[SS01] Assault and Pepper (4 page)

Fueled by Alaskan gold, Seattle’s population quintupled between 1889, the year of statehood and the Great Fire, and 1907, when the Public Market opened. Takes a lot of food to feed 200,000 people.

The builder who helped me flesh out the loft’s bones called the mezzanine above the bedroom “retreat space, for yoga or meditation.” Apparently some people exercise in their yoga pants. The cold steel steps zing my bare feet in the morning, but it’s the only place in the loft that lets me peek over the Viaduct to the Sound. If I think tall. This stretch of the Viaduct is scheduled to come down soon, with all that traffic moving to a tunnel. They say it’s for earthquake safety, but the changes would revamp the waterfront and give us downtown dwellers killer views.

Plus higher taxes and, no doubt, pressure from developers. My next-door neighbor, a city council member, has his finger on that pulse and keeps us all informed. I settled into a canvas director’s chair, hand-painted by a Market artisan, to meditate on caffeine and morning mist.

The weather was clearly changing. Well, “clearly” wasn’t the right word. Not today. Vapor from the Seattle Steam plant collided with cool air rolling in off the Sound to create a bewitching white cloud.

A fog horn blared and an outbound ferry glided into view. I grabbed the binoculars, but the air was too dense for me to make out the name.

As a child, I’d lie in bed and strain my ears to hear the fog horns, usually falling asleep first. One of my earliest memories is standing at a ferry rail clutching my grandfather’s hand on one of his visits from St. Louis. I might have been destined for my business, but I was not, as most people assume, named for it. Grandpa nicknamed me after the legendary Cardinals third baseman Pepper Martin, known as a ball of fire.

I like to think I’ve mellowed since then.

I sipped my coffee, an Ethiopian Longberry Harrar, and ran through what we needed to accomplish that day at the shop. First, repeat the taste tests and settle on our descriptive subtitles so we could get the info to our brilliant graphic designer. Then choose the recipes. Plus the usual daily business of working with our walk-in traffic and commercial accounts.

Would yesterday’s clash between Sam and Doc be a one-time thing? I hoped so.

But why had Doc been pestering Tory? Slim chance that I could get her to spill any details, even with careful questioning. She’d shift her shoulders slightly, set her chin, and tell me—without a word—that she could take her of herself.

I watched another huge green-and-white ferry chug into view—coming from Bainbridge Island, judging from the angle. They truly are iconic.

Enough in-home sightseeing. Time to get spicy.

•   •   •

I
crossed Western, bypassed the elevator entrance, and trudged up the Market Hillclimb—my version of a cardio workout—to the Main Arcade. Emerged near City Fish—home of the famous flying fish—and exchanged greetings with the fishmongers. (And yes, that’s what they call themselves.) Passed Rachel the brass pig, Market mascot and piggy bank for the Foundation, which funds housing and social services. Waved hello to the couple who run the Oriental Mart in the Corner Market. Bought a strawberry-banana smoothie at the Creamery and a blueberry bran muffin at Three Girls Bakery, one of the oldest Market tenants. Most retail shops were still closed, although I spotted a few merchants bustling around inside.

A half-dozen delivery trucks idled on Pike Place, men with hand trucks unloading cartons and crates. The aromas of fish, fruit, and fresh bread mingled with the sharp but mouthwatering smell of cheese making.

Have I mentioned I love this place?

I crossed Pine, my attention on the mess inside my tote as I dug for my keys. My feet slowed as I neared our door, on autopilot. “Eureka!” My fingers closed around the keys and I reached for the lock.

And froze. A truck clattered by on the cobbles. Up on First, commuter buses offloaded passengers, and out on the Sound, ferries blew their whistles.

While I stared at the man known as Doc, crumpled in my doorway, a paper cup stamped with our logo beside his open hand.

Seattle’s Public Market houses a year-round farmers’ market, bakeries, meat and fish markets, produce stands, and specialty food stores. Two hundred plus craftspeople rent daystalls, operating alongside more than 200 owner-operated shops and services and nearly one hundred restaurants. The Market is also home to more than 350 residents—all in nine acres.

—Market website

My shout brought people running, people whose phones weren’t buried at the bottom of their tote bags or knapsacks, like mine. “Help is on the way,” someone assured me as I knelt beside Doc, holding my breath and his wrist, praying for a pulse. A nurse on her way to the Market clinic nudged me aside but, when she got no better result, turned her kind face to me.

“He’s gone,” she said, her voice almost too soft to hear amid the chit and chat and scrape and squawk around us. In the distance, a siren screamed, but whether bound for here or some other unlucky locale, no telling.

I nodded. Years ago, at the law firm, a client stumbled into my office in search of the restroom, keeled over, and died. The image of his red face matching his red tie, contrasting sharply with his white shirt and hair and his classic navy blue suit, had stuck with me.

In contrast, Doc wore his usual olive green raincoat and scarred brown shoes. His eyes had lost their sheen, the dull, sandy skin around them pooched and pocketed like a Shar Pei’s after an all-nighter. And yet, despite the world of difference from that long-ago client, he was just as dead.

The nurse pushed herself up, fingers pressing lightly into my upper arm. I shook her off. It seemed indecent to leave him, to stand back and join the small crowd staring at this odd, dead man. The merchants, farmers, and craftspeople of the Market call themselves a family, and family doesn’t make one of their own into a curiosity, even a newcomer.

I’m a newcomer, too.

His hand lay half open, fingers gently curved, as if still holding the cup. The fingers were pale, nails well trimmed and scrubbed clean.

Amazing what goes through the mind at moments like this. My family was never traditionally religious, though both my parents were active in peace and justice causes during my childhood. My mother helped found a soup kitchen in the basement of St. James Cathedral but rarely attended Mass, entering the nave only to hear chamber music. Once I went with her to hear the Tallis Scholars sing and wondered, as I stared up at the gold-and-white-trimmed vaults, how their voices could climb so high and who was up there listening.

My father had chosen to study Zen Buddhism. Whether because of or in spite of his experiences in Vietnam, he never said. If asked, no doubt he’d smile and ask me quietly what I thought. Friends had wafted through the big house on Capitol Hill, day and night, to sit in meditation in the third-floor ballroom. Where Kristen’s great-grandparents had held formal dances and her grandmother learned swing and defied convention by inviting a black jazz band to entertain soldiers during the war, we heard rhythmic breathing, mantras being chanted, and the rolling tones of a Tibetan bell. Kristen and I had helped our mothers melt the used candle ends and remold them, adding sandalwood or lavender oil. A mere whiff of Nag Champa Incense takes me back.

Later, when Kristen’s mother discovered yoga, we heard the soft gummy sounds of sticky mats being rolled onto the maple floors, punctuated by groans as stiff joints responded to gentle coaxing from the teachers who came and went.

All my life, the medieval harmonies my mother loves have slipped into my consciousness when I least expect them. When my heart’s been ripped open, when the stakes are highest. They swirled around me now as I tried to summon the sacred peace of the Cathedral and the ballroom studio, and wrap it around the man we knew as Doc.

I stayed there until another hand touched me. “Pepper,” Tag said. “Let the EMTs take over.”

He led me down the sidewalk, out of the way. Just yesterday, Doc and Sam had argued on this spot and Tag’s partner carved ruts in the road dust with the fat tires of his mountain bike. Now navy-blue-clad EMTs tumbled out of the red Medic One ambulance that had clambered down Pine and idled noisily beside my shop. I hoped the parking brake held. The crew, two men and a woman, fell into a routine, tasks so well defined that they barely needed to speak to communicate.

“What are you doing here?” I finally thought to ask. “And where’s your partner?”

Tag jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and I turned to see Olerud, off the bike, notebook in hand, surrounded by half a dozen Market folks. “You know we work First Watch.”

I faced my ex squarely. “But why the police, for an old man’s heart attack?”

Eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses, he shrugged one shoulder. “Control the crowd. Preserve the scene. Do whatever these guys need.” He cocked his helmeted head toward the EMTs. One knelt by the body, repacking a box of equipment, while the others unloaded a gurney.

I glanced at the group gathered around Olerud. Misty, the baker, talked with her hands, but I couldn’t read her lips or fingers. Yvonne looked gray and weary, as always. Talk was, she’d had a hard life. Health problems and a divorce from her mechanic husband, before I knew her. The orchard girls, Angie and Sylvie Martinez, wrapped their arms around each other and concentrated on the good-looking officer. The new manager of the cheese shop—his name escaped me—folded his arms across his chest, brows furrowed. Behind him, the nurse listened attentively.

“What I don’t get,” I said, “is how he got my tea. We don’t open for”—I peered at my Bazooka pink Kate Spade watch, one of my last splurges before losing my comfy salary—“oh, pooh. I should have been inside half an hour ago. Where are my keys?” I slid my bag off my shoulder and rummaged inside. They must have gotten tossed back into the depths when I saw Doc. I glanced reflexively at his body, still stretched out on my sidewalk, the EMTs standing guard. What were they waiting for?

“There they are.” My key ring—silver-plated with
OFF
WE
GO
!
engraved on the fob, a birthday gift from my law firm boss, made ironic when we all got fired a few weeks later—lay on the ground next to the body. I took a step forward. Tag’s arm shot out and blocked me. I looked up, stunned. Behind him, an unmarked car inched down the cobbled hill and stopped at an angle, blocking the road. A white woman about my age, in a stylish but practical black pantsuit, climbed out the driver’s side and picked her way down the slope. Detective Cheryl Spencer probably had a closet full of nearly identical black suits. Her partner, Detective Michael Tracy, got out on the passenger side.

The light sweat I’d worked up on my jaunt up the Market steps froze on my skin. In my years of marriage to a Seattle police officer, I’d met hundreds of officers and detectives. This long-running duo had racked up a great record, despite their contrasts—the tall slender blonde and her black male partner, inches shorter and verging on stocky. They’d heard the jokes about their last names, and no, they didn’t think it was funny.

Homicide cops are like that.

Tag’s attention shifted to Pike Place, where the black CSI van had parked. A woman waved in acknowledgment, then helped her partner unload their gear. A white van marked
KING
COUN
TY
MEDICAL
EXAMINER
arrived. A man got out and suited up.

“You think this is a crime scene.” I glared at Tag in anger and disbelief. “On my doorstep.”

He glared right back in his “Don’t question my authority” mode.

“This is my shop.” I pointed at the door, my voice rising. “I must have dropped my keys when I checked on him. I’m going in and you are not stopping me.”

“Pepper,” Tag said. He’d dropped his arm, but not the controlling tone. “We can’t touch anything, even your keys. We have to treat it as a crime scene until we know what happened. Any suspicious death, we do that. You want to know what happened, don’t you?”

I let out a sharp breath, not meeting his eyes. It was protocol, not distrust. Still, I hated that he was right.

“If you don’t let me have my keys, how am I supposed to get in?” I also hated that he brings out my whiney side.

“Looks like someone’s already in.” Detective Spencer peered through the front windows, shaded by deep soffits, still the original forest green. I followed her gaze toward the mixing corner and the silhouette of a seated figure.

“Nice to see you again, Pepper. Sorry about the circumstances,” the detective said, holding out her hand.

I took it, nodding. “I’m always the first one here. From this angle, I can’t tell who that is.”

“And knowing you,” Tag said, “no spare key.”

“In the loft,” I said, tired of the constant tug-of-war between us. “That I can’t get into without my keys.” The spare loft key was in the shop. “Hold on.” I rummaged in my bag and yanked out my phone.

Spencer approved my plan, so I called inside and asked the early arrival to meet me at the side door, on Pine Street, but as the detective instructed, not to step outside or touch the door frame or exterior. As we headed up the hill, the EMTs slid Doc’s body onto the gurney. His coat flopped open and a dark lump of cloth fell onto the sidewalk. Both Spencer and Tracy stepped forward for a closer inspection.

But I didn’t need to. I’d seen it, on this very corner.

Sam’s black beret.

•   •   •

SPENCER
was going to want to know why Tory was in the shop so early. I admit, I was mighty curious, too.

The detective had not been in the shop before, at least not during my shifts. I pointed out the key features, including our private restroom and tiny back office. She strolled the aisles, hands clasped behind her, head tilted slightly, as though examining specimens in a curious museum. In profile, her otherwise straight nose bore a slight bump, as if once broken.

I leaned against a double-sided bookcase—we’d nearly quadrupled our cookbook and reference offerings since I took over—and watched. After opening the door for us and being introduced, Tory had returned to the mixing nook. She sat on one of the built-in benches, head back, eyes closed. She did not respond visibly to the news of Doc’s death. She was too old to be my daughter, but my heart longed to reach out and my arms ached to embrace her in what Kristen calls “Universal Mother Mode.”

Spencer stopped at the tea cart. Both the samovar and insulated iced tea jug were empty. First thing every morning, I start the day’s tea. I glanced at the wall clock. No point getting anxious—no chance of opening on time today.

Through the glass in the front door, I caught a glimpse of Tag stretching yellow tape around our entrance. My gut cramped and I hoped hoped hoped it said
CAUTION
or
DO
NOT
EN
TER
, and not
CRIME
SCENE
.

Nearly six feet in her low-heeled black shoes, her blond bob falling slightly forward, and her hands still clasped behind her back, Spencer continued to study our tea cart.

What about that cup of tea Doc had been clutching? Had there been spilled tea on the ground? Or had he been bringing an empty cup back for a refill? That made no sense. I closed my eyes, remembering. Had I given him one yesterday? I didn’t think so—no chill on the morning. I couldn’t picture a cup in his hand during the spat with Sam, or when he’d been following Tory to the bus stop.

Sam
. I’d think about him later.

Had Doc shoved an empty cup in the pockets of his oversized raincoat? But why? We never begrudge a paper cup. Customers who pick up a sample while wandering the store often take a refresher before leaving, but no one brings them back for refills later.

Detective Spencer turned to me. “What do you call this thing? There’s a word.”

“Samovar. The real thing is Russian, runs on coal. This one’s electric. More like a big coffee urn than a true samovar.”

“Ah. Like at that old Russian tea shop. Miss that place. They served those little turnovers—what are they called?”

“Piroshky. You can get really good ones up the street.” That reminded me of the blueberry muffin I’d bought on the way here and no doubt dropped alongside my keys. Pigeon food by now.

“But they don’t serve that beet soup.” She wiggled her fingers as if to summon the name. “Borscht. You ever make that?”

Cut the chitchat, Cheryl
, I wanted to say but didn’t. She didn’t care about my cooking. She wanted to put me at ease, get me talking, by pretending we were old friends.

“So where do you make the tea?” she asked.

I pointed to the big double sinks in the corner, behind the front counter. Directions are a bit skewed along Pike Place, so it’s hard to say north or west with any precision. The front counters do double duty as display cases. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the side walls, crammed with jars of tea and spices. In the center of the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier I found in the antiques store in my loft building and a pair of Indian silver chandeliers from the import shop Down Under, the name given to the Market’s lower level. The effect is internationally eclectic, and pretty cool, if I do say so myself. A beam of sunlight shining through a clerestory window struck a crystal and sent shots of color dancing around the glass-filled shop.