Guilty as Cinnamon (15 page)

In a momentary lull—and lapse of judgment—I let down my guard. “What did you find in the search?”

Tag kept his sunglasses on, a habit he knows irritates me. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, Tag prefers to keep his shut tight. “Last time we had dinner, you gushed about all your plans for the spice business. The new bridal—what is it?”

“Registry.” I bit off the word.

“Right. And the new products and gearing up for summer. And now you're busy hiring. Stick to business, Pepper.”

“Tag, I found her. I—” I stopped myself. If he wasn't going to share any confidences, neither would I. Pushing him would get me nowhere, but the sympathy card might work. “At least tell me how she died.”

He'd kept one foot on a pedal, the other on the curb, and now he switched feet, shifting the bike. “I think you've already worked that out.”

A wave of horror rippled through me, and I smacked the empty tray against my leg. As satisfying as it is to be right, I'd really, really wanted to be wrong. “So it was the ghost chiles. I sold them to him. You know that—you've got the records.” The all-inclusive “you.” How much info detectives share with patrol officers varies case to case and officer to officer. Tag and Tracy don't always act like they play for the same team. “It's part of their regular order, every two weeks. But isn't it a weird murder weapon? I mean, you don't go around carrying hot peppers in case you find food you want to torch—they're like powdered butane—or someone you want to kill. Who would even think of that?”

Had I remembered to tell Tracy I'd given Tamara a sample? The records wouldn't show it. But that had been Tuesday morning. No reason to leave it in her bag, more than twenty-four hours later. And it had been small, an ounce or two.

How much was too much?

Tracy and Spencer would be furious. My prints wouldn't be on the plastic bag—I always handle
bhut C
with gloves. But the label . . . I couldn't remember seeing the bag at the scene. Terror has a way of focusing and filtering the mind at the same time. Certain details are indelible; others barely register.

I slumped against the corner of the building, ignoring the rough stucco poking through my thin T-shirt. Maybe it was time to give up this tug-of-war. To tell him about the sample and Lynette's role in triggering Alex's anger.

And the prankish note.

Tag beat me to the punch. “Stay away from this case, Pepper. Stay away from Alex Howard. I thought you'd dodged that bullet, but here you are again.” The sunglasses didn't hide the throbbing cords on his neck or disguise his patronizing tone.

I straightened as if the wall itself had shoved me, had told me to take a stand. Weight balanced evenly on my feet, spine straight, I stood as tall as I could—half a foot shorter than Tag's six-one, but at the moment, I had a rare height advantage.

And I had the advantage of a woman scorned. As trump cards go, it was old and worn, but it worked.

“So. After all this time, you still care more about keeping me from finding happiness with another man than you care about finding Tamara's killer.”

My happiness did not lie with Alex Howard. But there was enough truth to the accusation to strike Tag squarely in the chest. His foot slipped off the bike pedal, his cleated shoe scrabbling for purchase on the cobbled street. Despite his natural athleticism, it took him a moment to recover.

“Pepper, there's more going on here than you know.” His voice wavered between a plea and that dictatorial tone that sets my cells on edge. “With—Howard. Let Detective Tracy handle it. Don't put yourself in the middle. You'll only screw it uh—” He interrupted himself. “You'll only get hurt.”

And he knew all about hurting me.

I resisted the temptation to bring my tea tray down on his head. “Back off, Buhner. You have no right to tell me what to do or who to spend my time with. If there's something I need to know, then tell me and let me make my own decisions. I am done letting you make them for me.”

I can screw up perfectly well on my own, thank you.

True love is like the appearance of ghosts: everyone talks about it but few have seen it.

—François de La Rochefoucauld, 17th-century French writer and nobleman

With everything on my plate, the last thing I should do was leave the shop. But what's the point in hiring capable people if you can't trust them to get along without you from time to time?

And the spat with Tag had made me antsy.

Arf and I wove our way through the Market and down Western to the parking garage under my building. That sounds grander than it is. The original three-story structure dates back nearly a century, with a loading dock trackside and warehouse space on the upper floors. Pittman Automotive operated streetside for decades, two stories up, servicing downtown delivery trucks. In the 1930s, another three stories were added. In the 1970s—that bleak era when Boeing went bust, urban removal threatened the Market, and a billboard blared
WILL THE LAST PERS
ON LEAVING SEATTLE T
URN OUT THE LIGHTS
—the mechanic relocated and the warehouse
emptied. Eventually, an antique shop—a favorite haunt of mine—opened below, and the upper floors were converted into lofts.

I put the Mustang's top down, hoping to clear my head as we followed the trail. Before leaving the shop, I'd made a quick call. As Alex had promised, Ops gave me Tamara's address, in Wallingford.

Time to give this the Pepper touch. Or the canine touch.

I wound my way through Belltown to Aurora and drove north. On the right, Lake Union glistened. A small sailboat with a rainbow jib sped through the waters.
Eyes on the road, Pepper girl.

Tag's comments nagged at me. Last night, after Danielle returned to work and the conversation turned personal, Kristen had said we were too stubborn to admit we were still in love with each other. “Neither of you has been able to make a relationship last longer than three months in the nearly three years since you split up. Why do you think that is?”

I'd chalked her question up to the vodka, but in the sober light of day, I knew she had a point.

I frowned. When Tag told me not to get involved, he'd mentioned both Alex Howard and Detective Tracy. Was there some link between them, besides chief suspect and chief investigator? A history?

On the bridge over the canal, I switched lanes and signaled my exit.
No.
It had been another ploy to control my life—mainly my social life. If putting up with Tag's interference was the payback for letting him treat me to dinner now and then, no thanks.

Wallingford is a crowded slice of the city, sandwiched between Highway 99 and I-5, running roughly from Gas Works Park on the shore of Lake Union north to Green Lake and the Woodland Park Zoo. It's a mix of Craftsman cottages, compact condos, and a smattering of eccentric homes with edible yards and roundabouts crammed with drought-resistant
wildflowers. As in other neighborhoods, the industrial has given way to the sophisticated, and in recent years, the bar and restaurant scene has spilled from North 45th down Stone Way.

I turned up Woodlawn and slowed, searching for the number Ops had given me. Parking, predictably, sucked. Two blocks up, I squeezed the Mustang into a spot, and we strolled back, Arf lifting his leg on trees and fire hydrants alike.

We halted in front of a redbrick bungalow in need of TLC. Ops had thought Tamara had a roommate, but the wilted white geranium on the front porch and the mail overflowing the black wall-mounted box suggested she—or he—was away.

I rang the bell anyway. No sound—disconnected? I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked a second time, glancing up at the windows.

Nothing.

A greige stucco apartment building dwarfed the bungalow on one side. I marched up to the entrance and pushed the buzzer marked
MANAGER
. No reply. Pushed again; same result. The third try woke a woman—elderly, by the sound of her, and cranky.

I looked at Arf. “You can't work your charms if no one will talk to us.”

On the other side stood a two-story house with a new roof and half of a new paint job. I skirted the scaffolding, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

Tell the truth. You knew Tamara—don't need to say you found her—and you wanted to check up on things. Offer your sympathies to her roommate. Make sure the mail's taken in and the family is on top of things.

And I accused Tag of BS.

But it wasn't entirely that. The door opened in the middle of my self-rationalization for snooping.

A barefoot thirtyish man in paint-spattered jeans gave me a quizzical look. I stumbled through my introduction. “And the mail's starting to pile up.”

“Zu must be away. I'll grab it.” He shoved his feet into flip-flops, and Arf and I followed him back to the redbrick.

“Quite a project you've got going on,” I said, making conversation. Deep in my tote, my phone buzzed. I ignored it. “You mentioned Sue. Tamara's roommate?”

“Zu,” the neighbor clarified. “Z-U. Wong? Wing? Little bitty Chinese girl. From China, I mean. Plays viola with the Symphony.”

“Do you know how to reach her? She may not know about Tamara's death.”

“I don't. We rarely saw either of them. Like I told the cops—what were their names? Not Cagney and Lacey . . .”

“Spencer and Tracy,” I said.

“That's it. Tamara worked late—we rarely saw her. Zu moved in a few weeks ago. They're both gone a lot, and quiet when they're home. Ideal neighbors.”

“Thanks. Any chance you know Tamara's friends? Previous roommates? The landlord?”

“Sorry. We just bought our house last fall, and with the remodel and a new baby, we've been keeping to ourselves. It's a shame about Tamara, but . . .” The words trailed off.

“Thanks. One last question. Did the cops conduct a search?”

“I presume so. They went inside, but I was painting out back and didn't see when they left.”

A galvanized tin watering can stood on his porch. “Mind if I borrow that?”

I may not have been able to prevent Tamara's death or dig any dirt in the neighborhood, but there was no excuse for letting her flowers die.

*   *   *

IF
Tamara had worked out parking validation for the new restaurant, she'd scored big-time. I circled a several-block radius around Tamarack's space and was half a second from ditching my plan to canvass the neighborhood when a white
smart car with the distinctive Car2Go blue stripe pulled out of a spot. I squeaked in.

“Time to make a plan,” I muttered as I stepped on to the sidewalk, Arf's leash in hand. Down in tote-landia, my phone buzzed again; I groped and found it. Caller—M. Tracy. Scrolled back to the previous caller—Tag. I swore softly and stuffed the phone back in the bag.

The shell of a restaurant midblock drew me like honey draws bears. A strip of yellow crime scene tape stretched across the bleak facade.

I let out a long, hot breath and straightened my spine. “Let's go, boy. We have work to do.”

Arf did his best, but no one we talked to recalled seeing anyone suspicious near the once-and-future restaurant Wednesday afternoon. “People came and went. Construction guys, mostly,” said a fortyish woman reorganizing the nail polish display at the salon down the block. She turned to her coworker, a woman of about twenty-five with a lavender streak in her pale blond hair. “Your chair's got the best view.”

Lavender picked up a comb and her blow-dryer. Her customer flipped to a new page in her magazine, unruffled by her stylist's inattention. “The day the chef was killed. When she showed up—early afternoon? I'm not sure of the time—this guy darted out of nowhere. Grabbed her arm and started yelling. I wondered if maybe I should call somebody. But then he threw up his hands and left, and she went inside.”

“What did he look like?” I said.

“Older. White guy. Tall, dark hair starting to gray.” Lavender gestured with her comb. “Bit of a swagger.”

A flush of recognition zipped through my brain.
Alex
.

“Tell her about the younger guy,” the other stylist said.

A cotton candy flush crawled up Lavender's fair cheeks, a sweet complement to her hair. “Black. Cute. He said he was hoping to catch someone at the new restaurant so he could apply for a job, and wondered if we'd seen anybody.”

Tariq?
But Danielle had turned him down. So what had he hoped to gain by pestering Tamara?

“Any idea what time?”

“'Scuse me a sec,” she told her customer. At the front desk, she ran a short finger with a purple nail down a column. “I was doing a color on one gal and highlights on another. Between two and—no, she rescheduled.” Her face scrunched as she tried to puzzle out the times. “That whole afternoon got all messed up, with changes and lates and a drop-in. I want to say between three and four, but it coulda been sooner or later. I'm sorry.”

Me, too. “Do you know if he went in the building, if he talked to her?”

“By that point, a parade coulda passed by without me noticing.”

“For the dog,” the other stylist said, coming around the counter and holding out a small bone-shaped cookie. “If that's okay.”

Like anyone could ever look in Arf's eyes and say no.

*   *   *

MY
stomach rumbled. I hadn't eaten since the rugelach this morning. And Laurel and I had missed our chance earlier in the week for Indian.

You'd think that, working with spices all day, I'd be immune to the smell. But the aroma in Tamarind, Ashwani Patel's restaurant, evoked India, at least in my imagination. Indian spicery is so much more than curry, itself a blend of half a dozen spices or more. I detected ginger, mustard, cardamom, chile, and a hint of cinnamon.

Purple velvet chairs lined the entry, and a nubby deep orange silk covered the walls. The hostess stand was unattended. A glass-front case held desserts for those who wanted to take a sweet bite home, for after the concert or ballet.

I peered behind an ornate screen, gold scrollwork painted on a deep red ground, into the empty dining room. Heavy
curtains lined the walls in rich colors that conjured a bygone era. I pictured women in elegant saris and men in Nehru jackets. But this being Seattle, a man in a tie would be considered dressed up. And the clientele would cross all cultures.

“Get that dog out of here.”

The command cracked the air and startled me. I'd been too caught up in fantasies of East meets West to notice the man in white limping rapidly toward me.

I held out my hand. “Ashwani Patel? Pepper Reece. We met the other night, when—when the tragedy occurred next door. I was hoping you'd have a moment to chat.”

“No dogs.” Fever spread across his high forehead, his skin the color of toasted cumin seeds, rich brown with a saffron undertone. (I just can't help describing colors in spice terms.) He came to a halt, six feet away. “I don't care who you are or why you're here. This is a restaurant. No dogs.”

Though he had no accent—American born, or at least American raised—he shoved the words out, one after the other, as if hurrying me along.

Arf resisted my initial tug, looking over his shoulder at the man who'd barked at us. I led him to the door, glancing at Patel. “Can you pop outside for a chat?”

Patel's eyes narrowed in answer.

I tied Arf's leash to the bench where I could keep an eye on him through the glass of the wood-frame door. Inside, Patel stood behind the hostess stand, his features stern.

“Sorry,” I said. “In the Market, half the shops have dogs, and I forget sometimes he can't go everywhere with me. I'm the woman who found Tamara Langston. She was a customer and a friend. I just feel involved, you know? And I wanted to extend my sympathy.” Babbling isn't my usual style, but it seemed like good cover.

“So sad,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Very sad. Young woman, so promising. I only wish we'd heard or seen something, but we were hustling, getting ready for the evening.”

“Lovely decor. Judging from the front of the building, I'm guessing your restaurant and the space next door were one big space, divided at some point.”

Before he could reply, the door opened and a sixtyish man with a bulging belly walked in. Patel's eyebrows rose, and his lips parted slightly. I turned my attention to the desserts, recognizing
gulab jamun
, the fried balls served in a saffron-infused syrup, creamy rice puddings studded with pistachios and raisins, a dusting of cardamom on top, and sweet, milky dumplings stuffed with coconut and spices.

The new arrival picked a menu out of the basket on the counter. “We like the heat. You serve any dishes with those ghost chiles we've been hearing about?”

So much for secrecy.

“Nothing right now.” Patel took the menu from the man's hand. I couldn't blame him—I'd felt no rush to replenish after the police seized my stock. But they were a staple of much Indian cuisine, and as popular as they were wicked.