[SS01] Assault and Pepper (5 page)

“Every morning?” she asked.

“Except on my days off. Then whoever’s running the shop that day, usually Sandra Piniella, makes it.”

“And are the pots empty by the end of the day?”

She could reach out and touch one. But I knew from living with Tag that cop training is better than any grandmother for teaching you to keep your hands in your pockets. Of course, that hadn’t kept him from putting his hands in other places they didn’t belong.

“If they aren’t empty by closing, we dump them out. See for yourself. They’re empty now.”

“So how,” she said, “did he get one of your teacups if you weren’t open and hadn’t made tea yet?”

“Not a clue. He had a heart attack, right? Or some other illness?” Market residents are mostly low-income and have clinic access, but they don’t all use it. And it’s a shameful fact that the street people, homeless or not, often die from treatable conditions.

“Probably. But until that’s established, we have to investigate.”

What Tag had said. Spencer looked into the mixing nook. “Any idea how he got the tea?”

Tory opened her eyes slowly, as if she felt Spencer’s attention shift to her. Her golden brown eyes reflected the light as she returned the detective’s gaze with a slow shake of her head. “No.”

“When did you get here?” Spencer asked. “And which door did you use?”

“Seven o’clock. Front door.”

An hour before my usual arrival, and an hour and a half before her scheduled time. She could have made tea for him, in the microwave in the back office. But after he’d harassed her last night, I doubted she’d have taken any pity on him. And why would a beggar be on the streets before the crowds?

I opened my mouth, but Spencer spoke first. “Did you see him milling around when you got here, or spot him through the front door?”

A silence, followed by another “no.”

Spencer gestured toward the table where Tory sat. “What are you working on that brought you in so early?”

“Sketches.”

That caught me by surprise. I had never seen Tory drawing in here. A sketchbook lay open on the nook table, an artist’s pen beside it.

Reaching over the pony wall, Spencer muttered a quick “May I?” and picked up the book without waiting for an answer. She studied the drawing in progress, then flipped back through more pages covered with black lines forming squares and rectangles, patterns both familiar and unrecognizable.

“I’m not getting it,” Spencer finally said. “Explain, please.”

A spark flashed across Tory’s face. “They’re studies. For a series of paintings.” She glanced at me, as if uncertain of my response. “Of the shop.”

Both Spencer and I looked again. This time I got it. Abstract oils, I surmised, recalling the slight odor that sometimes clung to Tory. With all the colors and shapes in the shop, and the ever-changing light, it was a natural subject.

And I had never known.

Spencer laid the sketchbook on the table. “Good luck with it. Pepper, you’ll need to use your back door for customers until CSI finishes out front.”

“How long will that take? And you’ll let me know when you figure out what happened?”

“Sure,” she said, answering my second question first and waving her hand as she headed for the exit. “My guess, they’ll wrap up by late morning, maybe noon.”

Fat chance
, I thought. Everything official takes longer than it should. The medical examiner would conclude Doc died from natural causes but no one would bother to tell us. Spencer and Tracy would be on to something else by then, reducing Doc to a leaf on the
Tree of Life
in the park, the sculpture honoring the men and women who had lived and died on the city’s streets.

I followed Spencer up the short flight of steps to the back door and outside. A white-suited CSI detective—I knew their rank, from Tag—was packing a case by the door, the frame now filthy with fingerprint powder.

“Thanks again, Pepper.” Spencer and I shook hands a second time, so very businesslike.

They walked down the hill, the CSI guy to his van and Spencer to chat with Tracy. The ambulance and ME van had left. No sign of Tag or Olerud, or my Market neighbors. Delivery trucks had resumed their routes on Pike Place. The sounds of engines idling and hand trucks squeaking up and down curbs rivaled the squawks of pigeons and gulls. A trio of young women in Crayola-bright dresses crossed Pine, nibbling croissants, sipping iced coffee, and chatting. They detoured around the CSI officers without missing a beat.

Just another day in the life.

The use of perfumed oils, or a blend of cassis and cinnamon, to prepare a body for burial dates back millennia. The practice slowed bacterial decomposition, but made the spices more costly.

After buying the shop, I took a business training class the PDA—the Pike Place Market Preservation and Development Authority—held for tenants. It covered a lot of ground. But no amount of planning prepares you to find a dead body on your doorstep.

Had you asked me yesterday, I’d have said that after thirteen years as a cop’s wife, nothing would rattle me. Early in our marriage, I’d listened patiently while Tag shared graphic details of his encounters with the worst of man’s—and nature’s—inhumanity to man, until finally realizing that talk might be good therapy for him, but if I ever wanted to sleep through the night again, he ought to talk to someone else. He agreed—his caddishness emerged later—but even so, there were times when the job followed him home and weaseled its way into our dinner conversation.

So when I closed the door behind Spencer and went to help Tory fill the samovar, I was startled to see my hands shake.

I measured out our custom tea blend before speaking. “Why didn’t you want the detective to know that Doc followed you to the bus stop yesterday?”

Watching Tory’s face was like watching grass get longer. You know something is happening, though you can’t actually see the change.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, making a decision. But she did know, and she knew I knew. Not that I’m a mind reader, but when I was the staff HR rep at the law firm, half the women I worked with didn’t want to tell me what was bothering them while the other half couldn’t wait to recite every excruciating detail. The trick was to get the first half to trust me enough to talk, and the others to trust me enough to shut up.

It’s a rare woman who doesn’t open up to her employer once in a while, but in nearly a year, Tory and I had never had a truly personal conversation, let alone an intimate one.

And the polite firmness in her low, calm voice said the door to having one now was closed.

A knock on the front window distracted me: Sandra trying to get my attention. I gestured to the side door and wiped my hands on my apron.

Sandra was puffing her way up the hill when I stepped outside, bracing the door with my foot and raising my face to the sun. This promised to be an un-Septemberly warm day.

“First I ask my aging knees to carry me down the hill. Then I ask them to carry me up. What the heck, they’re asking me, and not so nicely, is going on?”

Zak cruised in behind her, so I filled them in together, repeating the story for Kristen a few minutes later. I left out the part about seeing Doc follow Tory, since I wasn’t sure it meant anything.

“I wonder what his story was,” Sandra said. Her dark eyes dampened, seeming even larger than usual. “Who’s missing him.” It isn’t uncommon for relatives of the lost or missing to circulate through the Market, pictures in hand, searching. Reunions are rare. Some folks don’t want to be found.

Zak said nothing, but I spotted him giving Tory a surreptitious glance.
What
, I wondered, as I had yesterday,
is up between them?

Ten minutes later, we opened for business, the first batch of tea chilling and the second abrew. I washed the fingerprint powder off the door and frame, glad to be wearing black—one drop of water and the stuff turns to India ink. Zak wrestled a petunia-filled concrete urn he borrowed from the Inn up the hill into place as a doorstop, and we welcomed our first customers.

And told “the story” for the first of many times. “An elderly man seems to have taken shelter in our doorway and had a heart attack. The police want to make sure they haven’t overlooked anything.” My version might not have been entirely true, but it wasn’t untrue. And one thing an HR professional learns quickly is that not everyone needs to know everything. Tell them enough to satisfy their curiosity so they can get back to work.

And shopping.

After the first few customers panted in the side door—their complaints good-natured, but still complaints—I stifled the urge to call the police and demand our front door back. Calling would not make it happen any faster, and would only give Tag another reason to swing by and play Tough Cop.

Instead, I thanked each customer for making the extra effort to visit us and offered a small bag of cinnamon sticks, on the house. I rattled off our story in a kind-but-reassuring tone, and asked how we could help them. In a few minutes, the staff had the patter down and we stumbled back into the groove. Our tea scented the air, along with whiffs of ginger, curry, dill—whatever the customer ordered.

From time to time, I had wondered what the heck I had done, buying the shop. And why, if retail was my destiny, it couldn’t have been in another precinct—one Tag would never transfer to, because he loves the bike beat too much. But I adore my shop. To me, the Market has always been the heart of the city—and its stomach. I’d never imagined working here and living so close, and yet it feels like a dream come true. With my loyal staff hard at work, customers trudging up hill to find us, and the phone and online ordering busy as ever, the dream was sweet, spicy reality.

At ten after ten, Tory, Sandra, and I gathered in the nook to retest the spice blends. Tory appeared placid. But then, she hadn’t seen Doc’s lifeless body.

And as my mother had told me in my angst- and drama-filled teenage years, it isn’t necessary to share every emotion you feel with the entire world.

“Made a tasty lamb stew last night with this one,” Sandra said, pointing to the pungent blend. “Great idea to use that smoky pepper. Mr. Right fell in love with me all over again.”

That brought a wee smile to Tory’s face, and a grin to mine. Sandra always refers to her husband of the last ten years as Mr. Right, to distinguish him from the oh-so-wrong first husband. Mr. Right claims to have married her for her cooking, but they are true lovebirds.

“I’d like to tweak the savory blend,” I said. “I tried it in sour cream drop biscuits last night and it lacked zip.”

“I sprinkled it on scrambled eggs this morning, and the flavors got lost,” Sandra said. “Let’s try increasing the oregano.”

“Maybe double. And add a touch of lavender.”

Tory was gazing up at a shelf full of antique British tea tins I’d found in a secondhand shop out on the Olympic Peninsula. Seeking inspiration for a painting, or daydreaming?

“Did you get a chance to try these, Tory?”

She jerked her attention back to me, eyes wide. It was obvious that she hadn’t heard a thing until I said her name.

“We’re discussing some fine-tuning,” I said. “Let’s all try them now.”

A short time later, the air redolent with lavender, we’d reformulated the savory blend into a classic Herbes de Provence and given a group blessing to the others. I hadn’t heard from Alex. Like most chefs, he was a night owl, but he knew we had a tight timeline. Maybe a quick call—I could use a little comfort, even if it came through the phone.

The sound of bicycle shoes clicking on the wooden floor broke my reverie. Misty the Baker leaned her bike against the inside stair rail and picked her way down the steps, more concerned than I about her shoes—the plastic cleats were noisy but harmless. She raised a good-sized white paper bag.

“Figured you could use something tasty about now. Macarons and sablés.”

Cookies, in the vernacular. We hugged and I peeked in the bag, then handed it to Sandra, who promptly plucked out a chocolate sablé for herself and spread the rest of the meringue and butter cookies on a tray.

“Find anything out about the old man?” Misty said. “The cops quizzed the bakery staff, but nobody knew him.”

I shook my head. “Natural causes, I’m sure. But it is weird, right on our doorstep . . .”

“Kinda creepy.” She shuddered. “But you’re brave. You won’t let it bother you.”

Brave was the goal. I filled her sports bottle with iced tea and thanked her for the cookies. I got the best of that trade.

My pal Laurel Halloran, chef, caterer, and a stalwart of the Flick Chicks movie club, had offered recipe suggestions for this season’s spice blends. It was too late to catch her before her lunch rush, so I called the deli to make sure she’d be in for a while.

“You bet,” she said. “I’m so behind on paperwork, I should stay here all day.”

“Why do we call it paperwork when we do it all on the computer?”

“Beats me,” she said with a laugh. “You know where to find me.”

Only after we’d clicked off did I realize I hadn’t mentioned Doc’s death in my doorway.

But first, it was time to check in with our designer, who’d come up with some rough ideas for labels.

Plus I could use some fresh air—perfumed with the fishy, salty, diesel-y scent of the city. I tossed the sample blends into my bag. CSI still had my keys—Spencer had said they’d rush the forensics and get them back to me ASAP, but that could mean anything. I fished the spare loft key out of my desk drawer and tucked it into a zippered pocket in my tote.

I wanted to ask Tory about her sketches, but she was busy helping a woman new to the city stock her condo spice cabinet. The chance to make a good sale and win a loyal customer outweighed my nosiness.

I walked down to Pike Place to check the sidewalk on the corner outside my front door.

No new bodies had turned up while I wasn’t watching. Just flowers, piled up against the salmon pink stucco exterior. A dozen or more bouquets, some fresh, others a little brown around the edges, like they’d been picked from the garbage instead of the garden. A hand-lettered cardboard sign read,
DOC
—
RIP
. I felt a brief pang of shame for not having created a memorial myself.

A few feet beyond the door stood a contingent of half a dozen denizens of the Market, men rarely seen in more than twos or threes. Tall, gaunt Jim, the left side of his face clear, the right scarred and bubbled as if by a burn. Irish Mick, who could be Italian for all I knew. A younger—meaning under forty—man called Hot Dog. Two men whose names I didn’t know.

And lurking in the back, Sam and Arf. I had never seen Sam hatless. He looked uncomfortable without the beret, shifting from one foot to the other and barely glancing at me.

“Thank you, gentlemen. It’s kind of you to remember Doc this way.”

“Could be any of us,” Jim said, and agreement rippled through the gathering. “We acknowledge our own.”

Judging from the pile of flowers, others in the Market had contributed, too. I looked over my shoulder at Yvonne, the closest flower seller to the Spice Shop. The Market Master assigns daystalls based on seniority and dependability, meaning Yvonne usually got this one, on a prime corner. In mid-March, she offers the first tulips, and in fall, the last dahlias, zinnias, and sunflowers. She glanced at me while a customer debated between two bouquets. Several of the bundles by my door bore her signature red and tan raffia, and from the color on her cheeks, I suspected she’d left one herself.

I turned back to the men, their eyes on me.

“Hope it don’t hurt your business none,” Jim said. “Old man ain’t got no business interfering even after he’s dead.”

Another man chuckled.

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “When the yellow tape comes down, we’ll rearrange the flowers out of the way, where folks can see them. You fellows stay here as long as you want.”

They murmured thanks. I touched Sam’s arm lightly.

“Miz Pepper,” he said softly. And I knew from the sadness in his tone that whatever Sam’s problems, he had not harmed Doc. But they might have argued about the corner. This had been Sam’s morning for it. Had Doc taken Sam’s hat, to boot?

Their feud had been one of territory. When you don’t have much to call your own, you get pretty protective of what you do have. And if there’s a spot in this world where you like to sit, for whatever reason, it becomes pretty important, too. I got that. Why that spot was in front of my shop, I didn’t get.

Get a move on, Pepper. Before you lose it.

•   •   •

TOOK
more time to make my way one block from the Spice Shop to the Market entrance than to walk the eight blocks to my designer’s studio at First and Cherry. The first delay had been the two women standing at the bottom of Pine, staring, confused, at my blocked-off door. I pointed out the side door propped open, thirty feet uphill. The slope wasn’t steep by Seattle standards, but their expressions were dubious.

“You want us to hike up that hill?” one of the women asked. “I don’t remember a hill when we were here last summer.”

“There’s been a mishap,” I said, not bothering with the details. “But we have a small gift for every customer today, as our thanks. A bundle of cinnamon sticks. Plus samples of our custom blend tea.”

“I don’t care for cinnamon,” she replied in a Texas twang. “We’ll go somewhere else.” She flounced away. Her companion gave me a quick, apologetic smile and scurried off to catch up.

I shook my head. The yellow tape signaled a situation out of my control, but some people are oblivious to the obvious.