Guilty as Cinnamon (26 page)

Our breakfasts appeared, and the wordless waitress topped off our coffee. I kept turning pages. Finally, I found what I hadn't realized I'd been searching for: proof that Tamara had figured out what Patel was doing to her. To Ashley.

But she wasn't Ashley anymore. She had made herself into someone new.

I studied the lists of vendors, dates, and collections claims until the aroma of cinnamon toast finally got to me. I pushed the notebook aside. Picked up a slice, but before the first bite, asked two questions. “Did you know who she was? And why she was so insistent on opening next to Tamarind?” Surely, the similarity of names—Tamarind, Tamara, Tamarack—betrayed her plan, no doubt sparked by the Ashwani-Ashley coincidence.

“Not at first.” She paused, thinking, then appeared to make a decision. “Not until I talked to Glassy.”

“Glassy?” I said around a bite of toast. “Alex's bar manager? She wanted to hire him away and you told her to stay away from him.”

She reached for the notebook. I shot out a hand and grabbed her wrist. Pushed the napkin dispenser across the table. She covered her fingers, then flipped to a page I hadn't seen. Across the top, Tamara had written two names, connected by an arrow that went both directions. And above the arrow, she'd placed a question mark.

She'd been asking about the connection between Alex and Glassy.

I picked up my fork and pointed the tines at her. “Spill.”

I ate. She talked. We drank more coffee. People came and went around us, and she talked.

And when she was through, I understood more than I ever had about people I thought I knew and people I'd just met.

But I had serious questions about people I thought I knew very well.

Monastic gardens were not simply places in which to toil, to grow plants, and to dispel idleness, “the enemy of the soul”: they were also secluded open-air temples in which to celebrate and worship the Creator, and a daily reminder of the mortality of all living things in which God may be glorified.

—Rob Talbot and Robin Whiteman,
Brother Cadfael's Herb Garden

In my kidhood, when our family and Kristen's lived together in the house her great-grandparents built, the house my father still calls “the group home,” a poster on the wall in the third-floor meditation room said,
DON'T JUST DO SOMETHING.
SIT THERE.

I honestly did not know what to do after Danielle left. But the lunch crowd was beginning to arrive, and I couldn't just sit there.

Outside the restaurant, the North Arcade bustled, the foot traffic driven under cover by a middling rain. So much for my plan to walk until a real plan occurred to me.

Instead, I headed Down Under. First to the bookstore—I
spread my business around—to see if the singing bookseller had taken in any spice references I had to have or any medieval mysteries I hadn't read. He hadn't.

I pressed my nose to the window—metaphorically speaking—of a painter's studio, closed for lunch. Poked through a couple of clothing shops—cute stuff, perfect for spring, but I wasn't in a spring mood. Stood on the ramp, not knowing whether to go up or down, wanting nothing more than my dog, a blankie, and a good cry.

This was the first time in memory that roaming the Market had not cheered me up.

“Pepper! I was hoping you'd swing by.”

Holy marjoroly. I was so not in the mood for Mary Jean the Chatty Chocolatier. But I was trapped.

And dang, were her chocolates good. Turned out to be exceptionally pleasant to perch on a comfy stool in the corner of her shop, rich, cocoa-y scents swirling around me, nibbling a chocolate honey truffle. Damp customers drifted in and out as she described her philosophy of chocolate and her products.

“Pepper owns Seattle Spice Shop, up on Pike Place,” she said. “Freshest spices and best selection in the city. She works with the police on murder cases! We're plotting deliciosity.” She practically rubbed her hands together.

A cloud lifted. How could it not, in the presence of such exuberance?

I might not know what Brother Cadfael would do, but it was clear that when it came to blending chocolate and spice, Mary Jean and I were on the same page.

*   *   *

I
spent the next hour in my shop, fielding questions, helping Zak pack orders for mailing, and tackling a million other projects. Do not go into retail if you can't multitask. Then I closeted myself in the back office to make phone calls and
ask questions. As I'd learned in HR, and again when Ops gave me info on Tariq, if you ask nicely, people will tell you almost anything.

But now it was time to follow Cadfael's lead and take my discoveries and my doubts to the law.

Detective Cheryl Spencer and I might never develop the camaraderie the old monk and young Sheriff Hugh Beringar shared, but no matter. What mattered was that she would listen and take me seriously.

“Yes,” Spencer said, closing the homicide detectives' office door on the buzz and chatter of SPD HQ. “Ms. Wang did mention a notebook. Lime green, spiral bound. Detective Tracy took a CSU crew back to the house to search again.”

Thank God for small favors
. I pushed a brown paper bag across the scarred but tidy desk, a picture of her daughter its only personal accessory. Spencer peered inside, shot me a glance, then tugged on disposable gloves. Slid out the notebook, swathed in napkins. Tilted her head in a suppose-you-tell-me-what-this-is-all-about look.

“In trying to build a case against Tariq Rose, I may have stumbled over the truth. Open the notebook to”—I gestured and she flipped a few more pages—“right there.”

She took a minute to read. “Okay. Clear as mud.”

“Does the name Ashley Brown mean anything to you? Or Ashwani Patel?”

She frowned. “Brown, no. Patel owns the Indian restaurant next to the construction site where Tamara Langston was killed. We interviewed him. Nothing useful.”

“Patel came to Seattle about ten years ago, from San Jose. Handsome, big personality, mildly exotic. Bounced around a handful of restaurants. Competent, but nothing special.” I paused to unearth a water bottle from my tote and took a long swig. “Unlike Ashley Brown. Young, blond, just shy of pretty. Pastry chef in a joint where Patel worked the line.”

“You said this had to do with the Langston murder.”
Spencer lowered her chin and leaned back in her chair. It creaked.

“Patience, Detective. And requisition a squirt or two of WD-40.”

She suppressed a smile.

“They got married. They quit their jobs to start an Indian take-out joint on Madison called the Blue Poppy.” I laid a folder on her desk and opened it to a printout of the blog post Callie had found, along with two other photos of Ashley that she'd dug up this morning. “They were ahead of their time. The Capitol Hill renaissance hadn't reached that stretch. Roadwork blocked access to their entrance for months. They'd sunk all their cash into the place and didn't have the cushion to ride it out. Common problem in business, often fatal.”

“I don't remember it. How was the food?”

“Closed before I got there, but I hear it was hit-and-miss.” Her dishes hit; his missed. “They regrouped and tried again, farther north. Place called Mantra. Takeout plus dinner service. Classic Indian fare.”

“How'd it do?” She picked up a travel mug emblazoned
GO
D FOUND THE STRONGES
T WOMEN AND MADE THE
M COPS,
and took a sip of tea. My tea—I recognized the sharp orange scent mellowed by a hint of allspice.

“Better, by all accounts. But by those same accounts, their relationship was going downhill. He was an abusive bully. At first, she stood up to him. But it got worse, and he wore her down. Beat her up.”

Spencer flicked her eyes toward her computer. “I don't suppose I'll find any reports.”

“Could be helpful, if you do.” I took another swig of water, knowing I was about to ask Spencer to take a leap of faith and do the investigation I couldn't, to confirm the tapestry I'd woven out of fact, rumor, logic, and innuendo. “A former employee I talked to this morning told me Ashley
received a small inheritance from an aunt. They used it to make one more run, and opened Tamarind.”

Spencer set her cup down and reached for a three-ring binder labeled with a case number. “Patel's place. We questioned the whole staff, but I don't remember her.”

I reached for my file, open on the desk, and slid the photos of Ashley Brown aside. Underneath lay the newspaper photo. Spencer leaned in for a closer look.

And let out a long, low whistle.

“She disappeared a little over two years ago. He told everyone they'd split and she'd left town.” I relayed Jane's story of seeing Patel light into Ashley outside the Spice Shop, towering over her, fists looming. “At first, I thought he might have killed her and hidden her body in the walls between his restaurant and the space next door. Then he got the crazy little lady who works for him to spread stories about
bhuts
—”

“Boots?”

“Hindi for ‘ghosts.' Same word as in ghost peppers,
bhut capsicum
,” I said. At that, Spencer gave up all effort at self-control. She twirled her eyes and wagged her head like this was making her crazy.

“Ashley went underground,” I continued. “Moved to another county and changed her name. Gave all the required notice to creditors, but didn't let Patel know.”

“That's no crime. That's smart.”

I sat up a little straighter, stretching my spine. “She got a job working for Alex Howard and set about making herself into a culinary star. Howard and his organization sheltered her.”

“They knew?” She sounded skeptical.

“Yes. Alex Howard is an SOB, by his own admission, but he is capable of a good deed. What he didn't realize was that she—Ashley-turned-Tamara—had a plan of her own. She'd discovered that Patel was using her name to get credit and defraud suppliers. New ones, who didn't know his track
record. Worked for a while because her name is so common.” I pointed to the page in Tamara's notebook. “She decided to come back. To rise from the dead.”

“To make herself a
bhut
,” Spencer said. “To kick his ass.”

I sat back. “Exactly.”

“If she'd filed for divorce, she'd have to give him notice. Safer to disappear.” Spencer reached for her phone. “I'll pull in all the resources I can. But it's going to take time to verify enough of this to get a warrant, so we can confirm the rest. If the money trail leads to banks or crosses state lines, we'll need to alert the feds.”

A bubble of dismay rose in my gullet. “You're talking fraud. Identity theft. What about murder? He had motive, means, and opportunity.” I told her about hearing Patel tell the customer he'd stopped serving dishes with ghost peppers. At the time, I'd chalked it up to not feeding the frenzy, but now I suspected he'd used them all up, killing Tamara. My chest tightened and my voice rose as I begged her to call Big Al and find out if Patel had refreshed his supply.

Then I told her I'd smelled cinnamon and pepper in Tamarack when I'd found the body. “When you work with spices all day like he does—like I do—they waft off you.”

She sniffed twice in my direction, then pushed back her chair. “Your sense of smell is not enough to prove murder, Pepper.”

“Everything I've given you is circumstantial.” I put the legalese in air quotes.

“We can charge on circumstantial evidence, even convict on it. But it doesn't add up yet.” She came around the desk and put her hand on my shoulder. “This may be the break we need. At the very least, the fraud investigation will allow us to focus on Patel. We'll search for abuse complaints and interview friends, employees, anyone who knew one or both, including your Jane. I promise you, Pepper, we will stir up his life until the evidence boils to the top.”

I left HQ unsure whether to rejoice that they were going after Patel, or bemoan that we still couldn't prove who'd used my peppers for murder most foul.

After unburdening his conscience to the law, Brother Cadfael went to the Chapel to unburden his spirit. Me, I stopped for a triple shot.

Because unlike Brother Cadfael, I hadn't shared all my suspicions with Detective Spencer. Some things a woman has got to handle for herself.

Lead me not into temptation

I can find it all by myself

—Lari White, “Lead Me Not”

Tag's stomach is not necessarily the most direct route to his heart, but it's a good place to start.

I'd gotten back to the Market in time to score two beautiful duck breasts from my favorite butcher and a dozen adorable kumquats. I was glad I'd resisted the temptation to dip a spoon into the leftover crème brûlée.

It wasn't hard to convince him to come over. I'd apologized for my impatience earlier in the week, and for doubting his intentions. And then I'd told him I had all the ingredients for his mother's variation on duck à l'orange and would he please come help me eat it?

I buzzed him in and poured two glasses of Côtes du Rhône red, a stellar complement to the sauce. His feet echoed on the plank stairs, and Arf rose at the sound, nails clicking as he trotted to the door.

“Hey, boy.” Tag reached down to scratch behind the official greeter's ears. His eyes sparked and his lips parted slightly as he handed me an enormous bundle of early spring
flowers: lilacs, deep pink double peonies, and branches of plum blossoms from the garden behind our old bungalow. Similar bouquets had cropped up in the Market stalls the last couple of weeks, and I was glad I hadn't bought one on my afternoon shopping spree. There are advantages to knowing someone well. Even if not quite as well as I'd thought.

Tag and Arf played tug-of-war with the stuffed duck toy Tag had brought while I found a cut glass vase—a wedding present—for the flowers.

“You look terrific,” he said when I interrupted their play to hand him a glass of wine. I'd dressed for the still-young season, hoping to encourage more spring weather, in a sap green smock dress and white leggings, my feet bare, toenails freshly pinked. I'd wrapped a pink-and-green stretchy headband from a Market vendor around my spikes—not because Tag razzes me about my hair, but because the colors made me happy.

“Not too shabby yourself.” He wore slim navy pants that emphasized his long legs and a white crewneck sweater, a wide navy stripe down the arm. Sleeves pushed up, as always. Navy sneakers with a wide white rim. His dark blond hair, freed from his helmet, flopped over his forehead in what could be style or a missed haircut. “To spring.”

“To spring,” he repeated and raised his glass, bright blue eyes peering over the rim.

Careful, girl
, I told myself as I picked up a plate of crackers and baked Brie.
You're on a mission here.

We stepped out the window to the veranda and settled at the bistro table. The herbs had gone hog wild in the past week's alternating rain and sunshine. My neighbors' Japanese maple had sent a few branches over the metal grate between our spaces, creating a lovely unplanned awning.

“Nice.” Tag glanced around. Then he gestured to the Viaduct with his glass and said, “Except for—
that
.”

“I never minded the highway being there, but now that
they're going to tear it down, I wish they'd hurry up. Although, when they do, the noise and dust might mean moving out for a while.”

The look in his eyes reminded me I still had his spare key, and I almost regretted the direction I knew this conversation had to take.
Later
.

We sipped, nibbled, and chatted—easy talk about life and work, but not The Case. Stories, musings, memories. The kind of conversation we'd always been good at, and that I'd missed. To my surprise, when the ducks came off the grill and I suggested we move inside, he asked if we couldn't eat on the veranda—a loft feature he'd ridiculed in the past.

“Your cooking is better than ever.” He wiped up the last bit of sauce with a hunk of bread. “The upside to hanging out with all those chefs.”

We took our dishes in. I got out dessert and started coffee, the aroma nearly as strong as the lilac scent perfuming the loft. “Your garden is beautiful. I peeked when I picked up the tickets.”

“A man needs a refuge.” He rested his hands on the butcher-block counter between us. “Pepper, I need to tell you—”

My chest tightened, and I held up a hand. “Tag, don't. I'm savoring this friendship between us. Let's keep it on this level. I don't want to scrap and battle with you, but getting back together romantically is not in the cards.”

His jaw worked, and his fingers tensed. “Is that decaf? Maybe I can catch a couple hours of sleep before my shift.”

I settled on the couch, but he took the rocker, a sign that he was struggling to digest my message about our relationship.

“Tag, I learned something today that we need to talk about. Something about the past that I never knew.” Across the room, the rocker stopped. I ignored the anxiety threatening to stab me just below the ear and plunged on. “I don't blame you for not telling me. But it's influenced how you've treated me the last few months. It's about Alex Howard and Detective Tracy.”

Tag's face froze, and his square jaw looked a little blunter.

“I don't understand all the details about the scam Alex was running,” I said. “Or who all was involved. He—”

“He was stealing.” Tag spat it out. “He was supposed to be running the joint for the owner. Instead, they made drinks but didn't ring up the sales. The servers took cash, made change themselves, and kept forty percent. Howard and his crony bartender split the rest. Money that wasn't theirs.”

“Crony”—never a word with positive implications.

“You and Tracy were partners on the investigation, and it went wrong.”

He stood. Arf stopped chewing, on alert. “Where did you hear this? Mike Tracy didn't tell you. That scum Howard, to make me look bad?”

“Sit down. I'm not finished.” He sat, and I swallowed my astonishment. “Danielle Bordeaux knew I was asking questions about Tamara's murder. She discovered physical evidence. And yes, I've turned it over to Detective Spencer. But she also told me about her history with Alex. He was her chef. His scheme fell apart when she came into the restaurant unexpectedly and caught a server making change out of her own pocket. Danielle also said she'd told Tamara about it.”

“To get Tamara to quit working for Alex.”

“No.” I reached for my coffee and took a sip. “Tamara wanted to hire Glassy away from Alex. That was too much for Danielle. Scuttle is they're clean now—”

“Don't you believe it.” He rolled his coffee mug between his hands.

“—but thick as thieves.” I couldn't resist saying it. “Danielle is convinced that because no charges were ever brought—”

His head jerked up.

“—anything negative she said about them would sound like sour grapes. Now that they're successful.”
Holding on to your anger
, she'd said,
is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die
.

“Tag, I know you only want to protect me, and I'm grateful. But if I'd known why you didn't trust Alex—”

“I couldn't tell you, Pepper.” Tag stood again, but this time there was no menace in it, and Arf kept working his new toy. “All I could do was try to warn you away from him. And try not to show my relief when you broke it off.”

He paced in front of the fireplace. “Tracy was investigating the liquor suppliers, and I was responsible for tracking down the witnesses. Just when I thought I had 'em, the girl disappeared.”

“What?” I set my mug on the packing crate and leaned forward. “Who?”

“Howard paid her to disappear. I'm certain of it. Mike—Detective Tracy—blamed me for losing her.” His Adam's apple bobbed. “Remember how every time I tried for a promotion, it got blocked? That was Mike.”

“You said you liked patrol, you were happy there.”

“Eventually I decided the streets are the better place for me. I look better in bike shorts than in suits, anyway.”

A bad feeling sidled up the back of my skull. “What was her name? The girl. A server? Tell me it wasn't Ashley.” I'd thought she was too young, but maybe not.

He shook his head, the long lock in front flopping back and forth. “Melissa? Melinda? It's been fifteen years, but I thought I'd never forget.”

The creepy-crawly feeling grew claws that stabbed me. “I don't know what she called herself then, but now she goes by Lynette,” I said.

He gaped at me. The story of how Lynette had ratted Tamara's plans to Alex—leading me to fire her and to feel responsible for Tamara's death—was barely out of my mouth when he charged toward the door.

“I am going to get that son of a bitch once and for all.”

“Tag, no! Wait! He didn't kill her.” Words were no use. I scrabbled for shoes, a jacket, keys, and a leash.

He was a block away, striding up Western, when Arf and I caught up to him.

I grabbed his arm, out of breath. “Tag, wait. Call it in. Handle this the right way. Don't make things worse by charging into his restaurant making accusations you can't back up.”

He stared up the street, still enraged, but at least he'd stopped moving and taken out his phone. “After everything I told you, how can you believe the man innocent?”

“The evidence Danielle brought me and I took to Spencer? It points to Ashwani Patel.”

“Who?” He cocked his head, brow wrinkled.

“Short version, Tamara Langston's ex-husband. I'll let Spencer give you the long version. By now, she knows a lot more about it than I do.”

“It'll be the talk of morning briefing, I bet. Not sure I'll be able to wait.”

Arf barked, one single note. “Long as we're out, might as well walk the dog.”

Tag put his phone away and slung his arm around my shoulder. I liked the feeling more than I wanted to admit. We strolled up to the park, then followed Arf's lead and started down Pike Place toward the shop.

We were two hundred feet away when Tag snapped into alert mode.

“Is that smoke? Holy shit.”

“What? What's wrong?”

He thrust his phone at me. “Call 911. Your shop's on fire.”

He was off and running before the words registered.

My shop, my shop
. My hands shook as I punched in the numbers and reported the emergency. Sirens seemed to pierce the air almost instantly. I looped Arf's leash around a post outside the North Arcade and dashed forward. Flames licked the outside wall.

Tag beat back the fire with his gorgeous white sweater.
I tore off my jacket and tried to join him. “Stay back, Pepper. I don't want you hurt.”

“I don't want you hurt.” My voice cracked and broke.

The first engine pulled up, and firefighters jumped out, hoses in hand.

“Officer Buhner, West Precinct,” Tag told the first man to reach him. “It could be electrical.” The other man spoke into a handset, and Tag stepped back to let his brothers in service take control.

We watched from across Pike Place, where I crouched next to Arf and Tag stood behind us. A crowd of diners and drinkers and moviegoers had gathered in the streets, the evening clear and dry. Southish, behind a makeshift barricade, a group had emerged from who knows where, loud and teetery, making raucous comments despite the smoke and flames.

A movement in the crowd drew my attention. A slender woman, dressed to kill in a short red skirt and a black blouse with a plunging ruffled neckline, black lace stockings, and red stilettos. I squinted, craning my neck for a better view. Glitter and flash, and something familiar.

Was it who I thought it was?

Wrong hair.

She tossed her head, laughing, but her gaze never left the fire.

A wig.
That's what the barista was telling me
.
The changeable lady, never the same woman twice.
Not me, as I'd assumed, but the actress who could change her appearance in the blink of an eye. Who'd once been a waitress in a bar managed by Alex and Glassy. Who'd learned about electricity and staging fires while working on theater sets.

Who'd left me threatening notes written with a marker she'd stolen when I fired her.

“Tag, it's her. Lynette. She set the fire; I'm sure of it.” I didn't dare tip her off by pointing, but she noticed us notice her, and terror swept across her heavily made-up face. She
kicked off her heels and took off down the street. She had a head start, but Tag was faster. I jumped up and down, trying to get the attention of the patrol officer who'd taken charge of the scene.

“The shirtless man,” I yelled, out of breath. “It's Officer Buhner in pursuit of a suspect. The woman who set the fire.”

He barked into his radio. I watched Lynette bob and weave, Tag gaining on her, though the crowd slowed him. She ducked behind the Triangle Building and disappeared from sight. Tag kept up the chase, and I kept jumping up and down, pointing. The Sanitary Market and Post Alley shops are a warren of hallways and doorways and dead ends, but Tag knew them better than almost anyone.