Guilty as Cinnamon (13 page)

Many people swear ants will not cross a line of cinnamon. Urban legend or fact? Next time you're unlucky enough to be invaded by the family
Formicidae,
test it for yourself!

“It's quiet now, but two brides enrolled in the registry this afternoon.” Sandra's eyes sparkled. “One is a cookbook fiend with a monster guest list.”

Her enthusiasm lit me up, too. We were juggling a lot of new projects, each with its own demands and payoffs. Too bad I couldn't clone her.

I'd just flipped the red-and-white sign in the shop's front door to
CLOSED
when Callie called. “Hey, that was fast. What did you find out about Tamara?”

“Pepper, I am so sorry. I'd planned to spend the afternoon on your project, but one of the partners dumped a rush on me. A huge business deal that's supposed to close next week could go south if they don't iron this out. I've got to spend the entire weekend helping research software patents for fax machines.”

“They still make those?”

“The patents still have value. Give me till Monday or Tuesday?”

“Sure.” What else could I say? Even the smartest and most prepared lawyers—including Callie's bosses—couldn't foresee everything, leading to late nights solving last-minute emergencies.

I am not without research skills. I know how to source spices, check quality, and negotiate prices and delivery terms. But tracking people and searching for bad blood? I didn't know where to start.

So I ran the till and counted the cash drawer while Sandra dumped out the tea and scrubbed the pots and Reed swept the floor.

At half past six, Arf and I trudged up the steps to my loft. Well, I trudged, deflated and uncertain. He, being a dog, does not know the meaning of trudge.

I gave him fresh water and a small bone from the restaurant's supply. “Thanks for being such a great sidekick, Arf.” I poured a glass of Chianti, opened my laptop, and settled on the couch. Googled Tamara's name. Though I'd been mildly successful once before finding a key detail online that led to more info—and more unanswered questions—I quickly realized this was going nowhere.

It's a basic HR principle: Follow your strengths. Instead of floundering around in cyberspace looking for details that might not matter and connections that might not exist, why not start with a woman who knew Tamara?

But I needed help. Kristen had rushed home to help the girls get ready for a Daddy-daughter dinner at their school. Some mothers might covet that evening alone, but my pal would be as antsy as I was.

“It's ten minutes from your house. Meet me in half an hour.” One of the great things about having two wildly different best friends: different partners for different challenges.

Half an hour later, I strolled into Magenta, in the heart
of Madison Park, and settled at a tall table in the bar that overlooked the entire establishment. Since Kristen is always late, I counted on a good fifteen minutes before she arrived. I hooked my heel on the chair rung and scanned the place.

Danielle Bordeaux's newest joint embodied casual neighborhood elegance—what Tamara wanted to achieve at Tamarack. Here, the buzzword meant tables close enough for cozy but not for clusterphobia. Free-form chandeliers of the style made famous by Chihuly and his Pilchuck Glass School hung from the ceilings, their colors and shapes evoking flowers, seashells, and otherworldly creatures. The space blended light and dark, soft and hard, shadow and shine. It made you want to drink and share secrets, eat, and share more secrets.

A few women had dressed up for the evening, but others appeared to have come straight from work. I did not feel out of place in my soft caramel jeans, brown ankle boots, and an open-weave paprika sweater.

“What may I bring you from the bar?” The server, in black pants, shirt, and tie, did not look old enough to drink.

I hesitated, my usual Cosmopolitan holding no appeal. He stepped into the void. “The bar is featuring Washington gins tonight. We're mixing a special martini with any of these.” He drew a card from the tabletop stand and showed me a list of temptations. “Or if you prefer more flavor, may I suggest a Negroni? Campari, sweet vermouth, and gin, with an orange twist, on the rocks.”

“Sold.” The waiter slipped away, leaving me to relax and drink in the atmosphere. Around me, conversations ebbed and flowed, punctuated by the clink of glasses and silver on plates, by the sound of corks popping and laughter rising.

“Pepper. What a nice surprise.” Danielle appeared at my table, like a genie I'd summoned. She wore a simple charcoal gray tunic over black pants, a black-and-white scarf looped around her long neck. I felt like an awkward freshman awed by an older student's senior project.

The server delivered my cocktail. An unspoken message passed between them, and he left us. She sat across from me.

“My first time here,” I said. “No wonder Tamara wanted to work with you.”

She closed her eyes, as if to fight off a wave of emotion. “Hard to believe it's only been two days. Feels like a lifetime.”

I knew the feeling. We sat in silence as I tried to decide which of the hundred questions swirling in my mind to ask first. Danielle solved my dilemma.

“A few weeks after we opened, Tamara came to me with a proposal. Told me I'd prompted her to pursue her dream. I thought that was flattery at first, but the more we talked, the more I liked her. Her passion inspired confidence—as a chef should.” The server set a glass of ice and a bottle of Perrier in front of her. She reached out a trembling hand, fingers quieting when they tightened around her glass.

“What does it take to start a successful restaurant?”

“The Big Three—concept, chef, location. If one is weak, the venture will fail. Look around here.” She gestured with open hands. “I knew I wanted this place to be different from my others. Urban but inviting. A place where you might meet a friend for a drink and stay for dinner on the spur of the moment. Food that's interesting, but not too weird.”

“Foodie, without being precious,” I said.

“Exactly. You want a team leader, not a one-man show, if you want the place to last.”

“So you were open to developing her idea?”

“In partnership, yes. She had the fire. I like a heat seeker.”

“What about location? Don't you worry about competition?” I could eat my way down Magenta's block for a week and be happy.

She shook her head, revealing dark streaks in her blond bob—not roots in need of touch-up, but a carefully planned look that said, “I'm so artfully not planning anything.”

“No. Put two or three compatible restaurants close together
and they all prosper. You create a hub, a magnet. Just don't pair two Italian joints, or French sit-down and a pizza parlor. You want to attract the same crowd, then offer a choice.” She sipped her mineral water.

“Would opening Tamarack next to Tamarind have given you a similar advantage? Ethnic paired with what—modern American?”

Her well-defined brows darted toward each other. “I'll admit, I wasn't crazy about the location. Near the Center, people are focused on events, not food. They're rushing to get to the opera or the Dylan concert, so they're not going to have that second drink or stay for dessert. But more and more companies are locating nearby—”

“South Lake Union's hot,” I said, mentally ticking off a few big names headquartered there.

“—and her plan looked solid. I wasn't sure Tamarind would give us that synchronistic boost, but Tamara made a good case. She'd done the due diligence—talked to the neighbors, counted foot traffic, even worked out parking validation.”

“But you still weren't convinced.”

One corner of her mouth curved up in a question mark. “It was nothing, really. That part of the block has an iffy reputation.”

“Ghosts?” I said, remembering Tamara's comment, though it was hard to imagine this sophisticated businesswoman quelling at the specter of a specter.

“Maybe. It had a strange—what? Aura? I think I mentioned at the scene, we had questions about the wiring. She wanted to dig around before we spent a ton of money.”

“Right. She mentioned electrical problems.”

At precisely that moment, Kristen arrived. “Lemondrop, up,” she told the server and introduced herself to Danielle. Then, to me, “More problems at the shop?”

“Tamarack,” Danielle said. “Power outages, practically
every visit. Odd noises. A smell. Like—and this is weird—like cinnamon.”

My rib cage froze. When I'd walked into the empty space, I'd found myself remembering a trip my family took to Mexico when I was a kid and the cinnamon-chile cocoa we drank. Still one of my comfort foods. Olfactory memory is like that: You're back in your great-grandmother's tiny, dark house or dreaming of your college boyfriend before you notice that you're smelling rosewater or Geoffrey Beene's Grey Flannel. I had thought I smelled cinnamon and chile but dismissed it.

Now I knew the chiles were real. What about the cinnamon?

The hostess whispered in Danielle's ear. “Excuse me,” she said and followed the woman to the far corner of the dining room.

“What did you find out?” Kristen asked. “Isn't this drink gorgeous?”

“The building was giving them fits, but that's par for the course. Let's eat.” I was suddenly starving. We picked a few small plates to share, and I ordered another Negroni. The sweet vermouth balanced the bitter liqueur perfectly, and nothing refreshes a Friday-night brain better than citrus.

“Sorry for the interruption.” Danielle slid into her chair. “Problem solved—the AC started blasting a table for no reason. A restaurateur has to be a Jack—or Jill—of all trades.”

“And a casting director,” I said. “Lots of parts to fill. I seem to remember a review, right after you opened here, saying expansion had improved the quality of your food. How did you manage that?”

“If you're good at what you do—if you cast the right people in the right roles—then expansion gives you opportunities to do more things. And not one egg drops where it shouldn't. There are chefs who are great cooks, and chefs who are great restaurateurs.”

“What would you call Alex Howard?” Kristen beat me to the question.

Our server brought our food and a champagne Negroni for Danielle. “Great chefs are not always easy to work for. Getting fired upset Tamara, but didn't surprise her. Still, to kill her . . .”

“Say it wasn't him.” I watched reluctance cross her face. “Who else knew about her plans? Who would have been angry with her?”

“A few of my people knew. My business partner, our accountant, my office assistant.” She sipped her drink. “I can't blame the police for sniffing around us.”

What could Danielle gain from Tamara's death? A way out of the deal? But while she'd had her hesitations about the location, she'd given it the go-ahead.

“I didn't know Tamara well,” I said, “but her enthusiasm was contagious. I'd been looking forward to working with her.”

Beneath the glamourous hair and makeup, a shadow crossed Danielle's face. Sadness, or guilt?

I scooped up a bite of the wilted kale salad. “What is this cheese?”

“Cambozola. Similar to Gorgonzola, but creamier. Not so sharp and blue-y.”

“You start staffing yet?” Kristen said. “Big job.”

Danielle snapped a seeded breadstick in two. “She had a cook she wanted me to interview, and a couple of servers. Somehow, I doubt any of Howard's employees will be applying for a job here anytime soon.”

“Dweek?” I swallowed my bite of salad and repeated myself. “Tariq?”

“No. She approached me with him in tow, but he didn't pass the test.” She waved half a breadstick toward the kitchen. “I asked them each to cook a meal for me—standard request. She was terrific—efficient, curious, hardworking. Top-notch food. She'd already begun planning her menu. Every meeting, she brought me sample dishes. Her pastries and desserts were superb.”

“What about him?”

“He's watched too many TV cooking shows. Lots of talent, no focus. Easily upset. Dishes weren't ready at the same time. If he can't handle a three-course for a four-top by himself, he's not ready for full service.”

Made sense to me. But to Tariq?

The glorious Negroni triggered another thought.

“What about a bartender? Cocktails were key to the concept. A guy like Glassy could make the place.”

Danielle froze, breadstick in hand. Under the table, I touched Kristen's knee, a signal to keep quiet.

“Glassy,” she finally said, “is Alex's man. There are lines you don't cross.”

I cast my mind back to our conversation this afternoon. Had he been hiding something? Or sending me signals I hadn't quite grasped?

She slid off her seat, professional smile back in place. “I'm so glad you came in tonight. The drinks are on the house.”