Guilty as Cinnamon (7 page)

Their ex-wives have less sympathetic words.

Tag had told me more than he was supposed to—neither the arrest nor Alex's name had been made public yet—so back in the shop, I had to bite my tongue. But I've never been very good at keeping my emotions to myself.

“Sandra, you and Mr. Right want to go to a ball game? Tag had to cancel. Seats on the third base line.” My father had rejoiced, in his quiet way, when big league baseball returned to Seattle in 1977, and we'd often gone to games as a family. I didn't want to go alone. Not tonight. Too many thoughts swirling in my head, too much acid roiling in my tummy, to enjoy myself.

“You bet,” she said. “It would do him good—the job cuts at his work have him worried.”

Kristen followed me to the back room. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“No! How can you even ask that? We're just friends.” Not that Tag hadn't expressed interest, but he'd been a gentleman. Despite our recent evenings out, we weren't dating, exactly. More like trying to figure out what “just friends” means. We'd known each other twenty years, been married thirteen, divorced two. I like him. Don't trust him. Can't live with him. But we do have fun together.

“Because,” she said, as if explaining to a two-year-old why she had to keep her diaper on at the park, “of the look on your face.”

“It's not what you think.” She thought I was upset over the cancellation, that work had won out over private life as it often does in cop marriages. In every marriage, far as I could tell. Even though we weren't married anymore.

“So, are you going to tell me?”

I looked her in the eye—she was my oldest, bestest friend in the world, and I owed her that—and told her the truth. “No.”

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails,

That's what little boys are made of.

—19th-century nursery rhyme

Don't tell my father I let Arf ride in the Mustang. I put a sturdy cover on the leather seat, but this car is his baby. Bought it in San Diego from his commanding officer's widow when he came back from Vietnam. Drove it to St. Louis to see his parents, then to Seattle—the farthest city he could reach in the Lower Forty-Eight—where it had lived a sheltered life ever since. He'd entrusted it to me when he and my mother decamped for Costa Rica.

And I know it's not the safest place for the dog, but he loves it. The skies had cleared, so I put the top down and the two of us sped north on 99 toward Greenwood, Tag's spare house key in my pocket.

“The tickets are on the desk,” he'd said. “In the TV room, on the first floor.”

As if I didn't know where the TV room was. He'd hardly moved a dish or chair since I'd left. I'd taken only a few pieces of furniture: The Chinese apothecary he'd always complained
about that now stood in the shop. The two-tiered tea cart, in red-and-white enamel, also now in the shop. And a cedar-lined mahogany chest, one of the first antiques I'd ever bought—a reminder of the hope chest my grandfather bought my grandmother when they were courting, lost in the fire that destroyed their home the winter I was fourteen.

It's odd to walk into a house where you used to live. We'd bought the run-down bungalow from Tag's elderly aunt and spent all our spare time those first few years restoring it, adding modern outlets and appliances to the 1930s charm. We'd scraped and painted inside and out, congratulating ourselves for accomplishing such a major chore with only one spat, when Tag yanked the drop cloths off the roses before I finished the last window trim.

I climbed the steps and crossed the porch. Not the time to wonder what had happened to us. Not after Tamara's murder and Alex's arrest.

The oak door opened without a squeak. Inside, I punched in the security code—our wedding date. The sweet purple smell of lilacs mingled with beeswax and orange oil. Tag's cleaning service used the same products I always had. And a hint of—what?

In the corner stood the wingback chair his mother and I had redone—my first upholstery job—on one of the Persian rugs we'd found rolled up in the back of an upstairs closet. I stuck my nose in the lilac-filled Rookwood pottery vase—another family piece—on the dining room table.

Ah, that's the smell.
I wrapped the blue cheese he'd left on the kitchen counter and tucked it in the fridge, between the bottles of Corona and the mustard.

I'd been here a few times since I left, making a pickup or drop-off. And once or twice this past winter for Sunday game day.
Go, Seahawks!
But I had not been alone inside since moving out.

Weird, weird, weird.

The tickets lay right where Tag had promised, on top of a small desk we'd found on one of our rare joint hunts. I stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the master suite we'd created from two small bedrooms and a bath best termed a water closet.
Don't do it, Pepper.

I did it. What can I say? I'd sweated blood and tears over that project. My fingers trailed the smooth pine rail as I climbed, remembering the terror on Tag's face when an old storm window shattered in my hands and the shared relief as we realized I wasn't badly hurt, despite the blood spatter.

He'd swapped the double wedding ring quilt we'd been given for shirting striped linens and a navy comforter that went surprisingly well with the red-and-blue Persian rug and the unpainted fir floor. Tag did have a sense of style, despite his pokes at mine, but I sensed his mother's hand.

The closet door stood open. An icy spasm gripped my gullet. After I'd found him and the “parking enforcement officer” plugging each other's meters, half a dozen signs of trouble had fallen into place. Including the time I'd picked up the cleaning—usually his task—and noticed shirts I didn't recall him wearing.

My breath snagged in my throat as I realized I was standing in my ex-husband's bedroom searching for signs of Another Woman.

You left him, Pepper. For good reason, yes, but you left.
He's entitled to move on.

Maybe he was dating and I was the Other Woman.

That I didn't know shouldn't matter, but it did. Meaning—what?

Meaning it was time to go.

I gave up the plan to cut peonies in the backyard—the garden wasn't mine anymore, either—and dashed outside.

“Good boy.” I grabbed Arf's leash, and we trotted to the curb. I opened the driver's door, and he hopped in. For a small guy—about twenty inches at the shoulder—he's a heck of a jumper.

A few blocks away, I stopped for a light, my heart still in high gear.
What were you doing, Pepper?
What had I expected—booby traps for intruders? But that wasn't the kind of danger I'd faced.

The danger of my own uncertain heart.

A movement at the bus stop caught my attention. A slender black kid grooving to his earbuds. No—not a kid. One of the line cooks from the First Avenue Café. Tariq something. We'd met when I'd dropped off Spice Shop deliveries, and a time or two when I'd joined Alex and the staff for family meal.

I waved. He frowned, trying to place me, and approached, tugging one bud free.

“Tariq, right?” I said at the same moment he said, “You're Posh. No, Pepper. That's it.”

Alex had dubbed me “Posh Spice” when he heard I grew up on Capitol Hill. No matter that my family were neither the landed old school nor the moneyed new aristocracy, but part of the hippie invasion forty years ago.

“Hop in. I'll give you a lift downtown.”

Arf jumped into the backseat, Tariq slid in, his pack in his lap, and the light changed. A car honked, and I shifted gears. Urban ballet.

“You work the line, right? Meat side?”

“Yes, ma'am. Started in the Eastside joint, moved over here a year ago when Alex shuffled kitchen staff.” His torso rocked back and forth as he spoke. “Original paint?” At my look of surprise, he added, “I like cars.”

“I'm sorry about Tamara,” I said. “Must be rough on all of you.”

Tariq stopped rocking and snapped his head toward me. “You found her.”

My hands tightened reflexively on the wheel and my jaw pinched as I turned onto Highway 99, aka Aurora Avenue, and merged into the zooming midday traffic. “Mm-hmm.”

“Sucks,” he said, sitting back and gazing forward. “She was going places.”

An innocent word choice? Staff changes are a constant in the biz, but her death only a day after her firing would be a serious blow to morale. Still, they knew the boss was a show-must-go-on, keep-the-customers-happy kind of chef.

How would they respond to Alex's arrest? Would Ops close the joint, or bring in a chef from another restaurant?

It occurred to me that Tariq might not know about his boss's arrest.

I slowed for a light and stole a glance at him. The earbuds hung around his neck, the cord snaking down his white T-shirt to his pants pocket. His head rested against the seat, eyelids half closed, long lashes nearly brushing his cheeks.

“Might be better if you hear the news before you get to work,” I said. “The police have arrested Alex. They plan to charge him with murder.”

Did Tariq gasp? The traffic noise made it impossible to tell.

Off the highway, I worked my way toward First Ave. Tariq did not speak, his lips parted, eyes wide and unfocused.

“We're in luck.” A bus drove away, and I slid to the curb, not worrying about the police cars parked in front of the Café. Tariq reached blindly for the door handle, and I put my hand on his arm. “Let me know if we can help.”

He nodded and slammed the door, then reached back to touch Arf. He loped across the street and down the hill to the side door, the delivery entrance. Ops, the accountant, and the front of the house manager stood on the sidewalk. Some kitchen staff leaned against the stone wall; others milled
nervously. Evicted, temporarily, while the cops did their thing.

Scott Glass, the Viking-bearded bar manager Alex called Scotty or Glassy, paused in his pacing long enough to notice me. He drew long and slow on the cigarette gripped between his thick fingers.

I pulled into traffic.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

*   *   *

I
spotted the job applicant the second Arf and I jogged in the shop's front door. My stumble down memory lane, combined with Mission Tariq, had made us late, and I'd splurged on a parking spot in the Market garage rather than run the Mustang home and dash back.

First clue: the leg warmers. Who wears leg warmers? Not even dancers, anymore.

Second clue: the schoolgirl skirt. The yellow, gray, and turquoise plaid did not remotely coordinate with the rainbow-striped leg warmers. She'd topped it with a pale yellow blouse sporting a Peter Pan collar and a navy jacket.

The Market is a magnet for free spirits.

Third clue: her kohl-eyed, openmouthed gape at the shelves crammed with round jars, square jars, and ancient painted tins full of culinary and aromatic treasures.

Alas, she did not glance at the door or me, suggesting retail instincts yet to be honed. But we could work on that.

We sat in the mixing nook. She “
loved
” our tea. She'd “
never tasted anything like it
.” Spices were “
so fascinating
.” She spoke in italics. I asked about her retail experience. The answer was hard to decipher, but seemed to boil down to a talent for thrift store shopping.

“What do you enjoy cooking?”

She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “Umm. I don't cook much.”

Ah
. That would be okay, if she conveyed the slightest interest in food. After all, that's what brings customers in. But she didn't.

I trotted out my standard questions. How would you respond if a customer interrupts while you're helping someone else? If they ask to use the bathroom? If you suspect a customer of shoplifting?

What's the difference between oregano and marjoram?

Actually, that question is less important than the others. I can teach spice knowledge. I can't teach patience or tact, though the willing student can learn. And I can't teach temperament.

She might have had it, but lacked the life experience to cope with the wildly unpredictable world of the Market. Every job has its quirks and quarrels, but let's just say every day down here is a full moon.

And, despite her avowals otherwise, I suspected she'd be a temporary hire. This sounded like fun, the pay was decent, and wouldn't it be cool to work in the Market? Maybe that was the best I could hope for. But what I wanted—needed—was a food lover fired up about foodie retail.

Or who at least took it seriously.

“I've got a few other people to talk with”—happily, the lie did not set my pants on fire—“before I make a decision. If you get another offer before you hear from me, give me a call.”

She gushed her thanks before dashing out.

Retail: fun and easy, except when it's not.

Leg warmers
.

Sandra was thrilled to get the baseball tickets. It's fun to treat your employees.

Hold on to that thought
. I'm a big believer in reaching for the positive, no matter how minor, when it seems like the world is falling apart. Those tiny things keep us afloat.

An hour later, Sandra, Reed, and I clustered around the terminal for the new gift registry. The tech had taken us through its paces, showing us how to register hopeful giftees,
create wish lists, and enter purchases. All that was missing was the software that would link the registry to our inventory system, triggering a memo to me when we had more requests for pepper mills than we had in stock.

To Reed, it was a shiny new electronic toy. To Sandra, a gadget she was both afraid to touch and eager to master, so she could help more customers. To me, dollars out and, my fervent wish, dollars in.

“Now all we need are brides,” I said. Our ads in the spring bridal magazines would appear any day now. They'd cost a pretty penny—one more worry.

The front door opened and I turned, half expecting a vision in white beaded satin, trailed by her dazed-but-happy mother.

But no. Our consolation prize was the Dynamic Duo. Starsky and Hutch. Cagney and Lacey. Batman and Robin. Andy Griffith and Barney Fife.

Turner and Hooch.

I suppressed the urge to share my smart-assery—as I said, in my experience, homicide detectives aren't big on humor. Instead, I pasted on my bland-but-pleasant HR smile, anticipating more questions about my grim discovery at the building site.

You know what they say about assumptions.

So I nearly lost my socks—and my lunch—when Tracy slid a folded paper out of his inside jacket pocket.

“We have a warrant,” he said. “For your sales records.”