[SS01] Assault and Pepper (13 page)

At the moment, of course, I was trying to decide what was best for Tory. I pushed the contradiction away.

“Pepper, wait.” He dismounted and pushed his bike beside me, wheels and shoes clattering. The Market buzz starts early on Saturdays. I detoured around a young couple debating whether to shop or eat first and a chef I knew by sight carrying a large wicker basket chock-full of farm-fresh chard.

I glanced at my watch and broke into a trot.

“Pepper!” Tag called behind me.

“Pepper!” Another voice caught my attention and I stopped. Angie—or Sylvie? Hard to tell the orchard sisters apart.

“Tory didn’t kill that old man, did she? She couldn’t.”

The girl’s eyes were wide and worried, her olive skin blanched to the color of unripe wheat.

“She was so kind to all the street folks,” she said, meaning the downtown residents and the homeless wanderers. Her sister appeared behind her. “She took one of them to the doctor once, and helped hand out Christmas gifts last year.”

More details I hadn’t known. Tory had also distributed hot tea with me on cold mornings. But past generosity didn’t mean she hadn’t slipped something poisonous into another cup of tea.

But I had no idea what that poison might have been.

A few feet away, wearing her usual haggard expression, Yvonne stood at the weathered wooden table in her stall tying up mixed bouquets and bundles of sunflowers.

I hoped the sunshine and foot traffic would burn through the pall hanging over us. Gloom and despair did no one any good—least of all Tory.

I dropped my phone in my pocket and squeezed the sisters’ hands. “I’m sure it’s all a mistake. Think of her every time you sell a jar of jam, and she’ll be back here before you know it.”

The first customers of the day were Detectives Tracy and Spencer. Tracy handed me the warrant, not quite suppressing his satisfaction. Spencer studied the makeshift tea service we’d put together, using Laurel’s BrewMeister and vacuum pumps. I skimmed the warrant, then read it again slowly.

“The only personnel file listed is Tory’s.”

“Judge agreed with you that the others aren’t relevant,” Spencer replied. “Since you keep them under lock and key, and no one else had access.”

“Maybe she’s not a model employee after all,” Tracy said. “Disciplinary notices, warnings.”

They’d be disappointed on that front. The paper in my hand shook as I read further. “But why the computer? We need it.”

“Judge agreed since it’s available to any employee, we need to check for evidence. She had a key to the shop, and she did come in early.” Tracy’s voice held a note of triumph.

Score one for him, Tory had no job-related reason to use the shop computer, but I couldn’t swear she hadn’t used it without my knowledge.

I glanced at Kristen, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The original personnel files were back in place, the copies safely in her bag. “Follow me,” I said, making a show of finding the special key on my ring and unlocking the drawer.

“I hope it’s helpful,” I said, extending the slim file to Tracy.

“You better not have tampered with evidence,” he said. “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of this matter.”

I didn’t give one hoot what Detective Tracy thought. Detective Tracy could go ahead and arrest me for all I cared.

He slipped the file into an evidence bag, packed up the computer, and nodded curtly before backing out.

“And I thought we had cramped quarters,” Spencer said.

“You know what the Market’s like. No space too small to be used for something.”

She held my gaze. When she spoke, her tone was not unkind. “My partner comes on a little strong sometimes. But he’s a good cop, and he isn’t out for blood. He only wants to see justice done.”

Me, too
. But justice is what justice does.

It’s a poor man who can’t see the beauty in the sun and the wind and the rain. And it’s a sad man who can’t love his neighbor and always finds cause to complain.

—Traditional American folk song

My staff straggled in, burdened by the same grim, anxious mood that I’d encountered earlier. I sent Reed to the bakery, hoping caffeine and sugar would perk us all up.

Sandra’s husband made a rare appearance, driving her downtown to haul in the new tea supply. He kissed her tenderly and gave her a big thumbs-up before heading home. Mr. Right, indeed.

I left the others to manage the shop and dashed home for my personal laptop. I hadn’t dared bring it in earlier, for fear that Tracy would seize it, too. I got it set up and downloaded the backup shop files, so we could access our basic records, including the mailing list for our inaugural Spice Club shipments. A sweet plan: Once a month, we would select a small batch of herbs and spices to be used individually or in combination and send them, with recipes, to club members around the country. We’d already received several hundred subscriptions, and I wanted Sandra to double-check the numbers and confirm that we had enough spices, tins, and mailing supplies on order.

Our first shipment would include sample-sized packages of our fall blends. If they were going to arrive on time, we needed to hop to it.

I circled through the Market and environs, dropping off standing orders and last-minute requests. I steeled myself for quizzing about Tory and Doc, but to my surprise, the comments were brief.

“You think you know your people,” the kitchen manager at the Pink Door said, shaking his head. He stuck his nose in a bag of Saigon cinnamon. “Perfect. I’ll poach the late-season pears we found this morning and sprinkle this on, with roasted pecan syrup and a dollop of mascarpone.”

“Sucks when an employee goes bad,” said the grill cook at my favorite breakfast joint, a Market institution offering three floors of great food and views with the motto “Almost classy.” “Glad you got my special pepper in. Gotta have it for the Sunday sausage.”

Then it was a detour Down Under, a shortcut to the Hillclimb. I hopped down to Western, dropping off cinnamon for my Ethiopian baker friend, then swung by the Middle Eastern restaurant. The owner—a doll and a marvelous chef—thanked me profusely. He’d changed his menu recently and hadn’t figured out yet how much spicery to keep on hand.

No one held the murder or arrest against the shop, thank goodness, contrary to Laurel’s conjecture. But ’twas early days. If the charges went forward, Tory and Doc would be news for months, and my customers might view things differently.

They were wrong about Tory. I knew it. I rubbed my jaw beneath my right ear.

They had to be.

•   •   •

AFTER
the last delivery, I hopped a bus and chugged up to Capitol Hill.

Seattle adores its neighborhoods. Each has its own distinct character. Even so, there are always pockets between communities, blocks that seem out of place, like this stretch of Twelfth Ave. Too far from Seattle University for the coffeehouses and funky shops that crop up near colleges, and too far from the Pike-Pine corridor to share in its recent hip revival. The neglected rental properties had not benefitted from their proximity to streets where classic older homes, small and large, testified to the Hill’s history as one of Seattle’s oldest and best-loved enclaves.

As I stood on the spidered sidewalk, staring at the sagging concrete steps and the bare bulb dangling between two front doors, their white paint peeling, I had a hard time imagining my put-together, casual-chic employee living here. But for young artists, low rent and studio space make a few creature discomforts tolerable.

An embroidered dish towel curtain fluttered in an open window. My kind of place.

“Hello,” I called. “I’m Tory’s friend.” No response.

I picked my way up the steps. A few decorative tiles stuck to the risers, gray mortar exposed where pieces had gone missing. Choosing the left-hand door at random, I pushed the bell. Silence. I reached for the knocker, then noticed it was painted on—shadows, flaking gilt, and all.
Tromp l’oeil.
I rapped my knuckles on the peeling wood and called out again.

The other door opened a crack. A slim woman of about twenty with dark brown skin and a dozen waist-length cinnamon braids threaded with brass, copper, and silver beads peered up at me.

“I’m Pepper Reece. Tory Finch works in my spice shop.”

The steely edge in her eyes softened. “The police have already been here. They had a warrant.”

“Are you her roommate?”

Her braids clattered like pipes on a wind chime as she opened her door wider and motioned me in. “Neighbors. We traded spare keys, just in case. But I never imagined this. My name’s Keyra Jackson.”

And I never imagined that an apartment in this decrepit manse could be so astonishing. Keyra worked with found objects. Trash. Bits and pieces scavenged from backyard scrap heaps and the industrial recycling center. She didn’t look big enough to lift the truck fenders she’d made into bird wings, let alone wield a welding torch with precision.

“Are those bike parts?” I said, nodding at a pipe-and-board shelf unit crammed with odd clocks and lamps.

She handed me a bottle of ginger beer, brewed in the Market. “Yep. My specialty.”

“A box grand?” The piano’s surface gleamed, but when I pushed a chipped, dingy key, a painful twang sent the room’s metal artwork into a discordant series of echoes.

“Rosewood. Biggest found object ever. Still trying to figure out what to do with it that won’t forfeit my security deposit.” Once a duplex, the building had been reconfigured so each side held separate first- and second-floor units. The doors had been relocated, stranding the piano.

Keyra had watched officers carry bags of evidence down from Tory’s second-floor apartment, but had no idea what they’d found. “They said they were looking for evidence of poisoning. But even if Tory were a killer—which I don’t believe—she’s too smart to leave stuff lying around.”

My thoughts exactly.

I followed her up the narrow stairs to Tory’s place. Yellow tape warned,
DO
NOT
ENTER
. I brushed aside a wisp of hesitation. After all, Keyra had a key, and Tory needed our help—whether she was willing to admit it or not. Keyra opened the door and we scrambled underneath the tape.

As in Keyra’s rooms, age-burnished woodwork set off plaster walls the color of antique crocheted lace. There, the resemblance ended. The younger artist had filled every nook, corner, and cranny with curiosities and, when those were full, hung bike wheels from the ceiling and dangled metal bits and gadgets from the spokes. “Visible storage,” she called it.

Tory’s place, in contrast, was almost minimalist. Jute rugs anchored each room. Classic carved walnut chairs and a matching loveseat slip-covered in creamy muslin created a tone-on-tone feel.

Except for the walls, a virtual crayon box. The abstracts I’d glimpsed in Tory’s sketchbook had been studies of form and line. These pieces were the finished product, the real deal. Dozens of canvases—some framed, some flat, others wrapped—leaned against the walls. Recognizable objects or vistas were less about themselves and more about the play of color, line, and shape.

“I had her half convinced she was ready for a show,” Keyra said. “In quality and quantity. She’ll be the new artist of the year someday.”

“Why the reluctance?” I asked, but Keyra shrugged.

This vivid joy and wild bliss from the woman who dressed year-round in tans and grays. Who wore the black-and-white shop apron like a mask. Was the limited color palette of her clothing a disguise? Did she see herself as muted and bland? Or simply save color for the canvas?

A twinge of guilt speared my jaw. Invading the privacy of a very private woman felt like a sin. But I wasn’t the first—and unlike the searchers before me, I was here for her sake.

Tory’s bedroom continued the tone-on-tone color scheme. On top of the antique oak dresser stood three photographs—the only personal touches other than the paintings.

In the first, a young girl sat on one of the marble camels at the Volunteer Park Art Museum. Every Seattle child has a similar picture, although the original statues are now protected inside the museum while modern kids ride concrete replicas outside. Even at three or four, Tory had radiated self-possession. She reveled in pure joy—no “Say Cheese!” smile for the camera.

The second photo was of Tory and Zak at the foot of a giant willow. He beamed at her and why not? Her head thrown back, her eyes dancing, her features were transformed.

In the third, Tory stood between a man and a woman. Doc in his late forties, a full head of hair the same color as Tory’s. This past Wednesday morning on the street, Doc had refused to look at me, but I’d glimpsed the worry in his eyes. Now I knew why they had seemed so familiar.

But it was the woman who drew me in. She bore that same self-contained look as her daughter, and yet it was impossible not to see utter love and devotion in her eyes and the way her slim hand rested on the girl’s shoulder.

I picked up the frame and opened the back. “Tory, age 7,” written in fine black felt-tip. A woman’s hand.

“Do you know her parents? Or where they live?”

Keyra’s braids twirled as she shook her head. “I asked about the furniture once and she said it had been her mother’s, in a way that made me think her mother had died. She never mentioned her father.”

She pointed to a small desk that held cords and a printer. “They must have taken her laptop.”

In the bathroom, I peered into the medicine cabinet and under the sink. Did the same in the tiny kitchen, but it’s hard to know what you’re looking for when it isn’t there.

“How long were they here?” I asked.

“Not long.”

Searching for something specific, quickly, without leaving a mess—or that nasty black fingerprint powder.

A rickety staircase out back led to the third-floor studio the four renters shared.

“They searched upstairs, too, but they didn’t take anything,” Keyra said, hugging herself.

Tory occupied the south dormer, lit by a single uncurtained window. The patterns of light shining through the diamond-shaped, multipaned glass echoed the abstracts she’d sketched in the shop.

Her brushes lay neatly on a paint-spattered table next to her wooden easel. On the easel itself stood a canvas, eighteen by twenty-four. If I read the underpainting right, we were gazing through a mullioned window onto a wooded ravine, shapes between the trees suggesting future shrubs, a distant view still blank. A more traditional landscape than the evocative-but-playful pieces I’d seen downstairs. Sadder. Deeper.

Keyra’s puzzled expression said she knew no more about the place than I did.

A landscape of the memory, or of the heart?

•   •   •

JANE
sat across from me, her back to the window. She’d told me once that the view of Puget Sound from her island home brightened every day. “Like Johnson said of London. When you’re tired of looking at water and mountains, you’re tired of life.”

So here we sat at Maximilien in the Market, at a table for two set with white linen napkins and gleaming silver. But she had turned her back on the panoramic views, not even glancing at their reflection in the antique mirrors that lined the bistro’s dark walls.

“Thank you for meeting me, dear. I know how hectic Saturdays are.”

Jane’s call had come as I was promising damp-eyed Keyra I’d do everything I could for Tory. She was calling from the shop, disturbed to find me not there. I’d hustled to meet her at her favorite table in her favorite restaurant. She’d already ordered oysters—untouched—and a bottle of her favorite white wine—half gone.

I gave the waiter my lunch order and sipped the crisp, dry Bordeaux that Jane had chosen, notes of citrus and flowers opening beautifully.

“I couldn’t sleep a wink, wondering what to do.” Jane’s voice quavered. “What to say. I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest with you.”

No surprise there.

“It’s about when I hired Tory. Do you remember—I imagine she still comes in—Marianne is her name. About your height, a little fuller-figured. Always impeccably dressed. High cheekbones. Expensive highlights.” She gestured, expressive fingers drawing a full, poofy bob ending in a point near the chin.

I squinted, trying to picture the woman. No luck. “What’s she got to do with Tory?”

Jane fiddled with her fork, shuffling it from one side of her plate to the other, her knuckles swollen. “I’ve never been sorry I hired Tory. Excellent employee. Reliable. Keeps herself to herself, but nothing wrong with that.”

I reached over and stilled her hand with mine.

“So I suppose I didn’t check her out as fully as I should have.”

A sudden chill struck me, and not from the air or wine. “Jane—”

Our waiter appeared at my elbow and I paused while he slid Jane’s oysters aside and replaced them with her entrée.

“
Le confit de canard pour Madame
.” Duck. Jane is a creature of good habits.