Guilty as Cinnamon (9 page)

Sugar and spice and everything nice,

That's what little girls are made of.

—19th-century nursery rhyme

I deleted the first three messages on the shop phone Friday morning. No, I did not want to “share my story” with the NBC affiliate, nor the ABC station, nor the CBS channel.

But my finger hesitated when I heard the fourth message. “Pepper, it's Ben Bradley. I just heard you found the chef's body in the restaurant. I'm so sorry—that must have been awful. I hope it's not presumptuous, but if there's any chance you'd like to talk about it, for the paper, please give me a call.”

“Please,” he'd said. “The magic word,” my father had called it when we were kids. Alex had used it, too, last night. I'm a sucker for the word “please.”

Later. After I make up my mind how involved I'm going to get
. Because even the magic word has its limits.

I hopped a bus to the jail and breezed through the security line. I'd made enough trips here last fall to know the routine.

Nobody looks good in felony red. It's a peculiar shade,
designed to clash with every skin tone. On Alex, with his olive complexion and morning-after-arrest stubble, it reminded me of those dried pepper garlands people bring back from vacation in Mexico and hang in their kitchen, then forget to use or dust.

“I spent two hours explaining myself to high-priced lawyers who claim they believe I'm innocent, but they sure as hell don't act like it,” he said, his voice low, worried but seductive. His knuckles were white as he gripped the phone, his dark eyes boring through the Plexiglas between us.

I had not stayed up late. I had left the restless dreams to my sweet dog. It had only taken me two glasses of wine and three slices of brie on seasoned flatbread crackers to convince myself that I could guard against manipulation. That I could use helping Alex as an excuse to dig up info to help me find Tamara's killer. That I could draw lines in the sand and solve my problems. If I helped free him or jail him, I could live with either outcome.

Drawing those lines wasn't so easy, sitting here before him. But I had one distinct advantage: I could walk out anytime.

“So here's the deal. You have to be honest. One hint that you're lying to me, that you're whitewashing the teeniest detail, and I will not come back. I won't lie for you, and I won't withhold the truth.”

He glared at the ultimatum. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, then he nodded once.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

“Nothing.” He sensed my sternness and backed down. “Okay. Tuesday, when I found out that Tamara was planning to leave, I was upset, I admit. Partly at her—after all the opportunities I gave her, she buddies up to my chief competitor to open a joint in a neighborhood she knew I had eyes on.”

Alex owned four or five restaurants, but I'd had no idea he wanted a foothold near the Center.

“You should have seen it coming. She was young, talented, ambitious.”

“You know me, Pepper. I blow up, but it blows over.” He waved his free hand in the air, the burn scar inside his right wrist a ragged ribbon. “We agreed it would be best for her to leave right away, to focus on her new venture.”

She agreed? That surprised me. The new place was weeks from needing her full-time—and giving her a paycheck. Tamara hadn't seemed ready to cut the cord.

But he might have used the opportunity to corral the rest of his crew, to squelch any ideas they might have about leaving. To prevent poaching.

“So who'll take her spot? Tariq?”

Alex snorted. “He's not ready. An exec from another joint will step in until I decide who should do what.”

“Alex, you've got to give your full attention to your defense. You can't be thinking about pots and pans while you're in here.”

Prison jumpsuits aren't designed for restless men. The buttons strained their holes as Alex's chest swelled in anger spiked with frustration and anxiety, his face pinched in humiliation over the loss of control.

“I am still Alex Howard.”

And that was the gist of the problem. No matter how much he begged me to be his eyes and ears on the streets of Seattle, he would never fully trust me—or anyone else. I sympathized with his lawyers.

“Who were her friends? She have enemies? Where did she live, with whom?”

“We were her family.”

“Who else?”

He didn't know. Or wouldn't say. Alex was the kind of boss who managed to learn everything he wanted to know, in and out of the restaurant, one way or another. One more reason Tamara's plans pissed him off: His intelligence network had failed him.

“Ops can tell you where she lived. Fremont or Wallingford?”

“I found her right after six. Tell me where you were all afternoon.”

He tried to lean back in the plastic chair, but the intercom's metal phone cord jerked him up short. “Got to the restaurant early afternoon. Can't say exactly when.”

“And before that?”

He glared. I glared. He deflated, dignity melting like butter in a hot pan, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one heard. He leaned forward and spoke in a low simmer.

“Okay, I admit, I followed her. But Pepper, you can't tell them that. They'll think for sure I did it.”

I wanted to strangle him. I strangled the receiver instead. “To her new restaurant? Why? To try to stop her from leaving?”

“No.” His eyebrows narrowed and his mouth opened in protest. “Danielle turns everything into gold. If I'm going to stay a major player, and compete with my own trainees, I need the details of every new joint.”

“You check up on every rumor you hear?”

“If it's somebody doing something interesting, or that might cut into our business, yeah.”

“What time?”

“Two o'clock? Two thirty? Last thing I did before I went to the restaurant.”

Where scads of people had seen him. People who depend on him for their paycheck and might not tell me if they'd seen him step out. I needed to confirm his whereabouts and find out when Tamara had spoken to Danielle. That call narrowed the window for time of death.

“How—how did she die?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“I'd be guessing,” I said, fudging a pinch, “so I don't think I should tell you.”

“Tell me she didn't suffer.”

I'd read somewhere that death is rarely truly instantaneous. My face betrayed me. He bent over, head to his knees, his hands in fists.

“Alex,” I said a few moments later. “Time's nearly up. Do you know when you're scheduled for a bail hearing?”

He raised his head slowly, eyes red and wet. “They say sometime next week, but I told them to light a fire under the judge. They can take my passport. I've got people to feed.”

“You honestly think people will come to your restaurant, once they hear?”

“You watch. They'll be lined up down the block. Hey, I know it sounds callous, but if I don't get back to work soon, I'll go nuts.” He stretched out his hand. “Pepper, thanks. I knew I could count on you to be my friend.”

Friends
. A little word that covers a lot of ground.

*   *   *

THE
morning mist had turned to drizzle while I was inside. I pulled up my collar and slipped the hood over my spiky hair. One more advantage to the do: It's practically waterproof.

The hood—and the rain—put me in a monkish mood. What would Cadfael do? Retreat to his workshop where he'd light a brazier to warm his thick hands and a cup of mulled wine, and then he'd ponder.

Too early for wine, but not for the modern substitute, a nonfat, double-shot latte. I ducked into a coffee shop overflowing with old-world ambiance: wood counters mellowed by time and elbows, a vintage chandelier, and coffee-themed clutter. And a mural of a half-robed goddess gifting humanity with that blessed bounty,
Coffea
.

Go forth and multiply
.

The hiss and hum of espresso and steamed milk made good background music for contemplation. Fascinating to see a powerful, sexy man out of his element, deprived of the command and control that define him.

No matter what, we were not getting involved romantically. His longing look, the outstretched hand—they were
natural reactions to stress, to confinement in a place so lacking in the human touch.

He'd promised to be straight with me. I wasn't convinced he knew how. I'd have to stay alert, keep all my wits about me.

Besides, I had a spoon in this pot of stew. If Tamara had been killed with chiles, they could have been mine. The sample I'd given her was too small to cause harm, but Alex had bought them from me for ages. So had dozens of other chefs and commercial food producers. I'd scanned the sales records we'd compiled for the detectives, but no names jumped out at me. I'd need to cross-reference the list with Tamara's own contacts.

Or I could leave that task to Spencer and Tracy, who had resources I lacked.

One thing I knew for sure: If my shop and I had any involvement, no matter how inadvertent, no one would work harder to absolve and protect us than I. Detective Tracy had assured me last fall that the cops don't want to blame innocent people—and I believe him; I was married to one for thirteen years—but they don't always mind if we get knocked over and stomped on in the chase.

And I owed it to my employees to keep the shop alive and well. Except for Kristen, they needed these jobs, and they loved the place as much as I did. It had been my saving grace after the year from hell—when my marriage fell apart and my job disappeared, collateral damage when the law firm where I'd worked for more than a decade dissolved in a scandal of embezzlement, court-ordered sanctions, and criminal charges.

I owed it to the shop itself, and to the Market. Jane had seized the opportunity to create the shop when the Market was in crisis. More than a few businesses started back then had since disappeared, victims of changing times and a changing city. The Spice Shop had hung on, despite growing competition. Unlike the few bad apples at the law firm who'd
taken the rest of us down with them, I believe a thriving business is a trust. We owe its success to our customers and employees, and to the community that embraces us.

People who meet me for the first time assume I'm named for my job. My grandfather gave me the nickname nearly forty years ago, but I take the coincidence as proof that I was meant to run the place. That it was entrusted to me.

So I would take the case, such as it was. For Alex and Tamara, for myself and the shop. In the spirit of Cadfael and Sister Frevisse.

I opened the door, paper cup in hand, and instantly stepped back. But sometimes even an instant is too long.

Street cops are like grade school teachers. Eyes in the back of their heads. Olerud, Tag's partner, braked his bike on the corner of First and Cherry, while Tag circled round in the street and stopped. The drizzle didn't seem to faze him.

No point standing inside pretending I wasn't about to leave or that I hadn't seen him spot me. The sooner I talked to him, the sooner I could get on with—whatever.

“Thanks for the Mariners tickets,” I said. “They had a great time, despite the loss.”

“Damn Yankees,” he said.

Also like your third grade teacher, cops can make you squirm by their presence. Like you have to 'fess up, even if you weren't about to throw a spitball. If kids still throw spitballs.

“Needed a warm-up on my way to the mystery bookshop. Slow morning, so I snuck out.”

He eyed me skeptically. “Thought you had a big project—records to compile for that warrant.”

“Don't you treat me like a suspect, Thomas Allen Buhner.” I am one of the few people who know his real name. But then, he knows mine.

He had the grace—or sense—to color. That was confession enough for me. I did my best to stay steady on the slick, steep sidewalk as I sashayed twenty feet downhill to the bookshop.

“Give me the next in the series,” I told Jen. “And tell me when he's gone.”

She shot a glance out the window, grinned, and headed for the historicals, talking as she went. “Ever notice how many deaths in the Middle Ages were by poison? Glad that's out of favor. These days, our criminals just shoot each other.” She stepped behind the counter to ring up my purchase. “I sent you a job prospect, by the way.”

“Thanks. I'd rather hire you.”

“No dice.” The phone started ringing. She handed me the book and spoke before picking up the receiver. “Coast is clear.”

The Outlaw's Tale
tucked in my tote, I scooted across the street to Fabiola's building, a solid redbrick and limestone structure built after the Great Fire of 1889 destroyed twenty-nine square city blocks of wooden buildings. When disaster struck again, in the form of the 2001 Nisqually earthquake that damaged dozens of downtown buildings beyond repair, she and a squadron of other dislocated artists had settled here.