Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  “It’s one theory, yeah. Tony goes to a drop-in center up on Aurora, so he’s trying to stay clean. Hey, what’s bupe?” I asked, recalling the conversation between the couple on the sidewalk.

  “Buprenorphine. Subaxone. It’s an opioid substitute that helps a lot of addicts kick the habit. Not addictive, like methadone, so they can get a prescription. But it can trigger cravings, and some addicts have to take it for life. Group support seems to help. Still, it’s better than Oxy or heroin.”

  “What happened to the pawnshop guys in Kent?” Had Aimee gone back to them, figuring that’s what Tony would have done?

  “Felony possession of stolen property, multiple offenses.” Tag set the cup down again, hard enough to make a hollow, popping sound, and leaned forward. “Pepper, do not go prowling through gang territory for a stolen knife that may or may not have been used to kill your friend. This is not one of your antique store treasure hunts. Tony McGillvray messed with some seriously bad dudes. Those two may be history, but scumbags like that, they’re like mushrooms. You pick one, six more pop up.”

  Not exactly like mushrooms, but I got the point.

  “Besides,” he went on. “Major Crimes and the Pawnshop Unit will be all over it, especially with her jewelry missing. I’m serious.”

  “I know. Thanks,” I said, then swallowed my pride. “I talked to Nate about the day he asked you who I was. I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem. I’m sorry I upset you. I just thought you could use a little help from Cupid.”

  Something in his voice caught my ear.

  “I made some bad choices,” he said, “and you suffered for it. I only want the best for you.”

  The pain on his face evoked a tenderness I hadn’t felt toward him in a long time. “I know you do. Speaking of bad choices, you dodged a bullet with Karen.”

  “Who?” His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory, then figured out who I meant. “Ohhh. Her. Yeah. Boy, did I hear about that. You get on her bad side, watch your back.”

  My eyebrows rose. There was a story behind that remark.

  “Seriously,” he said. “Is Nate The One?”

  “I think he might be. Yes.”

  “Then he’d better be prepared for me keeping a close eye on him.” He grinned and picked up his sunglasses, then slid out of the nook. “Stay safe, Pepper. If anything happened to you . . .”

  Despite his sweat-sticky shirt, despite all the tensions and the history, I put a hand on his chest and kissed his cheek.

  After Tag left, I thought about the missing knife that might or might not belong with the silver-handled chopstick. I wouldn’t know where to look. And I prayed Aimee didn’t, either. Leave it to the Pawnshop Unit, Tag had said. And when it came to matters of safety—of the public, if not of the heart—Tag was usually right.

  Twenty-Two

  Li Shi Zhen’s Bencao Gangmu or Compendium of Materia Medica, completed in 1582, was the first comprehensive pharmacopeia of Chinese medicine, documenting the medicinal uses of more than 1,800 herbs, minerals, and animal substances.

  MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING, THE FRONT DOOR OPENED AND my mother backed in, shopping bags in each hand. Veggies bulged from one and a baguette poked out of the other.

  “Let me help you, Mrs. Reece,” Matt said, hurrying to her side. “Those must be heavy.”

  “Thank you, Matt.” She relinquished the bags and he set them behind the counter.

  “Somebody raised that boy right,” she said to me. We hugged, then she surveyed the place. Displays were low, the stack of compostable paper cups nearly gone. “Busy day?”

  “Could be the best Saturday since I bought the place. Or, since we bought it.” Though she helped me get the purchase loan, the only interest she exacts is that I keep her current on staff and Market doings. I’ve offered to show her the books, but she always declines, saying numbers don’t mean anything to her. Whether that’s a remnant of her anti-establishment hippie days or a sign of trust in me, I’m not going to argue.

  “No surprise there,” she said. But I could tell from the quick fade of her smile that she was worried. “Care to join me for a glass of wine on the patio at the Pink Door?”

  “I’ve got to finish up here.”

  “You work too hard, Pepper. You need to take more time off.”

  “That’s what winter is for,” I said. “I’ll meet you there, after I close.”

  Half an hour later, the shop tucked in for the night, I hurried up Post Alley. You’d never notice the ballerina-pink door if you weren’t looking for it. As my eyes adjusted to the dark interior, I grabbed the banister and descended the long staircase to the dining room, glancing up at the velvet ropes the aerial artists use in the late-night cabaret shows. As I passed the kitchen, I waved at the chef—he’s got a standing Monday morning spice order.

  “She’s waiting,” the hostess said from behind her reservations stand.

  “Not very patiently, I imagine,” I said and headed to the patio, on the rooftop of an adjacent building. It’s a riot, a sea, a Crayola box of color, blooming things bursting out of the box planters that mark the edges, umbrellas from beer and liquor companies sheltering tables covered in brightly patterned oil cloth, the painted chairs mismatched yet pairing like cheese and wine.

  Lena sat at the same table where we’d lunched in June on her first day back in Seattle. The day we ran into her old friend in the artists’ stalls and she had so deliberately avoided telling me something she’d ended up having to tell me, and the detectives, anyway.

  “Isn’t this view spectacular?” She raised her half-empty glass, toasting Puget Sound, as I slid into the lemon-yellow chair opposite her.

  The server appeared as if by magic—they do a lot of things by magic at the Pink Door—and asked if I was ready for wine. Indeed, I was. She poured from the half-carafe my mother had ordered, and slipped away.

  “What’s up, Mom?” I said after the first delicious sip. “You look beat. The Market usually perks you up.”

  “They turned us down.” My confusion must have shown, because she explained. “The co-housing board.”

  “What? Why? I thought the tour went so well. Is it because they haven’t met Dad?”

  “It’s because we’re snowbirds. Our lifestyle, as they put it, is not consistent with their goal of creating an intentional community.”

  “Ahh. If you come and go, how committed can you be? I get it.” Of course I got it. But I was thinking of Nate, not my mother’s apartment search.

  “So do I. It was a constant problem at Grace House.” The house Kristen’s parents had owned, where we’d been raised. Her parents and mine, with five kids between them, had been the pillar that others, couples and singles, had circled around. “I don’t blame them. But the place had such energy. Such dedication. To group living and decision-making, yes, but also to the garden, the green building, the neighborhood.”

  Everything my mother valued. Still a hippie, after all these years.

  “I want to be part of a community here. Not live in a building where I know less than half the people and see them once a week, if that.” She held out a hand. “I’m not being critical, darling. You have beautiful friendships. Friends don’t have to live in each other’s back pockets.”

  “Good. Because right now, a couple of my friends are driving me nuts.” I told her about Laurel and Seetha, each chomping at the proverbial bit to reclaim their private space.

  “Too funny,” she said. “I had a wonderful time at movie night.”

  Eek. At some point, I had to tell her we’d decided not to invite her to join the Flick Chicks. Not “we”—me. Was I being chicken, or considerate, in not telling her now?

  “I’ve been thinking,” she went on. “I’ll come once in a while, if you invite me, but you need time with your friends. And I need to make new ones.”

  So I’d been anxious over nothing. Not the first time.

  My phone buzzed in the tote at my feet. I fished it out and read the
text. “Nate got to Anchorage safely. It’s a short hop to Dutch Harbor, then the crew will pick him up tomorrow.”

  My mother stretched a hand across the table. “Darling, he is a catch. And he’s crazy about you. Reel him in.” She leaned back, visibly pleased with her use of fishing metaphors.

  Reeled in was one thing, reined in another.

  “Yeah. But he’s not crazy about life on land.” I paused while the waiter set an antipasto plate on the table.

  “I took the liberty,” she said, and unfolded her napkin.

  “My favorite. What I mean is, he’s away half the year. And he likes it that way.”

  She spread olive tapenade on a piece of crostini. “You can work that out. And besides, he’s here the other half, isn’t he? Fishing Puget Sound?”

  I nodded. “You and Dad don’t seem to mind being apart for weeks at a time, when he takes his adventure trips, or like now, when you decided to stay up here. But you’ve been married ages.”

  “Forty-six years. And I do miss him. But time apart gives you a chance to remember who you are.”

  “How do we get to know each other well enough to stay together for forty-six years if he’s gone half the time?” I reached for my wine. “Although at our age, forty-six may be asking too much.”

  “Forty-six years and your father still surprises me.” She gestured with her half-eaten bread. “You can read their chart, their palm, and their tea leaves, but you’ll never know enough about another person to make a commitment. And yet, we do it. All the time.”

  And that pretty much summed up my mother’s advice on love and relationships.

  I SWUNG by the shop to fetch my sleeping dog. Saturday night, home alone. If I chose a life with Nate, odds were I’d be home alone a lot, canine company excepted.

  But for now, a glass of wine, a good book, and the Mariners game on the radio would suit me fine.

  Last fall, I’d unearthed a stash of Brother Cadfael mysteries in the boxes my parents had stored with me and gotten hooked. I’d saved the last few, not wanting the elderly monk’s story to end, and moved on to other historical mysteries. A former law firm staffer manages the mystery bookshop and keeps me well supplied. She also got me hooked on foodie mysteries, a popular addition to the Spice Shop’s bookshelves, and feeds my new addiction to historical mysteries.

  Now I crouched in front of the low bookcases tucked beneath the tall windows. Should I reread A Rare Benedictine, the trio of Cadfael short stories? Start Murder in Union Square, the latest in Victoria Thompson’s Gaslight Mysteries, set in turn-of-the-last-century New York? Or catch up with Edith Maxwell’s Quaker midwife sleuth?

  An orange binding stuck out. A few months ago, the staff bought me a copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating. Whether they intended to help me hone my investigative skills, or to suggest I’d been an idiot, I hadn’t asked.

  I pulled out the book, written by a former FBI agent and real-life PI, and flopped onto the couch. Arf settled on the floor beside me, and I ruffled his fur. He let out a noisy breath.

  Home.

  The book fell open to the chapter on neighborhood investigation, and I skimmed the section headings. “Knock on Doors.”

  “Check Out the Vehicles.”

  That reminded me of my own car and the note on the wind-shield. Armstrong had called it a threat. Or had it been a warning?

  Of what? Or whom?

  None of my suspects lived close to the vintage shop, except possibly Tony. And Aimee, who wasn’t my suspect, but was surely on the detectives’ short list. So unless one of them was the culprit, the killer had to drive to Eastlake and find a parking place, right? Because while the transit system does a decent job, a bus isn’t a reliable getaway vehicle.

  Which reminded me of the bus stop harasser. I was a little disappointed that the cops couldn’t nail anything worse than minor assault on the punk.

  What did the suspects drive? I hadn’t asked Edgar if he’d seen any unusual vehicles in the neighborhood around the time of the murder. He was observant, but busy in the kitchen and office.

  But Tracy and Armstrong would have quizzed his staff and all the neighbors. They had the resources—manpower, warrants, badges. If I was going to be helpful, I needed to focus on what I could do best.

  What would Cadfael do?

  I tossed the Idiot’s Guide aside and got up. The antipasto plate had worn off, as had the wine. I found melon, Brie, and salami in the fridge, made a plate, and poured myself a glass of Vinny’s Sancerre.

  On my way back to the couch, I paused, listening to the play-by-play. The Mariners faced the Angels in Anaheim, one up in the bottom of the seventh. The A’s had two out, a runner on second, a decent hitter at the plate, and a home run threat on deck. I silently urged a strike.

  Yes. Full count.

  I set my snack and wine glass on the coffee table trunk. The announcers spoke in a hush, as if the players might hear them. Emphasizing the suspense. In the background, the crowd quieted.

  A knock on the door nearly sent me through the eighteen-foot ceiling.

  I scurried across the room, hoping to catch the door before my visitor knocked again and kept me from hearing the call. I opened it and held a finger to my lips, flicking my eyes sideways in the universal “I’m listening to something” gesture.

  “Strike three, he’s out!” the announcer called as the home crowd groaned.

  “Yes!” I cried, throwing my fist in the air.

  “Good to see you, too,” Glenn, my next-door neighbor, said as I let him in, but his eyes were twinkling.

  “What? You mean my city councilman doesn’t follow the home team? Glass of wine?”

  “Ha. Yes, always.” He bent to pet Arf, who’d trotted over. I got out a second glass and poured. “The only games I get to are city employee night and the occasional support-the-nonprofits night. Too busy. Besides, games aren’t as much fun without Nate. My Nate.”

  “How is he? And his mother?” I handed Glenn the wine and gestured toward the sitting area. We laughed occasionally about “your Nate” and “my Nate.” His had gone back East a couple of months earlier to take care of his elderly mother, now on hospice care.

  “She’s slipping away. He’s philosophical about it.” Glenn sat in one of the twin red leather chairs that face the view. “I’d be a wreck. I am a wreck. I wish they were closer. It’s hard to be supportive with a continent between us.”

  We sat in silence for the last two innings. The Mariners won, seven to five.

  “How do you manage?” I asked. “With Nate gone, I mean. Talk and text?”

  “Never thought I’d need an unlimited cell plan, but it’s a godsend. I went back for a few days and the visit was good, for all of us. My mother-in-law is a dear. But even when I was there, the job took most of my time.”

  His Nate had set aside a successful career as a freelance journalist to start a novel when he married a city councilman. Which underscored the point that all relationships are built on tradeoffs.

  But they were married. And his Nate’s absence was temporary.

  He picked up on my pensive mood. “What’s up, Pepperonella? Things not going well with your Nate?”

  “No, they’re going great. That’s the problem.”

  He waited.

  “The long-distance thing. Half the year here, half up north.” I met his gaze. A shrewd mind lurked behind the red hair and freckles, the open face and blue eyes. “It’s a challenge at any stage of a relationship, I know. But at the beginning, it’s extra hard. And it seems like part of the deal.”

  “Non-negotiable?” He took a sip. “He hasn’t said, not in so many words. But I think so.”

  “Have you asked?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Ask him, Pepper. He’s a fisherman, not a psychic. Hey, I popped over to get your thoughts on the ideas for revamping Freeway Park.”

  We talked about the city’s most urban park, a maze of concrete, greenery, and open spa
ce built on what’s essentially a lid for the stretch of I-5 that separates downtown from First Hill. Though Arf and I enjoy the place, we didn’t venture up there too often—“up” being the key word in this city of hills. But I agreed with Glenn that the park matters, connecting neighborhoods, healing the physical and psychic rift the freeway created, and providing a quiet refuge in a bustling city. You can never have too many of those. The trick was balancing utility, visual appeal, and safety.

  “Time to make the long trek home,” he said as our conversation wound down. Door to door was five feet, max. He gave Arf one last pet and stood. “Thanks for the wine and chat.”

  “Any time. I’m never short on opinions.”

  “As for Nate—your Nate. The only wrong choice is not being willing to take a risk for what you want.”

  “If only I knew what that was.”

  “I think you do.” He kissed my cheek, and left.

  Twenty-Three

  According to linguist Dan Jurafsky, English has no general word for good smells, though words and phrases for bad smells abound, perhaps because it’s easier to distinguish reasons for dislike than like.

  SUNDAY MORNING, THE DOG AND I AMBLED DOWN TO THE waterfront to stretch our legs. We walked past Ivar’s Acres of Clams, shut tight to the disappointment of half a dozen seagulls perched nearby, longing for a dropped fry or chunk of cod. Ballard, Seattle’s Nordic neighborhood, had lost a lot of its old-world charm to modern development, but a few reminders of the city’s Scandinavian logging and fishing history remain. And Ivar’s, thank goodness, is one of them.

  Next to it sits the fire station, recently upgraded as part of the massive waterfront overhaul. Arf and I stopped to watch the Leschi, the fireboat named for the long-ago Nisqually chief, return to dock. I wondered briefly why it had been dispatched and whether all was well and everyone involved safe. Once a cop’s wife, always a worrier.

  Seeing the boat made me think about Nate. He’d texted early this morning that he was safely aboard and they were underway. I tried to picture the Kenai Princess powering out of Dutch Harbor in the Aleutian Islands, a much bigger boat than he used in Washington’s waters. I’d never been to Alaska. Nate’s tales of its wonders had piqued my curiosity.