Guilty as Cinnamon (28 page)

He handed me a copy of his paper, open to a quarter page photo of me in the shop. I almost didn't recognize myself. Ben watched, a tell-me-you-like-it look on his face. I started reading, speaking a few of the best lines out loud.

“‘In the urban theater that is the Pike Place Market, Seattle Spice is a kaleidoscope of color and aroma, presided over by the Mistress of Spices, the tangy and bewitching Pepper Reece.'”

“‘Tangy and bewitching'? What were you smoking when you wrote that?”

“I'm a serious journalist. Every word is true.” Tiny crinkles formed around his eyes.

“‘The shop feels like a party. “We don't cater to food snobs, although they're welcome,” Reece says, handing out samples of tea and setting out bowls of cinnamon bark for customers to try. “We think good food is for everyone, and that eating should be fun.”'”

“I can't believe this,” I said, tucking the folded paper in my bag. “Thank you. Let's grab lunch before the concert.”

“They've got food booths at the music venue. Part of the International Festival,” he said, standing and reaching for my hand. “It's India Day.”

Half sitting, half standing, leash in hand and mouth open, I must have looked like an idiot.

“I thought you like Indian.” He sounded apologetic.

I took his hand and clambered over the ledge. “I do. But I don't know anything about Indian music, so let's go listen.”

The festival was surprisingly well attended for midday, midweek. We queued up at the Curry in a Hurry truck, and I worked to vanquish my unease.

No use. As we neared the order window, a tall, dark-haired, man flipped chapatis on the griddle, his back to us.
Patel
. A blonde who reminded me of Tamara-Ashley took our order, giving me the willies. I'd glimpsed her behind him, the night of the murder. Did she know she was working for a man who'd borrowed money in his dead wife's name to keep his restaurant afloat?

Everyone in line wanted to pet the dog. Mr. Ambassador quickly became the subject of casual Q&A. “Airedale, or Welsh terrier?” “Airedale.” “How old is he?” “Five, the vet thinks.” “Can I pet him?” “If you don't mind being licked to death.”

A male voice boomed out our number, and we stepped forward to take our plates.

“Thanks.” I smiled up at the face of a killer.

Recognition struck, and a bead of sweat rolled down Ashwani Patel's cheek.

In ancient Rome, wealthy mourners added spices to funeral pyres to represent the triumph of life over death and disguise the smell of burning flesh. After the death of his wife Poppaea—from his kick to her stomach—Emperor Nero horrified accountants, politicians, and traders when he heaped a year's worth of cinnamon and cassia on her funeral flames.

—Jack Turner,
Spice: The History of a Temptation

“The sitar, I recognize,” I said as we sat on the sloping lawn, plates in hand. “But what are the other instruments?”

“The man facing the sitar player has a sarod. You'll hear them throw the melody back and forth. The drums are called tabla.”

A swath of dark red fabric caught my eye, and I craned my neck to see around the barefoot men sitting on the portable stage. “What about the tiny woman in back, plucking strings?”

Ben leaned to one side, then the other. “I can't see her, but it's probably the tambura, a four-string drone that fills in the bottom. Like a bass, but without the chording.”

Turned out he knew quite a bit about Indian music.
Between pieces, he explained the theory of the raga, a melody improvised on a basic scale, chosen to fit the time of day. “The heart of classical Indian music. This is Bhimpalasi, played from noon to two
P.M.
”

When the last piece ended, the musicians rose and faced the audience. Smiles on their faces, hands in prayer position, they bowed deeply, then left the stage, the little lady in red trailing behind the men.

A dozen singers took the stage. “Folk music,” Ben said. “I've heard this group before. Mostly Bengali songs, from Pakistan and North India.”

“I need to talk to her.” The impulse was irresistible, and inexplicable. I scrambled to my feet and took off, the dog behind me.

“Talk to who? Pepper, wait,” Ben called as I threaded through the crowd, hoping I wasn't too late to catch her.

I worked my way to the side of the stage, turning my head, twisting my neck, searching.

A rope strung between two metal posts barred backstage access. I rose up on tippy toes, trying to spot the little lady. The white-clad backs of the sitar and sarod players blocked my view as they chatted in a mix of English and Hindi.

The tabla player, also in white, appeared out of nowhere. “May I help you?” His lilting accent emphasized the word “help,” but I did not know what help I needed.

“I was hoping—I wanted to talk—”

“What are you doing here?” Patel's brusque baritone broke in. “Haven't you done enough damage, getting Tamara fired, getting her killed? Don't think I don't know you sold that murderer the weapon.”

“There you are.”

I smelled her before I saw or heard her. She smelled like cinnamon.

Her hand reached out for mine, the fingers strong, their touch soft. “I knew you would come. We know things they
don't.” The little lady's dark eyes shone up at me, the ruby red bindi on her forehead glinting in the midday sun.

“Can we talk? Are you able—” A single bark interrupted me. “Arf! No!”

“He is a bad man.” She pointed, and I followed her gaze. “Not the very worst, but a very bad man.”

Ashwani Patel raised a hand as if warding her off. His nostrils flared. and his full lips drew back, exposing gritted teeth. He lowered his hands and shoved me into the barricade. I went down hard, the skin on one hand ripping open as the heel scraped the rough concrete.

Through gaps in the crowd, I saw Patel turn, probing frantically for a way out. A young woman in a lavender sari pushed a double stroller across his path. He swung his arm and knocked her aside. She staggered backward, crying, “My babies!” The stroller rolled down a slope toward the stage, and a young man dashed after it.

“Stop him!” someone yelled.

The crowd parted, a natural reaction to the chaos as bystanders tried to suss out what was happening. Patel spotted the opening and sprinted toward the Armory.

“Are you hurt?”

A hand touched my shoulder, and I looked up into the concerned eyes of the Indian drummer.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” he said.

A furry muzzle poked me in the neck, and I struggled to rise.

The drummer held out a hand. “Are you able—?”

Arf barked once.

I unhooked his leash. “Cain!” I said, and patted him firmly on the rump. His brown eyes searched my face, as if to be sure I meant the command. “Cain!”

And off he went, darting and weaving silently through the crowd, making his way more easily than any human could, a terrier in pursuit of a rat.

I got to my feet and pushed after him. People moved out of the way, and one or two grabbed for him. Silently, I urged him on.

Tall enough to stand out as he ran, Patel glanced back. At one point, I thought he saw me, and at another instant, he noticed the dog. Panic filled his eyes and he stumbled, then recovered and pushed forward.

“Pepper!” Ben yelled from somewhere in the distance.

And then I lost sight of our quarry. There were too many people, too many men who could have been Patel. I slowed, gasping for breath, sending mental messages to my dog to keep the scent, to keep up the chase.

There he was
. To the left, a dark head moved quickly, raggedly. His pace faltered. The limp, or years of eating rice and chapatis, catching up with him.

He veered toward the International Fountain.

“Son of a borage.” On a day this gorgeous, the lawn around the fountain would be jammed with lunchers, festivalgoers strolling casually, kids with painted faces carrying balloons twisted into shapes of puppies and kitties and elephants, kids high on sugar and sunshine and the pure joy of play.

Behind me, Ben shouted my name again. Off to my right, I heard footsteps pounding. Through a break in the crowd, I spied Patel, his leg dragging as he ran along the ledge surrounding the fountain. Voices commanded “Stop! Police!” It's instinct—at least, for most of us—to stop at those words, but I plowed on, knowing they weren't meant for me.

The woman I'd seen earlier showing off her Chihuly find drifted into view. Patel pushed her out of his way. She shrieked, and the sounds of breaking glass shattered the air. Colored shards flew in all directions.

Patel jumped over the ledge. Behind him, a tan-and-gray streak made the same jump, far more gracefully.

“Doggie!” a child cried.

I darted through an opening and ran into the shallow
bowl that held the fountain, angling down its sloping sides. Dodged a trio of boys oblivious to the chaos. Wove past older kids and adults who'd noticed man and dog and paused to watch. Patel kept going, slowed by that bad leg.

Ten feet in front of me, Arf leaped into the air. His big jaw grabbed the seat of Patel's pants. Down the man went, tumbling, rolling toward the giant silver dome, the dog so close he almost appeared to be pushing him. Patel came to a rest, and Arf stood guard, barking like I had never heard him bark.

Before I could decide how to corral the man, two Center police officers grabbed Patel's arms and yanked the sputtering chef to his feet.

“Arf, hush. It's okay now.” I snapped the leash onto his collar and started up the side of the bowl, my bloody hand throbbing.

And then the music—the music I hadn't even heard, over the pounding of my heart—the music changed. “The Ode to Joy” rang off the stone and glass and concrete, and the water spouted far and high and drenched the officers and their captive, the soaring notes a triumph of good over evil.

Or, at least, of dog over man.

“Good boy.” I sank to the stone ledge and wrapped my arms around my panting, soaking, wet dog. “Good boy.”

*   *   *

“I
knew you wouldn't have taken off without good reason. When I saw him shove that mother and then you chasing after him, I grabbed the nearest cops.” Ben sat beside me on the ledge.

“I didn't kill her,” Patel repeated, water puddling around his feet. He tried to cover his backside where the terrier had torn his pants, but the handcuffs made it impossible. “Whatever else I did, I didn't kill her.”

“Save it for the detectives,” one of the officers told him. A patrol car rolled up to the intersection between the fountain
and the Armory, followed by an unmarked vehicle, and the officers loaded him into the back of the patrol car.

“What was I saying about you attracting trouble?” Detective Tracy said a few minutes later after he and Spencer wrapped up a quick chat with the cops on the scene. This morning's croissant flakes had vanished from his sport coat, replaced by chocolate sprinkles.

“I prefer to think I'm attentive to details.”

“Run through them for us,” Spencer said, so I replayed the scene, from recognizing Patel in the food truck and spotting the little lady from his restaurant onstage, to my dog giving chase and catching his man.

“You trained him to attack at the phrase ‘Cain and—'?” A note of admiration snuck into Tracy's question, but he stopped when I held up a finger.

“He came that way. He'd bark, once, at the oddest times. Then last Saturday, we were here at the Center. A little boy named K-A-N-E ran out in traffic. The dog chased him and saved him.” I rubbed behind Arf's right ear, the fur still damp. “The parents were yelling the boy's name. It wasn't until today that I realized he also barked at A-B-L-E, and put two and two together.”

“This little lady, she's the one who told you about the
bhuts
? The floating ghosts?” Spencer said.

“Right. And she's the one who got me thinking about Patel.”

“He says he didn't kill her,” Ben said.

“They all say that,” Tracy told him.

Broken glass glittered. The bowl hadn't been a genuine Chihuly—the souvenirs sold at the Garden store are made by Northwest artisans based on the great sculptor's designs and specs—but it had shattered like one.

A shiver raced up my spine as my conviction that Ashwani Patel had killed Tamara-Ashley shattered, too.

“Ben, would you take Arf to the shop? Detectives, we
need to swing by the First Avenue Café. I'm about to solve your case for you. For real, this time.”

*   *   *

“ALEX
is at the Eastside joint today.” My sous chef pal ground out his cigarette in the puffer zone behind the Café.

“It's not Alex I'm looking for.”

Prep hadn't started yet, and the side door was locked. And I didn't want to appear at the front door with two detectives close behind me.

“Thanks again for those bones,” I said as he let us in. “The dog's in heaven.”

“Boss was a bit peeved when we didn't have enough for a stock he'd planned, but hey, plans change.” He winked and headed for the kitchen.

“Well, well. Look who the cat dragged in.” Scotty Glass's eyes narrowed as he gazed past me.

I slid onto a barstool. My companions kept to their feet. The mirror behind the bar reflected Spencer checking out the space. She was not sizing it up for its dining potential.

“This is Detective Spencer. I believe you know Detective Tracy.”

“We are acquainted,” Glassy said, his tone wary, the words drawn out.

“I watch a lot of movies,” I said. “The way I see it, this is a buddy movie gone wrong.”

“Is that so?” He picked up a bar towel and polished a heavy glass goblet, as bartenders do in the movies.

“Every friendship is a story. Kristen and I have been friends since before we were born. Our parents shared a house, and we were due on the same day, though I showed up two weeks before she did.”

“Sounds kinda kinky,” he said.

“Laurel and I knew each other casually for years, but we bonded over tragedy. Then there's you and Alex.”

Glassy set the goblet on the counter next to a dozen others, ready for service, and tossed the towel over his shoulder. In the mirror, I saw him reach for a half-round mezzaluna and begin cutting limes in half.

Beside me, Tracy coughed. A hurry-up-and-get-this-going cough.

“You had a nice gig,” I said. “You worked for a chef-owner who spent most of her time in the kitchen. She hired good people and got out of their way.”

I forced myself not to watch as Spencer's mirror image strolled casually to the servers' station at the end of the bar.

“Then she decided to expand and hired another chef to run the kitchen while she focused on her new place. That chef, being a bit of a schemer himself, quickly realized that you were running the bar like it was your own, letting the servers make cash sales without ringing them up and splitting the proceeds. He wanted in. You had no way out.”

A small electric juicer whirred, and citrus scent sparked the air.

“When Detective Tracy and Officer Buhner came calling, you and Alex formed a united front. The servers disappeared, after you slipped them extra cash to start over in Portland or Denver or wherever. But one stubborn gal wouldn't go. She'd had enough small roles in local theater to think she could make a career on the stage if she stayed in Seattle. So you and Alex paid her off, and Lynette—I think she called herself Melissa back then—took a short vacation. Long enough for the cops to lose track of her, but not long enough to lose her theater connections.”