[SS01] Assault and Pepper (24 page)

My stomach growled.

“The plaintiff alleges he—or she, we don’t know—was a patient of Dr. Finch. He had a femoral arterial bypass, which means inserting a graft to bypass a blocked artery and restore blood flow to the lower leg and feet. Right here.” Jen stepped out from behind the counter and drew an artery on her pant leg with a finger. “They usually use synthetic grafts, but in this case, they harvested an artery from the lower leg.”

“Ughh.” I shuddered.

“If I read this right, the patient alleges that Finch should not have done that, and that in the process, he nicked a nerve, causing permanent damage.”

“Don’t nerves regenerate?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

A customer asked for mysteries set in Ireland. “Light or gritty?” Jennifer asked. “In between,” came the reply. Jen led the way to the Foreign Settings shelves, recommending Sheila Connolly’s County Cork Mysteries and an Erin Hart novel set on an archeological dig.

Had I been right to wonder about a vindictive patient? Who was this person? And how had Tory known?

“Where was I?” Jennifer had left the customer to browse. “Oh, right. The failed bypass. Case dismissed.”

“Settled?” Like the other two.

“No. I think the judge is saying that the plaintiff couldn’t find an expert witness to testify that Dr. Finch breached the standard of care.”

“Meaning?”

“In a med mal case, you need another doctor in the same field to testify that the defendant doctor screwed up. A bad result isn’t enough. You need evidence of an actual error.”

The customer set a stack of paperbacks on the counter, including the Connolly and Hart books, and two in another series. “You’d love these, Pepper,” Jennifer said, flashing a cover at me. “Sister Fidelma, seventh-century Irish nun and legal advocate. When you finish Brother Cadfael. Planning a trip?” she asked the customer.

I gathered my files as they chatted and Jennifer rang up the purchase. “Thanks, Jen.”

“Wish I could be more help,” she replied.

She’d been more help than she knew. But what I really needed was to know why—or even if—any of this mattered.

If you use an electric coffee grinder to grind fresh spices, be careful not to overdo it. Heat destroys the volatile compounds that give a spice its aroma and lighter flavor notes. To keep your coffee from tasting like fennel—or your cloves like French roast—grind a tablespoon of rice to a fine powder. The grit cleans and sharpens the blades, and absorbs any residual oils. Or try a mortar and pestle—toning your arms at the same time!

I was beginning to feel like an absentee shop owner. I’d hailed a cab on First to cart me up to Ron Locke’s clinic. Patients jammed the small waiting room.

“Mercury retrograde,” the receptionist said ruefully. “Everybody’s running late, or their appointment’s running long.”

As good an explanation as any. I scribbled my cell phone number on a message slip. “Ask him to call when he’s got a moment.”

I limped down Pine, thinking that we ought to carry a few reference books on medicinal herbs. I’d ask Ron for suggestions when he called me back.

Meanwhile, why not ask a plant expert?

“Hey, Yvonne. How’s business?”

She scowled, her dirt-stained fingers gracefully arranging a bouquet of statice. “Nobody buys flowers in the rain.”

Trust Yvonne to find the hole in every doughnut.

“This is a long shot, but you know so much about flowers. Do you know aconite?”

Her fingers hesitated, then got back to work. The scrapes were healing nicely. She tied a ribbon around the bundle and stuck it in a bucket. From another, she withdrew a long, slender stem with multipronged leaves, topped with a cluster of lovely purple flowers. Bell-shaped.

Hooded.

I hesitated before taking it. “It’s beautiful. Is it poisonous?”

She gave me a withering look. “Would I sell it if it were?”

“Right. Don’t forget to call Alex’s office. He’s serious about buying flowers from you.”

A customer asked for pink and white dahlias and Yvonne returned her attention to her flower buckets.

I crossed Pike Place and stepped up on the curb. It had been a week since Doc’s death, and the memorials had long vanished. The handwritten notes were safely tucked in an envelope in my desk.

A whizzing sound caught my attention. Tag stopped his bike, balancing on one long, lean leg. The weather had to be pretty nasty before he changed from bike shorts to long pants.

“Shouldn’t you be inside sipping tea with your feet up?”

“Shouldn’t you be off-duty? Your shift ended hours ago.”

“Subbing for a buddy who wanted a long weekend for his wedding anniversary.” As usual, Tag’s eyes were hidden by his sunglasses, but a slight flush crept up his neck. “I was wondering—”

A delivery truck clattered by, behind him, drowning out his words. “What?”

His radio squawked and he shifted his weight to keep his balance, one gloved hand gripping the bike’s handlebar. “Umm, I was wondering if you’d like to, maybe, go out for dinner Sunday. There’s a new place on Capitol Hill I’ve been hearing about. French bistro.”

Dang those sunglasses. But the stuttering and nervous gestures gave it away. Tag Buhner was seriously asking me, the ex-wife who left after catching him with another woman, out for dinner. A dinner date.

“Unless you have other plans,” he said, glancing around as if hoping a crime would pop out of nowhere and save him.

“Actually, I do. But thanks. It’s a sweet invitation. Another time?”

“Yeah, sure.” He hopped up on the bike. “Take care of that ankle,” he called as he spun away.

A sweet, strange invitation. I smiled, shaking my head, and walked into my shop.

In the office, I braved another application of the herbal cream. It honestly did tone down the pain.

Out front, the staff had business well in hand. Reed reshelved jars while Zak packed up a few mail orders and Sandra helped a customer in search of the perfect chile powder. I straightened a display and answered the phone. The Middle Eastern restaurant on the lower Hillclimb had used the last smoky Aleppo pepper—key to a signature dish—and was running low on several spices needed for the weekend. I promised to drop off the order on my way home, and enlisted Reed to give me a hand packing it up.

Sandra rang up her customer, and the staff and I were alone in the store.

“When are we going to get to see those new labels, boss?” she said, but her heart wasn’t in the jibe. “Kristen and I went to the jail. That poor girl. Place gives any decent person the willies.”

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “We’ll get her out soon.”

“There’s still a killer out there. I mean, this is a big city. Bad things happen. But . . .”

Tough on the outside, soft in the middle—that’s my second in command.

The front door opened and a woman entered, carrying a large market basket and a list. I squeezed Sandra’s shoulder. She dabbed at her eye, raised her chin, and marched forward.

Meanwhile, my thoughts drifted back to Tag. The public nurses a lot of misconceptions about the police, and doesn’t always realize that most officers are good people who care deeply about the community. Tag had shown his tender side last night, calling my friends to bring food and medicine.

Did he finally understand that I was making a good life for myself, by myself? It intersected his only because we both work downtown. He’d been watching me last night with a wistful expression on his face—it vanished when he realized I’d seen it.

Was he wondering if we could make a place for each other in our lives again?

Was that why he had told me about the cut brake line?

How bizarre that a car so similar to mine had been parked up the hill from my shop. I’d left the Mustang outside the shop for a few minutes on errand days a few times. It’s distinctive. People might have noticed it.

I don’t believe coincidences happen to teach us lessons—not a big fan of the micromanager theory of God—but I do think that when strange and scary things happen, we have an obligation to learn from them.

What I was supposed to learn from this, I had no idea.

Almost closing time. I carried the pots to the sink and dumped out the remaining tea.

But I did know. Alex’s explanation about the Mustang and the winemaker might be true, or a bit of careful bluffing. Either way, it made me uncomfortable, and that was all that mattered.

I wasn’t going to get involved with Tag again.

But I wasn’t going to get involved with Alex, either.

Mr. Right might be out there, or he might not. But I was right where I needed to be.

The Market’s Gum Wall—a colorful bit of psychogrunge started by movie goers who stuck their gum to the bricks while waiting in line.

—No. 1 on TripAdvisor’s list of the germiest tourist attractions in the country

Though the season wouldn’t officially change until next week, the air already felt different. A little cooler, a little damper.

The last light off when we closed was the twinkling fake-crystal chandelier. The first piece I’d hung after buying the business.

I could hardly wait to show off the new labels. To celebrate a full year of owning this surprising, maddening, magical place. A full year of my new life.

Life might begin at forty, but it really gets rolling at forty-two.

“Chin up,” I told Zak as he, Sandra, and I walked out. “Good news soon.”

“You keep saying that. I wish you would tell me why.”

“Soon.” I patted his broad shoulder. “See you in the morning.”

“Night, boss,” Sandra called, and they took off in opposite directions.

Elevator or stairs? I debated briefly as I crossed Pike Place, crowded with trucks and vans as the daystallers tore down and loaded up. My ankle felt pretty good—whether it was the aconite or another ingredient, that herbal cream worked miracles. Brother Cadfael would approve. Taking the ramp and stairs might be easier than wending my way through the chaos in the street and the Arcade, dodging traffic and shoppers attempting to negotiate last-minute bargains.

My tote, heavy as ever, on one shoulder and the delivery box in both hands, I squeezed between a big-bellied butcher and a rolling storage crate, and headed Down Under. No late shoppers here. Most businesses had already closed, the overhead lights in the central hallway making me a ghostly reflection in the shop windows.

A single light glowed in the import shop, and I paused to peer inside. In places like this, and antique and vintage stores, some merchandise flies out the door while other items hunker down on the shelves for years. You never know when you’ll find the perfect thing you didn’t know you needed.

The light emanated from the back corner. A mannequin draped in a turquoise-and-gold sari blocked my view and I craned my neck to see around her. The small lamp, a red silk shade on a brass base, might be the perfect accent piece for my Chinese apothecary.

A dark shadow crossed in front of the window as someone bustled by.

“Tomorrow,” I promised the red lamp. “I’ll be back.”

I shifted the bag on my shoulder and continued down the ramp, rounding the corner where the haunted bead shop used to be. Some Market folks swear they feel a draft here, a breeze blowing through an open window in the solid wall.

I’d never noticed it—until now. My steps slowed and I glanced around in the dim light. A scuffling sound—smaller than a person, bigger than a rat.

It stopped. I paused, then kept walking.

The odd sound started up again. More than two feet. More than one person.

I picked up the pace. The long, steep Market steps weren’t far away, beyond the open steel double doors.

Thwack!
Something hard but hollow hit me in the midback, and I staggered forward. Pain shot through my left leg. The tote slid off my shoulder and the weight of it tugged me sideways. I landed on my knee, a sledgehammer working on my ankle.

But there was no one in sight.

I breathed deeply. A sharp, tangy whiff of spice hit my nostrils, and I squeezed back a sneeze. In my twisty-turny fall, I’d managed to hold on to the delivery box. But a bag inside must have burst open.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up, weight on my right foot, testing my left. The stabbing had reduced to a throb, but I still felt like swearing. Now I could get out of here.

But first, I dug in my bag for my phone.

C’mon, c’mon—I know you’re in there
.

Finally, my fingers found the smooth plastic cover. I slipped the phone into my pocket and picked up the box, hoping my delivery wasn’t completely ruined.

I took a step toward the doors that led to the wide outdoor landing and the stairs. My right foot was midair when that same hard, hollow object hit me.

But this time, I was ready. I spun around, ignoring the twisting and grinding in my ankle, and reached inside the delivery box for the open bag of smoked paprika.

Pulled it out and flung it in the face of my attacker.

Who sneezed loud enough to bring down the Viaduct.

I dropped the box and my tote. Yvonne sneezed twice more, doubled over by the force of her allergic reaction. I grabbed the five-gallon flower bucket she’d used to attack me and, when she rose up to sneeze again, took a mighty swing.

Down she went, on hands and knees. I sat on her back and she collapsed to the floor.

I reached for her left hand and yanked on it. “Give me your other hand.”

Her right hand flailed.

“
Give it to me.
”
I snared it and pinned it down with my knee, then untied her apron strings and wrapped them around her wrists. She yelped.

“I don’t care if it hurts. You killed Doc, didn’t you? And you cut the brake line in that car, thinking it was mine.” Her husband—ex-husband—had been a mechanic. “That’s how you scraped your knuckles and your chin.”

She sneezed, the sound ringing off the concrete, glass, and metal surrounding us. I scooted forward, my butt on hers, my left knee pinning down her elbow to keep her from loosening the apron-string handcuffs. My tongue found a dab of paprika on my lip. My ankle screamed.

“You planned the poisoning, but the car was spur-of-the-moment, wasn’t it? You’ve got a knack for spotting openings—I’ll give you that. You could have killed dozens of innocent people. Where is my phone?”

In the melee, it had gone flying. I whipped my head around, panicked, seeing nothing.

Then, a soft breeze. Feet scrabbling.

A wet nose. A big hand.

“Here it be, Miz Pepper,” Sam said.

“Call 911, Sam.”

“Can’t, Miz Pepper. You gotta call.” Terror rattled his voice. The dog stood beside him, a faithful guardian.

“Okay. You dial. Hold the phone and I’ll talk. Shut up,” I told the whimpering Yvonne.

“Pepper Reece,” I said to the dispatcher. “I’m sitting on a killer. Literally. Down Under in the Market, behind the big doors between the Mezzanine level and the Hillclimb.”

“Hold the line, Ms. Reece. Help is on its way.”

But I couldn’t hold the line. I needed both hands to hold Yvonne. The phone lay where Sam had left it, cradled in her back, on speaker so I could hear the dispatcher calmly, quietly setting help in motion.

“What did you think you were going to do—kill me and stick me on the Gum Wall?”

“I only had to knock you out.” Yvonne’s words came out thin but angry. “Drag you to the steps and throw you down. Or push you through the rail. Like almost happened on the ferry.”

I shuddered. My own stupidity had given her the idea. “You killed Doc. Dr. Damien Finch. You sued him for malpractice but the claim got tossed, so you had to find another way to get revenge.”

“Damien Finch made my life a living hell. If he’d have paid up—you’re hurting me.” Her breath came in short, ragged bursts.

But I didn’t dare let up the pressure. Yvonne might live in constant pain, as the malpractice claim alleged, but all those years running a flower farm had made her strong.

“My husband left—he couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Right. Anderson was your married name. You use your middle name instead of your first, and you took back Winchell after your divorce.” Her grunt sounded like agreement. “You saw Doc in the Market. You recognized him—oh, I know when. He bought flowers for his daughter. He bought them from you.”

Last Wednesday. The flowers Tory had thrown into the trash.

“He didn’t even recognize me,” she said, angry tears shattering her words.

“You found a Spice Shop cup.” She made a snorting sound, and I realized my own inadvertent complicity. “You got the cup and the tea from me. You brought him hot tea, poisoned with aconite. You gave it to him and watched him die.” That’s what Sam had seen. “Tory had nothing to do with it. So why go see her in jail?”

“For justice.”

I jabbed my knee into her twisted arm, glad for the freedom of movement my stretchy pants gave. Wondering if Brother Cadfael had ever had to resort to grade school wrestling moves. “Why? What did you want from her?” Outside, footsteps pounded closer and closer. A minute, at most, to get the truth.

“Wanted her to—pay me—” She was gasping now. “For what I suffered. Pay me from her inheritance. Then I’d say I saw what really happened. That she didn’t kill her father like I hinted to the police at first—that old bum did it.”

Sam. Yvonne had gone to the jail to try to blackmail Tory into paying her off, by threatening to frame Sam for Doc’s murder. A murder she had committed herself.
I jammed my knee deeper into her back.

“Damien Finch was dying of cancer,” I said. “Everything he had went to his wife. Even if Tory had the money, she would never have let you hurt Sam.”

She groaned—in mental or physical agony? I no longer cared which.

“That was you at the cemetery, wasn’t it?” Stephanie had seen her, too.

“We got her, Pepper.” Tag’s hands lifted me up gently. Olerud stood ready to grab Yvonne.

Other officers moved in. Tag wrapped a strong arm around my shoulder. Someone handed him my pink phone.

“Good job,” he whispered into the spiky hair he hated. “You got her.”

I’d had help. But Sam and Arf were gone. In the shadow of the concrete column where Yvonne had hidden—waiting after she’d followed me Down Under, waiting while I mooned over the red lamp in the import shop window—lay a worn brown leather wallet. I wriggled free, picked it up, and flipped it open.

Winfield Robinson III, the ID read, followed by an address in Memphis, Tennessee.

“My guardian angel,” I said, handing the wallet to Tag.

Detective Tracy huffed into view and surveyed the scene. His eyes narrowed when he spotted me. I grinned.

And out of nowhere, and everywhere, voices began singing a medieval chant.