Guilty as Cinnamon (12 page)

Yep. It is.

“He lives the good life. Fast cars, fast crowd.” He showed me a photo on his phone. Alex in chef's whites, king of the dining room. He scrolled to the next shot, Alex standing at the edge of a vineyard, clinking glasses with a gorgeous blonde. “A modern playboy.”

I raised the tea to my face, hiding my blushing cheeks. I knew the woman, from a distance. She drove a classic Mustang similar to mine and owned an award-winning winery. And a good portion of Alex's affections.

“The victim—” Ben continued.

“Tamara,” I said, tired of maintaining a professional distance. News might be Ben's profession, but this was more than a story to me. “Her name was Tamara.”

Surprise and concern mingled on his face.
How young is he?

“Sure,” he said softly. “This must be rough. I haven't interviewed anybody she—Tamara—worked with yet, so no dirt on her,” he continued. “Sorry—I mean no details. They must
have the preliminary autopsy results or they wouldn't be charging him, but they're keeping their lips zipped on the murder weapon.”

Except that I knew. Or rather, I had extracted an educated guess from Ron Locke.
Asphyxiation, caused by sudden inhalation of an extreme irritant, very possibly a spice known as
bhut C
.

From across the table, his notes looked like personal shorthand mixed with a heavy dose of Greek and a dash of Morse code.

“They say they've served warrants and hope to have more evidence soon. But the clincher is, apparently Howard was overheard threatening her. Even after he fired her.”

“What?” My shout alarmed staff and customers. I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What kind of threats? Who heard them?”

Silence from Tracy was to be expected, but Alex?
The slimy little rat.

Alex had admitted going to Tamarack, but insisted it was hours before her death. Had the camera showed anyone else? If not, had the killer scouted out the surveillance system, or known there would be none on the alley, far from the prying eyes that keep watch on every bank branch and ATM?

Or gone in the back door for some other reason? I'd gone in on a whim. Had the killer?

That brought me back to my earlier question: Who, besides a spice girl on delivery duty, walks around carrying industrial-sized bags of spices?

“Don't know.” Ben shook his head. “We asked, but they wouldn't tell us. Pepper—”

What else had Alex not told me? Why had I ever imagined I could trust him?
I turned to Ben. “Haven't we all said ‘I could kill her' when we're irked? A figure of speech is not a threat. But if you overhear half a conversation, or the context is lost in the heat and noise of a kitchen in full service, how
could you tell the difference? We need to know who heard what, when, and where.”

We
. I'd said it.
Oops
. I broke eye contact and leaned back, the booth hard and unforgiving. I would not break my promise to help Alex, not because I felt any great loyalty to him but because I'd made the promise. Pure, old-fashioned honor, the watchword of my fictional mentor Brother Cadfael. When people put their trust in you, it's a sin to betray them, no matter what they do. A sin against all that matters. All that is holy, as the phrase goes.

I'd promised to poke around, making sure Alex understood that I wouldn't lie and I wouldn't withhold the truth. I'd meant from the police—I hadn't imagined a reporter knocking on my door.

And I'd agreed to help Alex as much for myself as for him.

“Pepper.” Ben broke into my pointless reverie, his hand reaching toward mine on the table. “I'm asking too much of you, aren't I? You're emotionally involved in this. With Howard, I mean.” He searched my face briefly, then tucked his phone and notebook away. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he slapped the table lightly with one hand, the hand that hadn't quite touched mine. He slid out of the booth and left the shop without a backward glance.

Oh parsley poop
.

If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,

How many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?

—19
^th
-century nursery rhyme

Uggh
. I'd blown it, whatever “it” was.

Kristen held a wicker basket brimming with boxes of tea. Zak had already left for his Friday night gig, so she'd stayed late to fill in. With my mind on Tamara's murder and Alex's arrest, I hadn't done a thing today to replace either Zak or Lynette.

“The Made in Seattle shop on First needs tea bags. I thought you could use the fresh air.”

Gratitude for small gestures chased away my self-doubt. I took the basket and she hurried to the side of a customer baffled by our assortment of tea strainers.

What next? Sister Frevisse would pray. Me, I'd take the dog for a walk.

No substitute for footwork.

I grabbed my jacket and the leash. Arf wagged his tail in approval. Tea in hand, off we went.

Like Rome, Seattle is a city of hills. The Market is tucked smack into one of them. From the lower boundary on Western,
where my loft is, up to First, the Market's eastern edge, is a steep rise. Happily, my shop is on Pike Place, a curious cobbled warren sandwiched between the two, so I rarely have to make the whole climb at once. I shortened the trek by heading out the side door and up to First.

“Tea, oh, tea!” the shop owner called as I walked in. “Where would we be without tea?”

Nothing boosts the ego like a happy customer, especially one who pays the invoice on the spot and gives my dog a handmade peanut butter and molasses treat.

Check in my pocket and empty basket in my hand, Arf and I stood outside and raised our faces to the odd, yellowish-white orb in the sky. The sun, celebrating the approaching end of Rain Season.

You said you were going to ask questions, Pep. No time like the present
. With my dog as my excuse and shield, I took a deep breath and turned north.

Surprises me every time I see a cluster of smokers near the back door of a restaurant. Servers, dishwashers, okay—but cooks? Folks whose livelihood depends on their palates? Chalk it up to stress relief.

Three white-clad smokers stood in the puffer zone in the cobbled alley,
FIRST AVENUE CAFÉ
stitched in navy blue on their shirts.

Dogs are great ambassadors. Arf has a head that invites touch. Only those with serious canine phobia can keep their fingers from reaching out for his floppy ears or his fuzzy jaw.

“Hey, Pepper,” the assistant sous chef said. “Hey, boy.” He held his cigarette behind his back and extended his other hand at knee level. Arf immediately sat to be petted, and the man obliged.

“You must have been prepping the meat line,” I said.

“I gotta go,” the woman in the bunch said. She stubbed out her cigarette in a sand-filled flowerpot and shoved her
phone deep in her apron pocket. “Chef wants to try that pound cake before service starts.”

“Lemon pound cake with brandied cherries, fresh mint, and clotted cream,” the sous said to me. “Orgasmic.”

I returned his smile. Alex used the word so often, his staff had made it into a joke. “Must be weird, getting ready for a Friday night without Alex.”

He pursed his lips and nodded, one hand stroking Arf's ear. Talk about orgasmic.

“Exec is a good hand. We'll do all right.”

Kitchen hierarchy rivals law firm structure for its politics and strange bedfellows. In each of Alex's four or five restaurants, an executive chef oversees the menu, under Alex's hawkeyed scrutiny. “Exec” or “Chef” also orders food, manages staff, and handles the expediting—plating each order just so before the server whisks them away to the diners. He—or she—touches everything, assisted by the lead sous.

Except in this kitchen, where Alex handled the exec duties himself. His flagship, his baby.

And his lead sous had been Tamara. No wonder Alex, or Ops, had summoned help.

“Full house?”

“Friday nights always rock, but we could cram Safeco Field tonight.”

“Might be easier. Only four plates on a baseball field.” I winked, and his face twitched at the lame joke. “You know, I sorta feel responsible. It was my employee who told Alex that Tamara planned to leave, and he got all hot. Understandably. Now she's dead and he's—”

“In the slammer.” He crushed his cigarette into the pot. “We were going through the freezer for leftover fish when he got that call. He had this seafood mousse in mind—well, it don't matter. He was furious. Marched out to the prep area—I'll never forget; she was trimming baby bok choy—and fired her on the spot.”

Not what Alex had told me. I tightened my grip on Arf's leash. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. I had a hunk of halibut in one hand and snapper in the other, and he just stomped off. I thought he was pissed at me, so I'm trailing after saying, ‘Chef, Chef,' and he's spitting and foaming. Wasn't till he started yelling at her that I had a clue.”

“Must be awful to know someone you worked with every day is dead and your boss is accused.”

His gaze on the dog, he went on as if I hadn't spoken. “She had a dream, and it got her killed, damn it.”

He blamed Alex. After a long silence, while his grief filled the alley, he jerked his thumb toward the Café. “I got some good dog bones in the freezer.”

“Thanks.” We trotted after him. “When Alex lit into Tamara, who else was there?”

“Everybody. All the kitchen staff. We were too stunned to say a thing. Even Tariq, who can't usually stand still.”

“I guess you're both in line for a promotion now.”

He scowled and reached for the side door. “That kid. Seems like every week, I gotta put somebody else to work helping him prep.”

Inside the tiny back entry, I looped Arf's leash around the doorknob and promised I wouldn't be long. The cook bounded through the shiny kitchen, already beginning to thrum, and disappeared down the steep stairs.

To the left, the dining room glimmered, ready for its close-up. Behind the zinc-topped bar loomed Scotty Glass, large as ever, his catcher's mitt hands busy with ice and bottles.

“Well, if it isn't Posh Spice. Sit.”

I sat. The beveled mirror in the mahogany back bar reflected a casually elegant space, the dark tables set with heavy wineglasses, water tumblers, and white napkins, the parchment-colored plaster walls giving the room old-world
atmosphere in a city that constantly teeters between its heritage and modern aspirations.

A dishwasher staggered out of the kitchen, half hidden by a tower of plastic trays of steaming glassware. The kitchen clatter stopped and started as the doors swung back and forth.

Down the bar from Glassy, a young woman wearing a crisp white shirt and the navy apron took a sip of a Bloody Mary. Her eyes widened, and she sucked in her breath as if to cool it down. “Hot. Good. It's a keeper.” She plucked a lemon from a crate and used a mezzaluna, the half-moon knives the Inuit call
ulu
, to cut it in half, sending a sharp citrus scent into the air.

Glassy set a cranberry red Cosmo in front of me with all the grace of a dancer on point. “It's five o'clock somewhere.”

“A good bartender always remembers.” I took a sip. Crisp and tangy with a touch of sweetness. “Perfect. And so pretty.”

“Like you,” he said.

“Practicing your BS for the busy evening?” It's not a stretch to call me cute, especially with my hair in full spike mode, but my features are not delicate enough to be called pretty or classic enough for beauty. Not that I mind a compliment, but an exaggerated one makes me nervous. Like I'm about to be hit up. Or hit on.

I sensed a movement next to me. Ops. A moniker reminiscent of a Bond movie, though with her compact build, short platinum hair, and perpetual motion, she looked more like Judi Dench as M than a Bond girl.

“Glassy's sharpest tool,” she said. To him, one manicured hand on the edge of the counter: “We've got the sidewalk tables set for bar seating. I've called in extra servers.” Outside the front windows, two young men unstacked tables and chairs. A shade too cool for open-air dining, but warm enough for a preprandial cocktail outdoors.

“We'll be ready.” He tilted his big head toward the growing pile of lemon wedges. On the floor stood a box of limes and another of oranges. Ops waved and headed for the kitchen.

“How do you stay focused, with all the gossip swirling?”

He wiped an invisible drip off the counter. “We are professionals.”

And that was the answer. The chefly ego and sense of responsibility extended from kitchen to bar to dining room. In attitude as well as management, Alex, Scotty Glass, and Ops were all on the same page.

“Heard you made a visit to the jail. Thanks.” His voice was low and gravelly.

“What's your theory, Glassy?” I fingered the stem of my drink.

He flipped the white bar towel over his broad shoulder. “Alex has a temper. He says things.”

“Would he strike back if he felt betrayed?” A few feet away, the lemon cutter glanced from her boss's wide back to me, then refocused on her cutting board, the blade snicking sharply, a little louder, a little faster.

His blue eyes met mine. Beneath his bushy red beard, his jaw twitched. “You know better than that.”

I pushed my half-empty glass toward him. My favorite drink had lost its appeal. “His hurt feelings don't mean she should be dead. I told him I'd dig around, and you know I keep my promises.” Unlike Alex, who seemed to be more selective in that department.

He took my glass and dumped it out, his face momentarily hidden. The kitchen door opened, and the sous emerged, carrying a brown paper shopping bag.

“Dog bones,” he said.

As the door swung back and forth, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. Tariq peered out, a steely chef's knife in hand.
I thanked my benefactor, and the door swung shut behind him.

When I looked back at Glassy, his features were blank, composed.

“Alex didn't kill Tamara,” he said. “I'd stake my life on it. Dig if you have to, but dig carefully. You never know what secrets people have got buried.”