Guilty as Cinnamon (27 page)

More patrol officers arrived, but before they could join in, Tag appeared on the sidewalk, a crooked grin on his face, a bedraggled Lynette in tow, her stockings torn and her wig gone.

Dang and blast the man. He'd ripped off his sweater to put out a fire. He'd chased an arsonist through a jeering, uncooperative crowd. He'd ventured into the back alleys of the Market without backup, gun, or radio, and emerged triumphant.

And he had never managed to look so good.

Justice may be blind, but she has very sophisticated listening devices.

—Edgar Argo

“Can you believe it, Arf?” I whispered into the soft fur behind the dog's ear an hour later. We were sitting on the living room floor in my loft, me in my jammies, he working on that fool stuffed duck.

I'd given Tag my jacket, but he gave it back when the patrol officers who took charge of Lynette—or whatever her name was—handed him a blanket. We'd given our statements in the back of a patrol car, and after the firefighters had assured me, for at least the fifth time, that the fire was really, honestly, truly out, an officer drove us home. All the damage was external—the fire had not broken through the thick outer walls, but it easily could have, if Tag hadn't spotted the flames in time.

Tag had trudged up the loft stairs behind us, then stood in the doorway. I'd smiled at his smudged face, his filthy chest, and reached for his hand to draw him closer. “Don't just stand there. Come on in.”

“Pepper,” he'd said, his voice catching. “It's late. I work
early. And I don't want you to do anything you'll regret, in the heat of the moment. Because if we ever have a chance of getting back together, it's gotta be real. It's gotta come from your heart
and
your head.”

I admit, I was stunned. Who'd a thunk it? The guy had been after me almost since the day I left him. In the last few months, he'd been in serious courtship mode. He'd treated me at my favorite restaurants. Taken me to the Mariners' opening game, getting great seats on the third base line, buying kosher dogs and microbrews. Brought me flowers from the garden that had once been ours. But I'd kept my distance.

And then, when I change my mind, he leaves. Either he'd grown a conscience when I wasn't watching, or I was some pathetic freak. “Take care of our girl,” he'd told the dog, and walked away.

“What does it all mean?” I asked the dog. He kept right on chewing.

Images of the evening rolled through my brain: orange flames licking the pink stucco, crowds gathering in the street, the Public Market sign glowing red against the night sky.

“That's it, Arf. I know what to do about the sign.” I'd fallen hard for Fabiola's idea of a lighted sign featuring our new logo—a vintage shaker pouring salt into the ocean.

But the Historical Commission had told me repeatedly that signs hanging from the awning had to be rectangular and made of wood, as they were when our building was erected in the 1930s. Other buildings had shaped signs, or neon, but ours never had, and we couldn't make that change now.

But I had a new plan. We could paint the logo on a standard exterior sign, and hang an LED version, the modern green equivalent of neon, inside the front window. Smaller LED signs could shine out the clerestory windows, making spice a beacon for day or night.

Funky. Vintage, but modern.

“That's us to a T, right, Arf?”

He was too busy chewing his toy duck to say so, but I knew he agreed.

*   *   *

I
woke the next morning knowing I should feel like everything was resolved. But instead, I had the nagging suspicion I'd overlooked something.

The shower is the perfect place to wash away unwanted thoughts. Or to think them through. Ashwani Patel had killed Tamara, formerly known as Ashley. I knew that. Alex, while far from innocent, was not a killer.

What puzzled me was this: Tamara had asked Glassy to manage the bar at Tamarack before learning from Danielle the reason why he would never leave Alex Howard's employ. The two men were bound at the hip, less by trust and affection than by mutual dishonesty. If one lost sight of the other, both were at risk of betrayal. The thefts from Danielle's restaurant corporation—the stolen drinks scheme—had been years ago. The statute of limitations was long expired.

But while the threat of criminal charges was long gone, and Danielle had vowed to keep to the high road, each man still had the ability to destroy the other's life. Or at least, his ability to work, and to some men, that's the same thing. Certainly it was to Alex, and maybe Glassy, too.

Glassy had sworn that he'd kept Tamara's planned defection a secret. But what if he had told Alex? Talk about their scheme had long died down, become nothing more than vague rumors, the facts known only to a few old hands.

But what if Alex feared that Danielle might start the talk back up again? She had become an even more powerful player in the Seattle food scene than he. As far as I knew, she had never used her suspicions about the uncharged crimes against him.

What if he believed that was about to end? That she had revealed the history to Tamara, who saw the stories as leverage
against him and Glassy? What if he'd decided to silence Tamara as a message to Danielle, not knowing Tamara had a different target—Ashwani Patel.

I stepped out and toweled off.
You're spinning your wheels, Pepper. Looking for motives that aren't there
.

And as every police officer I knew would tell me, motive doesn't prove a thing.

*   *   *

WHEN
I got to the shop, it was abundantly clear that everything was not resolved.

Orange cones and yellow crime scene tape marked off part of our exterior wall. The fire marshal had come and gone, and the electrician and a Market carpenter had ripped out a huge chunk of stucco to get at the damaged wires and framing.

“So, what she did was this,” the electrician said, and explained how Lynette had set an electronic ignition switch, connected to a small timer, on the exterior wall where the power entered the building. She'd used a box of trash, mostly paper, to both hide the contraption and make sure the fire got a good start, then retreated to a nearby drinking establishment to wait.

And when the sirens called, she couldn't resist coming back to watch.

“So you're telling me the smoke and char make it look worse than it is,” I said.

“No. I'm saying you were damn lucky. Five minutes later and the fire would have broken through to the interior.”

Talk about a heat index. If that fire had reached the shop, more than our paprika would have been smoked. Someone would have seen the flames before long—a late-night diner, a security officer. Still, we could have been ruined—a Market institution destroyed, half a dozen people left unemployed, our customers set adrift.

It's okay, Pepper. The danger's over
. “What about today? Do we have power?”

“Yes. Inspector needs to sign off before we close it up, but he's on his way. Some plaster repair, a little painting, and you're all set.” He reached for a tool. “Miracle, if you ask me.”

Those old medieval harmonies began to play, and I sent the Universe a silent thank-you.

Inside, I flicked the light switch, holding my breath momentarily. The chandeliers sparkled, the red lamp shone, the tiny green power button on the electronic scale glowed.

All was well. Or would be, when we found the right hires. Before I knew it, Zak would be gone.

Once again, I found myself explaining near-disaster to my staff and springing for treats.

“So Lynette was behind all the electrical problems?” Kristen bit into a
pain aux raisins
.

“Not the first incident, last week when the ceiling lights flickered. That was probably caused by work up the hill at the kitchen shop—our power supply is linked to theirs. When she read in the paper that Tamara had been killed while looking into electrical problems at the construction site, the lightbulb went off. So to speak.”

“And she's a vengeful witch who knows how to grab an opportunity when she sees one,” Sandra said, her tone bitter.

More than you know
. Plenty of time later to tell the staff the full extent of Lynette's misdeeds. If we ever knew the full extent.

Midmorning, Spencer and Tracy come in with more questions about Tamara, aka Ashley, and Patel, and to take a formal statement about the fire.

“You are a magnet for trouble.” Tracy plucked a pastry out of the box. “You were right about the domestic abuse. Ashley Brown filed two reports, then retracted them—not uncommon, sorry to say. Without a cooperative victim, prosecutors were SOL.”

“We've got our best records people sniffing down that money trail you found,” Spencer said. “You, and Tamara. Her notes will be an enormous help.”

“When do you expect to file charges?”

“Early next week, with any luck.” Her eyes narrowed. “You keep away from him. We don't want to alert him, and we don't want any more incidents.”

On that, we were in complete agreement. “Before you interview Lynette, there's something else you should know.”

I'd lain awake a good part of the night, trying to decide how to tell Tracy about Alex and Lynette without raising his ire at Tag. “You distrusted me because you distrusted Tag. I only learned about the bar tab scam yesterday. You blamed Tag for losing a witness and tanking the investigation. But he's made up for it.”

Tracy wiped the last crumb off his chin. It landed on his lapel. “How do you figure that?”

“Actors spend years in and out of disguise. Change their hair and voices, use makeup and costumes.” I described seeing Lynette in the Market several times since I'd fired her, each sighting coinciding with an incident—the ghost notes, the electrical problems, even the falling produce crates. “She wanted to scare me, and it worked. So did her disguise. In the months she worked here, Tag never recognized her, and you won't, either.”

He stared at me, openmouthed. I resisted the urge to brush the crumbs off his jacket.

“Are you saying that your disgruntled employee and arsonist is Melissa the missing waitress?”

“One and the same.”

“What are the odds,” Spencer said, “of wrapping up two cases at the same time involving women passing themselves off as someone they aren't?”

Tamara created a new identity to escape the past. Lynette used a changing appearance to fool the world and enable
her petty vengeance. Alex and Glassy had reshaped themselves from thugs into successful businessmen.

In a million different ways, we all create ourselves every day.

*   *   *

AFTER
his fireside heroics, Tag had been given the day off. Turned out that after leaving me, he'd gone back to the fire scene to make sure my shop was safe. The man took seriously that old police motto “To Serve and Protect.”

Especially the protect part, especially when it came to me.

He deserved a day of rest, but I worried about him. I kinda missed seeing him wheel through the Market.

The UPS man brought the day's deliveries, and Zak and Kristen started unpacking.

“Oh, they're here!” Kristen exclaimed. “Aren't they the perfect wedding gift?”

Heart-shaped white porcelain espresso cups and round saucers, in a boxed set. I'd seen a pair at Fabiola's last fall, but it had taken us months to track down a supplier. Now all we needed were hordes of brides and wedding guests, to make the registry pay for itself.

A fair amount of detailery had piled up while I was out investigating. I returned Tessa Spencer's call and set up an interview. She sounded ideal, and another connection to the SPD couldn't hurt. Responded to more calls, texts, and e-mails—amazing the ways technology has created for us to get behind.

I crossed Pike Place to see Herb the Herb Man and confirm plans for our annual seedling sales. He'd provide the potted seedlings, we'd provide a rolling wire rack to sit outside during the day, and our customers could buy fresh herbs to grow themselves. A nod to the Spice Shop building's history as the Market's original Garden Center, and a benefit to us all.

Sandra held out the phone when I walked back in. “A reporter. One you want to talk to.”

“Buy you lunch and treat you to a free concert?” Ben said.

“Not sure I can get away,” I said.

“Go, go, go,” Sandra said in a stage whisper.

“He's so young,” I whispered back.

“Give him a shot,” she mouthed.

“Meet you at the fountain,” I told him.

*   *   *

“CLOSE
call at your shop.” Ben sat next to me on the ledge around the International Fountain. “But you're safe, thank God.”

His gaze wasn't exactly scorching, but it definitely raised my temperature. He wore a soft gray T-shirt, black jeans, and high-top sneakers. Arf promptly rested his head on Ben's knee. I almost hadn't brought the dog, after what happened the last time we came to the Center, but those big brown eyes had swayed me.

“I think my heartbeat's finally back to normal,” I said.

Two women sat next to me. “Wait till you see this bowl,” one told the other. “Chihuly. It's like a bolt of lightning struck a flower and made glass.”

“I want you to know,” Ben said, “I called because I wanted to see you, not because I'm digging for news. And—here's this. Hot off the presses.”