had happened to Tracy’s long-time partner, Detective Spencer? I liked her; she was a good balance for the grumpy but effective Tracy. (And yes, they’ve heard the jokes and no, they don’t think they’re funny.)

  Tracy read the question on my face. “Spencer’s on medical leave. She’ll be back in a few weeks. You three stay put.” The two men headed into the shop, Armstrong ducking to avoid the door-frame. He was easily six-five, and funky old buildings like this don’t measure up to modern codes.

  I poured Aimee a glass of water and she drank long and hard, choking on the last swallow.

  “I can’t believe she’s dead,” she said a moment later, her voice unsteady. “Who could do this?”

  “Shhh,” Seetha said, but I knew how it felt to find a body. There aren’t enough soothing words in the world to ease the shock.

  “What happened?” I said. “Why are you here? Aren’t you closed on Mondays?”

  “Yes, but there’s always paperwork. And then, I—I had to step out. When I came back . . .” Aimee broke off, then collected herself. “They’re saying she was stabbed. Ohmygod, Joelle . . .”

  “Did they find the knife? How did the attacker get in?”

  “I didn’t see it. She’d been bringing in a few boxes of merchandise. That’s her car.” She pointed at an older blue Camry parked on Eastlake, the rear passenger door open. The patrol officer kept a watchful eye on the car and us. Not what I would have expected Joelle to drive, considering all the diamonds I remembered her wearing, and her bright, expensive-looking clothing. “She probably left the door unlocked while she was unloading. Pepper, do you have your phone? I need to call her husband.”

  “Let the police do that,” I said. “You can touch base with him late
r.”

  She shook her head, in disbelief rather than disagreement. “Who would want to kill her?”

  Tracy returned as she was speaking and took the fourth chair.

  Through the window, I saw Armstrong standing in the shop, head bent. Looking at Joelle. “The body,” in cop speak. I shivered.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Tracy said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Tell me about her.”

  “Her name is—was—Joelle Chapman. We used to work together at Pacific Imports, a big sales and design studio.”

  “How old a woman?” he asked. “And how long have you had this place?”

  “Forty-eight,” Aimee said, and I cringed inside. Only five years older than me. Too young to die. Aimee continued. “Our boss died the day after Christmas—he was nearly ninety—and his business closed, so I opened my own place in March. We specialize in modern and vintage housewares, furniture, and decor. Joelle started here a couple of months ago.”

  Tracy frowned. “I don’t know much about furniture, but yours doesn’t look particularly modern to me.”

  “Common misconception, Detective,” Aimee said. “In design, modern doesn’t mean new. It refers to a style popular in the 1950s and ’60s. A sleek, simplified style.”

  Back when the import company was a going concern, I’d had the impression Joelle specialized in Asian pieces, the older and more valuable, the better. Not Aimee’s stock in trade.

  “And you didn’t see or hear anything?” Tracy reached for the pitcher and an empty glass.

  “Excuse me, Detective,” Seetha said. “I’ve got a client coming and—”

  “Cancel your appointments for the day, Ms. Sharma. I noticed that the rear entrance to this building is also a shared entrance. Both will be off-limits until CSU finishes their work.”

  As if on cue, two vans pulled up on Eastlake, a van from the King County Medical Examiner’s office and a black CSU mobile office. Detective Tracy conferred with the new arrivals, pointed out Joelle’s car, then rejoined us.