Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  Aimee responded quickly, a blue bandanna tied Rosie-the-Riveter style around her head, a scrub brush in one yellow-gloved hand. I was almost surprised she heard me over the grunge rock pounding through the shop’s speakers.

  “Pepper, hi.” Her tone was light, forced.

  “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d check on you.” The odor of bleach stung my nostrils as I crossed the threshold and followed her into the shop.

  “They told me to hire a professional crime scene cleaner, but you know what retail margins are. Especially being closed for a few days, and losing business once word gets out.” She stepped behind the cash-wrap counter and turned down the music. Next to the counter stood a bucket and a pile of wet, pink-tinged rags.

  I’d thought murder would kill my business, too, when it happened on my doorstep. Not so, perversely. Not so. The regulars were concerned but not put off, and some of the looky-loos bought things.

  “These oak floors are old, but we refinished them before we opened and they’re cleaning up nicely. I don’t know what the landlord would say about bloodstains. I wonder if I should put down a throw rug.” She was rattling, understandably.

  “A rug will make people wonder. Plus it’s a trip hazard.” Who was “we”? Aimee was single, and I’d never heard mention of a business partner. What family she had I didn’t know, beyond vague mention of a brother. “Looks clean to me.”

  I glanced at her, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders collapsed inward. Our yoga teacher would be appalled.

  Actually, our yoga teacher embodies grace and kindness. It would do me good to channel her. Aimee tossed the scrub brush on to the rag pile and tugged off her gloves, then sank into a molded red Eames chair. I took its twin and studied her. Pale skin, dark circles under the eyes—all par for a terrible course.

  “You said she came in to unpack some new merchandise she’d found,” I prompted.

  She choked down a sob. “I’d hoped to get to yoga at noon, but I had to run out for—” One hand rose and her fingers scratched their way down her neck. “For an errand. The cops said there was nothing we could have done—she bled to death too quickly.”

  “You tried. You and Seetha, you did your best,” I said. So Joelle had her own keys.

  “I guess,” she said. “Poor Joelle. Can you imagine being stabbed? And they haven’t found the knife.”

  “Any idea what she was unpacking?”

  “No. She brought stuff in all the time—she had different sources than I did. All that’s hers, in the Asian room.” Aimee gestured toward a corner of the shop filled with Asian art and furniture. A saddle stool polished by time caught my eye. Chinese scrolls and Japanese prints hung on the wall.

  “Ahh,” I said. “Yes. Her style, not yours.” Aimee’s picks were the neon signs. The dress form with measuring tapes draped around its neck, tomato and strawberry pincushions tied to ribbons and slung around the waist like a fringed red skirt. The shelf unit displaying souvenirs from the 1962 World’s Fair.

  “No one loves just one style,” she said. “Part of being a designer is melding different styles. Carrying a mix gives our clients ideas, and tells them we can help bring their vision to life.”

  “When did she start here? Not when you opened. But you knew her for years.”

  “First of June. But yeah, we met at Pacific Imports. She wasn’t working, and she knew my year would run out fast. Her retail and design experience came in handy.”

  “Your year?” I was puzzled. “On your lease, you mean?” And why hadn’t Joelle been working?

  “No. To make a profit. Under the terms of Steen’s will.”

  Turned out that when Steen Jorgensen, who’d started Pacific Imports decades ago, died the day after Christmas past, his staff learned that the business was to be closed immediately, leaving them unemployed. The second surprise was a better one: His will left a bequest for any employee who started a furnishing or decor business and turned a profit within a year after his death. Two, Aimee and Brandon Logan, had been game.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Fifty thousand, but every penny’s got to go into the business. And another chunk at the end of the year.”

  A generous legacy from an old man with no family, or a bid for immortality? Or a bit of both.

  “Nice. So what’s the catch?” There’s always a catch. “Why did only two of you take the challenge?”

  “Because it sounds like more money than it really is. Startup costs are crazy. I thought for sure Joelle would open a design studio with Melissa Kwan, one of the other designers, but neither of them had any cash and they couldn’t get financing. Brandon and Jasmine were able to get a loan. I had some savings.”

  Aimee had brought Jasmine into the Spice Shop a few times. Melissa’s name didn’t sound familiar. “What happens if neither of you end the year in the black?”

  “I suppose the money goes to SAAM, along with the rest.” Seattle Asian Art Museum, not far from my childhood home. No wonder Joelle had chosen to throw in with the young protégée. The more she did to help Aimee succeed, the greater her own job security.

  “Did you tell the detectives about the will?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why would they care?”

  Because a murder in her shop made her a suspect and her personal life an open book, even if there was no obvious link between the money and Joelle’s murder.

  I shrugged off the question. “Well, you’ll make a profit by the deadline, won’t you?” Her shop was always busy when I’d popped in, and while the location might not be as trendy as, say, South Lake Union, home to Amazonia, it had the advantage of being in a mixed-use neighborhood, with restaurants and other shops nearby. Close to homes and parks, and plenty of weekend foot traffic.

  “You know how vulnerable a new business is. They say fifty percent fail in the first year.”

  “They say all kinds of garbage. When I bought the Spice Shop, I took a class for new business owners. Eighty percent of new businesses make it past the first year, and fifty percent last five years or more. The longer you keep going, the better the odds.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, palms together. “You are not a statistic. Your taste and style are what bring in the customers. Believe me, I know how awful this is, and how terrible you feel for Joelle. She wouldn’t want you to give up, not after all your hard work.”

  “No,” Aimee said slowly. “She wouldn’t. She always found a way to bounce back.”

  “Justin and I worked at the same law firm for years,” I said, “though I handled staff HR so our paths didn’t cross much. I never made the connection between him and Joelle. He must be devastated.”

  At that moment, we heard a knock at the door. Aimee sprung up to answer it.

  The spot on the floor was too shiny. People would notice. But not for long.

  At the sound of Seetha’s voice, I tucked my questions away. Time to get going.

  “I JUST need to grab some massage oil,” Seetha said a few minutes later, fumbling with her keys. “And some sheets. The yoga studio is letting me use a small room. Oh, and my portable table.”

  “Sit,” I told the dog, who’d waited so patiently.

  “What?” Seetha replied as the keys slipped from her hand and clattered on the floor. She threw up her hands. I couldn’t tell if she was about to scream or cry. Chill, I thought, but bit my tongue. Maybe I could rope her into a mediation session at the yoga studio.

  Ha. Listen to me—the woman who couldn’t meditate to save her life. If you listen to my mother, she says that’s exactly why I ought to do it.

  I picked up the keys, found the right one, and opened the door. “Need anything from your apartment?”

  She didn’t reply, busy grabbing bottles and jars.

  “Why don’t I pop in and check the fridge? You don’t want to come back to nasty smells.” She gave me a grateful look and disappeared into the studio.

  I unlocked her apartment door and headed for the kitchen. Found a shopping bag and tuc
ked in a few things from the fridge—a box of very ripe strawberries, an open bottle of Chardonnay, yogurt, and cream. Scanned the room, my gaze falling on a small brown teapot. Likely not an authentic Brown Betty from England— red clay with a rounded belly and a rich, dark brown glaze—but close enough for cuteness. And next to it lay the package of Mrs. Seetha’s Mother’s chai.

  Footsteps—one set female, one set canine—echoed in the outer hallway. I dropped the package in my tote and hoped Seetha didn’t notice.

  She entered, a canvas bag over one shoulder, a stack of sheets clutched to her chest.

  “Sit,” I said, this time to her. Too early for the Chardonnay, too hot for the chai. I filled two glasses with water and ice, and set a small bowl of water on the floor. Arf lapped it up. Seetha downed her water almost as quickly.

  I sat across from her and reached for her hand.

  “What if the bhuts come back, Pepper? I saw a woman die. I held her hand.”

  She’d been so calm when Aimee knocked on her studio door, so reassuring, that I’d fallen asleep on her massage table. But now . . . I tightened my grip, searching for the right words.

  “We better go,” she said, standing quickly. I picked up Arf’s leash and the portable massage table. The table wasn’t heavy, just awkward, and lugging it down the steps, turning at the landing, and maneuvering it through the two doors to the outside had me sweating.

  And that was before the heat of the day hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

  Outside, we passed the insurance agent’s office and the children’s clothing store. Passed Speziato, Edgar’s table now empty. Ten feet from the corner, Seetha stopped, arms full, attention fixed on the half dozen people moving toward the curb as the purple and yellow bus pulled in.

  One man, mid-thirties, in a T-shirt and hiking pants, stayed put. The other riders surged past him as he glared at Seetha.

  He took a step toward us, seemingly unaware of the bus, the small crowd, me standing next to her. Arf strained his leash and I tightened my grip. The man kept his burning stare on my friend.

  “Go back to Bombay,” he said. “We don’t need your kind here.”

  After one final gesture, he jumped on the bus, its hydraulic doors swooshing shut behind him, the engine humming as it sped away.

  Leaving my friend and me on the sidewalk, wiping his spit off our arms.

  Seven

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  —Hamlet, Act I, Scene 5

  HAD I EVER BEEN SO HAPPY TO SEE A POLICE OFFICER AS I was right then, when Detectives Tracy and Armstrong rounded the corner toward us?

  Not since the early years of my marriage.

  I snapped my head the other direction, to catch the number of the bus. Not that it made any difference. But investigating had taught me that details matter. Not that I was investigating anything.

  Yet.

  Tracy let out an exasperated sigh. “Two dozen homicide detectives in the city, and you keep showing up on my cases.”

  I rested the folded massage table against the wall outside the corner café. I don’t dislike Tracy, honestly. But from our first professional encounter, he’s treated me like a PITA. And he’s been a bit of a pain in my backside, too. But different cops draw the line between useful intel and amateur interference in different places. And I’d only recently learned the history between Tracy and Tag, whom he blamed for a case that went south, and that Tracy had allowed that history to taint his view of me.

  Tag claims half the people want the cops to fix everything in their lives, while the other half blame them for everything wrong in the world, and they never know which half is which until they’re in the thick of things. So, he says, some cops treat the badge as not just a shield but a weapon. They see everyone as the enemy, until proven otherwise.

  Now that I understood those things, I viewed Detective Tracy with a little more sympathy.

  But I missed Detective Spencer. And my internal jury was still out on Armstrong.

  “What’s up?” Armstrong’s gaze darted between Seetha and me. “Did something else happen?”

  “Yes,” I said as Seetha replied, “No. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. You have to tell them.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Let us decide,” Tracy said. “Anything out of the ordinary that happens near the scene of a violent crime could shed some light.”

  He gestured toward the café’s outdoor tables and pulled out a seat for Seetha, who struggled with the huge bag of sheets before finally resting it on the sidewalk. Armstrong ducked inside. I took the spot nearest the wall, Arf on alert beside me.

  A server emerged from the café with a pitcher of iced tea and four glasses, Armstrong behind her. After she poured and left, Tracy asked again what had happened.

  Seetha exhaled heavily, then relayed the man’s words in a remarkably matter-of-fact tone. A few feet away on Eastlake, a delivery truck gave out a diesel belch.

  “What did he look like?” Armstrong asked, notebook in hand. She described him in surprising detail. I added the bus number and the color of his pants—olive green. And then I knew where I’d seen him before.

  “How often does this happen?” Tracy asked. “This guy? Once or twice, at the bus stop,” she said. “Similar incidents? Every couple of months. After every terrorist attack, the creeps come out of the woodwork. When you look different, you get used to it.”

  I was horrified. But I could see that she had not shocked the detectives.

  “I think I saw him Monday afternoon on my way to Seetha’s,” I said. “Or a guy dressed like him, running for the bus.”

  “Could he have come running down the alley, from the vintage shop?” Armstrong asked.

  I closed my eyes briefly, trying to see where he had come from. Nothing. “Sorry.”

  “Past encounters,” Tracy said to Seetha. “Always at the same time? Spewing the same kind of garbage?”

  “Same garbage, yes, but not at the same time. If it always happened at two-fifteen, I wouldn’t be on the street at two-fifteen.”

  “So he lives or works around here,” Armstrong said. “But his schedule varies. You see him anywhere else?”

  “No. One time, he called me a thief. I said ‘Excuse me?’ And he said, ‘You dirty Muslims, you take our jobs and kill us.’” She reached for her tea. “We’re not Muslim, we’re Hindi, but he doesn’t know the difference. I’m just a foreigner to him. I was born and raised in Boston. I’ve never even been to Mumbai—it hasn’t been called Bombay in ages.”

  “Your parents immigrated?” Armstrong asked. “As students?”

  “My mom, from Delhi. Physics grad student. My dad was born in Boston, too. His parents immigrated from London in the early 1950s.”

  Tracy drained his iced tea and started to push back his chair. “Okay. We’ll follow up. It escalates, you call.”

  “Let us help you with those things,” Armstrong said. “Quite a load.”

  “You don’t need to move out, Ms. Sharma,” Tracy said, his brow furrowed. “We’ve released the crime scene.”

  “I—I don’t feel comfortable here at the moment,” she said. “If one of you could help us, that would be great. I’m scheduled to give a cranio-sacral treatment in less than an hour.”

  “Cranio-what?”

  “Cranio-sacral therapy. It’s a technique used to release deep tension in the body by adjusting the rhythm and flow of the cerebrospinal fluid pulsing around the brain and spinal cord,” she said. “And don’t roll your eyes, Detective. It was developed by a respected osteopathic physician, and I am fully trained and licensed.”

  “Might do you some good, Mike,” Armstrong said, and I couldn’t help smile.

  Tracy snorted and stood. We all did. While Tracy scuffled toward the crime scene a few doors down, Armstrong tossed the bag of sheets over one shoulder and picked up the massage table. I took one of Seetha’s
bags and the three of us—four, counting Arf—crossed the street to the yoga studio, stashed the stuff, and headed back.

  “How’d you get stuck with Officer Friendly?” I asked Detective Armstrong, now that I could walk and talk at the same time. Lugging up a sweat had not made the day any cooler.

  “I jumped at the chance to work with him. He’s got a great solve rate.”

  “Thanks in part to Pepper,” Seetha said. “So I hear.” We were passing Speziato now. “I’ve been hearing good things about this restaurant, too. Maybe we’ll give it a try this weekend.”

  “We,” meaning he was attached. I was curious. “I can vouch for their spices.”

  We reached Seetha’s building. Tracy stood in the middle of the courtyard, hands on his hips. “Nice of you to play moving crew,” he said to Armstrong, “but you do remember we’re here to execute a coupla search warrants?” Search warrants? For Aimee’s business and apartment?

  Armstrong ignored Tracy’s barb and kept his own train of thought on track. “Pepper, any chance returning to the scene of the crime is bringing back more details of what you heard?”

  “No, darn it. I’d just come from yoga and was eager for that massage.” True, but I’d also been thinking about my own shop, and about Nate, who was on my mind now, too. He was flying back to Alaska in a few days. The Flick Chicks were gathering at my place tonight, but if he came over late, we could catch a few hours together.

  Tracy grunted. “What is all this stuff, anyway?” He swept a hand at a row of statues of various sizes. The poses and finishes differed, but they were all the same figure.

  “Kuan Yin, the goddess of compassion,” Seetha said and for once, Detective Michael Tracy was silent. To my surprise, his face held a look of peace, almost reverence.

  It didn’t last long. “She got an obsession with them, or what? Ms. McGillvray.”