Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  “She bought a collection,” I said. The goddess called to me, but even the smaller statues were too big for my tiny deck, and too heavy to lug up the ladder to the mezzanine. “She buys collections and resells them, in whole or in part.”

  “Hmph,” Tracy said, or something like that. “Thank you, Detective,” Seetha said to Armstrong. “We can manage the rest.”

  “That shouter comes near you, steer clear,” he replied. “And if he says one word, you let us know.” Then he followed his partner into the vintage shop, ducking as he crossed the threshold.

  Upstairs, I watched Seetha dump her incense gadgets and her iPod and speaker into a small basket, before marching back to her apartment for one more forgotten thing.

  I sat on the top step to wait, Arf beside me, and pondered the murder weapon. I had never seen so much as a kitchen knife in Rainy Day Vintage, let alone a deadly blade.

  Although, as I well knew, you could kill with almost anything, if you really wanted to.

  If the killer didn’t find the weapon here, he or she must have brought it with him. Or her. Unless he—let’s say he; it’s easier, and more likely—grabbed a knife from a box Joelle had brought in. Or a knife she’d been using to open a sealed carton. Aimee hadn’t known what kind of merchandise she’d been bringing in, presumably items she thought they could sell on consignment. Were there records, or had Joelle not gotten to that point?

  Did she have time to think, or had it been a surprise attack? If one of the voices I’d heard was hers, she hadn’t lain there long before Aimee found her.

  In the back of my brain, a medieval chant started up. Usually, I find the sounds reassuring, a reminder of childhood visits with my mother to St. James Cathedral, where we sat on the steps and listened to the heavenly hosts and earthly choirs sing alleluia. This time, though, the strains sounded like a challenge. To do as my spirit guide, Brother Cadfael, would do: comfort my friends and find a killer.

  Seetha set another bulging bag on the floor. “Maybe we shouldn’t have dismissed the help after all,” I said. She rolled her eyes, but in good humor. “Thank you, Pepper. I couldn’t do this without you.”

  “You’re welcome. Going back to the guy on the bus. I get it. I have the privilege of being shocked, because those incidents don’t happen to me. But you can’t ignore it.”

  “That’s exactly what I have to do. Because I can’t change it. And if I let it upset me, they win.”

  “But it shouldn’t happen.”

  “All kinds of stuff shouldn’t happen, Pepper. Aimee shouldn’t be worried about losing her business, or anxious about her brother. Joelle shouldn’t be dead.” She picked up the bag, then her eyes went round and she set it back down. “What if . . .”

  I understood in a flash what was too awful for her to say. “No. No, Seetha. If he followed her into the shop, thinking she was you, he’d have known his mistake the moment he saw her face.”

  The last time I’d seen Joelle, a few weeks ago, she’d worn her nearly black hair in a bob similar to Seetha’s. If you glimpsed them from behind, you might confuse them—petite women who favored flowing tunics in bright colors over slim pants, like the outfit Seetha wore today. But they were a good fifteen years apart and Seetha’s skin a darker olive.

  “And unless he’s a martial artist or a butcher, the most he would have carried was a pocketknife. Tag always says you have to be trained or lucky to kill with a pocketknife, because the blade is so small. It wasn’t him, and she wasn’t supposed to be you.”

  Part of her theory wasn’t impossible. Joelle had been unloading a car; she could easily have been walking in and out right when the bus stop scumbag happened by. But the rest . . .

  “Besides,” I continued, “if he thought he’d killed you, he wouldn’t have yelled what he did. He’d have thought you were a ghost, or freaked out and run away.”

  Though her breath didn’t slow, the terror in her eyes began to fade.

  “I hope you’re right, Pepper. But if he did become violent, if her death had anything to do with me . . .”

  I knew how she felt. It wasn’t logical and it couldn’t be explained away.

  That sense of connection, of responsibility, is one of the things I love in my friends. And it’s what keeps me sticking my nose where Detective Tracy thinks it doesn’t belong.

  I PARKED at my place and took the public elevator to the Market. The moment the doors closed, I started texting Nate, Arf’s leash looped over my wrist. “Flick Chicks tonight, my place. Come over around nine-thirty?”

  “You bet. Tomorrow, gotta fix that fuel pump and finish the net winder repair. Season will change before we know it.”

  He meant the fishing season, not the weather, but the elevator had an unexpected advantage: It was cool.

  I signed off as the doors opened on the main level and a wave of sweaty tourists surged in. Why can’t people let other people off first? Arf at my side, I threaded my way through the throng. The smells of hot dumplings and hot cinnamon rolls, fresh cheese and fresh bread, set my stomach growling—the calzone had long worn off. The temptations were many and movie night would bring its own high-calorie indulgences, so I chose my snack with care.

  Leash in one hand, a half-eaten Honeycrisp in the other, I elbowed open the door to the shop. The place was afire.

  “To your bed,” I told the dog and he trotted behind the counter. I fished the purloined tea out of my tote and tossed it to Sandra. “The magic chai.”

  Her face lit up like the LED salt shaker in our window tipping salt into the ocean, the sign we’d fought much of last winter to get approved. “From Seetha? How did you get it?”

  Before I could answer, a customer asked her a question. I ditched the apple core and donned my apron. A few minutes later, as I helped a woman choose a hostess gift—she settled on our trio of summer blends—the door opened and a burly thirty-ish man with a red goatee entered.

  “Thank you for thinking spice,” I told the woman and turned to Red Goatee. “Pepper Reece, Mistress of Spice. What can I do for you?”

  “This may sound strange,” he said. “This is the Market. Strange is normal.”

  His girlfriend, he told me, loved to cook. She’d casually mentioned our bridal registry, and that had given him an idea. Could we help him propose?

  Yes, we could.

  The idea, when he, Matt, and I hashed it out over iced spice tea, was this. He would bring in the ring, and we’d hide the box in a special container. They would arrive together and he would ask for a particular spice. We would whip out the tin and suggest she try our special blend. Inside, instead of herbs or spices, she’d find the ring. Then he’d make the ask.

  And cameras would be rolling.

  “Can you believe that?” I asked Matt and Sandra after Red Goatee had left, my hand on my chest, my eyes wet. “It’s so romantic.”

  “Just make sure after all that hoopla, they sign up for the registry,” Sandra said, but I noticed her eyes were shiny, too.

  At five-thirty, I asked Sandra to handle closing, grabbed my dog and cherries, and headed home. Flick Chicks is as much about friendship and food as the movies, and when the week starts with murder, I need my girlfriends more than ever.

  I also needed to make sure the menu was lined up. Laurel had promised a salad and herbed cheese breadsticks—if she was firing up her commercial ovens despite the heat, why not take full advantage? For a main course, I’d planned one of our Twenty-Minute Dinners, though it was more like a fiver—Agave Lime Chili Shrimp. Shrimp are a recreational catch in Washington, not a commercial fishery, but Nate had taken me out early in the summer and we’d thrown a couple of pots over the side. Mmm, good. And I had the perfect dark chili powder to add flavor without too much heat.

  My thoughts veered back to the murder investigation. Had Aimee told the detectives about the proviso in the will? If she hadn’t, should I? It supplied no motive that I could see, but as Tracy had said, anything unusual in the vicinity of the victim is worth
probing. And surfaces can be deceiving.

  If either Aimee or Brandon failed to meet the requirements for the inheritance, they’d have to repay the estate, right? And the money would go to the museum. How much Steen had left for the future of art in our fair city, I had no idea, but I couldn’t imagine anyone connected with the museum committing murder on the chance of an extra fifty grand. Besides, getting money from the owner of a failed business is the proverbial problem of getting blood from a turnip.

  What if, I thought as I reached the bottom of the Market steps and turned onto Western, someone else had a reason to sabotage Aimee’s business? But murder is extreme. And Joelle had only started working for Aimee a short time ago. Surely she hadn’t held the key to profitability.

  If the killer wasn’t captured soon, Seetha might not want to go home. After helping her schlep the things she needed for a few days, I cringed at the thought of helping her move house.

  Talk about a motive to sleuth. And then there were the bhuts.

  My phone buzzed and I dug it out. A text from Kristen saying she had two chilled bottles of French Viognier and did I need anything else? C’est magnifique! I replied, grateful to avoid Vinny, my customary wine seller, for the nonce. If he heard I’d been in the vicinity of murder again, he’d hasten to offer his ghost-busting talents. No matter how well intentioned the offer, sometimes you just have to say no.

  Eight

  “When a dream is made flesh, trouble is not far behind.”

  —Wanadi, chief of the Invisible People, in The Emerald Forest

  IN MY COMPACT KITCHEN, LAUREL TOOK A SMALL GREEN Fiestaware plate from an upper cabinet and reached for the truffles. “Your call, Pepper. She’s your mom.”

  I studied the coffee maker, its gurgling and churgling giving us a measure of privacy. My first attempt at a brewed spiced chai, from the Souk, was steeping. The movie had ended, and I’d cued up a favorite playlist of female vocalists, Celtic tunes, and standards. Out in the main room, my mother, Seetha, and Kristen chatted.

  I like my mother. She likes my girlfriends, and they like her. In the Venn diagram of life, it would be enough to invite her to join us for lunch or the occasional girls’ day out of town. Her own circle of friends had shrunk over time, but I knew she would make new pals despite going back and forth between countries.

  Life is change. And I needed a place to process that change without my mother’s input. Making her a Flick Chick would change the group, and my relationship with her, too much.

  “Then no,” I said. “Besides, she picks weird movies.”

  “Family trait,” Laurel replied.

  The coffee and tea were ready. I set cups and saucers, spoons and sugar, on a tray, then added the box of Indian cookies. “Sweet of you to offer Seetha a refuge. Fill that empty nest, temporarily.”

  No response. I turned. Laurel leaned against the zinc counter, head bowed, her wild-gray-brown curls brushing her hands, which she held in prayer position, fingertips touching her lips. “Will I ever stop missing him?”

  I frowned. Her son Gabe had left for Notre Dame two weeks ago—he had a soccer scholarship and the team started practice August first. Laurel would be flying to Indiana soon for freshman orientation weekend, then to Chicago to visit relatives.

  Oh. She didn’t mean her son. She meant her husband.

  “No,” I said, drawing her close. “Probably not. But think how much your pain has eased over time. It’s harder now because you’re on your own.”

  Three years ago this fall, Patrick Halloran had been shot and killed outside the family home while Laurel and fifteen-year-old Gabe were away at a soccer tournament. The murder had never been solved.

  And that made the loss worse. Every year on the anniversary, fast approaching, the paper ran an update. The city’s cold case detective dropped by for a visit. Friends called, customers gave her sympathetic looks and squeezed her hand. But Patrick was still dead, and no one had paid the price.

  Except his wife and son. And another untimely death at the edges of our circle would sharpen the pain.

  She pulled back, sniffed loudly, and wiped a finger under her eye. Nodded. “I’m okay.” Swallowed visibly. “I’m okay.”

  I kissed her cheek, then carried the tea tray out to the living room. Even with the ceiling fan on high, the room was stifling. A/C might be a good investment. Laurel followed with the truffles and coffee pot, and we made the ancient packing crate I use as a coffee table into a serving station.

  My mother sat back on the couch with her chai—she’d chosen the lemon-yellow cup and saucer. “Nicely spiced, darling. The entire dinner was excellent.”

  “Thanks. Working in the Market has improved my cooking.” My mother had been my first teacher. In the last few years, I’d picked up more tricks and tips from Laurel, who runs Ripe, a deli and catering company headquartered in the tall, black glass building where I used to work. “The box the Space Needle came in,” to old-timers, referring to its origins as home to the city’s premier bank. Back when every city had its own institutions and banks hadn’t all gone national.

  As for the chai, it passed muster, for a first effort. But it lacked a certain who-knows-what. “Not as tasty as your mom’s,” I said to Seetha. I hadn’t told her I’d swiped the package, not sure whether it had been clever of me or petty.

  “And she really won’t share?” my mother said. “Even with me? One mother to another?”

  “No way,” Seetha replied. “When it comes to mothers and daughters and secrets, my family takes the cake.”

  “Lena, how did you find this movie?” Laurel asked, folding one long leg beneath her on the red leather chair in the corner.

  “Grocery checker mentioned it when I said we winter in Costa Rica. Never mind that it’s set in Brazil. Powers Boothe was pretty dishy when he was young.”

  “He was good, but I like him better as a bad guy.” Kristen reached for a truffle.

  “Alas,” my mother continued, “the destruction of the forests continues.”

  “The Termite People,” I said, chomping my teeth, more like a beaver than a bug. The name the indigenous tribe gave the men who cut down the trees to dam the river and build a power plant, the handsome Mr. Boothe among them.

  “It’s not subtle,” Lauren said. “The racism and colonialism in the first few minutes made me cringe, but then I realized it was meant to be over the top, to highlight the impact on the natives.”

  “A bit too close to the noble savage trope in places,” I said. “Though I don’t blame Tommy—Tommé—for choosing to stay with the tribe that adopted him—”

  “Stole him,” my mother pointed out. “Yeah, but he was seven, so he didn’t remember much about life with his parents. And life in the rain forest suited him.”

  “You’re saying he didn’t have a choice,” Kristen said. “He did, but it was always clear what choice he would make. Even after his dad finally found him and begged him to come home.”

  “‘Tell him. You’re the chief,’” I quoted Boothe urging the head of the Invisible Tribe to send Tommy back to his parents. And the reply: “‘If I told a grown man what to do, I would not be the chief.’”

  “You have to accept your children’s choices,” Kristen said. “He did more than accept them,” Seetha pointed out. “The dad was ready to help the tribe, by destroying the dam when the rains came.”

  “‘The frogs sing, and it rains,’” I said. “Anybody know a good frog song?”

  Laurel picked up the coffee pot and refilled cups. “It’s a jungle out there. But gorgeous. I can see why you love it, Lena.”

  I was still thinking about the movie. How would Tommy’s parents move on with their lives as Americans abroad, knowing their son would never leave the life he’d chosen? I had a hunch Daddé—Boothe’s character—would give up engineering and join Mommé in her work with Brazilian orphans. They, too, would never leave, to stay close to the son they’d lost and found. And here was Laurel, struggling with a life she hadn’t c
hosen and feeling a little lost herself.

  We sipped our coffee and tea, nibbled cookies and truffles, and drifted to other topics. To Joelle Chapman.

  “Did you know her?” I asked Laurel. “Justin Chapman’s wife?”

  “I catered a party for them once. Once was enough.” At my quizzical expression, she went on. “Joelle was a gracious hostess. He, on the other hand . . .”

  Meaning he’d been a pain in the parsley. “Did Aimee have other employees? I never saw anyone, but when I talked to her today, she said ‘when we refinished the floors.’ Hard to picture Joelle helping with that.”

  “Maybe she meant her brother, Tony,” Seetha replied. “He helps with deliveries and moving furniture. Guy stuff.”

  “Who owns the building?” I asked. “A property management company. They know about the murder—a rep left me a message. Very nice.”

  “Get them to change the locks,” I counseled. “Speaking of buildings,” my mother said, turning to Kristen and me. “Your father’s been beyond kind, letting me live in his condo while he camps out with Chuck in the jungle, but we need our own home base. I’ve found a place off Broadway, in a co-housing community. Pepper, can you look at it with me? Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” I scratched my cheek, trying to remember my Wednesday plans.

  “Tomorrow,” Laurel said, standing, “I’m catering two corporate lunches and a bridal shower. And running the deli. When they say follow your bliss, they don’t tell you to get a good night’s sleep first.”

  “Who throws a bridal shower on a Wednesday?” Kristen asked, and we all drifted to the pile of bags and sandals at the front door. Hugs and kisses and five minutes later, I was alone with my mother, dishing leftover shrimp and salad into containers for her.

  “Truth now, Pepper. Are you investigating this woman’s murder? An acquaintance?”

  I set my red slotted spoon on the butcher block. “I have to, Mom. I heard part of the argument. If I’d heard more, if I’d stepped in . . .”