[SS01] Assault and Pepper (23 page)

It sounded genuine. But then, sincerity is easily faked. If he could kill someone, he could lie about it.

“So ‘the kid’ you talked about wasn’t Tory at all. It was Kevin. Dr. Ripken, Marianne’s son.”

“Finch liked to leave things dangling, throw people off their stride, so he could manipulate them into doing what he wanted.” Hurt and betrayal wracked Griffey’s voice.

“We thought,” his wife said, “that if the deal with her son wasn’t done yet, we could get her to see reason. Sell the clinic to Ken, as Finch had agreed years ago. Ken had talked to them both, before Finch died. He thought she was on his side.”

If that was true, then the Griffeys had no motive for murder.

“And after he died? When she came to see you at the clinic on Monday?”

“I showed her the contract. But she said Finch had always intended to bring in her son, after he got experience elsewhere. She wanted me to agree to that, to try to work together. A compromise, instead of a lawsuit.”

Unless I missed my guess, she’d been trying—to use the phrase that kept cropping up—to make things right. Damien Finch had promised his wife to bring her son into the clinic, at the same time as he’d promised Griffey to sell to him when he retired.

Hoist by his own petard. Caught in his own trap. Snared by his own shenanigans.

And killed. By one of the dueling doctors, to prevent a compromise over the clinic?

Or by someone else for a reason I hadn’t yet discovered?

“But you couldn’t accept that?” I said.

“It sounds reasonable on the surface,” Griffey said. “But I have a family to provide for. I’ve spent years building up that practice. I needed the security of ownership, of knowing Marianne and her son couldn’t toss me out on a whim.”

The first mate knelt beside me and repositioned my foot on a bag of ice and a small pillow. I gritted my teeth. Even if the Griffeys were lying about the contract renegotiations, how could they have gotten poison into a Spice Shop cup in Doc’s hands early in the morning on a street corner in the Market?

Look for the simplest explanation. Much as I hated to admit it, Tag might be right.

On the other hand, even if they were telling the truth now, the Griffeys could still be killers. So could Dr. Ripken. But I couldn’t place any of them on my shop corner the morning Doc died.

I couldn’t place anyone there but Tory and Sam.

“Did you know why Finch decided to retire? That he was dying?” I asked.

“He didn’t tell me. But I recognized the signs—weight loss, jaundice, enlarged lymph nodes in the neck. One day I found him vomiting in an exam room. He left the office for appointments during the day—something he’d never done before.”

“You said his mood changed,” his wife prompted.

“Yeah.” He let out a humorless laugh. “He’d always been secretive and demanding. Manipulative. But he seemed—torn. Anxious. Burdened.”

“Who wouldn’t be, knowing what he knew?” I asked.

“Then his lab reports got mixed in with a patient’s by mistake. Pancreatic cancer.”

Just as Marianne had said.

“I’m taking you back on the next ferry,” the first mate told me. “It’ll be here in a few minutes. If you want to press charges against these people, I’ll have to call the authorities.”

“Where were you last Wednesday morning?” I asked the doctor. If he said surgery, I’d know he was lying.

He colored, as even prematurely graying redheads do, and reached for his wife’s hand. “We went for an ultrasound, here on the island. It’s our first baby.”

She reached for her purse. “I have the picture in my bag. It might have a date and time.”

No wonder he’d been smiling when he came in, late, to see his elderly patient. “They can go,” I told the first mate.

Through the window, I saw that bald eagle swoop in and chase a seagull off a pier. I hoped he was having a better day fishing than I’d had.

I know my herbs. They have fixed properties, and follow sacred rules. Human creatures do not. And I cannot even wish that they did.

—Brother Cadfael,
St. Peter’s Fair
, by Ellis Peters

“I can walk,” I told the first mate as the ferry docked on the Seattle side—smoothly this time. “I only live a few blocks away.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, tilting the wheelchair back and pushing me forward.

My grumbling worsened when I saw who waited for me.

“What are you doing here? How did you know?”

“The safety officer is an old SPD buddy. He recognized your name and called me,” Tag said.

I thanked the first mate for the first aid, and hobbled into the ancient black Saab as Tag stood on the curb, grinning. Nice as it is to have people take care of you occasionally, it loses its charm when they’re so pleased with themselves.

I leaned back, eyes closed, images from the screwy afternoon whipping through my battered brain. “Oh, wait,” I said as Tag signaled a turn onto Western. “We need to run by the shop and drop off a key.”

He grunted and flicked off his signal, rewarded by a beep from the car behind us. As he drove up the hill, I gazed out the window. The patches of blue that had teased me on the return ferry trip were gone, the sky once again a leaden gray.

I saw the dog before the man. Arf and Sam, lumbering down the alley. Even at a distance, he looked forlorn, the ball cap so not his style.

Tag drove up First past the entrance to the Market, then turned down Pine. Bumping along the cobbled slope did not help my aching heart or my sore ankle.

But what nagged at me was the image of that blue Mustang thundering down this very stretch into traffic—if it hadn’t hit the curb first.

“What did Olerud find in the street the other day?”

Tag’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“He found something,” I said, “where the winemaker’s car was parked. He called to you and you dashed up there. You took pictures and pulled out an evidence bag.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Before we got married, a coworker told me a square jaw signaled a hardheaded man and to think twice about the wedding.

“Don’t deny it,” I continued. “I saw you.”

At the corner, he put the car in neutral and held out his hand. “Give me the key.”

I dug out the spare and he marched into the shop, returning a moment later with Reed at his heels. Tag hopped in and I rolled down my window.

“Long story,” I said. “Short version, twisted ankle. Need you to close up. You know the routine?”

Eyes wide, Reed stood a little taller. “Course I do, Pepper. I’ve been watching you.”

“Suck-up,” Tag muttered as I rolled up the window.

“He’s solicitous. It can be an attractive quality. You might try it.”

He glowered and gripped the wheel.

At my building, he insisted we take the freight elevator, and I didn’t object. The prospect of hobbling up all those flights of stairs made my whole leg ache.

By the time we reached my door, the pain had worsened and I accepted Tag’s help getting settled on my soft, welcoming couch and prying those nasty heels off my feet. I didn’t even wince when he tossed his damp jacket over a wicker chair instead of hanging it on the hall tree by the door.
Relax
, I told myself.
He’ll be leaving soon.

But then he brewed two cups of spice tea and sat in the red paisley armchair in the corner, a serious look on the face I still found endearing. And, heaven help me, sexy.

If I wanted to solve this crime, if I wanted to find the real killer and get Tory out of jail, if I wanted to help Sam and get back to focusing on my shop and my own life, I needed Tag’s help.

And if I wanted him to leave, I had to ask for it now.

“When we turned on First, I saw—” I said just as he said, “You got off lucky this time. Haven’t you figured out yet that sticking your nose into other people’s business is dangerous?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously not.”

Why did it always come back to us scrapping like cats and dogs?

I guess I’m kind of opinionated, too.

He blinked first, letting out a long sigh. “Brake fluid and tiny steel shavings.”

I nearly dropped my tea mug. “Holy moly. Someone cut the brake line? She could have been killed. The owner, I mean. Are you guys investigating? Who had it in for her?”

His china blue eye softened and I suddenly understood. “Ohmygod. You think someone had it in for me. They thought that was my car.”

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

I stared, openmouthed. “But if they want me off the case, they—he, she, whoever—knows Tory is innocent. And doesn’t want me to figure out who the real killer is.”

Tag looked so miserable I almost felt sorry for him.

“Have I put her in more danger? Is that why Tory is still in jail, so Spencer and Tracy can keep investigating without tipping off the real killer?”
And why you hopped right to it when you heard I’d been hurt?

He stood and began pacing. “Pepper, you know I can’t tell you anything.”

“But you can tell me if I’m on the right track. Damien Finch was not a popular guy. His wife went behind his back to stay in touch with the daughter he’d cut off. His partner—or whatever Griffey is—feared he’d lose his chance to take over the clinic. His stepson—”

Tag’s phone rang and he snatched up his jacket and fished it out.

Blast the man. I’m begging for info and he takes a call. The current meter maid?

“Be right back,” he said.

I wasn’t sure whether I was angrier at him or myself as I heard him dash down the stairs, my loft door ajar. I cocked my head, listening, and heard the soft swish of the building door opening and closing.

The ice bag slid off my foot and I wriggled it back in place. The loft door opened and Reed walked in, followed by his father, carrying a worn black medical bag. Behind him came Laurel and Tag, lugging a basket of familiar white take-out bags.

“Am I throwing a party and didn’t know it?” I asked.

Bags were set down, kisses exchanged, inquiries made.

“My son said you needed help.” Ron Locke gestured toward my ankle. He had the same unruly black hair as his son.

Reed shrugged. “Can’t have you on the sick list. Not while there’s a killer on the loose.”

Five minutes later, I was pinned down good, acupuncture needles ringing my ankle. In the kitchen, Tag and Laurel unpacked her bags and opened wine. A tossed salad and penne rigate with shrimp, asparagus, and a sesame-chile sauce. Warm, herby aromas drifted through the loft.

Laurel took pity on me and brought me a salty, crusty Parmesan breadstick, one of my very favorite foods, and a glass of white wine.

“And salty oat cookies for dessert?” I said, hopeful.

Tag made a noise like a seagull when it finds a cache of abandoned French fries.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sold out.”

The seagull squawked pitifully.

Tag and Laurel don’t exactly hate each other. It’s more like disdain. She considers him a two-timing, self-indulgent playboy who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

And he sees her as an interfering, self-righteous snob.

They’ve each got a point. And yet he’d called her, and she’d come.

“Brother Cadfael,” Ron Locke said a few minutes later, when we all had full plates and drinks. “Love those books.”

“What’s in the salad dressing?” Reed asked Laurel.

“My secret blend.” She winked at me. One of our new blends.

They’d all come here to take care of me. Reed and Laurel wanted me to keep helping Tory, Tag didn’t, and Ron Locke had no dog in the fight. But they all wanted me back on my feet—no pun intended—safe and sound.

It’s enough to make a grown woman’s eyes sting.

And it did.

THE
LA
SALLE
HOTEL
—
FRIENDS
M
ADE
EASILY
.

—Sign on a long-gone Market brothel

You never really appreciate your parts until they don’t work. But I had a newfound appreciation for the miracle of acupuncture, and the white cream Dr. Locke had given me. Conjuring up the scents of Brother Cadfael’s herbal formulas and fermenting potions, I’d given it a good sniff. “How can it work if it doesn’t smell?”

“It’s a homeopathic remedy—a European system rooted in herbalism, but developed centuries after Cadfael’s time. Safe and effective. He was open to all traditions, and so am I.”

But good as my ankle felt Thursday morning, long treks in search of clues and suspects were out. Driving might not be too smart, either, with a manual transmission and Seattle’s hills.

Definitely an elevator day.

I limped through the Market, deflecting questions from the orchard girls, Yvonne, Misty the Baker, and others. Despite its bustle, the Market is a small town in many ways, with its interconnections, its rumor mills, its lightning rods, and its whiners. Its friendships and romances, its feuds and petty jealousies.

Safely tucked in my tiny office, I checked the till and ran yesterday’s numbers. Everything balanced. We’d rebounded beautifully from the wee hit our sales had taken the day of the murder. But I still didn’t know the long-term impact.

Or who the killer was.

I opened a file drawer and rested my foot on it. Had I been impulsive yesterday, as Laurel suggested when she heard the story? Laurel, who had practically shoved me into investigating in the first place. Or foolish, as Tag said. At worst, a bit of both. At best, I had misunderstood the Griffeys’ actions and their conversations in the garden and on the ferry, leaving me only myself to blame for my injury.

At least my mistakes were honest ones.

Was there the teeniest chance that Spencer and Tracy were right? That Tory really was the killer? From their perspective, it made sense. She had motive, means, and opportunity.

And no one else did.

No
. I refused to believe it. Plus, if she’d killed Doc, who wanted to warn me off the case? I swung my foot off the file cabinet and started to stand. Searing pain tore up my leg and thrust me back into the chair.

“No,” I said out loud. Tears flooded my eyes.

I would keep on doing everything I could to free Tory and get her back here where she belonged.

In the absence of any brilliant investigative plans, I threw myself into the busywork of running a retail shop. Never any shortage of that. Despite my attempts to spread the word, no serious prospects for our temporary job opening had come knocking while I was out yesterday. So I called the cooking schools, the state job center, and an employment agency I’d used with good luck in the olden days.

I caught up on e-mail, Facebook, and Pinterest. Bummer that Callie the librarian had not found any leads. Called her to check in, and left a message.

Truth be told, I was going a little stir-crazy, cooped up in my shop. I like getting out and about. My bad ankle meant I couldn’t drop in on Marianne Finch and pry into the story the Griffeys had told me.

Besides, pestering a new widow the day after her husband’s funeral is bad manners. And I do have some.

I thought back to my clinic visit and the old man I’d met in the lobby. What about former patients? Marianne had said doctors had to protect their assets from potential liabilities. But how to identify them? Stephanie might talk, but such prying was better done in person than by phone.

My old law firm had done some medical malpractice defense. In fact, it was a med mal case that backfired and blew the place apart. Jennifer, paralegal-turned-bookseller, had worked in that group.

I reached for the phone and it rang.

“May I speak with Tory Finch?” the caller said.

“Uh, she’s with a customer. May I take a message?”

“King County Superior Court Clerk’s Office calling. Please tell her the files she requested are available now.”

I’d just hung up when the phone rang again.

“Pepper, it’s Jordan Schmidt. Any chance you could swing by today? We got the tox report on Damien Finch. We’ll retain a toxicologist, but it raises some questions I’d like to ask you.”

For that, I was willing to endure a little pain.

After lunch, I hobbled out of the Market and nabbed a southbound bus. The streets ticked by. If the founders had a system for naming downtown’s east-west streets, it’s lost to time. The names run in pairs, from south to north: two Js, two Cs, and so on. Some people use the mnemonic “Julius Caesar Made Seattle Under Protest.” Since the early Romans didn’t get this far west, I prefer my own version: “Jesus Christ Made Some Unusual People.” It’s certainly true, and a good number of them were riding the bus today.

First stop, Clerk’s Office. I took the elevator to the sixth floor. Waited in line, willing my palms to stay dry, keeping my pleasant HR smile on my face.

“Records pickup, for Tory Finch.” Putting it that way meant I wasn’t lying to an officer of the court. Sort of.

The clerk drew a short stack from under the counter and handed it to me. I paid cash, said thanks, and stuffed the bundle into my tote.
Nonchalance, that’s the ticket
. But the sooner I got out of there, the better I would feel.

Next up, Public Defender’s Office.

“So the preliminary tox screen came in. Autopsy report isn’t done yet, but I called the ME and got some good info. Wait a minute, where did I put it?” Jordan prowled through the papers on her desk, a surface about as densely covered as an anthill. She shoved books and files aside willy-nilly, nearly knocking over three of those ubiquitous white paper cups. While she searched the top of her credenza, I snatched up two cups within reach—both half-full of cold coffee—and set them on the floor by my chair. At least if one fell over there, it wouldn’t ruin any files. And the stain would blend in nicely with the carpet.

“Where is it?” she repeated. “Oh, I wanted to tell you. I got a call from Mrs. Finch. The victim’s wife, the suspect’s stepmother.” She sat up, a thick stack of paperwork in her lap. “She said you went to see her . . .”

I held my breath while she flipped through the files.

“And she said . . .” Flip, flip, flip. Next time I run into one of my old employees hunting for a law job, I’ll tell them if you can file, the PD’s office needs you.

“Here it is!” Jordan thrust a report in the air like a drill team leader raising the flag. “Mrs. Finch said you have her half convinced that Tory’s innocent. She wants to meet with me and the prosecutor. The sooner, the better, she said.”

Thank you
, I silently told the heavens. “Have you talked with the detectives on the case? Spencer and Tracy?” I told her about the vandalism to the blue Mustang and the theory that the real killer—or a confidant—had meant to warn me off the case. I did not tell her that information had come from Tag.

She scribbled notes on a yellow pad. Would the pages ever find their way into the file? They say a disorderly desk is the sign of a brilliant mind. For Tory’s sake, I hoped so.

“Apparently the blood tests weren’t much help. They showed therapeutic levels of several drugs, pharmaceutical drugs.”

“He was being treated for pancreatic cancer,” I said.

“But they also tested his stomach contents, as well as the paper cup he’d been holding. The results are consistent with the physical findings from the autopsy. Seems our victim died almost instantly from acute aconite poisoning. The chemical signature indicates a plant-based poison, rather than a chemical synthetic. That’s one reason why they’ve focused on Tory. If they are still focused on her. And why I hoped you could shed some light.” She tossed the report onto a stack on the floor.

“It’s not a culinary herb,” I said.

“Well, no,” she said. “It’s toxic.”

“Some edible plants have toxic parts. Rhubarb leaves can kill. Other plants are safe if they’re cooked but toxic if they’re eaten raw, like morel mushrooms.” I’d taken
Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden
out of my tote the other night, so
I found my phone and started searching.

The first two references to aconite were on pharmaceutical sites, crammed with polysyllabic words only a doctor would understand. Two doctors were on my radar screen, Ken Griffey and Kevin Ripken. “Ah, here we go. Chinese medicine uses the plant to treat arthritis. European herbalists and physicians used it until synthetic substitutes were developed. Grows in the mountains, in the Northern Hemisphere.”

An image pixelated into view. I strained to make it out.

“Holy marjaroly.” I didn’t recognize the sketch or the photograph slowly coming into view. But the common name of aconite gave me the shivers.

Monk’s Hood.

•   •   •

I
called Ron Locke’s clinic for a consult. The doctor of acupuncture and Chinese medicine could see me in an hour.

Meanwhile, I limped over to Fabiola’s building and up the stairs to her studio.

In the text and Tweet era, actual phone calls seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird, but this was obviously Call Somebody Day in Seattle. Fabiola pinched her thumb and forefinger together to indicate she wouldn’t be on the phone long.

I sat on a work stool and rested my foot on another, massaging the cream Ron Locke had given me into my swollen ankle. It brought nearly instant relief.

They must not want you to know what’s in this stuff
, I thought, squinting at the tiny type on the tube.
Calendula officinalus
, I knew—the flowers are edible.
Hamamelis virginiana
,
Arnica montana
.
Aconitum napellus
.

Ohmygosh.

But Ron Locke had promised the cream was safe.

And I wasn’t dead yet.

I dropped the tube back in my bag and withdrew the fuchsia folder. Despite its humbling end, my ferry ride and the lovely hour alone this morning in my delicious little shop had convinced me we’d found the right theme.

Fabiola scrunched up her face, her free hand making the universal “talk, talk, talk” motion. Today, she wore a black jumpsuit with flared legs and jet beading on the broad lapels. The plunging neckline exposed a lacy gold camisole. Her subdued Elvis look.

I pulled out the court files Tory had requested. They related to three different lawsuits against her father. A five-year-old suit by another medical doctor, alleging breach of contract for, if I understood the legalese, failure to convey partial ownership in the clinic.

In other words, a disgruntled doctor promised a partnership he didn’t get. Like Ken Griffey.

But the final document in that file eliminated any motive for murder: a stipulation that the dispute had been settled and should be dismissed, signed by the parties, lawyers, and judge.

Likewise, the second file, a ten-year-old claim by a nurse for wrongful discharge, had been settled and dismissed. Nobody who sues for money and gets it—whether it’s all they wanted or not—is likely to come back years later bearing a grudge and a cup of toxic tea.

The third suit, a claim by A. Y. Anderson, asserted malpractice by Damien Finch, MD, causing permanent physical damage, loss of income, and pain and suffering. And loss of consortium, a ten-dollar word I gathered meant the marital relationship.

“I am so sorry. I thought he would never shut up.” Fabiola tossed her phone on her desk. “That calls for a double shot. You?”

I nodded and Fabiola fired up her commercial-grade espresso maker, a gift from a client with a very profitable business repairing espresso machines. In moments, the grind, puff, hiss, and drip of beans, hot water, and steamy milk infused the air.

She set two white porcelain heart-shaped espresso cups on the worktable.

“I heart these cups. They would fly out my door.”

“Gift. I found these labels, for your jars. For the tins, we can echo the theme.” She handed me a sheet of four round labels, the images and fonts exactly what I’d pictured. “I used the historic photos you sent and your suggestion to add a little color.”

“Like those old hand-tinted photographs. And the saltshaker. Oh, wow.” She’d captured the fifties’ diner style I adore perfectly, in a simple line drawing.

“I did a grayscale version for the recipe inserts and handouts. We can use the same image on your new business cards and recipe cards. On everything printed.” She splayed samples before me.

“Fabiola, you are fabulous.”

She raised her cup in a toast and flashed her bright white teeth. “Pepper, my pal, you’re not too shabby yourself.”

•   •   •

VISITING
hours had ended, leaving me no chance to consult Tory about the files today. Meanwhile, I needed a translator. And I knew just where to find one.

I wandered the bookshop while Jennifer perused the documents. The Tea Shop Mysteries by Laura Childs. For Sandra, for Christmas? The White House Chef Mysteries by Julie Hyzy. I’d had no idea there were so many food-related mysteries. The Domestic Diva Mysteries, the Coffeehouse Mysteries, even a Key West Food Critic series.