Guilty as Cinnamon (8 page)

Whatever I might have expected, it wasn't that.

“Not all of them,” Spencer said. I followed her wary gaze as she assessed the crowd, or lack thereof. “Quiet in here.”

“Midafternoon on a wet Thursday barely into April. What records? And do I get to ask why?”

Tracy handed me the warrant.

“
Bhut capsicum?
You're joking, right? Who cares who bought ghost peppers? When you walked in, I expected more
questions about—the body. Then I decided you wanted evidence related to Alex Howard, since you've arrested him.” They exchanged looks, wondering how I knew, and I sent Tag a mental apology for squealing. “But you think—you think ghost chiles killed her?”

Their silent, impassive faces spoke volumes.

“I suppose it's possible, physiologically. But you'd need a ton of the stuff.” The papers shook in my hand as I scanned the list: my purchases and sales, and the dates and amounts of all transactions. “It would take more than I've sold at any one time. Diners crave heat these days, but chefs don't keep a lot on hand. Peppers go off quickly.”

No double entendre intended.

“What I mean is, we sell it dried, not fresh, right? With a dried spice, the balance of oils is critical. It can't be measured. The lighter volatile notes deteriorate faster than the darker or lower notes, and the flavors turn sharp and bitter. You'd think that wouldn't matter, with all the heat, but it does.”

“I didn't know that,” Spencer said.

“We can gather sales data for commercial accounts. But individuals buy the stuff, too, and we have no way to track that.” I couldn't imagine someone buying an ounce at a time and hoarding it, pepper shopping like meth makers hopping from pharmacy to pharmacy snapping up Sudafed.

The crazy stuff people do.

“Read the damn warrant.” Tracy was losing patience.

I read it once more, with feeling. They wanted more than sales info. They wanted my stock.
Holy patchouli
. I read on. They wanted all records of my sales to Alex Howard's company. My brows creased.

“Am I under suspicion?” Tracy ignored me. Spencer gave me the same bland smile I'd given her. “I'm guessing not, or you'd be conducting a broader search. And you wouldn't let Tag help search Alex's place.”

Tracy's gaze sharpened to a point, and even Spencer looked a tad surprised.

“Well, you can have everything we've got on hand. Zak, would you—”

Spencer extended one hand, palm out in the universal stop sign, then pulled thin latex gloves out of her jacket pocket. “Mr. Davis, kindly direct us to the containers without touching them.”

He glanced at me, and I nodded, then we watched the detectives bag and label my complete supply of
bhut capsicum
, aka
bhut C
. I wasn't worried about the loss—not a big seller, and we could get replacement stock in a few days.

But my insides squirmed at the thought that one of my customers might have used my product to kill another customer. That Alex might have used my peppers to kill Tamara.

And that he'd only known she was planning to leave because my employee had ratted her out.

I swallowed back vomit and poured myself tea. Gripping the cup stilled my shaking hands.

He would have discovered the truth eventually. He'd have been furious no matter when the news became public.

Listen to yourself. You think he did it.
I forced myself to take a sip, to stop my internal shivers. It didn't work.

How would you kill with peppers? Force someone to breathe pepper dust or ingest them? Stick their head in a plastic bag full of ground particles? I pictured Tamara lying on the floor of her future restaurant. Her hands, her expression, all said she'd fought her attacker, but other than scuffed footprints, I'd seen no physical evidence of a struggle.

My meth lab comparison might not be too far off. If they'd found chile powder on Tamara's body, could the crime lab compare it to various supplies and determine the source stock? Of course, my competitors probably bought from the same importer as I did.

That smell. Had my nose fooled me? Not cinnamon, but ghost peppers?

Spencer noticed my furrowed brow. “Something you want to tell us?”

I shook my head slowly. “Reed and I will put the sales and purchase data together. Should take—how long?”

My youngest employee's hands trembled as he read the warrant. “Three hours?”

Spencer handed me a list. “Are we missing any spice merchants that you can tell?”

I read slowly. Were all my competitors getting the third degree, too? “No, but restaurants and retailers get their stock from all over the country. They don't necessarily buy local.” Particularly true of ethnic restaurants. If you're buying your mango pickle from an importer in Los Angeles, you might get your cardamom pods there, too.

The door opened, and Mary Jean the Chocolatier charged in, clearly On A Mission. “Pepper, I just
love
your shop. Where did you find that old map? And that clock. Being on street level instead of hidden Down Under—” She stopped abruptly, as if realizing the couple standing next to me weren't ordinary customers.

Sandra to the rescue. I couldn't hear what she said, but Mary Jean stared at me and the detectives with a mix of surprise and awe. Eyes bulging, she nodded rapidly to Sandra, then scurried out the front door.

“We'll let you get back to business,” Spencer said, her voice warm. “Your cooperation means a lot.”

It meant staying late while Reed downloaded the info off our computer system, checking it, printing it, worrying over it. It might mean helping find Tamara's killer. And it might mean putting a man who'd been a loyal customer, if not a loyal friend, away for a long time.

Oh, Alex. Why can you never use your chefly discipline in the rest of your life?

“Don't forget,” Tracy said, one hand smoothing the front of his jacket, tiny crumbs falling to the floor. “All the records, on time. Or there will be consequences.”

Good cop, bad cop. The cliché lives.

My staff fell in beside me, like a row of suspects in a lineup, as we watched them leave.

“The world, she be a strange place,” Sandra said.

“Thanks for running interference with the chocolatier. What did you tell her?”

“The truth. Sort of.” She paused. I waited. “I told her the police regularly consult you on murder investigations.”

That would set Market tongues wagging.

Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you.

—Satchel Paige, Hall of Fame pitcher

Reed and I worked well after closing until I sent him home, his shaggy-on-purpose black hair tugged and tousled. More tedious than difficult, compiling the records required much finger twisting, cross-referencing, and screen shifting that left us both cramped and bleary-eyed.

A few restaurants keep late hours, but the Market was largely deserted when Arf and I emerged at half past seven. I needed food, and we both needed to stretch our legs, so we ambled down to the waterfront and Ivar's Fish Bar at Pier 54.

“Fish and chips,” I told the man behind the counter.

I zipped up my jacket and tried not to worry. But I'd walked down here to think, and sometimes the line blurs.

Even on a coolish, dampish Thursday night in April, the waterfront hummed. Traffic sped by on Alaskan Way. Ferries chugged across the Sound—one blew its horn to signal “incoming,” and a few minutes later, a dozen cars clanged off Pier 52 and disappeared into the city.

A pride of teenage boys leaned over the rail between Ivar's
and the ferry terminal, ogling the
Leschi
, the city's newest and shiniest fireboat. Good to see kids still dream of being firefighters and not just computer programmers. Although fire departments need IT whizzes, and computers catch fire, so there may be some crossover.

I carried my dinner to a table overlooking the water, the harbor with its giant orange cranes to the south. Arf sat beside me expectantly. “Good boy. Two chips. Here's the first.” He took the potato in his mouth, then lowered himself as if to savor the treat, though I knew it was already sliding down his gullet.

I hadn't had a dog since kidhood, but the adjustment had been fairly easy. Sam, his former owner, had bounced between SROs—single room occupancy units—shelters, and the streets. Arf had been a faithful companion, always alert and on guard, but he'd relaxed a few notches since joining me in loft living.

While Sam had always kept him clean and well-groomed, regular meals of good-quality food had turned him from scrawny to healthy, and I had to keep track of the treats my Market neighbors offered. And limit the fries.

Sam had gone back to Memphis, and his sister had sent a Christmas package stuffed with jars of BBQ sauces, tins of hot spice rubs, and other Tennessee treats. Her card said he'd settled in well, the voices quieter lately, but that every time she suggested he consider another dog, Sam said there weren't no other dog for him.

I understood.

Somewhere in the depths of my tote, my phone chirped. I let it go to voice mail, enjoying the salt air on my cheeks and the hot cod melting in my mouth. Alex's arrest must have been announced in time to lead off the six o'clock news. Kristen had called me at five after six and every five minutes thereafter until I texted her back, saying,
I know—I'm okay—working late—tell you more tomorrow
. Laurel had shown
more reserve, calling once to say she'd heard, call her if I needed to talk, and what a relief it must be to Tamara's family to have a suspect in custody.

Tamara
. I knew nothing about her family or friends. She and I had only met a few times. She'd served me a bowl of curried clams, perfectly spiced, when I made a delivery during family meal, when the staff eats. She'd come into the shop with Alex around Christmastime, and I'd thought of her as his human shield—an excuse to deflect personal conversation while he browsed, brainstorming new combinations.

And then, two days ago.

Egad. That had only been two days.

What else did I know about her? Ambitious. Single, I suspected—no wedding rings and no mention of a husband or kids. Was a cat prowling an empty apartment at this moment, hungry and afraid?

Alex had been furious with her, and with me. But who else might have done the deed? Not to blame the victim, but if you'd ticked one person off enough to kill you, you might have made others mad, too.

I sipped my Coke and stroked Arf's head. Fought off the rumble rising in my chest, the dizzying feel of being back in the construction site, her body stretched out before me. That sensation of fear after the fact.

And then, a wave of relief that I'd ended my involvement with Alex. Because it seemed clear that no woman's influence could have stopped him from acting out his rage, the deep sense of betrayal that Tamara's departure triggered. Or had it been her failure to confide in him that set him off?

I poked at the corner of my eye. Breathed out long and slow. Slipped the dog another chip.

“We're okay now, aren't we, Arf?”

We finished our dinner on Ivar's deck, the salty, green smell of the water and its undertones of diesel mingling with the scents of hot oil and fish. The Coke bubbles tickled my
nose, and the cod tickled my tummy. The dog let out a noisy sigh and leaned against my leg.

We were okay.

*   *   *

I
kicked off my shoes and hung my jacket on the coat tree inside my door. Plopped my tote on the table behind the couch. Arf sauntered over to the wall of windows and tucked himself into his bed. (Lucky dog—beds everywhere he goes.)

Me, I poured a glass of the Sangiovese Laurel hadn't finished last night and curled up on the soft caramel couch. My book was on my nightstand, so I reached for the latest issue of
Saveur
, then remembered the phone messages. Stretched for my tote, half falling off the couch in the process.

And I'd barely touched my wine.

I remedied that problem, then leaned into the big cushions and studied the little screen. A few messages and texts that could wait till tomorrow. A reply text from Kristen, telling me to watch the news.

The last call had come from an unknown name and number. I frowned and punched the button to listen.

My blood froze. Alex, an edge of anxiety in his voice. “Pepper, you've heard the news. They've thrown me in the slammer. I need your help. I know that sounds crazy, after the way I blew up at you. But I'm innocent.”

Innocent was the last thing Alex Howard was. Not guilty of murder, maybe, but hardly innocent.

He rushed on. “I saw what you did last fall, when everyone else was convinced the wrong person was guilty as sin. Gotta go. Visiting hours Friday morning, Pepper. Please.”

A magic word from the mouth of a difficult man. I tossed the phone aside, refilled my wineglass, and dug for the remote in the basket on my packing crate coffee table. I so rarely watch TV news that I didn't remember which channel showed who when.

The TV—a smallish flat screen—hangs above the gas fireplace in the corner of the living room, making it visible from everywhere in the loft except the bathroom and the far back of the kitchen. Local news hasn't been the same since Jean Enersen retired. First female TV anchor in the country, she'd led the nightly reports since the year I was born. This new guy might be fine, but he isn't Jean.

“Tonight, we bring you news of an unexpected arrest. Tamara Langston, sous chef at the famed First Avenue Café, was found dead Wednesday evening at the site of a new restaurant she planned to open on Lower Queen Anne.” The screen switched from a talking head to footage of EMTs carrying Tamara's body out of the construction site. I hadn't noticed the cameras or reporters. “Police initially refused to state how she died or whether foul play was suspected. This afternoon, they made an arrest.”

The cameras shifted to Alex, hands cuffed in front of him, being led out the side door of his building. I sank onto the couch, clutching the remote. “Alex Howard, a nationally renowned chef and owner of several of the city's best-known eateries, was arrested outside his headquarters in downtown Seattle. A police department spokesman says he will be charged with first-degree murder in Langston's death, but was unable to provide details on the murder or the cause of death. More as this story develops.”

In the background, I glimpsed Scott Glass and a few other employees.

“Holy moly.” Arf lifted his head at the sound. “It's okay, boy.”

It was most definitely not okay.

I lowered the volume, letting images of a bus accident on I-405, a mayoral press conference, and a flooded storm drain in West Seattle roll by. Sipped my wine, the deep, fruity notes leaving a slightly tannic taste on my tongue and throat.

Why ask me for help? Because of what I'd done last fall,
he'd said, when I forced my help on a person who hadn't wanted it. I'd been a bit of a terrier, convinced police had it wrong.

And I'd been right. Naturally, Detective Tracy considered my actions intentional interference with an official investigation. That he still had to hold his nose to look at me made Sandra's wisecrack to the chocolatier about him “consulting” me particularly rich.

I knew what Tag would say about Alex's plea, and not just because he dislikes on principle anyone romantically interested in me. Kristen, too—she was always polite when Alex came in, but she has no patience for anyone who hurts her friends.

Laurel, for all her sympathy for the victim, champions justice for the wrongly accused as well. She's never been keen on Alex, but I could almost hear her advice: “What matters is what
you
believe, Pepper. Is he calling on you for the right reasons? Or is he lying to you?”

Lying, or using me? I had no sway with the police, despite what he believed.

Truth was, I didn't know why he'd called. Desperation? For some reason, he trusted me—though I did not trust him. But a liar isn't necessarily a killer. Thank goodness. Because we all lie a little.

He'd lied a lot.

I needed to know who'd killed Tamara. Because I found her and that linked us forever. And if she had been killed with my peppers, I had to know who and why.

Could I dig around without being committed to Alex's cause? Assuage my own guilt while probing his?

Arf made a moaning noise in his sleep, his front paws scrabbling the canvas bedcover, one leg kicking out behind him.

“It's okay, boy,” I said in a reassuring tone, not knowing whether it was or not. Because who knows what dogs dream of?