Guilty as Cinnamon (21 page)

The gauges did not move. The two men moved on to the mixing booth. I stared at the lamp. It glowed steadily.

By the tea cart, the right hand dial popped to life briefly, but Hal said Vinny had brushed his elbow and dismissed it. Behind the front counter, he stepped carefully around my sleeping, dog and I wondered if my seemingly intrepid ghost hunter wasn't a tad bit afraid of dogs.

Hal processed to the middle of the shop, the instrument in front of him like a crown to be placed on the royal head. “If
there is anyone here—man, woman, or child, or dog—who rests uneasily in the afterlife, please signify your presence.”

Vinny sneezed. “Sorry,” he said in a stage whisper. “Rubbed up against the cinnamon display.”

“Please signify your presence,” Hal repeated, “so Pepper can know you're here. She doesn't expect you to leave, but she's been having some problems with the electricity. And somebody left her a note that was a little troubling.”

I did expect them to leave, and the note was more than a little troubling.

“You don't need to leave,” he said again, “but she needs to know that the building and everyone in it will be safe. That's a reasonable request. If you're here, let us know that no one will be harmed.”

The red light in the tea corner flickered, and I nearly jumped out of my yoga pants.

A few minutes later, we were outside, huddled by the streetlamp.

“Nothing,” Vinny said. “I for sure thought we'd see a shadow or detect some protoplasm or electro whatevers.”

Hal tucked the instrument back in its case. “Five years of letting you tag along and you still don't know the terminology. But you know, with ghosts, it's hard to rule them out. They don't always appear when you ask them to. Sometimes they've got other places to go.”

Neither man had seen the lamp flicker. My imagination, no doubt, after yet another long, stressful day. I tugged Arf's leash, pulling him a little closer, and huddled deep into the thick fleece jacket I'd grabbed from my office. It did nothing to ward off the chill no one but me seemed to feel.

“We can try again another night,” Hal said, latching the case shut. “But as I told Vinny, I've never heard tales of hauntings in this building.”

“What about someone who died recently,” I said, “in another part of the city. But she'd just been in my shop. And
she might have died because of something that happened here.”

“Possible,” he said. “Though in that case, we'd expect her to come talk to you when summoned.”

I remembered what the woman in the Indian restaurant had told me about the floating ghosts in white. “What do you know about
bhuts
?” I said. “Indian ghosts. East India–Indian.”

“Not much. Never encountered one in Seattle. I imagine they behave same as any other ghost—some nasty, some nice.” Hal shook his head, and his Einsteinian white locks formed a spectral mist above his scalp. I shivered and glanced down, afraid of what I might see.

But his feet pointed forward.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Time to go home, Arf. We're overdue for a long nap.”

My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus.

—Jimmy Buffett's version of a bad day

“You did what?” Sandra hooted at my tale of midnight ghost hunting with Vinny and Hal.

I felt rather ghostly myself, dragging in late. The black pants and T-shirt did not improve my pale skin and baggy eyes. Didn't help that I'd run out of hair goo and had to wear a Mariners cap.

“They didn't find anything. Their meter gadget is pretty funky—I don't know what it was supposed to pick up.” I sipped my latte. “There was one weird thing. The red lamp was on, and I swear, it kept flickering. But nobody else saw it.”

“I know I switched it off when we closed,” Zak said. “After all the electrical problems, I made double sure.”

My staff and I exchanged looks, and the creepy-crawly, pee-your-pants factor rose.

“Reminds me of the ghost next door when we were kids,” Kristen said. I remembered the incident, but Sandra and Zak didn't know the story. “Big old fixer-upper. A single woman bought it and started restoring it. Then she got in a car accident
and spent months on crutches. The living room fireplace had electric sconces with glass lanterns on either side. The lights would go out, and she'd look over and see that the lanterns were upside down. She'd drag herself over, flip the lanterns right side up, and the lights would go back on.” Her hands made flipping motions as she talked. Like the little lady in the Indian restaurant.

“By the time she got back to her chair, the lanterns would be upside down again. This went on for days. Finally, she decided it was time for a talk. ‘Look,' she said, ‘I'm on crutches. You don't have to leave. Just stop messing with the lights.' She never did figure out who her ghost was. But the lights never went out again.”

“Good story,” Sandra said, “but I've worked here more than twenty years. We do not have a ghost. And no spook messed up that power line.”

I wanted to believe her, but after last night, I wasn't so sure. Maybe the power problems were another message from Tamara's spirit, pestering me to find her killer.

Oh, Pepper
. I shook my head at my own foolishness.
Shoulda got a triple shot
.

Sandra updated me on the wedding registry, and we whispered plans behind Zak's back for a going-away shindig. I helped two women spice up a spring dinner party, then spruced up the cinnamon display. Made new recipe cards and a poster:
CINNAMON OR CASSIA—WHAT'S
THE DIFFERENCE?
Set out bowls of broken bark for taste testing.

“Forgot to tell you about yesterday's interview,” I told Sandra in a momentary lull. “Red Dreads. Not perfect, but he'll do, if his references check out.”

“No such thing as the perfect employee, boss.”

“Except for you,” I replied, and she cackled, a happy hen.

I tugged the ball cap tight over my misbehaving hair and set off for the PDA office to submit the drawing for the new sign.

Pooh
. Next to Rachel the Brass Pig stood Officer Hot
Wheels, as Alex had called him, straddling his bike and chatting with the electrician.

“Gentlemen.” I headed for the narrow, curving stairs Tag and his bike could not negotiate.

“Pepper, wait!” Tag called. The electrician waved and squeezed past me, forcing me to step to the side and face my nemesis. “I hear your friend is out of jail. I hope you take my advice to keep your distance.”

I hated to admit his advice hit home. So I didn't. “Tag, I want to know who killed Tamara. If it had any connection to me and my shop, I will feel guilty for the rest of my life. But at least I'll know.”

“Some people ought to feel guilty and don't.”

“Like you?” He flushed, and I wished I could see his eyes behind the shades. “You mean Alex, and you might be right. But he wasn't the only person at the Café nursing a grudge against Tamara.”

“We're looking into that,” he said. “Into everything about her and her plans.”

That didn't sound good. I wanted Danielle to be in the clear. “Don't let me keep you. You have criminals to chase. And meter maids.”

“Like you're chasing college boys? And ghosts?”

I ignored the crack about Ben. And after pumping Vinny for gossip, I could hardly be ticked that he talked as freely to others as he did to me. Besides, Tag's job includes keeping his finger on the downtown pulse. “I admit, the note and the tampering have me rattled. Tag, tell me. Honestly.” I resisted the temptation to say “if you can.”

“Shoot.” He leaned his bike against the wall and peeled off his gloves.

“Alex thinks Detective Tracy has it in for him. I'm not going to ask you to criticize another officer, but you know I've had my own run-ins with Tracy. He's . . .” I paused, searching for the word.

“Abrasive,” Tag said. “But effective.”

“Point is, is there some history I don't know about? Some bigger reason you and Tracy don't trust Alex? Besides him lying to me.” Tracy had no reason to care about that.

Tag was slow to respond. “A lot goes on behind the scenes in the restaurant world.”

“What, wage theft? Hiring illegal immigrants? Or are you saying Tamara's death is drug related, and Alex is involved?” It's not uncommon for young people who work long and late under high pressure to use drugs to come down, or to ramp back up after they've burned out. But nothing I'd heard linked Tamara or Alex to drugs. If Alex had used in the past, Tag wouldn't like it—aside from some youthful mischief, he'd always been clean and lawful—but it wouldn't explain his intense dislike of the man.

And flattering as it was to credit jealousy, I suspected there was more to it.

He nodded quickly. Too quickly. The thin white scar inside his wrist throbbed, a sign I had learned to read too late to save our marriage.

A flash of heat burst in my throat. “Dammit, Tag. Stop withholding the truth. Tell me what's really going on.”

“I wish you'd let this go, Pepper. But I know you won't.” His radio sputtered noises I couldn't decipher, and he told the noises he was on his way. He stared at me intently as he pulled on his gloves. “It's one of the things I love about you.”

Leaving me to sputter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a movement. “Tag, see that person? Something strange—oh pooh.” He followed my gaze but the figure had disappeared behind a crowd cheering on the fishmongers as they teased tourists and tossed salmon through the air.

He peered over the tops of his glasses, and I heard genuine concern as he said, “Be careful, Pepper. There's a lot of trouble out there.”

*   *   *

CALLIE
hadn't checked in on the research project—and no word from Ben, either. On my way out of the PDA office, I sent them each a text.

After last night, I finally believed that Alex was capable of killing Tamara. But as I'd told Tag, he wasn't the only one.

I called the shop and said I'd be back in an hour.

Midday, midweek, parking in Wallingford was a lot easier than on Saturday. I'd left my conversation starter napping in the shop—my own charms would have to suffice.

“Are you police?” Zu the viola player rubbed sleep out of her eyes and raked her fingers through her straight black hair.

“A friend of Tamara's. I was helping her with the new restaurant. Can we talk?”

She led the way to the kitchen. A top-of-the-line espresso machine and burr grinder sat next to the apron-front white farmhouse sink. Behind a small tiled table for two, a giant baker's rack contained a restaurant's worth of pots, pans, and ovenware. Wire hooks on the backsplash held spoons, ladles, and spatulas of every size.

And next to the stove stood a double-layered lazy Susan chock full of spices.

But it's bad manners to wake a woman up and scour her spice rack to hunt for deadly peppers.

Zu filled a kettle and turned on the gas. “Last night, when my taxi pulled up, my neighbor met me to tell me Tamara is dead.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “Were you two close?”

“She need a roommate. I need a house. I didn't see her much. But she would leave me dinner from the restaurant.”

“Did the police tell you what happened?”

“They called, but I did not want to call them back. I did not do anything wrong. The Symphony manager told me it was fine, okay to talk, but . . .”

Even legal immigrants often fear the police. And while I knew better than to assume her accent meant a lack of understanding, she might worry that her English wasn't adequate for a difficult situation. “Is there someone from the Symphony who can sit with you when you're interviewed? I can call an immigration lawyer I know, to make sure you understand our legal system. I was married to a cop and . . .”

Her head shot up, her dark eyes wide and afraid. “Go now. You should go now.”

I held up my hands. “I'm not connected to the police. Promise. I meant to say they'll want to ask what you know about Tamara's family. Her friends. Anyone who was upset with her, any strange occurrences. They won't harass you. They want to know what we all want to know: who killed her.”

The whistle blew, reminding Zu of her obligation to hospitality, and she busied herself making tea.

“Mmm.” I cradled the mug she handed me and breathed in the fragrance. “Jasmine blossoms. Lovely.”

And at that, the waterfall began. I grabbed a box of tissues from the bathroom and led her to the table. When she stopped sniffling, I reached out a hand. “Your neighbor said the police were here. They should have left an inventory of what they took.”

She scooted back her chair and scurried off, returning a moment later with a handwritten list. We bent over it together. Ordinary stuff: financial papers, files related to the restaurant venture, a calendar. Her laptop.

“Her notebook. She always carry a notebook.”

Her notebook. She'd had it with her in my shop, making lists and drawings as we spoke. “It was probably in her bag when she died. The police would have it. Did Tamara tell you about anything unusual? Anything that upset her?”

She tore a tissue from the box and scrunched it between her palms. “The phone call.”

“What happened? Who called?”

“A man. I answer. I told him Tamara's not home. He said, ‘Tell her, keep quiet.'”

“When did this happen?”

“A week ago? More? I do not know. Before I left to New York, to see my teacher. He called a second time; she answered. She slammed the phone, walked here, there”—she pointed back and forth—“talking, very mad.”

“Do you remember what she said?”

Zu thought a moment. “She said, ‘It's time. I work, I wait, it's time.'”

My heart sank. It had to have been Alex, angry about her leaving. But if Zu was right about when the call came, he couldn't have known her plans.

Keep quiet
, he'd said.

I thanked the musician for the tea and left my business card.

Keep quiet about what? I'd presumed Tamara's murder was related to her work because murder comes from passion. Except when it comes from pathology. And Tamara's passions all involved her work.

Unless she'd triggered someone else's misguided passion or pathology. But what, what, what?

Outside, I called Detective Spencer. “Tamara's roommate, Zu, is back. She mentioned something I should have remembered—Tamara's notebook. She showed me the inventory from your search, and it wasn't listed. Did you find it at the construction site?”

I heard Spencer clicking keys, consulting her notes. A long silence. “Thanks for the call, Pepper.”

If I read her right, no. I pictured it. A hard green cover, bound with a black spiral, maybe six by nine. If the police hadn't found it in the apartment or the building site, then the killer must have taken it.

Find the notebook, find the killer.

*   *   *

I
wanted Tariq's side of the story. But I could hardly stake out the bus stop where I'd run into him the day after Tamara's murder, waiting for him to show up.

Sometimes you just have to ask for what you need. I called Alex's office, and Ops—I still thought of her as Ops, though I remembered now that her name was Barbara—gave me the cook's address and phone number. And an update on his employment status that was more irritating than surprising.

Confronting a potential killer in his own home would be off-the-charts stupid. But Seattle isn't the most caffeinated city in the country for nothing.

“Don't know why I'm bothering to listen to you.” Twenty minutes later, Tariq slid back the hood of his gray UW sweatshirt. He pulled a wooden chair from the square black table I'd claimed in Cappuchimpo's far back corner, swung it around, and straddled it, hands draped over the slatted back. The gesture said, “Talk fast, 'cause I'm not promising to stay.” He said, “You got me fired.”