Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  “Ms. Sharma, I presume you’ll need to go upstairs to call your patients or clients or whatever they are. An officer will go with you to take your clothing into evidence.” He gestured toward the purple tank I’d admired earlier, deeply stained from her attempts to staunch the bleeding. “I’ll need to talk with you when I’m finished with Ms. McGillvray. You too, Pepper.”

  “Mind if I go upstairs with her? We can wait for you there.”

  “Just don’t talk about anything.”

  “Nothing? We should sit and stare at each other?”

  “You know what I mean. Talk about the weather. Everyone else is.”

  A CSU officer and I followed Seetha up to her quarters. She changed her clothes and deposited the once-beautiful purple tank into a clear plastic bag. The officer filled out a self-adhesive label with the date and source of the evidence, slapped it on the bag, and left.

  While Seetha cleaned up, I called my shop. My assistant manager takes Mondays off, but the new staff hired last spring had settled in well and I’d had no qualms taking a break. My main concern was Arf, my Airedale. Official Market policy prohibits dogs, but no one pays any attention. Heck, the Market Master carries treats in his pocket. Arf has a bed behind the front counter, and the staff take him out to pee when I’m not around. But he’s my baby.

  “He’ll be fine,” Kristen said over the line. A part-time employee, she and I have been besties since we were born and I trust her with my life and my dog. “If you’re not back by closing, I’ll take him home with me. The girls will be in heaven. But what about you? And Aimee and Seetha?”

  “They’re hanging in there.” At least, on the surface.

  I hung up just as Seetha returned, swathed in an oversized UMass sweatshirt that nearly reached her knees. The splash of blood was gone, her cheeks scrubbed nearly raw. She wrapped her arms around herself, huddling, as if the thick cotton could absorb all her fears.

  “Why do they need my shirt, Pepper? It’s ruined, but why?”

  I tossed my phone into my pink striped jute tote. “To make sure all the blood is Joelle’s, I guess.” And to search for anything inconsistent with the description of events she and Aimee had given. They were both suspects, crazy as that sounded, until they weren’t.

  Jaw clenched, she shuddered. “I’m freezing.”

  Strangely, so was I. From shock, no doubt. I followed her into the kitchen, where she brewed spiced black tea in a dented pan on an ancient white stove and slowly added hot milk. The scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the air.

  “This is good,” I said a few minutes later as we sipped the fragrant chai at her kitchen table. “Soothing.” Sugar and spice, balm for the troubled soul.

  Seetha’s eyes were bright and damp, and she was shivering despite the sweatshirt. Sudden, violent death rattles the bones and the soul.

  “Pepper, who could have done this? Why Joelle? And what do I do? I can’t stay here.”

  I had no answers. The responding officers had cleared the building, so we knew the killer was gone. Seetha had no relatives in Seattle, no boyfriend, and as far as I knew, no close friends beyond the Flick Chicks.

  But she did have a powerful fear of the Indian ghosts known as bhuts. She’d told us about them last spring, after Laurel and I stumbled into a murder mystery that involved the owner of a well-known South Asian restaurant, a man Seetha knew. She had a long history with the ghosts, who seemed to haunt her whenever death touched her. They dressed in white, floated, and typically faced backward, though, as I had discovered, there were variations. More disquieting than malevolent, her ghosts had vanished when the killer was caught, but I knew she feared their return.

  She cradled her chipped white cup, eyes on her tea as if reading the leaves through the liquid, her sleek, dark hair falling across her face.

  “There was so much blood.”

  “You were kind and brave to help her,” I said. “To comfort her as her spirit left this world.”

  “She must have been stabbed right in the heart.” Seetha made a fist and mimed the killer’s motion. A single strike. Had the killer known where to aim, or gotten lucky? So to speak.

  “This chai is terrific,” I said, thinking we needed a change of subject. “Where do you get it?”

  “Umm. My mother sends me a package every month. She was born in India, you know, and she swears no one can make it like she can.”

  “I’d like to try. Don’t suppose she’d share the recipe?”

  Seetha’s lips curved in a humorless smile. “In your dreams.”

  The intercom let us know the detectives were ready to see us. Seetha buzzed them in.

  “What do I say, Pepper?” Like a lot of people who’d never dealt with the police, she knew them only from movies and TV, where the dialogue is sharp and polished, every question designed to dig up dirt while sowing a touch of fear. As I knew from thirteen years of marriage, real-life cop-talk isn’t nearly so clever.

  “Tell them what you heard and saw, and what you did. Don’t leave anything out.” I set my cup in the sink.

  The detectives arrived and Tracy took a seat at Seetha’s kitchen table, while Armstrong and I retreated to the living room.

  Clearly, Seetha had devoted her meager decorating budget to the massage studio—her private space was as bare as a new graduate’s first apartment. A single brass floor lamp stood in the corner. Nothing hung on the walls. Seetha always insisted her place was too small for the Flick Chicks. But we meet once a month on Laurel’s houseboat. Size was not the problem.

  The worn, three-cushion couch was too low for Detective Armstrong, and his legs bent like a grasshopper’s, knees in the air. I sat in a chintz-covered armchair. He took me through the afternoon with clear, crisp questions, his one visible reaction a frown when I mentioned the raised voices.

  “And you have no idea who it was, or what they were arguing about?”

  “Sorry. I only knew Joelle to say hello and chat a bit. I do remember her wearing big diamonds.” I tugged on the small silver hoop in my own earlobe. “And a tennis bracelet. If she wasn’t wearing those . . .”

  “No jewelry,” he said. “Though whether robbery was the purpose of the murder or an afterthought is anybody’s guess. The cash drawer was empty, but Ms. McGillvray says that’s because they were closed.”

  “Sounds right. I lock our cash away every night and put it out in the morning.”

  A few minutes later, Armstrong closed his notebook, interview over. “CSU will take your fingerprints. Don’t worry—it’s just for elimination. And no mess—it’s inkless.”

  I understood—I’d been through this routine before. “Detective, has the knife been recovered? And can I ask, what’s going on with Detective Spencer? Tracy said medical leave.”

  “No knife. Not yet,” he said, standing. “Detective Spencer had surgery. I don’t know the details, except that she’s recovering at home, and doing well. I heard you two were friendly—I’ll let her know you asked.”

  It’s always a bit disconcerting when someone you’ve just met knows more about you than you know about them. Like the Market folks, the cops have their own community and their own grapevine, and as the ex-wife of one of their number, and a witness to some crazy doings, I’d obviously been the subject of talk.

  “And I’ll need your contact info,” he continued.

  I rummaged in my tote and handed him a card, square with rounded corners, deets on back, the front side a gorgeous close-up of onions and bell peppers, sprigs of parsley, and prep bowls filled with colorful spices. We have a killer graphic designer.

  “Nice,” was all he said.

  Seetha and Tracy were still in the kitchen, and Armstrong walked me out. Though I’m five-seven and on the slender side, I felt like a shrimp next to the tall detective. A messy shrimp to boot— my skin sticky with massage oil, my dark hair spikier than usual. But he was too polite, and professional, to say a thing.

  Outside, a uniformed officer spoke to Armstrong. “CSU’s pac
king up the victim’s personal things—her purse, the box she’d been unpacking.”

  “Good,” he said, then shook my hand and thanked me for my cooperation.

  On the sidewalk, I paused. Though I couldn’t put my friends’ lives back together, I could help Seetha solve her immediate needs for space. I dug out my phone and called Laurel, who said she’d call Seetha right now and invite her to stay for a few days. Then I texted my yoga teacher, explained what had happened, and asked if she had space Seetha could use until all this was over.

  Until she could breathe easily in her own home. Until the ghosts she feared would haunt her vanished once again.

  Three

  “This market is yours. . . . It is here to stay and there is no influence, no power, no combination and no set of either political or commercial grafters that will destroy it.”

  —Seattle city councilman Thomas Revelle, dedicating Pike Place Market on November 30, 1907

  I CAN’t REMEMBER A TIME WHEN I WASN’T IN LOVE WITH THE Market. Voters saved it from the wrecking ball a year or two before I was born, and my parents brought my younger brother and me here to shop every weekend. These days, not so many people depend on the Market for their daily ration—neighborhood grocery stores have come a long way. But it’s my bread and butter.

  It’s also my neighborhood. My loft is only a few blocks away in a converted warehouse with parking on the lower level, so I leave my car there and drive the Market’s crowded, cobbled streets only when I need to make a pickup or drop-off at the shop.

  I stashed the Saab in the garage and headed up the hill toward the Market. My parents had reclaimed my dad’s ’67 Mustang when they returned to Seattle for the summer, and Mom was still driving it now that Dad had gone back to Costa Rica. That left me with the ancient Saab Tag that I bought ages ago. Driving in Seattle is a nightmare and parking worse, but with all the deliveries and errands I need to run for the shop, four wheels are a must.

  Tomorrow was movie night, at my place. At the top of the Market steps, I spied a pile of blushing red and yellow Rainiers, my favorite cherries, at my favorite fruit stand. What could I do with them? The simple answer was nothing—dump them in a bowl and pass it around. No one ever says no.

  I slowed to let a tour group clogging the sidewalk near the Asian highstall pass by me, and felt a nip at my ankles. I squealed and the old lady perched on the stool beside the entrance cackled, her gnarled hand gripping the wooden handle of a paper dragon on a string.

  The brass bells hanging inside the Spice Shop’s front door sang out their pretty melody as I entered. When my life fell apart—when I found my husband with another woman, left him, bought the loft, and lost my job managing staff HR for a mega law firm, all a few months after turning forty—I never expected to find solace in bay leaves. But the Spice Shop had always been a happy place in the warren of happy places that is the Market, and when I heard it was for sale, it was destiny manifest.

  My name is Pepper, after all. Even if that isn’t what my driver’s license says.

  And seeing those shelves lined with jars of richly colored herbs and spices—well, the sight makes me glow.

  At the moment, though, the shop was shy of customers. The lulls terrified me when I bought the place nearly two years ago. But I’ve learned to trust that every day has its rhythms.

  And the respite would give me a chance to tell my staff what had happened. I don’t draw a lot of lines between my work and personal life—these days, the experts have tossed work-life balance and tout work-life integration—so they all knew Seetha.

  After a quick change of clothes, I poured myself a frosty cup of our spice tea and settled into the mixing nook, an elevated booth in the back corner, my fingers working Arf’s floppy, furry ears.

  “Poor Joelle,” Kristen said. She’d tied back her blond hair with a red-and-white dotted ribbon. “After all her husband put her through. And now this.”

  “What? You knew her? Who’s her husband?” I said, my tea halfway to my mouth.

  “Justin Chapman.”

  I lowered the cup. “You’re kidding.”

  “Who, pray tell, is Justin Chapman?” Cayenne said. My only black employee, I’d have hired her for the name alone when she applied for the job last spring. Her culinary training made up for her lack of retail experience, and she’d become a genuine asset.

  “The lawyer who helped bring down the biggest law firm in the city.” Front-page news for weeks. The first shocker had been court sanctions—the largest ever levied by a Washington state court—for helping a pharmaceutical company he represented cover up key evidence against them in a personal injury lawsuit. I’d never heard all the details, because shortly after Chapman’s wrongdoing had come to light, the firm lost a huge malpractice case, and then discovered that its long-time bookkeeper had been bleeding them dry. As an assistant HR manager working with the staff, I was as shocked as everyone else. I’d loved my job and my bosses, and had no idea what was going on. Practically overnight, the partnership voted to dissolve, though they’d kept me on to help the secretaries and legal assistants find new jobs. Not hard, with two hundred lawyers forming new firms. I’d turned down several offers myself.

  “Wow,” Cayenne said when I finished the recap. “That’s seriously messed up. And he wasn’t disbarred?”

  “Surprisingly, no. I guess he’d had a clean record until then. The client took the brunt of the heat,” I replied, then asked Kristen, “How did you know her?”

  “Met her at a party when Justin was in good graces. They had a fabulous house overlooking Lake Washington—modern, Asian, extremely tasteful. Sold now, of course. His daughter—Joelle’s stepdaughter—babysat the girls a few times.”

  “Joelle was a second wife?” I asked. Justin was in his early fifties, but in good shape, with a youthful appearance. On TV, first wives are always suspects. But then, so are husbands. “What about Number One?”

  “Oh, they were divorced ages ago. Long before he met Joelle,” Kristen said. “No jealousy there, I’m sure. I heard he hung his own shingle, but who would go to him when the city is crawling with honest lawyers?”

  “So, wait. Why was she working for Aimee?” Cayenne asked, eyes wide behind her trendy fake eyelashes, her smooth, dark cheekbones glistening. “And why was she killed?”

  A robbery gone wrong? A struggle with person or persons unknown? Before I could respond, the door opened and two couples entered.

  “Nice and cool in here,” one of the men said.

  His wife took a sniff. “Smells heavenly.”

  “Try our spice tea.” Kristen handed out sample cups. “It’s our own blend. Perfect in this heat.” Tourists don’t buy many bulk spices, but they do buy tea, boxed sets, and seasonal spice blends.

  I’d been mulling over spice blends on the drive back to work, to keep from thinking of my friends covered in blood and a woman I’d known dead on the vintage shop floor.

  My assistant manager, Sandra, is a genius with spices. She and I create the blends, whipping up batches in a commercial kitchen we rent in the industrial district. Cayenne had begun helping us create recipes to showcase them.

  We’d mixed up enough Fire Rub for grilling to last a lifetime, and the just-short-of-acrid smell of smoked peppers clung to my nose hairs. Our summer blends are wonderful—our customers can’t get enough of our classic Italian or our herbes de Provence. But new is always good. And despite the heat, I was thinking ahead to drizzle season.

  “To your bed, Arf,” I said, and the stately Airedale crawled out from under the table in the nook and trotted out of sight. I studied the giant world map that hangs by the front door. Pins show the sources of our goods, while the map covers a crack in the plaster that Market maintenance crews could never get to stay fixed.

  “Time to conjure up our fall and winter blends.”

  “Winter?” Matt said from behind the counter. “Are you nuts? It’s ninety-five degrees out.”

  “You’ll be dodging raindrops be
fore you know it,” I said. “It will take us a few weeks to create two or three blends, then order ingredients and containers while we work with our designer on labels.” Matt was a master salesman who’d discovered a passion for working retail as a teenager, and male salesclerks his age— mid-thirties—are scarce. But when it came to food and spice, he had a lot to learn.

  “We’ll need sample recipes,” Cayenne added. She pushed the restocking cart over to the wall o’spice and picked up a gallon jar of tarragon, searching for the empty spot. The jar slipped out of her hands and hit the floor with a thud. “Cra—” she started, then stopped herself. “Crackers!”

  “Hey. You okay?” I put a hand on her shoulder.

  This wasn’t the first time lately that Cayenne had dropped something, as my sore shoulder attested. I wondered if I should be worried. But spills and breaks are part of the business. We all go through clumsy spells, from sleeplessness, distraction, even new hand cream.

  “Be right back,” she said, and skittered away.

  I tucked the tarragon into its spot, glad the thick glass jar hadn’t broken. Kristen had finished with her customers and now stood beside the cookbook shelves. We watched Cayenne disappear through the squeaky door leading to my tiny office and our tiny restroom.

  “Pregnant?” I asked. Cayenne was nearing thirty, happily married to a man who worked in one of Seattle’s many tech startups.

  “That doesn’t make you fumble-figured,” Kristen replied, her brow furrowed. “Well, it can. And teary, for sure. She isn’t showing and she hasn’t said a word.”

  Knowing when to ask questions and when to keep your mouth shut is a fine art in HR, no less in a retail shop with five employees than in a law firm with more than a hundred staffers. I hoped the problem, whatever it was, would resolve itself before I was forced to intervene.

  “I’m thinking chai spices,” I said, turning back to business. Though we carry our own tea, I’ve never wanted to pretend we’re a tea shop. But spice are us. “Seetha’s mother sends her a terrific blend. We’ve never offered one—maybe now’s the time.”