[SS01] Assault and Pepper (16 page)

Put it down and rearranged the display on the coffee table. My heart, the clock, and the music all beat in different rhythms.

At six twenty, I decided something must have happened at one of the restaurants, or to his car, and double-checked my phone for a message or a text. Nothing. “Still on?” I typed.

Then just to be sure, I left a voice mail.

At six thirty, I opened the white, a lovely Italian Verdicchio. A shame to drink it alone, but more of a shame to let it sit on ice, cold and lonely. At six forty-five, I was convinced he’d been in an accident, and at six fifty-five, I broke open a box of Italian flatbread crackers and sliced up prosciutto. Turned the knife to yesterday’s leftover melon and it slipped.

“Yow.” They say dull knives hurt worse than sharp knives, and they’re probably right, but that’s no consolation when you see the skin on your forefinger split open, a thin red stream leaking out. I stuck my finger in my mouth, then made a soft fist and shook it in pain.

Was Alex hurt?
I wondered, rummaging in the bathroom for a Band-Aid.

I wiped blood off the butcher block and refilled my wine. Worry mingled with anger and embarrassment in an uneasy stew. I felt guilty feeling mad—what if he wasn’t okay?

Odds were Alex was just fine. He’s the kind of man who is always fine.

The more time that passed without a word, the worse I felt, getting stood up in my own house.

At seven thirty, I pronounced myself ditched. I tossed my sparkly blue dress into the wicker laundry basket and pulled on black yoga pants and an oversized white
I
COSTA
RICA
T-shirt.

Saturday after work, I’d plunged into the adventures of Brother Cadfael, falling asleep moments after finishing
A Morbid Taste for Bones
. Now I fished in my mother’s box for the next—
Monk’s Hood
? No—that came later.
One Corpse Too Many
.

I sighed. How many are too many? Depends whether you’re a shopkeeper or a medical examiner, I guess. Or a detective. Hadn’t Cadfael, in his callow youth, left a woman behind, gone off to battle in the Holy Land, and forgotten to return for a decade or two?

Alex Howard, I thought as I speared the last chunk of cantaloupe with a sterling silver fork, my cut finger throbbing, had better have an excuse so good.

With all the coffee shops in Seattle, you’d think the people would walk faster.

—Paul Levine

“Look what the dog dragged in,” my friendly espresso maker said, in her singsongy Ethiopian accent. Her dark eyes laughed.

Not with me. At me.

“Better make it a triple.” I’d need that much caffeine to climb my way up the Market steps. Today might be an elevator day.

I wasn’t hungover on alcohol—although I had drunk my share of the Verdicchio before switching to decaf spice tea. Call it the aftereffects of too much emotion and too many late nights for a woman with an early bell. Alex’s no-show had triggered a surge of negativity, a virtual replay of every time I’d ever been stood up, let down, or otherwise tossed around. At least I’d been home, where I could climb into my jammies, rant, rave, stalk, stomp, and cry without anyone knowing. Anyone except for my sweet neighbor who came over once to check on me, using his own white linen handkerchief to dab at my eyes and telling me any man who missed a chance with me was a fool not worth crying over. “Present company excepted,” he’d said with a wink.

Alex had sent a text at half past twelve. I’d glanced at the phone on my nightstand, read the message—
So sorry. Friend showed up unexpectedly for the wine show. I’ll make it up to you
—and returned to the cold comforts of Brother Cadfael’s Benedictine Abbey.

Clutching the sacred caffeine, eyes scraped raw, cut finger throbbing, stomach sour with that hollow feeling left by tears of disproportionate anger and hurt, I stepped out of the elevator and lumbered through the Main Arcade to Pike Place. To the hustle and bustle of Monday morning, the clatter of wheels on cobble, the stuttery clang of metal doors creaking up their rollers and latching loudly into place. Waved to the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.

And stopped dead in my tracks.

What in blue blazes was my Mustang doing in the middle of the intersection? Off-kilter, its right front wheel perched on the curb next to the Spice Shop, blocking traffic and forcing peds to detour.

I broke into a trot. Not so easy with a tote on one shoulder, coffee in hand, and cobbles under foot, but—my car . . .

Next thought: My father will kill me.

Third thought: But I’d parked it yesterday, in the secure, covered lot at my own building. How . . .

Fourth: Why does the bad stuff always happen on Tag’s shift?

On foot, his wheels leaning against the side of my shop, Mr. Bicycle Cop surveyed the shiny dark blue Mustang. My father had pampered it for more than forty years, since he came back from Vietnam, bought it from his commanding officer’s widow, and drove it from San Diego to St. Louis to Seattle, where it had lived a safe and happy life ever since.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. And it’s not your car.”

“Well, yeah. It’s my dad’s.” Tag knew that. Up the hill, Olerud got off his bike and crouched, studying the ground.

“No, it’s not.” Tag pointed at the plates. “And they didn’t pull a switcheroo. See the venting behind the door? Slightly different model.”

Sure enough. Tag might prefer two wheels, but he has an eye for automotive details.

“So whose is it? And how did it get here?” The heat of the cup stung my cut finger. I switched hands.

“Dunno yet. Glove box is locked. Waiting for dispatch on the registration.” Tag went on. “Eyewitnesses saw it parked up the street, right below First. Just lucky it hit the curb where it did.”

But for the curb, it would have rolled into Pike Place, plowed through the street filled with farm stands and foot traffic, then smashed into the daystalls on the opposite side. I shuddered and glanced back up Pine.

“The hill doesn’t look that steep.”

“Pepper! You’re okay! We wondered what happened when we saw your car.”

Angie, with Sylvie right behind her.

“It’s not mine,” I began, catching sight over their shoulder of Yvonne’s worried face. “I’m okay,” I called to her. “Nobody’s hurt.”

The girls looked relieved. Yvonne nodded curtly and turned back to her sunflowers.

“Towing unit’s on the way,” Tag said. “They’ll check it out.” Olerud beckoned and Tag trotted up the hill.

“Poor, sweet car,” I uttered, giving the Mustang a consoling pat on the hood. The mere sight of that front bumper scraped and bent hurt. Whoever owned it was in for a nasty shock.

The tow truck came and went before we opened, leaving no sign of a problem except a gouge in the concrete. Zak arrived, less bedraggled than yesterday, but no less unhappy. I rubbed his arm in a sisterly way. “I’ll talk to her.”

And we got down to the business of selling spice.

Half past ten, the cavalry arrived.

“Heard you had a little trouble this morning,” Detective Tracy said, a button on his camel-hair jacket hanging loose.

“No. Oh, you mean the car. Well, Officer Buhner knew right away that it wasn’t mine, and it didn’t hit the building, thank goodness. But what’s a runaway car got to do with you?”

“Maybe nothing.” He scanned the upper shelves as if he expected prehistoric creatures to emerge. “But anything out of the ordinary that happens near the scene of a homicide catches my attention.”

Made sense, but I didn’t have to like it.

“It’s odd,” Tracy said, “that a car nearly identical to yours would plunge down the street and crash to a stop at your front door. And a vintage car at that—not your average Toyota Corolla.”

“Have you found the owner yet? He must live nearby, if he parked here overnight. But I’ve never noticed another car like mine in the neighborhood.”

“Belongs to a winemaker from Walla Walla staying with a friend nearby. Came in for a wine show or whatever they’re called, and parked on the street. Not the brightest grape in the bunch.”

That car, overnight on a downtown street? I had to agree. “Good story to take home and tell at tasting parties,” I said. “But it obviously has nothing to do with Doc or Tory.”

He gave me that enigmatic smile that makes me want to strangle him. “Nothing’s obvious, when it comes to Ms. Finch.”

True enough. “Doesn’t she have to be arraigned soon?”

“Within fourteen days of filing charges,” Tracy said.

“Meanwhile she sits in jail?”

“The smart ones start working on their defense. If they have a defense.”

If blood could boil.

A few minutes later, I stepped outside to gauge the foot traffic. A typically slow Monday. Spencer, looking like she’d just stepped out of Nordy’s, emerged from Upper Post Alley and stopped on the sidewalk, studying her notebook. A moment later, Tracy joined her. They spoke briefly before crossing the street.

More witness interviews, I guessed. Looking for more evidence implicating Tory.

Leaving me to find the real killer.

•   •   •

IN
its early days, no doubt the King County Courthouse conveyed authority and dignity, and a heavy dose of civic pride. Built of pale gray granite quarried north of the city, with the decorative frills typical of the early twentieth century, it had suffered mightily from its 1960s modernization, the early grandeur not yet completely restored.

My last trip inside the courthouse had been to finalize my divorce. The present errand was only slightly less unnerving.

“I’m here to pick up some records,” I told the woman behind the counter in the Clerk’s Office. “Online request. For Tory Finch.” Fingers crossed that no one asked for ID or cross-checked the jail roster.

I waited on a long high-backed bench, phone in hand. A voice mail from Laurel, reminding me of Flick Chicks tomorrow night. A text from Tag telling me he shouldn’t tell me but they’d located the owner of the other Mustang and all was well. Sweet of him, though Tracy had already spilled the beans.

And one from Alex, saying he’d swing by the next chance he got.

“Ms. Finch?” The clerk had returned to the window, but held no documents. “Sorry, but your records haven’t been copied yet. We’re shorthanded—one out sick, one on maternity leave. Thursday’s my best guess.”

“Thursday?” What if they figured out by then that I wasn’t Tory? She was in enough trouble already. But begging would get me nowhere.

“Or maybe Friday. We’ll call you.”

A block away at the jail, an eery quiet filled the waiting room. Slow day. The guard sang out my name a few minutes after I cleared security.

Tory fidgeted in the orange plastic chair, her expression a mixture of fear and relief.

“I thought hard about what you said. I’m meeting my public defender this afternoon.” She gripped the handset like the pull cord on a parachute. “I didn’t do it, Pepper. Say you believe me.”

“I believe you.” We locked eyes. “Zak’s beside himself. Why don’t you want to see him?”

She bowed her head, resting her forehead on the heel of her free hand. “It’s complicated,” she said, echoing my words to him.

“You do love him, don’t you?” The picture in her bedroom said yes.

“Of course.” Her head snapped up. “But he’s . . . he’s ready to settle down. Get married. Start a family.” The flush in her cheeks reminded me of the dried rose petals we buy from an herbalist in Carnation. “And I want that, too. But I’ve got things I need to do first.”

That bite in my jaw again.
She’s not you, Pepper, waiting for Tag. Waiting too long. She’s still young.

“Like proving yourself as an artist. Like proving your father wrong.”

Her body tensed. My hand rose and reached toward hers, toward the Plexiglas separating us, willing but unable to breach the divide. Her golden brown eyes, so like her father’s, welled but she held back the tears.

“He wanted me to be an X-ray tech. Called art a dead end. But it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“He was trying to protect you.”

“No. He never believed in me.”

No point offering false reassurance. “Tory, who could have killed him? Who wanted him dead?”

Her shoulders sank. “I keep asking myself. My stepmother? After all these years? He was good to her, far as I could tell.” She tilted her head, brow furrowed. “When he was trying to talk to me, he said something about the clinic arrangements, making things right. But I can’t remember everything he said—I was too upset.”

“Who else could have been that angry with him? Someone burned in a business deal?”

“He always seemed to be at odds with someone. Doctors always think they’re right, you know? But who? You gotta be pretty pissed off to plan murder. Especially—I mean, you know, what would be the point?”

Before I could ask what the heck she meant, she went on, knuckles white against the black handset. “Pepper, what do I do?”

“First, prove you didn’t kill him. Then live a full life. Marry Zak and have funny little bald babies who can sing and rock, and draw and paint. Make art. Make love. Make dinner. Make your life all the proof you need.”

Silence fell, as if everyone in the visiting room had heard us. Then the chatter resumed.

She’d already hung up her handset when I remembered my other question. “Tory, did you take Sam to see your father?” Had something gone wrong, explaining the animosity between the two men?

The guard gripped Tory’s upper arm firmly, leading her away. “What?” I thought she said. I repeated myself. She said something I couldn’t hear. I tried to read her lips as she said it again.

But it made no sense. When shop talk turned to sports, Tory turned a blind eye and a deaf ear.

So why tell me to go see Ken Griffey, the Mariners’ long-retired All-Star centerfielder?