Guilty as Cinnamon (19 page)

Not to mention, my own spiky locks raise eyebrows from time to time.

“I'll get back to you midweek.”

I walked him to the door, then peeked around the corner to our exterior wall. A cluster of men in uniforms studied the damaged power supply. I crossed my fingers. The electrician gave me a thumbs-up. “Twenty minutes, tops.”

Despite the threatening skies, I felt bathed in sunshine.

Back inside, I returned a call from an herb grower on Whidbey Island about a new variety of chamomile and a
culinary lavender I'd been searching for. She promised to send samples. I checked our inventory of packaging and mailing supplies and made an order list. Called Red Dreads's former employers and his culinary school advisor, leaving messages.

Stared at my customer list, summoning up the guts to make calls—a fishing expedition disguised as a client update.

Decided to put that off until it felt less deceptive. No new job applications had come in. I had not found The One, so I tried the disconnected number again. No luck. I was about to feed the app to the shredder when a teeny little light went on—figuratively speaking.

Out front, Reed had arrived for his afternoon shift. “Just who I needed to see. Any chance you know whether this app was tucked in the door with the ghost note?”

He took a quick look. “Yeah, I think that was the one.”

Spencer answered on the first ring. I explained my thinking.

“So, basically, you're saying the app is bogus and it was slipped into your door with the note so that if you picked them up right away, you'd see the app first.”

“Right. Whoever left it wants to stay in the shadows.”

“I'll send someone down to bag and tag it.” Another pause. “Be careful, Pepper. This is getting a little creepy.”

Took the words right out of my mouth.

Enjoy Seattle weather. 10 million slugs can't be wrong.

—T-shirt popular in the Pacific Northwest

The rain had stopped. Or paused—we had a couple of weeks to go in the semi-official rain season. I grabbed a slicker and a leash, and Arf and I sauntered out to clear our heads. Mine, anyway.

One of the orchard girls—Angie, slightly taller than Sylvie—waved from the other side of Pike Place.

“What's going on?” she said after we crossed the street, gesturing toward my building. Arf nosed her leg, and she caressed his ear.

“Electrical problems. Someone messed with the wires.”

Her dark eyes widened. “Pepper, no. Are you okay?”

“Rattled, but yeah. You get here early. See anyone hanging around?”

Her shiny dark ponytail wagged back and forth. “Be careful.”

I turned to Herb the Herb Man and asked the same question. Same answer. Then another thought occurred to me. “Herb, you sell fresh herbs to Alex Howard's restaurants, don't you?
Any chance Tamara Langston talked to you about supplying her new place?”

Tall and gangly, his hairline long receded, Herb reminded me of a clown minus the makeup. Nothing funny about him now, as his chin rose, his lips tight. “She talk to you?”

Herb and Jane had come to the Market at about the same time, and stayed close. He never treats me as a competitor, nor I him. We send each other customers all the time. If he was eyeing me warily, it must be because he had planned to sell fresh herbs to Tamara, and my relationship with Alex gave him pause.

“Yes.” I faced him straight on. “And I admit I'm partially to blame for Alex finding out. My employee told him.”

“Behind your back!” Angie said from her adjacent space. “And you fired her.”

Herb's features softened. “I should have known you wouldn't break a promise to keep quiet until it was time. Danielle sent her to me—I've been her supplier since she first opened her doors. It's a shame, is what it is.”

I reached out and squeezed his hand. “Change of subject. You ever hear about a ghost in the Garden Center Building?”

He scratched one of the remaining reddish tufts stuck onto the side of his oblong head. “Not that I recall. Some people think ghost stories add to the Market's mystique, but I'm a see-it-to-believe-it guy myself.”

“Thanks, Herb.” I wove my way through the crowd, lost in thought. Clearly, Herb had had no beef with Tamara. Who did—and knew about her plans?

“Pepper, watch out!”

I turned toward the shout, instinctively jumping aside. A towering stack of produce crates tumbled down, crashing to the Arcade floor where I'd just stood. The crates splintered and spinach flew. Radishes and potatoes became miniature bowling balls, and carrots and tomatoes bounced and rolled
across the floor. They struck shoppers' feet and caromed off their legs, creating a clattery, splattery, goopy mess.

“Holy rigatoni,” I said, gaping at the chaos.

“Pepper, are you okay?” That was Angie, Herb towering behind her. “What happened?”

“I must have brushed too close to the boxes.”

“A clumsy shopper, not watching where he was going,” Herb speculated.

“Not you,” a flower seller said, a Hmong woman not five feet tall. She made a shoving motion with both hands, then pointed toward the Desimone Bridge, which led to stairs down to the waterfront. “That person. Gone already.”

I followed her gaze but saw no one.

“Long gone.” The produce man glowered. “Some people.”

“You mean, on purpose?” The light fixtures seemed to sway, and I steadied myself on the nearest pillar.

The flower seller nodded. Vendors and shoppers were already picking up veggies and mopping up the damage. The produce man waved off my offer of help, saying, “Thank God you're okay.”

What was going on?
Unsettled but grateful that no one had been hurt, I sought out a few more Marketeers who regularly supply the restaurant trade. Tamara had quizzed the butcher about the origins and availability of numerous cuts of beef, lamb, and more. She'd hinted to the cheese maker that she might want to do business, and talked serious bread with Misty the Baker.

No one had noticed anyone unusual near my building. But they're busy, and it takes a lot to stand out around here.

And none of them had heard boo about a Garden Center ghost.

So much for that theory.

I'd picked up a few groceries on my rounds and decided to add one more item.

“Funny you ask,” Vinny the wine merchant said. “She came in, musta been last Tuesday? Said she didn't know much about wine and alcohol distribution and could I give her the nickel version. Now, why does a sous chef need that kind of detail? So I put two and two together and asked if she had a partner or were going out solo. Partner, she says, but she wanted to find her people herself. I respect that.”

I waited patiently. There is absolutely no percentage in rushing Vinny.

“So I tell her, Tamara, I says, you need a bar manager. A guy with experience. And she says she thought she had one but he turned her down. And did I maybe know someone.” He set a wineglass on the counter and showed me a chilled bottle of rosé. “From southern France, the Languedoc. Tastes like spring.”

My French is as rusty as Bill W.'s corkscrew, but I'm pretty sure that region is not called the Leaky Duck. I perched on a stool. A tad early for wine tasting, but Vinny knows his stuff. Even if he can't always pronounce it.

Vinny also knows a lot about the Market ghosts, in part because the old Butterworth Mortuary, the most famously haunted building in the city, is a few doors away. “Vinny, you ever heard any ghost stories about my building?”

He slid the glass toward me, the wine blushing deeply as if embarrassed to overhear gossip about other spirits.

“Not as I recall. Now some folks think ghosts, the spirits of the dead, are electrical phenomena. So it makes sense to think one of them might be behind your troubles.” Vinny knew all about my troubles before I walked in. Like something in the air had whispered to him.

“But do ghosts mangle power lines? This is terrific.” Bright, almost sparkly. Like a grape kissed a strawberry. I had a sudden urge to go on a picnic.

“And affordable, 'specially after your discount.” He set an unopened bottle on the counter. “No reason why not.”

“They don't have bodies.” I swirled the glass to release more flavor and aroma. “How could they use tools?”

“They got powers we can't fathom. Your computers been working okay? Your watch?”

“Now that you mention it, the cash register's been a bit wonky lately. And we had a problem with the overhead lights last week. Tuesday.” The day I fired Lynette. Big day, as it turned out. I glanced at my bubble gum pink watch. When had I last looked at it? Not since eight fifteen, apparently, because that's what time it said. I took another sip and reset my watch. “But why would we all of a sudden have a ghost, when we've never had one before?”

“They like to show up on anniversaries,” Vinny said. “Big deal days, to remind the living of their presence.”

I scrunched up my face. “If we don't know who the ghost is, how would we know its birthday? And by your theory, it wouldn't be Tamara—the glitchy stuff started before she was killed.” It started while she stood in my shop, very much alive.

Didn't that make it more likely that the ghost had some connection to her?

Ridiculous.
All this ghost talk was nothing more than someone trying to drive me crazy, and I was not going to let them succeed.

*   *   *

WHAT'S
ridiculous, I told myself a few minutes later, is how much I love my shop. It may be, if it's not melodramatic to say so, the love of my life.

The thought of losing it, of not selling spice, purveying adventure and flavor to cooks of all stripes, of this marvelous, maddening old building turning to ash, of not spending my days working amid all these amazing, crazy, wild, woolly people—the kaleidoscope that is the Market—made me sick to my stomach.

I sniffed back tears. “No one is going to take this away from me.”

“Nobody will, Pepper. We're all behind you.” I didn't realize I'd spoken out loud until Kristen replied and wrapped an arm around me. We were standing on the sidewalk, under the ancient awning, waiting for the all clear from the electrician.

Moments later, we began to gingerly plug in lights, the electronics, the teakettle. Kristen had relocated the cracked samovar to the mixing table, where it shone with pride of place, despite having been doomed to an ornamental existence.

“You're sure it was deliberate?” I asked the electrician.

“No question. Your wiring was redone in the big redo forty years ago, and it's been upgraded over time. But all these old buildings got some funky wires that don't go anywhere. You got some in that wall. Your vandal cut the new wires and spliced 'em onto the old so it all looked right but nothing worked.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Zak said.

“You bet. To the building and everyone in it, and to the person who did it. He knows just enough to do some real damage. Nursing a serious grudge, if you know what I mean.”

My whole body burned. How dare he—they—whoever? “You said you found old wires in that wall. Where did they lead?”

He pointed vaguely to the corner of the building. “Don't know. Might justa been a junction box or your standard outlet.”

“Any chance they led to a lighted sign outside?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. He couldn't tell. But it gave me an idea.

I called Fabiola and told her my latest brainstorm.

“I'll let my sign guy know you're coming,” she promised.

“Great. I'll swing by his shop this afternoon and talk
design. Better to take a full-sized sketch to the Historic Commission than an idea they can't visualize. Maybe we can get it approved and up before the spring festival.” I switched gears. “Fabe, how you doin'? With Tamara's death, I mean.”

“Funny how hard it's hit me,” she said. “We were just getting to be friends, but I adored her passion. She was jazzed about creating a new restaurant, but it was more than that. She was creating something for herself.”

Now that, I understood.

*   *   *

LOVE
my shop, love my dog, and here I was, leaving them again. But the staff do the real work anyway.

The industrial district south of downtown changes every time I go there. Some peeps call it SoDo, for South of the Dome—the old, gray Kingdome, long replaced by a sleek modern stadium with a retractable roof. Revisionists say it's short for South of Downtown. Dumb nickname either way, but it seems to be sticking.

I drove past the old Sears building, built by the railroad a century ago when catalogs ruled the day, to entice Sears to make Seattle its western shipping hub. We bought school clothes in the retail store eons ago. Now it's Starbucks's headquarters, the green mermaid peeping out over the clock tower. It's great to see the old buildings reclaimed, though some of the losses make me sad. My favorite sushi place on Capitol Hill is in an old plumbing supply building—beautifully redone, but where did the pipes and drains and valves go? I admit, I felt a little unanchored when I heard that the nuts and bolts company was moving to the suburbs.

Laurel's right: I think too much.

I turned off First Avenue South then made a right, creeping down the block while scanning for the sign maker's address. Two highways plus railroad tracks make the area a bit of a maze. I tried to circle the block and promptly found
myself in a dead end. I was backing up when I spotted Ashwani Patel. He aimed his clicker at his car, then limped down the street. I wondered where he'd gotten that limp—he wasn't much older than I.

On the seat beside me, the phone rang. I glanced at the caller's name and frowned—why was Vinny calling me?

That quickly, Patel had disappeared.

“Oh, I know!” I parked the Mustang in the next block and scurried down the sidewalk. A well-known food broker—mainly dry goods, and some spices—occupied one of the old brick warehouses. If Patel wouldn't talk to me in his restaurant, maybe I could corner him there.

Score! There he was, opening the door to Big Al's Imports.

But what excuse could I give for being here that wouldn't sound completely idiotic?

I took a deep breath and opened the door. The man behind the counter, at least six-three and three hundred pounds, looked up.

“Hi. Pepper Reece from Seattle Spice.” I held out my hand. “You must be Big Al. I was hoping we could chat about—oh, hi.” I greeted Patel as if seeing him for the first time. “I know you, from the Indian restaurant by the Center, right?”

Patel didn't say a word.

I turned back to Al, donning my best look of wide-eyed innocence. “This may sound weird, Al. You heard what happened to Tamara Langston, the chef who was killed? Right next door to Mr. Patel.”