Guilty as Cinnamon (14 page)

“Danielle.” I reached out a hand. “Wednesday, at the scene, you said you came down because Tamara called you. What time was that? I—I need to know if I could have saved her, if I'd only gotten there a few minutes earlier.”

The smile wavered. She pulled her phone out of her tunic pocket and swiped her finger over the screen. Held it out for me to see the call. Received almost exactly an hour before I'd arrived.

That icy grip on my abdomen tightened. I reached for the last bit of gin.

She tapped the screen, and we heard Tamara, speaking from the grave. “I think I know what's going on.” Her voice rose and sharpened, with an edge that could have been excitement or terror. “There's nothing wrong with—”

A sound in the background broke up her words.

“But I won't know for sure until—”

Though the ice in my drink had long melted, my blood froze.

Until what?

If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

—Harry S. Truman

An eerie quiet greeted me back home. Though I see my neighbors mostly in passing, knowing they were away made the building feel a little empty and me a little lonely.

I knew it was all in my head, a reaction to the revelation from Danielle's phone. The police had copied the recording, she assured us, so lab techs could analyze it. Had Tamara's last words been a clue? Had she been trying to give Danielle a message—or a name?

The lights on Arf's collar shone a dull blue-white, the loft light dim but not dark enough for a full glow. We'd reached the time of year when, even though you can't see the sun, you know it's coming back. The ultimate act of faith.

I slipped into my rain jacket and swapped my boots for running shoes. “Where to, boy?”

He indicated no preference, so I made for Second Ave. A crowd surged out the front doors of Benaroya Hall.

“The Symphony?” I asked a woman in a shiny red raincoat.

“Portland Cello Project,” she replied. “Cello like you never imagined.”

In truth, I don't imagine cello much. “Thanks.”

We merged into the foot traffic going north, Arf trotting along happily. And if he's happy, I'm happy. Some people say dogs know who they can trust and who's out to hurt you. Others say they're picking up on cues their humans give off. I don't know.

At the moment, I didn't care. He made me feel safe.

A fine mist caressed my skin. It didn't exactly fall—it seemed to emerge from the air itself. The foot traffic thinned, and Arf tugged me toward the water.

“Hold on, boy. I'm in charge here.” Clearly not in agreement, Arf stuck his tail in the air, and I realized where we were. “Ha. You want more bones.”

I understood. Like a moth to a lightbulb, I was drawn to the scene not of a crime but of a confrontation that may have led to a crime. A confrontation I had inadvertently triggered.

The sidewalk tables stood empty, but at half past ten on a Friday night, the First Avenue Café buzzed. Were it any other night, were Alex on duty, I might have stopped in for a hello, a quick drink, a casual chat. Not that I'd done that recently, but it was tempting to polish the memory, to forget what a schmuck he'd been.

Still is
, I corrected myself.

I glanced inside once more. If that wasn't Ben standing at the bar, next to a woman with a cap of shiny black hair, it was his twin brother.

My rib cage tightened. He had every right to be there, and yet, I felt like it should have been me with him, spying in tandem. This was my case as much as his. But I hadn't been willing to commit to working together, and he'd walked away.

“Heel, boy.” I headed downhill past the Café's side door, glad for soles that gripped the wet pavement. Voices poured
out of the alley, and I stopped. Angry voices. One big and booming, barely controlled, the other low and hard to hear.

“I don't give a rat's ass what you want, you skinny pip-squeak. You got nothing. She's dead, and everything she told you is hearsay.”

A slender man rushed past me, his dark skin a sharp contrast to the white jacket, open at the throat and marred by end-of-shift spatters. If Tariq noticed me, he gave no sign.

Why was the bar manager in the alley chewing out a line cook? And what did Glassy mean?

I pivoted, praying Arf would not whine for a bone as we passed the side door a second time. We dashed back up to First and rounded the corner just shy of a run. The mist felt thicker now, the soft yellow light of the Café barely spilling onto the sidewalk as we hurried past. I didn't look for Ben.

I didn't care what Cadfael would do. I only knew I needed to get away.

We passed Café Frida, the piquant aromas of the most creative south-of-the-border cuisine in Seattle merging with the street smells and the brine that clings to everything this close to the water. Outside Diego's Lounge, clusters of the young and hip threaded their way in while others tumbled out, music trailing them. I recognized the strains of the Zak Davis Band, but did not dare linger to listen.

Slow down, Pepper. Breathe.
Beside me, Arf showed no signs of fear or hyperalertness. The sounds and shadows I feared were little more than the rhythms of the city at night.

The mist grew heavier as we fled Belltown.

Two blocks later we neared the Market and cut down Post Alley. Irish music drifted out of the pub. A couple emerged from the Pink Door and dashed toward the parking garage. We wove down Pike Place past the shop. A few papers—job applications, I hoped, and the usual flyers and junk mail—had been stuffed in the door. I left them there.

Ahead on the sidewalk, a slight figure glanced back at
me. The Market is a magnet for eccentrics, but this one caught my eye. Neither clearly male nor clearly female, dressed in shades of gray, a long red scarf, and a large, shapeless black hat. The figure took a left and disappeared.

I pulled up my hood. A trio of women descended from a second-floor restaurant, laughing as they all tried to fit under one umbrella.

My brother and sister Seattleites, out for the evening in pairs, trios, and crowds. Winding up and winding down.

And me, alone with my dog, hustling through the rain to our empty home, driven by the fear of imaginary things, invisible threats nipping at our heels.

*   *   *

“WHY
is it,” I said Saturday morning as I flipped through a stack of job applications, “that every woman named Ginger or Rosemary thinks she's destined to work here?”

Sandra lowered her dark head and peered over the top of her glasses, today's frames red with black stripes. They made me dizzy. “A woman named Pepper has to ask?”

There are certain things you never tell certain people. I have never told Kristen what songs take a crowbar to get unstuck in my head, knowing she would take the least opportune moment to whistle a few notes of the theme to
The Brady Bunch
or “O Canada.” And I have never told Sandra my real name.

“One Sage,” I said. “Weren't there three the last time we hired?”

“Some names mature better than others. Grandma Sage has a good ring. But can you imagine Grandma Bambi or Nana Tiffani?”

“Point. But if a Harissa or an Epazote walks in, the job is hers.”

“Fenugreek,” Sandra said in a musing tone. “Ooh. Angelica.”

I'd stopped listening, my attention captured by a plain white piece of paper, the same size as the job apps.

“Boss?” Sandra said. “You're white as a sheet.”

Wordlessly, I crooked a finger. She stepped closer and gazed down at the note. Blocky lettering, handwritten with your standard black marker.

Do you believe in ghosts?

They believe in you.

She sucked in her breath, and her hand flew to her mouth. Reed peered over her shoulder. “There were a couple of applications stuck in the door this morning. I tossed them on your stack. It must have been mixed in.” He sounded anxious.

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “It's not your fault.” But was it a joke or a threat? I started to smooth the page out, then stopped, my hand freezing midair. It might be evidence.

Or a warning.

I don't believe in ghosts. I don't disbelieve in ghosts. Most of the Market legends—and they are legion—have just enough basis in fact to seem real. Visitors often report seeing a man in a black suit and top hat dancing in the Atrium, near the original Market offices. Arthur Goodwin, who designed the building's interior, had an office there—and was known to wear a top hat when he assigned the vendors their spaces. And he loved to dance.

Every Market merchant knows the story of Jacob, the name the owners of a bead shop Down Under gave to a youthful specter who regularly jumbled beads or dropped the perfect necklace in front of a customer. When the owners unsealed the wall to a small room behind their shop, they discovered piles of beads, notes they'd written, and coins. Speculation is that Jacob may have been one of the stable boys, young orphans who worked in the Market in its early days in exchange for blankets and a place to sleep.

The ghosts of Butterworth Mortuary get the blame for a
series of failed restaurants in the space. After a while, flying bottles and shot glasses that jump off the shelves by themselves cross the line from “atmospheric” to “creepy.” They seem to have declared a truce with the owners of the Irish pub that thrives there now, on the Post Alley side. I guess even spooks enjoy the occasional draft of Guinness or sip of Scotch.

Far as I knew, my building—the historic Garden Center—had never had any ghosts.

Had we just acquired one? A chill racked my chest, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. Was Tamara sending me a message?

I picked the note up by one corner and carried it to my office. Slipped it into a clean file folder. “It's a prank,” I muttered, my teeth clenched. “Don't give it another thought.” I was overreacting, unnerved by Tamara's death and Alex's arrest. Like I'd let my mind spook me last night, with crazy visions of someone stalking us in the rain. I'd gotten a little unhinged by my own proximity to murder, and a feeling of responsibility I couldn't shake.

And a touch of exhaustion. When I'd talked with my parents in Costa Rica this morning—we check in every Saturday—my mother had called it leftover Catholic guilt.

Life—and sleuthing—were simpler in the Middle Ages. Not easier—not by a long shot. Just simpler. If anyone had slipped an anonymous note to Cadfael or Frevisse, I didn't recall. With parchment and literacy in short supply, the odds were slim and the suspects numbered.

Anybody could have stuck that note in our door.

I swiveled my chair back and forth, staring at it.

They believe in you.

What if it wasn't a prank? I shivered. The message didn't make much grammatical sense, but the gist was that Tamara
wanted me to keep investigating. That I could help find her killer.

How? And why me?

I tucked the file and note in the only locked drawer, next to the personnel files. No one but me had access.

But then, that never stops a ghost.

I let out a deep breath before reading over the applications and choosing four likely prospects. Two calls went to voice mail. A robotic voice told me the third number was not in service. I double-checked—not a misdial. We all make mistakes occasionally, but if an applicant isn't careful enough to check her phone number, she probably isn't my ideal candidate. The next call got a live human. We chatted briefly and scheduled an interview for Monday.

Back out front, the witching hour had struck, and the door had opened for business. Saturdays are great fun. From open to close, thousands of people crowd the Market streets. Weekends are the best time to load up on the freshest of the fresh, discover new and unusual taste treats, prowl the artists' tables, and pay homage to an essential part of the region's history.

When a gaggle of women in their early twenties burst in, Sandra showed them the new wedding registry. We passed out our spice and herb checklists, organized by type of cuisine. “So you want to cook Italian” starts with anise and ends with thyme, while the Middle Eastern list runs all the way to za'atar, a great blend to mix with olive oil and spread on flatbread. I've heard that Lebanese children eat it before exams, to focus the mind.

Food always focuses my mind. I plucked a raspberry rugelach off the tray Kristen had brought in and took a bite while surveying our boxed sets. Our box of four jars of popcorn seasoning had sold well over the winter, as had our “Coco-nuts” set of flavored cocoa mixes and our four- and eight-jar baking assortments. For spring, we'd put together
salad seasonings. For summer, the theme was obviously grilling. And, of course, wedding and shower gifts.

Soon it would be time to plan the fall blends. When we began the Spice Club mailings, we'd underestimated how long a new project takes. I breathe better when my ducks are swimming straight well before they reach the starting line.

I filled a vintage pressed aluminum tray with cups of tea and stood outside the shop, offering samples and chatting with passersby. Last night's rain had cleaned the air and the streets, and the Market bustled.

Much as I love our product, I couldn't do this job if I didn't enjoy the people. Even the rude ones, who act like I'm passing out poison or refuse to make eye contact because they're so afraid I want something from them. That's okay. As a former supervisor of mine used to say, it's a good thing it takes all kinds, because there are all kinds.

“Founded in 1907,” I told a tourist wondering about the Market's origins, “as a true farmers' market. The idea was to cut out the middleman and let consumers buy directly from the producers.” Still the idea, although we now have a few permanent produce merchants who buy for resale.

“I'll take a cup of that,” a familiar voice said. I hadn't heard the whir of wheels, hadn't had time to brace myself for the constant battle of wits and emotion that my relationship with Tag had become. His partner was nowhere in sight. Probably chatting up the orchard girls, the cutest fruit sellers on the daystall side. Since Zak married Tory, Officer Olerud had taken over the unofficial role of Market Flirt.