Guilty as Cinnamon (24 page)

In the living room, Kristen and Laurel had already sponged most of the spill from the caramel-colored couch and the rug. Not everything in my place is the product of a day-off treasure hunt. I'd spotted the kilim in the bargain pile at a local branch of an import chain when I swung by to check out their spice blends.

We slid the couch back and wiped the floorboards. Then we each made ourselves another drink and settled back to wait.

Seetha emerged a few minutes later. Laurel raised her glass in question, and she wrinkled her nose. “I think I've done enough damage for the night.”

“Don't give it another thought. We're more concerned about you.”

She sighed and sank back into the couch. “I told you about my grandmother, right? The one in India who faked a heart attack to lure my mother back home?”

Laurel filled in. “She expected your mom to stay in Delhi and raise you kids there, leaving your father and her career behind, but the ruse didn't work. Then years later, when she did get sick, your mother almost didn't believe her.”

Seetha nodded. “After my grandmother died, my mother started seeing
bhuts
in our house. In Cambridge, Massachusetts. Where my grandmother had never been, in a country she refused to visit.”

For a moment, the oxygen seemed to leave the room.

“I started seeing them, too.” The confession drew her back in time, and she stared at the unlit fireplace in the corner. “Ever since, they've come and gone. Nothing for months, a year or two, and then, there one is. What triggers them, or what they want from me, I don't know.”

A less benevolent version of the medieval chants that play in my head?

“And now?” I said, not entirely sure I wanted to hear the answer. “When did this one appear? What does it look like?”

“Like they all look. They're white and they float.” Her voice floated, too, as though it had lost its connection to her body and was drifting around the room, searching for a place to land. “Some of them carry a scent or a sound.”

I pictured the ghosts we made as kids, wadding up a white Kleenex to make the head, then draping another over it and tying a string around the neck. Drawing eyes and a mouth with black and red markers.

“It started Wednesday,” she said, looking me straight on. “Last Wednesday, and nearly every night since.”

The scent of hot oil grabbed my attention, and I jumped up, stifling a yelp. Laurel stood at the stove, frying crab cakes. I cradled my throat in the vee of one hand and breathed out and in, out and in.

We migrated to the kitchen and set out slaw, chutney, and salads, none of us wanting to venture far from Seetha's side.

It couldn't be coincidence that her
bhut
had first appeared the night a woman had died in a building next to an Indian restaurant. But Seetha had never met the woman, and she'd never been to the restaurant, although she had met the owner. I'd found the body, but was Seetha's connection to me strong enough for the
bhut
to bother her?

Maybe so. Maybe they picked her because she believed and I didn't.

Or at least, I didn't used to.

There are five elements: earth, air, fire, water and garlic.

—Louis Diat, 1885–1957, chef at the Ritz-Carlton for forty-one years

Kristen stayed late to help me clean up, though there wasn't much to do. Seetha had ridden over with Laurel, and I was glad she had safe passage home.

They'd both skipped dessert, a foreign concept to me.

Dishes washed and leftovers tucked away, we carried mugs of decaf and white ramekins of crème brûlée to the living room. “Every time we get together,” Kristen said, “we get another nugget about Seetha, but we never see the whole picture. Ohmygosh, this is fantastic. Orange, cinnamon, and—what else?”

I thought about Danielle Bordeaux, who acted so open and friendly yet revealed little about herself. Or her former employees, never mentioning that Alex Howard had worked for her. Seetha, in contrast, appeared proper and reserved. But every now and then, she dropped a little bomb.

“Thyme,” I said. “We still don't have any idea why she moved out here—”

“Can't get much farther from Boston,” Kristen said,
“except for Alaska. And I can't see her driving a snow machine.”

Seattle became the jumping-off point for Alaskan travelers during the Gold Rush, and is still a haven for Easterners eager to leave the past behind. “But I think she gave us a clue to what haunts her.”

“You asking about
bhuts
set her off,” Kristen said. “That was weird. I've never seen her so rattled.”

“Been a rattling kind of day. First, the note, then Tag . . .”

“What? What happened?”

I felt my cheeks go as red as the leather chair I'd curled up in. “When he came by to pick up the note, he—he kissed me and—”

“Pepper. Do. Not. Do. It. Do not get involved with him again.” She set her empty dish on the crate and leaned forward, hands in prayer position. “Nothing wrong with having dinner with your ex. Better to be friends than enemies. But don't let it go any further. Please.”

“I won't. I swear.” I ran a hand through my funky hair, not improved by the day under a ball cap. “But thirteen years means something.”

“Not to him. He already proved that. The man does not know the meaning of commitment.”

“Wait. Are you talking about Tag, or Alex?” I warmed my hands on the mug. “Why do I have such rotten judgment about men? I love my life, but it gets a little lonely.”

“Your judgment is perfectly fine. You left Tag. You broke it off with Alex. You just need confidence.” She stood. “Go bowling with Ben. Have fun. But don't be desperate. That's what leads to bad judgment.”

After Kristen left, I took Arf for a spin around the block, then climbed into my jammies. Made another cup of decaf, said no to a second dessert, and opened Callie's finds on my laptop—easier to read the tiny legal print there than on my phone.

Over the years, Ashley Brown and Ashwani Patel had left a rubble of trouble, blazing a maze of deceit. I simply hadn't known where to look. Once she had Ashley's name, Callie had uncovered business licenses for three separate restaurants. Collections suits by unpaid vendors—meat, produce, and spices. If I could whistle, I would have—how on earth had Jane let them run up a bill that high? For all her customer savvy, Jane was a hippie at heart, uninterested in the financial side of the business. That's why I'd had to install an inventory system when I took over, and why it had been fairly easy to turn a profit, once we turned the organizational corner.

But she wasn't, apparently, the only soft touch. Eviction notices from two landlords claimed months of unpaid rent. I dug out a notepad and jotted down the dates and addresses, making a rough chronology of their business history. Claims by the state for unpaid overtime and stolen tips. Suits by linen services, a janitorial supply company, and an electrician.

That one gave me pause.

But the real shocker was that Ashwani Patel's name was nowhere to be seen. After his wife left, he'd hidden transactions behind half a dozen corporate names, no doubt counting on superficial credit checks or suave explanations.

The scum had even continued to rack up debt in her name. Callie had dug up her credit score—how, I didn't know; Callie never crosses an ethical line, but she knows how to tap-dance them. It looked like my last bowling score.

Good for you, Seetha. I may have rotten taste in men, but you knew a stinker when you met one.

I kept scrolling. Callie had found inspection records from the Health Department—his places had always squeaked by—and announcements of the new restaurants. The first incarnation, the Blue Poppy, had been profiled by a hipster blog shortly after it opened. I recognized the location from
the photograph, a hole-in-the-wall off Madison, on the edge of super-trendy, super-expensive Capitol Hill.

But that wasn't all I recognized.

I zoomed in on the photo of the smiling couple, arm in arm beneath the vivid blue sign. Ashwani, tall, dark, and self-satisfied. And wearing a chef's coat in her signature green, Tamara Langston.

I inhaled sharply. Arf raised his head. “It's okay, boy.”

But it wasn't okay. If my eyes weren't fooling me, Ashley Brown had disappeared and returned as Tamara Langston. Risen from the ashes, so to speak.

So why on earth open a restaurant next door to her once-and-former husband? Or whatever he was.

I tried to blow up the photograph for closer inspection, but no luck. I toggled to the daily paper's website. Ponied up to get the archived story pairing Tamara's picture with Alex's, already behind the paywall. Chalked it up as a business expense. Split the screen and put the two shots side by side.

Changing hair style and color is easy, as I can attest. Disposable contacts make new eye color a cinch. Eyebrows can be pretty distinctive, but I recalled reading an article ages ago that said earlobes are our most distinctive facial feature. Unless you hide them behind hair or under a hat, they can give you away.

I pulled up the magnifying glass app on my phone and peered closely. Reached over and switched off the lamp. I had to squint, and I couldn't be positive without showing the pictures to someone who knew both women. But I'd bet my bottom dollar that the missing had been found.

Dead, but found.

“Oh, Tamara. What were you doing, playing with fire?”

Ashley and Ashwani. Tamara starting Tamarack, next door to Tamarind.

All her hopes and plans, whatever they'd been, up in smoke.

*   *   *

NO
bhuts
disturbed my sleep. I hoped they'd been equally kind to Seetha.

Despite the late night, I was rarin' to go Wednesday morning, bolstered by the discoveries that could help identify Tamara's killer. Or Ashley's, if my theory was correct.

Buoyed by optimism, Arf and I jogged up the Market steps. The air smelled of a coming rain. At the top, near the bakery, I glanced toward the North Arcade. I saw no one unusual, but a jolt zipped up and down my spine, as though I'd touched a hot wire.

As I've said, if the Market had a middle name, it would be some version of wondrous strange. The Shakespeare quote jumped into my brain unbidden, triggered by what Reed had dubbed “the Hamlet note.”

I ordered hot drinks for my staff and a box of cinnamon rolls, and asked for a candle in one. No reason cupcakes should have all the fun.

A few minutes later, I picked my way down the cobbles to the shop, juggling leash, bakery box, and drink holder. Sandra had already turned on the lights—working fine, thank you—and both Reed and Kristen had arrived.

“Hey, I know my watch has been acting funny lately, but is yours running fast?” I handed Kristen her cappuccino.

“Ha-ha. I wouldn't be late for Zak's last staff meeting. Besides, after last night, you and I have lots to talk about.”

Sandra's eyebrows shot up, and Reed, fiddling with the sugar, looked up. The front door opened. Zak strode toward us.

“My last Wednesday. My last week.”

“Hey, man. Don't be down. You landed your dream job,” Reed said, and I knew that in the not-too-distant future, Reed would leave us for his own dream job, whatever it might be.

“Yeah, but you guys have been so great. Tory and I will never forget any of you.”

“Forget us and I'll haunt you,” Sandra said. She dealt out napkins and opened the bakery box. I picked up my latte and frowned, reading the note scribbled on my cup.

NF2L. Never the same woman twice.

Nonfat double latte, I understood. But what did the silent, pale-faced barista mean by the rest? My appearance and my outfit didn't change much day to day. My mood, on the other hand, could be a little shaky before coffee.

I took a long sip and pushed the questions aside.

“So Eric made coffee for me this morning,” Kristen said, her fingertips on my arm. “He always does when he gets up first. But instead of dusting cinnamon on top, he grabbed the cumin by mistake.”

Sandra gasped. She has a more developed palate than Kristen and makes the occasional snide comments about Kristen's taste. (Impeccable in everything else, but then, having tweens at home can downgrade one's food choices.)

“I didn't want him to know it was awful,” Kristen continued, “because he was being sweet, so I pretended I was in Casablanca.”

“Remember who started the trend when Starbucks features it,” I said.

After our meeting—short on substance, long on reminiscing with Zak—we got ready to open, then I retreated to my office. Caught Callie on the first ring.

“Hey, thanks. I owe you. But you raised more questions than you answered.”

“Welcome to a researcher's life.”

“Am I reading this right? You found absolutely nothing on Tamara Langston before two years ago?”

“Right. It's as if the woman sprung into life when she moved to Seattle,” Callie said.

“The flip side is, everything you found about Ashley
Brown ends at exactly the same time, except for the credit record.”

“Also right. Until then, I found her all over online. She shared recipes, entered baking contests, ran 10Ks and half marathons, and then, poof! Nothing. Ohmygosh, Pepper! Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Yep. One more search, if you have time. You sent me a photo of Ashley and Ashwani at the opening of Blue Poppy. See if you can find more pictures of her—at races, charity cook-offs, whatever. I know the name might hold you back—”

She snorted. “And I thought Caroline Carter was a common name.”

We hung up, and I followed a train of thought that occurred to me as I drifted off last night. It was remotely possible that Ashley-now-known-as-Tamara had gone along with what Ashwani was doing in her name. A twisty-turny type of fraud. But why? The real puzzle was the location. Why give her restaurant a similar name to his and open next door? She'd insisted on that location, despite Danielle's doubts.

The light dawned. Her motive had been revenge. His had been rage.

First, I called Jane. “Pick your brain? I'm going over a list I found of former customers, wondering if I might bring them back in the fold.”

She gave me the scoop on a Madison Park bistro and an upscale joint in Lake City. Then I asked about Ashwani Patel.

A long pause. Then, “Oh, my dear.” Said ambiguously, as both endearment and exclamation of concern.

“I'm afraid I may have made things worse for her.” She paused. I waited. “They came to me when they opened their first restaurant—a flower name.”

“The Blue Poppy?”

“That was it. They'd used their cash on the build-out, so I carried them for a while. They'd let the account build up for a few months, then bring in a check for the full balance
and a wonderful take-out meal for the staff. It became a routine.”

Depending on the size of the bill—and the skills of the chef—that might not be such a bad deal.

“He's one of those overbearing men with sweet wives. You wonder how they stand it, if their husbands treat them privately the way they treat them—and everyone else—in public. But you try to stay out of it.” She paused, and I pictured her in her island paradise, staring out at the ever-changing winds upon the ever-changing waves. “She went from being a vibrant, confident blonde to a mousy thing you barely noticed. After Blue Poppy came Mon—not Montlake . . .”

“Mantra?” One of the corporate names Callie had uncovered.

“That's it. They went upscale but kept the take-out service. For financial security, I imagine, but I thought it was a mistake. Blurring their identity. What your generation would call diluting their brand.”

An evil to be avoided. Thanks to Jane's sketchy bookkeeping, none of this showed in the few financial records she'd left behind. “What happened?”

“That failed, too, so they started a third place, Tamarind. One day, they brought in a check to pay off a big tab, and a huge feast of a spread. He asked my opinion, and I gave it to him. The butter chicken was tough, and the spicing was off—he'd let his curry go bitter. The samosas, on the other hand, were delectable. Perfect pastry. And she made a carrot cake using Indian spicing, a cross between a halvah and a cake, with cardamom and nuts and an edible silver star on top. Divine.”