[SS01] Assault and Pepper (14 page)

“And for you, the
tartine
. Herbed goat cheese, Yukon gold potatoes, sliced Anjou pears, and fresh arugula on pastry.” A rectangular French pizza, of sorts.

The service
chez Maximilien
is never rushed, and I’ve never minded—not in this atmosphere, with these views, or this wine list. But, knowing Jane needed the semblance of privacy, I sent our waiter mental “hurry up” messages as he refilled our wineglasses, clasped his hands, and smiled before turning away.

I leaned forward. “Jane, what does this woman Marianne have to do with Tory?”

Anguish filled her blue eyes and the fork trembled in her crooked fingers.

“I think she’s her mother.”

•   •   •

IN
a flash, I’d pulled out my phone to see what I could find online about Marianne Finch, but the waiter’s apparition at my elbow put the kibosh on any lunchtime research. I should have known it was a phone-free zone.

So here I was, tromping down Fifth Ave toward James, punching the tiny buttons.

Holy cow.

If Google was right, Tory and I had a lot to talk about.

If you didn’t know better, you might think the King County Correctional Facility a low-rise office building. Home to lawyers and accountants. Or a nice, safe insurance company.

Not hardly.

“Oh, Tory. Help me help you,” I muttered after wending my way through the security checkpoints, keenly aware that I was not the only person in the waiting room talking to myself.

Finally, a guard ushered me into the visiting area. Tory sat on the other side of a Plexiglas window. She did not rock a red jumpsuit the way she did her usual outfits. But while she looked a darned sight better than the other inmates, time inside had eroded her usual serene expression. The vee of her left hand massaged the front of her throat.

We picked up our handsets. A sign reminded me that calls could be recorded. Wasn’t that a violation of privacy laws? Or did privacy vanish once you were arrested for murder?

“Everyone at the shop is worried about you. Jane, too. Has Zak been here yet?”

“I didn’t want to see him.”

“Tory, honey.” The wall between us might as well have been solid brick. “He told me about the two of you. I should have guessed. He cares about you. He believes in you. We all do.”

Phone to her ear, she stared at her lap.

“They’ll appoint a lawyer to represent you. Monday, probably,” I said. Her head bobbed slightly. “Unless your mother hires one for you.”

That got her attention. “I don’t have a mother. I mean, she’s dead. Fifteen years.”

Then who, what?
“So who is Marianne? The woman who got Jane to give you the job?”

Tory’s brown bob spun. “She didn’t get me the job. She told me Jane had an opening, but I’m the one who went in and applied. I got that job on my own.”

I wanted to shake her. To ask why she was so stubborn, so foolishly insistent on doing things for herself. On pushing people away.

My walk-and-scroll session on the way here had not started out well—Google knew next to nothing about Tory or Marianne Finch. But then I’d hit pay dirt, sort of. With a name like Damien, it had to be him.

I hadn’t had time for in-depth research. First came those annoying pseudo-directories that crop up on any name search. They rarely list any info other than a name and address, a school or professional license, and invite you to “Be the first!” to rank and review the subject.

Still, they provided an explanation for Doc’s street name, and an office address on Pill Hill. And an unexpected opening into Tory’s secrets.

“Tory, was your father actually a medical doctor? And if Marianne’s not your mother, who is she?”

Her face slammed shut like a bank vault. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m listening.”

She stared at the wall behind me. I stared at her.

“Look, I know your father came to the Market to see you. I saw him following you, and Zak said he kept trying to talk to you. What did he want?”

“He wanted . . .” She shook her head. “It’s no use, Pepper. I didn’t kill him, but no one will ever believe me. Even Marianne. She’s known me my whole life, raised me half of it, but I’m the only one who ever had the courage to stand up to him.”

“I believe you.” Tory was too intent on her career, on her life, to take someone else’s. And now that I’d seen her art and her studio, I was even more certain.

Doc had been hassling her, but not enough to lead to deliberate poisoning. And the murder had to have been deliberate, planned in advance—there were no convenient poisons at Seattle Spice, the last place father and daughter had been before his death.

“Tory, tell me more about Doc. Your father. What was the conflict between you?”

A slow ragged breath escaped her. Her tongue flicked out over a dry spot on her lower lip, and she caught the lip in her teeth before the quivering became too obvious. “People think doctors only want to help them. They trust them. Sometimes they shouldn’t.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

She pursed her pale lips and said nothing.

I leaned forward, gripping the handset. “Look, I get that your father was controlling, and you wanted to live your life on your own terms, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“It’s no use,” she repeated, her honey brown eyes hooded. “He always said he would do everything he could to stop me. I guess he finally did.”

Seattle is to coffee as Alaska is to snow, New York to bagels, New Jersey to bad reality TV.

—Amy Rolph,
Seattle Post-Intelligencer

After leaving Tory and the jail, I crossed James and drifted up Fifth, drinking in the cool air. The jail had reeked of despair, of fear mingled with innocence and guilt.

Inadvertently or not, Tory’s last comment had revealed a killer motive.

But at twenty-eight, she was no kid. If the heart of the conflict was her art—my best guess—why care if her father approved or considered her a talent-free hack? She was doin’. No one gets rich working retail, and paints, brushes, and canvas are pricey. But while her building might have been hiding from the wrecking ball, she had clearly laid a good foundation.

At University, I veered under the marquee of the Fifth Avenue Theater. Its hand-painted carvings of dragons and lotus blossoms and the brass-knobbed red doors were as close to Beijing as I was likely to get. I stared at the posters for upcoming musicals, not quite seeing them. Why would Doc follow his daughter, in disguise? Surely not just to criticize her career choice.

An artist, she was, to the core. Might as well ask her to change the color of her eyes—a color he shared. Did he not realize the depth of her commitment? Had he not seen her work?

A dead-end line of thinking. The better question: Who else might have killed Doc?

And that thought was equally disheartening. Because Sam was so obvious, and to those of us who knew him, so obviously incapable of such horror.

The midafternoon sun broke between buildings, reflected off the window of a men’s clothing shop, and stabbed me in the eye. I blinked against the staggering light. Did I really know Sam any better than I’d known Tory?

At the corner, a weight as gray and heavy as the stone blocks of the buildings fell on me. But in Seattle, there’s always a coffee shop nearby. Like many Seattleites, I have a love-hate relationship with Starbucks. Love how it’s made coffee into community.

Love consistency, hate uniformity. Love that the original location, spitting distance from the Spice Shop, still beckons the hordes—they line up outside all day long. Love that it’s made my city synonymous with great java. Hate that it swallows competitors whole instead of celebrating the entrepreneurial spirit that gave the company its start.

Love that serious coffee people nurture other business models besides the international chain. That there’s room for unique roasteries and divine hole-in-the-wall coffeehouses where folks of all stripes debate blends and single-origin coffees, ethical sourcing, acidity and finish, drip versus French Press versus siphon pot extraction.

Sometimes you want an experience. Sometimes you just need a jolt.

I popped into the house of the green mermaid, ordered a grande mocha latte, triple shot, and sank onto a high-backed stool in the window. The range of experience in the world—and our almost primal urge to compare and judge based on those experiences—has always intrigued me. Half the staff in this shop were twenty-somethings like Tory searching for their path.

At twenty-eight, my mother had been married with two kids. At that age, I was a new homeowner and a bride of one year. My parents hadn’t considered Tag the best catch, but were smart enough to know voicing their opinions would only drive me away and wouldn’t have kept me from the altar.

I’d been sure I’d found my path, before jumping off it and on to a completely different one at forty. And at sixty, my parents had taken another major turn, starting a new life in another hemisphere.

As a former supervisor of mine liked to say, it’s a good thing it takes all kinds—because there are all kinds.

For the second time in two days, a sweep of black fabric caught my eye.
Oh, f-f-firetruck.

“Pepper,” the barista called in the nick of time. I grabbed my coffee, called “thanks” over my shoulder, and dashed out.

Where had he gone?

This time, the sight lines were wide open, and I spotted the tall, balding figure ambling down Union, Arf heeling beside him. No cops or cars in sight, so I dashed across Fifth against the light, mindful of the hot cup.

Where was Sam going? He set a brisk pace for a man well past sixty.

Hold on.
Your dad is well past sixty, and he’s in great shape.

But my dad hadn’t spent decades on and off the streets, haunted by mental illness.

Sam crossed Union and headed up Fourth, me trailing.

We all have our own demons.

At Pike, Sam slowed for a white SUV.

“Hey, handsome. Going my way?”

He glanced down, startled, then grinned. “Hey, Miz Pepper. Take it easy. You outta breath.”

“You’ve got longer legs than I do. Sit and keep me company while I drink my espresso.”

“Nasty stuff. Puts hair on your chest.”

“A chance I’ll take.” In Westlake Park, we settled on a bench near the granite arch and waterfall, Sam keeping a respectable distance between us. The ring and bell of steel drums on the far corner carried across the plaza.

“Haven’t seen you around the last couple of days.” I popped the lid off my latte and licked the coffee-tinged foam inside.

He tugged the lapels of his coat tight across his chest.

“Pretty upsetting about Doc,” I continued. Lid back on, I took a sip, watching Sam from the corner of my eye. The milky caffeine hit my bloodstream like William Tell’s arrow hit the apple. “Did you argue Thursday because he wouldn’t let you have your spot, like we’d agreed? Or did something else happen?” Such frank talk was risky, but I figured I had to dive in and nab the truth fast. Sam would only sit in a public place so long.

“He showed up outta nowhere, acting like we should do what he said. Didn’t bother earning respect.” Sam’s words echoed Jim’s complaint about rules, and the resentment those who honor them harbor for those who violate them.

And they echoed Tory’s veiled comments about her father’s domineering nature.

“Those fool hobos,” he continued. “Kowtowed to him. For no reason at all. He were like that.”

If the online directories got it right, Damien Finch had been a cardiovascular surgeon. Not a profession for the weak-willed. My eyes narrowed. Who else, besides his daughter and the men of the street, had bristled at his unspoken expectations?

“You saw him Thursday morning, didn’t you?” I hadn’t been the only one who’d recognized his beret. And I couldn’t expect Misty to withhold her observation if asked. “Nice weather to go hatless.”

He glowered but did not reply.

“Sam, they’ve arrested Doc’s daughter. Tory.”

Sam’s eyes opened wide as the drawbridge over the Montlake Cut. “But she didn’t do nothing, Miz Pepper. I swear—”

A movement across the park caught his eye. I turned to see what it was.

Two uniformed officers on foot patrol. Too far away to tell if they were watching us.

When I turned back, Sam had disappeared. Like a ghost, or a figment of my imagination.

But the terror on his face when I mentioned Tory’s arrest had been all too real.

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.

—C. S. Lewis

No point searching. Man and dog could have trotted down countless alleys or taken refuge in urban alcoves known only to those in need.

Plus, if Sam didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t want to talk. And I’d invaded the privacy of people I cared about enough for one day.

I sipped my coffee and watched the world go by, a virtual parade of hipsters, youngsters, and oldsters. Couples, families, and gaggles of teenage girls. A few folks heads-down on a timetable. Curious tourists. It was another one of those magnificent Pacific Northwest days that make you forget change is gonna come.

A trio of teenage boys on skateboards made a human slalom course of the foot traffic. A young mother pushed a stroller between me and the Arch, her toddler’s chubby arms reaching for the flowing water. “Fish, fish,” the little voice called.

And all of us dancing, in our own ways, to the Caribbean rhythms.

The patrol officers had vanished, too. I suspected they’d been too far away to recognize Sam, but just because you’re paranoid doen’t mean they aren’t out to get you.

My stiff hips and shoulders needed a good wiggle. A stretch and the caffeine made me feel like a new woman, eager to get back to the shop before the effects wore off. I’d been racking my brain for a substance with both culinary and medicinal uses that could be disguised in a cup of tea, causing rapid death. Either there wasn’t one, or I didn’t know enough to spot it.

And Jane, my go-to source for all spice and herb arcana, had sworn that nothing in the shop could be used to kill. But in her distress, could I fully trust her?

When I reached First Ave, my feet took a detour.

To my surprise, Alex himself answered the restaurant’s side door.

“Pepper,” he said, booming. “My favorite spice girl.”

“I was walking by and thought I’d pop in.”

“Glad you did,” he said, broad shoulders filling the partially open doorway. “We’re in full prep mode . . .”

In other words, no time for interruptions. I understood—had expected as much—but felt a teeny sting of disappointment.

“About tomorrow,” he continued. “Let me cook you dinner. Your place. Say, six.”

“Six,” I said. “Perfect.”

Halfway down Virginia, I realized he hadn’t even touched me.

•   •   •

EVEN
for a Saturday afternoon, the shop was crowded. Sandra had a customer at her heels and a list in her hand, while Kristen conferred with a young woman poring over a stack of cookbooks. A short line had formed up front. I tossed my bag under the counter and helped Reed complete purchases and answer questions.

If Tory wasn’t released soon, we might need to hire a replacement.

A tall, slender man with pale skin and neatly trimmed dark blond hair walked in, gawping as if he wasn’t sure he’d found the right place.

“Welcome to the Spice Shop,” I said. “How can we help you?”

“Uh, I just wanted to see . . .” His voice trailed off. Tag had told me about eager beavers who rush to the scene of gory crimes and car wrecks, seeking a vicarious thrill in other people’s misfortune. This man made as unlikely a looky-loo as he did a serious cook.

His gaze lit on the tea cart. “Oh, this is where . . .”

I helped him out. “Seattle Spice has been here since the early 1970s, part of the Market’s modern renaissance. This is our ever-popular signature tea.” I poured a sample cup and handed it to him.

He took the cup reflexively, staring at it. The newspaper had said only that police were investigating a death on a Market sidewalk, with nary a mention of the shop, tea, or poison. But bad news spreads like Nutella on a hot crepe.

I picked up a box of twenty-four tea bags, hastily packaged less than twenty-four hours earlier. “For your wife? A souvenir from your trip to Seattle?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Perfect.” Relief swept across his anxious face. I rang up the purchase. He lingered, examining the pepper grinders, running long fingers over stacks of books on salt.

“Whew. Thanks for the help,” Reed said.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Sandra said.

“It’s been a madhouse.” Kristen wiped up the oregano I’d spilled on the counter.

“Went to the jail.” The building seemed to hold its breath for a millisecond, then let loose.

“How is she?” “What did she say?” “When will they let her out?” “You know that girl’s innocent.” The babble made it impossible to tell who said what.

“Whoa,” I said, holding up my hands. The customer who’d bought the tea for his wife stared at me, wide-eyed, and headed for the door.
Parsley poop. I thought he’d already left.
With his long legs and dark pants, he looked like a colt that hadn’t yet found its footing. “Thanks,” I called out, hiding my embarrassment.

“She’s fine—and not fine,” I told my waiting staff once I was sure we were alone. “Safe, unharmed, terrified.”

“Talking to you? Trusting you?” Kristen’s questions held motherly concern.

I wiggled my fingers, speaking low. “Yes, and no. Sandra, do you remember a customer named Marianne? Friendly with Jane. Middle-aged, well-dressed, fancy highlights.”

Sandra’s brows dipped. “Yes, but now that you mention it, she hasn’t come in for ages. What’s she got to do with Tory?”

What to tell them? They genuinely wanted to help. “Not entirely sure.”

“You’re investigating, aren’t you?” Kristen’s and Reed’s voices rose in harmony.

“Shushhhh.”

Four or five thirty-ish women burst in, lugging heavy canvas shopping bags. A chunky blonde broke off from the huddle. “Is this where it happened?”

“Uh, outside,” I said. A twitter of excitement chirped through the group. Kristen offered them tea.

Sandra rolled her eyes. “This has been going on all afternoon.”

“Buyers or gawkers?”

“Buyers, thank goodness. Small items. Souvenirs. But not the spice tea. Actually, people aren’t drinking the samples like they usually do, either.”

Like my curious male customer, who’d left behind a full cup. I glanced at the newcomers.

“Okay, here’s what we do.” Taking a tip from how we helped our neighbors on cold-season mornings, we filled a tray with sample cups. “Be super schmoozy,” I urged. Kristen winked, then circulated through the shop and out to the sidewalk.

With Zak out today, I took over reshelving the jars and tins. In some stores, herbs and spices are “serve yourself.” We prepackage a few popular items, but years as a customer convinced me that Jane was right: The personal touch increases trust, and trust increases sales. And freshness counts.

My feet had just touched the floor, my hands on the ladder rails, when I heard a husky whisper. “They say poisoning’s a woman’s crime. Was it really poison?”

A short woman with a cap of blue-gray hair glared at me with glee. Or maybe that was distortion from her thick glasses. Oversized frames are back in style—I thought of Fabiola—but these had a genuine look of 1978.

“Yes,” I whispered back. “We sell it by the ounce. How much would you like?”

A horrified expression chased across her frazzled features and she toddled away, muttering.

The steady flow of customers turned to a trickle by late afternoon, giving me a chance to snare Reed and explain what I needed.

He turned on my laptop. The annoying little network screen flashed on. “Cross your fingers that they haven’t already disabled the network function.” He punched buttons, sending the electronic mice inside the machine scurrying around, making connections. Minutes later, he’d installed a new version of Chrome and the familiar Bookmarks popped up across the top of the screen. “There you go. Your laptop is now synched with the office computer—bookmarks, history, and all.”

I shook my head. He made it look so easy. “So can we trace the history?”

“Unless it’s been wiped. But remember, we can only tell what sites were searched, not who searched them.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Just get me in.”

“As soon as you start to follow the digital tracks, you change them. It’s like quantum physics.”

Right. The observer changes the object observed.

I was staring at the screen when Sandra stuck her head in the office. “All closed up, boss. Need anything before we go?”

“Any chance you could work Monday? I’ll cover Sunday, but . . .” Tory usually ran the shop on Sundays, giving me a day off and Sandra two days.

She nodded grimly.

Reed called good night and the two of them left.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Kristen said. We hugged.

“Thank you. For everything. Eric, too.”

I followed her out to the shop floor and locked the door behind her, then made myself a cup of hot tea. The origins of Jane’s recipe remain a mystery, but the results are darned good.

Killer
.

Back at the computer, I followed Reed’s advice to take screen shots of each page that interested me and open it in a new window so I wouldn’t mess up the history. What was I hunting for? I’d made most of the searches, to sites for distributors, growers, and competitors. And recipes.

Nothing out of place. No pages on “toxic properties of common herbs” or anything remotely similar.

I leaned back to think, the chair squeaking ominously. What about some kind of exotic bacteria? A year or two ago, several hundred people got sick after eating peppered salami. Experts theorized that birds or animals contaminated the pepper with salmonella during harvest or drying. The bacteria hibernated in the dried peppercorns, then reactivated when they came in contact with water, in the meat or in the diner’s stomach.

Everything in our tea went through certified safe handling processes to eliminate risk. Besides, no one else had become ill, and bacteria wouldn’t kill as quickly as Doc had died.

And if the autopsy had shown signs of such a thing, the Health Department would have closed us down faster than you could say “caraway.”

If Doc died from drinking our tea, someone had to have added a toxic ingredient after the tea was brewed.

I banged my head on the back of the chair.
What was going on?

The hot drink rejuvenated me, and for a split second, I wished I could smuggle some into the jail for Tory. I had absolute confidence in our tea, both before and after the tragedy on our doorstep. This tea had built the business and it would keep us going strong for years to come.

Take that, Detective Tracy
.

Nothing on the computer indicated any research into poisons or toxic substances, but the police might find that evidence—or whatever they were looking for—on Tory’s own laptop or phone. I had reached out a finger to power off when a web address caught my eye. The records page of the King County Superior Court website. I’d never had reason to search it, didn’t know what was available online.

Another dead end. Turned out nonlawyers can search by case name or number and bring up a short summary of the file and docket, meaning a list of all papers filed and all orders entered. For pending cases, lay folk could check all scheduled court dates. But to see the records, you’ve got to fill out a request form online or at the courthouse.

So who had used the office computer and what records were they after? Judging from where this fell in the list of sites visited, and my admittedly vague recollection of what I’d looked at in the last few days, my guess was this search had been done Wednesday or Thursday.

Before Doc’s death or after? And if Tory had run the search, what had she hoped to find?

The caffeine had worn off, and it was time to go home. Past time. I grabbed my bag and walked through the shop. Late-afternoon sun streamed in the clerestory windows, highlighting almost invisible particles in the air. “Incomplete thoughts,” my late grandmother called dust motes. I made a mental note to get Zak up on the ladder; he was the only one tall enough to clean the cobwebs off the Indian silver chandelier.

I turned off the lights and let myself out, glad to have my key ring back.

And wondered, as I crossed Pike Place, weaving between farmers and daystallers loading up their trucks, who on my staff was hiding something from me. When I reached the Market stairs, I patted Rachel the bronze pig on the ham end and admitted I knew the answer.

But why? And how, how, how to get her to tell me.