Ahh. A mystery I could solve. “So, when we cook, we often taste for doneness, or temperature.” She murmured her understanding. “With ‘season to taste,’ the recipe is telling you to focus on the flavor, specifically the saltiness. Then, add a little to suit your own taste—starting with a few dashes or a quarter of a teaspoon at a time.”
“Why not just salt it at the table?”
“If you adjust the seasonings while you’re still cooking, they have time to work their way into the flavor. Salt reduces bitterness. It also allows other flavors to develop. Try tasting for the whole flavor and ask yourself what it needs.” She looked puzzled. “Ever see the movie Ratatouille? Remember the scene where Remy is making soup, and he starts snapping his fingers and thinking?”
Her eyes lit up. “As if something is missing.”
“Exactly. Now, if the dish includes a lot of other herbs, you may want to skip pepper. If not, add a few twists”—I made a fist, as if holding the grinder, and circled my other fist above it—“and taste again. The bite of the pepper balances the saltiness. And balance is what it’s all about.”
There are other ways to balance flavors, like adding fresh herbs at the end of simmering a soup or spaghetti sauce, or using a few drops of lemon juice or a dash of vinegar to add a bit of sparkle. But I didn’t want to overwhelm her. Next time.
From there, we moved to the salt display and I answered her questions about sea salt, kosher salt, flake salt, and flavored salts. She chose a few and bought black pepper and a grinder.
Then it was time. Cayenne and I slipped out the side door and wound through Post Alley to the Atrium, where we found a table in the creperie. Cayenne was content with coffee, but I decided to indulge myself and ordered a strawberry crepe with Nutella. What can go wrong with a plate of chocolate hazelnut spread in front of you?
Plenty, as it turns out. Nothing destroys the appetite faster than sitting with an employee you’re genuinely fond of while she cries into her coffee.
In between sobs and apologies for last week’s standoffishness, Cayenne revealed that she’d been diagnosed with MS. Multiple sclerosis.
I knew little about the condition, so she gave me a quick rundown. Symptoms vary widely, but the most common were trips and falls, dropping things, leg weakness—what she’d cursed as her clumsiness.
“I thought the problem was my knee, so I went to see Dr. Locke for acupuncture. Bless him, without saying anything scary, he made me an appointment with a neurologist.” She picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee. “Some patients have one episode and that’s it. Others decline rapidly—”
“Which you’re not doing. Far as I can see, anyway.” I picked up my fork, then set it down.
“No, you’re right. The most common form is a relapse-remission pattern. They think I’m moving toward remission, but it could be months or years before we know if the symptoms will return, either at the same level or progressively worse.”
And meanwhile, you worry. I could not imagine. “CJ’s been great. He even made a spreadsheet so we can track my symptoms. My parents already knew, but when we told the rest of the family at dinner Sunday, Grandpa said if I need to, I can use his old cane.”
“The golf club?” I’d seen her grandfather wield that makeshift cane earlier this summer. After a misadventure involving a young thug, he’d agreed to switch to a real cane with a golf grip handle.
“The one.” She grew more serious as she outlined her treatment plans. “Hot weather can aggravate the symptoms. Nice timing, huh?”
“I know a great yoga teacher,” I said. “She teaches an entire class of restorative poses that might be helpful.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Maybe later. When I’m not so overwhelmed.”
In a crisis, as I well knew, everyone has their pet theories of what you should do.
“I wanted you to know,” she said, raising the cup to her lips. “But I’m not ready to tell Sandra and the rest.”
“They’ll have questions. They know you haven’t been yourself, and they care about you.”
“Soon,” she promised. “I’ll tell you when I’m having a flare-up—I can’t lift heavy things.”
“Easily managed,” I said, grateful that my shoulder had recovered and that we didn’t get too many heavy deliveries, other than books. “And you are not going up that ladder.”
“Nope. But that’s a small part of the job, so I’m hoping . . .”
As long as an employee can do the fundamentals of the job, she’s protected by law. And by my own sense of justice. “You bet. We’ll do all we can to keep you working and keep you safe.”
“Thanks. I’ve got great insurance through CJ’s work. But I’ll need time off for appointments now and then.”
“Understood.” I felt a pang of regret that I could not provide the comfort of insurance myself, but it was out of reach, for now. I picked up my fork and dove into the sweet berries and hazelnut-chocolate sauce, sliding a little onto Cayenne’s saucer. Between bites, I gave her a quick performance review. As with Matt, most things were going well. She confirmed his report of last week’s clash, and said he’d apologized. We agreed to hold off on bringing her into the commercial side of the business until her condition and schedule stabilized.
“But what I can do,” she said, with a visible spark of enthusiasm, “is create a few more Twenty-Minute Dinners and other recipes. When you get the fall blends settled.”
“Our Pie Spice is a given—it’s great with pumpkin or apple— and our Happy Turkey poultry blend.”
“I’ve been wanting to make a baharat for winter,” she said. “It’s so good with lamb or beef.”
An Arabic word for “spices,” baharat had come to mean a full-bodied, all-purpose seasoning popular in Middle Eastern dishes. Warm and sweet, and great for comfort food. I like it in burgers and on roasted carrots.
“Give it a shot.” I reached across the table to cover Cayenne’s hand with mine. “Now, let’s—”
“Go spice things up,” she chimed in, and we threaded our way through the chaos of a late summer afternoon back to our happy place.
BY five o’clock, I was pooped and the week had barely started.
These are the days God had in mind when She invented take-out. I dashed to DeLaurenti’s for a couple of hearty salads, and grabbed a baguette and a couple of macarons at the French bakery. Then I swung by Vinny’s.
“How’s that guy of yours?” he said as he rang up my purchase, a bottle of white Bordeaux. He always gives me what he calls my employee discount, though I am not, never have been, and never will be in Vinny Delgado’s employ. He told me once that he was unemployable, meaning he couldn’t work for anyone else. But considering his free-form approach to pricing and business hours, his smart-but-quirky taste in wine, and his passion for ghost-hunting, which I crossed my fingers that he wouldn’t bring up, it might be better to call him unemployee-able. At least, from my perspective as a former HR professional.
“Good,” I said. “Gone back to Alaska. Those fish won’t catch themselves.”
“Way he looks at you”—Vinny counted my change onto the counter, silently mouthing the numbers as he always did— “can’t imagine he’ll be gone long.”
“Thanks, Vinny. You know how to cheer a girl up.” Not. Nate had said October. If the run were good and prices high, he could quit early—or more likely, he’d push on until the catches got smaller or conditions too bad to continue. He and his brother were equal partners, but like me, they had employees. Men with families to support. They’d keep fishing as late in the season as they could, to maximize their catch.
What I had to do, I realized on my way back to the shop, was re-imagine relationship. Change my expectations. I was getting stuck on the idea that we were only in the same city half the time. Why not let that make our time together sweeter? We didn’t have to share every meal or every thought.
Or every night, despite that particular sweetness.
The last customer gone, th
e last employee out the door, the last light off, Arf and I made for home, toting an extra bag full of goodies. Well, goodies for me. But we had bones in the freezer for my boy.
We reached the landing on the Market steps at the same moment that Karen from A Global Touch strode out of the lower level.
“Watch where you’re going,” she said and shoved past me. Good thing, too, because her rapid escape saved me from pointing out that she was the one who’d barreled into a busy walkway with her head down while she fumbled with her earbuds.
“People,” a woman muttered as she surged past.
Outside my door sat my green Fiestaware plate, empty except for a yellow sticky note reading “Thanx, Paprika! G.” Glad to know Glenn approved of my baking. Maybe I should cook for my neighbors more often.
Inside, I filled Arf’s bowl and watched him happily chow down. The males of any species—feed ’em and they’re happy.
That goes for most of the females, too. I sliced part of the baguette, found the last of the triple-crème Brie—I was going to have to try to recreate Edgar’s baked paprika cheese soon—and filled a small bowl with Greek olives. Poured a glass of wine and settled onto the couch with my appetizers, my appetite, and my phone.
Then, textfest. Nate updated me about the day’s catch. Great weather—sunny and low seventies. Envy! I answered, and told him about meeting Roxanne, her speculation about the chopstick, and the other pieces she’d shown us. I knew she could help, he replied. Me: So smart. Him: She always was a great kid.
Should I ask if Roxanne were anything like her sister, his ex?
No, Pep. Don’t go there.
Only bad part, he wrote, is missing you.
Miss you back!
Sleep tight—N. The initial let me know he was headed for his bunk. It’s hard work, running a crew and a boat out on the open sea.
To my surprise, my cheeks and lashes were damp, my throat full.
“I’m falling in love with you, Nate Seward,” I said out loud. Arf looked up, then went back to gnawing his bone.
I made up a salad sampler, refilled my glass, and sat on the veranda to eat. The temperature had finally dropped from gad, this heat to merely warm. That I could manage.
I bit into a spinach tortellini and thought about spice. We had one new blend for fall—well, two. One chai for baking and one for tea. We’d bring back a couple of fall favorites, and Cayenne would work on a winter blend or two.
When you’re young—Cayenne wasn’t quite thirty—you never truly believe bad things will happen. I reached for my wine and took a sip.
But she didn’t hide her emotions well at the best of times. I wished I could tell the others, because they cared about her and might be affected by a few teary moments or sharp words. And if a meltdown affected the customers, all my best intentions to work things out might fall by the wayside.
In time. In time.
Inside, I tidied up the kitchen and started laundry. Dumped soap in the washer and tossed in towels. Detective Tracy theorized that Tony McGillvray killed Joelle in an attempted burglary. Or was it robbery? The difference always escapes me. I paused, wrapping my arms around a fluffy bath towel the color of grated ginger.
The possible weapon was a valuable antique. Not super valuable, but anything silver would look good to an addict willing to steal and sell to feed his habit. And there was her jewelry to consider.
How could a burglary gone wrong have gone down?
Joelle had been unpacking her box at the counter. I spread the towel on the floor to represent the counter. Stood where she might have stood. As the maintenance man and mover, Tony had a key to the shop. I acted it out. He unlocks the back door, walks past the tiny restroom on one side and office on the other, and reaches the retail area. He’s determined to—
—to what? If he’d known Aimee was out and come in with intent to steal, he’d have stopped the moment he saw Joelle. Maybe he’d been high, not thinking straight. Maybe they’d argued and he’d grabbed the knife.
Even high, I thought he’d have tried to make it look like a break-in. Smashed glass and pottery, knocked over lamps and chairs.
But no. Nothing had been disturbed. And nothing else had been taken, except Joelle’s jewels. Would he have had the presence of mind to remove diamond studs without ripping them out of her earlobes?
I shuddered, then tossed the towel in the washer, closed the door, and pushed START.
I closed the bathroom door and picked up the mail I’d dumped by the entry. No, I couldn’t believe Tony McGillvray a killer. I wasn’t even sure I believed him a relapsed junkie, and not just because his sister so desperately wanted to believe him clean. After all they’d been through. After all she’d sacrificed for him. Although that might not matter to an addict.
Aimee had had plenty of opportunity to search for the missing chopstick. But she’d been genuinely surprised to see it—there had been no hint of recognition or relief. And she’d readily gone along when I’d suggested we get an expert opinion.
And then there was Brandon Logan. What had been going on between him and Joelle that led first to a tense, if not downright argumentative, discussion over drinks at Speziato, then kept him coming back to Rainy Day Vintage after her death? He took Mondays off—or at least, the shop was closed. I couldn’t place him on Eastlake at the time of the murder, but I’d seen a van like his— what if he had been there? Stabbed her and fled with the knife. Had he been the one searching for the chopstick?
What reason could I conjure up to drop in on him tomorrow and probe his relationship—and his wife’s—with Joelle?
Why, why, why? I set aside a couple of bills and kept flipping.
The clue had to be Steen Jorgensen’s will, though I couldn’t see how. Aimee appeared on track to meet the conditions. Brandon seemed to be struggling, but so what? They weren’t in competition.
I could make a decent argument that the killer went back to Aimee’s shop to find the missing chopstick. But that only made sense if the killer could get in, and Brandon had gone back when the shop was closed. Why? To somehow convince Aimee—or Tony—to let him in?
That brought me back to Justin. Had he honestly not recognized the silver-handled chopstick? True, when I was married, I’d brought home all kinds of trophies even the normally observant Tag wouldn’t have been able to describe. Nor could I have given anyone the details of the Star Wars figurines he’d saved since kidhood.
Justin Chapman had a mind for details and a proven ability to withhold information. Had he been anyone else, I’d have assumed the consequences of his charade a few years ago would have taught him a lesson. A man without a conscience, or a heart, might easily have concluded that he simply had to be more careful. More cunning.
But Aimee hadn’t seen him since the murder, except at the memorial service and our office visit. And he couldn’t have Joelle’s keys—far too soon for the cops to have returned them to him. Besides, the locks had been changed.
I tossed the junk mail into the recycling bin on the lower landing. I’d bet the farm, if I had one, that Detective Armstrong was on duty tonight, writing applications for search warrants on all the official suspects. The goal? Find one silver-handled Chinese knife. And tomorrow, he’d go back to Justin Chapman’s office and quiz the receptionist with the colorful hair a second time. Much as I’d like to pin the murder on Justin, I was certain she’d clear him.
My bet was on Brandon Logan, though I hadn’t persuaded Tracy. In the morning, I’d call and make the case again. Then let them do what they do best: make an arrest and make it stick. Let me focus on my own life.
Arf and I made a quick circuit around the neighborhood. Back home, he took to his bed and I took to the couch. The visit to the Asian Art Museum had me in the mood for a historical saga. The Last Emperor or The Last Samurai? I hadn’t watched either in ages, but Samurai won. I’m a sucker for a good story, especially one with a killer romance.
Whether I fell asleep before or after the big battle, I co
uldn’t say. All I knew was that the buzzing sound that wouldn’t stop did not come from nineteenth-century Japan.
Now and then, a prankster passing by thinks it funny to push buzzers and wake people during the night. And it was night—full dark outside and as quiet as downtown gets, except for that darned buzzer.
“I’m coming,” I muttered as I stumbled to the door. My phone, sitting on the kitchen counter, began to ring. I froze. What was wrong? Who was hurt? Nate? My mother? Tag? Heart pounding, I grabbed the phone and jabbed the button on the intercom. “Hello? Who is it? What’s going on?”
“Pepper, it’s Detective Armstrong and Detective Tracy,” a man said. My scrambled brain confirmed the tall cop’s voice. “We need to see you, now.”
“Okay.” My hand moved toward the button that unlocked the door. “But why?”
“Because there’s been another murder. Brandon Logan is dead.”
Twenty-Seven
“In the Middle Ages, spices were thought to be especially effective when it came to ‘correcting’ the nutritional defects of other foods, with the cook expected to fine-tune every dish. It was a job for an alchemist as much as a chef.”
—Michael Krondl, in The Taste of Conquest: The Rise and Fall of the Three Great Cities of Spice
“ON CAPITOL HILL, A FEW BLOCKS FROM HIS SHOP. A passerby spotted a white van that crashed into a power pole. We found the body inside. He’d been stabbed,” Armstrong said. “We think he was trying to drive himself to the hospital.”
Ohmygod.
“Poor sap bled out before he got there,” Tracy said. He’d perched on a stool at my kitchen counter, accentuating the height difference between the two men.
“When?” I said. That was a busy neighborhood, though probably not on a Monday night. “And not that I don’t appreciate your visit, but why tell me?”
“About three hours ago,” Armstrong replied. I glanced at the clock on the stove. Ten minutes past one. Tuesday. “We called. You didn’t answer.”
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