[SS01] Assault and Pepper (25 page)

The bluest skies you’ve ever seen are in Seattle.

—“Seattle,” words and music by Hugo Montenegro, Ernie Sheldon, and Jack Keller

I tracked down Sam’s sister in Memphis and called that night.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” she said. “I’ve prayed every night, on my knees, that Win was safe and warm out there. You are a true friend. You are the answer to my prayers.”

“He’s got a dog,” I said. “Arf. They were my guardian angels.”

She laughed, a rich, bell-like sound. “That figures. When we were kids, my daddy dragged home a mutt for us. It needed a name. So Win called it Arf, after Little Orphan Annie’s dog.”

“Wasn’t Annie’s dog named Sandy?” I didn’t remember the comic strip, but I’d seen the musical.

“Sure was. Arf was the sound the cartoon dog made when he barked, in that little balloon they draw, for the words?” This time, she laughed in pleasure and relief. “He loved that dog, my brother did.”

I explained how Sam—Win, she called him—had found a hidden door in the wall near the import shop and taken refuge in the space behind it. A handful of those semisecret spaces still exist in the Market, created by decades-old renovations long forgotten. Mostly Down Under, Market tales often associate them with ghosts. Happily, this ghost had been a helpful one.

“Win has a place here if he wants it,” she said.

I’d steered Detectives Spencer and Tracy to Jim and Hot Dog, who agreed to help them find Sam and Arf. I got the impression that Jim had been letting Sam stay with him in his SRO, a strict violation of the rules. In fact, that may have been where Sam went the day I lost him in Post Alley. I didn’t say anything, though. Jim believed in rules—failure to respect them had been part of his gripe with Doc—but I’d begun to understand they were a code of conduct rather than a set of laws.

And sometimes, you have to bend the rules to help a friend.

They were resourceful men, and kindhearted. I knew they would try to help Sam understand that he was no longer under suspicion, and that the police wanted to know what he’d seen not to trap him, but to bring the true killer to justice.

Spencer had promised me Tory would be released sometime Friday. In Yvonne’s stall, they found a Thermos bottle buried in the bottom of her storage cart, and sent it off to test the residue for aconite.

Tag offered to escort me to the loft and keep me company, but I turned him down. “You’ll need that overtime if you’re inviting women out for fancy dinners.”

Brother Cadfael and a bottle of wine were all the company I needed.

The restaurant owner had half fallen over himself, apologizing for putting me in danger, despite my insistence that he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t think of letting me apologize for messing up his delivery and sending his spice order to the police evidence locker instead. He insisted on sending me home with freshly baked pita bread, tzatziki, dolmas, and falafel.

While he bustled around packing up my dinner, I’d called Zak and given him Friday off. With pay.

I wasn’t badly hurt, though the incident had revved up my adrenals. But after I got home and took a long, hot shower to rinse off the paprika, I did rub on a whole lot of Dr. Locke’s magical herbal cream. Aconite and all.

•   •   •

FRIDAY
morning, the sun shone on a city brightened by rain. I should have known something was up when my friendly barista at the base of the elevator wouldn’t let me pay and insisted on giving me a box of warm, fragrant cinnamon rolls for my staff.

When I stepped off the elevator, the morning din paused. It turned to applause as I limped my way into the Main Arcade and through the Market. Misty the Baker hugged me tenderly, and the orchard girls kissed my cheeks. The cheese maker, the dim sum seller, Herb, and the honey man all beamed.

At the end of the first row of daystalls, near the space Yvonne usually occupied, the Market Master stood, grim-faced. “We are so sorry,” he said. “And so grateful.”

And I was so speechless.

The shop lights glowed and Sandra greeted me with open arms. Behind her, Kristen waited impatiently.

“Wow. So this is what it takes to get you to work early.”

Tears streamed down her face.

Minutes before we opened, Jim and Hot Dog came to the door. At their request, I joined them on the sidewalk, where Sam and Arf waited.

“We wanted to bring you flowers,” Hot Dog said. “But under the circumstances, it din’t seem like the best of taste.”

I tried to suppress my laughter, and failed.

“Sam. Oh, Sam. What would I have done without you?”

“You’da been all right, Miz Pepper. You always gonna be all right. But I sure am glad me and Arf could help.”

He’d spoken to his sister last night, and accepted her invitation to return home. She and her husband ran a storage facility with an apartment for an on-site caretaker—work Sam could do. And it would keep him close to family, “but outta her hair,” as he put it.

“But this dog, Miz Pepper, he’s a Seattle dog. He belongs out here, with you and the men.” His big hand cradled the top of Arf’s head. “They’s bought him this new collar. See, you can adjust it like so. It’s got lights. They’re bright—you can even see them through this ratty old fur.”

Nothing ratty about Arf’s fur, silky-smooth from regular brushing. I stroked the dog’s ear.

“Plus they’re LED. And waterproof.” He handed me the leash, tears in his eyes. “In church when I was a boy, we sang this song about how the world’s one big circle of hope. It hasn’t been that way for me for a long time, but I think the circle’s turning. Don’t you, Miz Pepper?”

Arf’s leash lay loose in my hand. He sat patiently, tail extended, eyes bright.

“Yes, Sam, I do. Hold on. I have something for you.”

I slipped into the shop for the item I’d gotten that morning from one of the Market craftswomen. Back outside, I handed him the black beret and he tried it on, checking his reflection in the Spice Shop window. He preened, grinning.

“Sam, a question before you leave. If your name is Winfield, why are you called Sam?” His sister hadn’t known, either.

“They say I look like that actor, Samuel L. Jackson. It’s the beret. Without it, he ain’t near as handsome as me.”

I kissed him on the cheek, and watched as the three men strolled down Pike Place. Arf sat tall, watching them go, but when I said his name, he raised his head and wagged his tail.

Apparently, I now owned a dog.

The shop bustled all morning, a good thing. Thank goodness for customers and deliveries and all the other Friday distractions. Otherwise, I might have sat in my office bawling.

Midmorning, the detectives dropped by. “As predicted,” Tracy said, “Ms. Winchell’s Thermos held remnants of your tea and aconite root.”

“She repeated the confession she gave you,” Spencer said. “She recognized Dr. Finch when he bought the flowers, realized he was Tory’s father, and decided that if the court system wouldn’t give her compensation, she’d get it her own way. Those unidentified fingerprints on your paper cup and the partial prints on the wall turned out to be hers. She’ll be charged for attempted blackmail as well as murder. “

Tracy cackled. “Wanna bet her lawyer moves to suppress the confession as the result of an allergic reaction? Acting under the influence of paprika.”

“What about Tory?” I asked.

“Prosecutor’s doing the paperwork to dismiss the charges right now,” he said. “Contrary to what you might think, Pepper, we don’t want to blame the wrong person, either.”

“Your samovar came back clean,” Spencer added. “You should have it back soon.”

They had barely cleared the door when Tag dropped in. He took off the glasses, eyes bleary from the double shift and early call.

“Thanks for your help,” I said. “And for the offer last night.”

He nodded and spoke quietly, staring at my feet. “Pepper, I am so sorry for everything I did to hurt you. I will never stop loving you, and I will never stop being your friend. I understand that you don’t want anything from me—”

“Except the occasional response to a 911 call.”

He laughed, then scanned the room, turning serious. “You have done wonders here. You are an asset to the Market. And you were absolutely right—I didn’t think you could pull it off. I have never been so happy to be so wrong.”

“Apology accepted. Even if it is coming from severe sleep deprivation.”

He kissed my forehead, put the mirrored glasses back on, and strolled out, his bicycle shoes clicking.

Two TV reporters called, and a newspaper reporter dropped in. I told them all I’d be happy to talk later, after things got back to normal. I didn’t tell them that might be a very long time.

But we took a big step closer to normal when Zak walked in, right after the lunch rush, Tory by his side. Exhausted but radiant, my ordinarily restrained employee hugged, cried, blew her nose, and cried some more. We ate the sandwiches the Italian deli sent over and the cookies Misty the Baker delivered, and tried to hold it together in front of the customers. We mostly failed, but I didn’t care—the news had already spread, and the Seattle Spice Shop was Ground Zero for the curious as well as those in need of parsley and thyme.

“Tory, a moment?” We stepped out the side door. “After your father was killed, what prompted you to look up the court records for cases he was involved in?”

Sorrow darkened her golden brown eyes. “The day before, when he followed me to the bus stop, he said something about the past coming back to haunt him. I didn’t know what he meant, but I knew he’d been sued a few times, so I took a stab at that.”

Ah. So he had recognized Yvonne after all. “But you never saw the records, and you wouldn’t have connected A. Y. Anderson with Yvonne the flower seller.”

She shook her head, her eyes filled with regret.

“One more question. Why didn’t you tell me she came to the jail to try to blackmail you?”

“I told my lawyer, and she was working out the best way to take that to the police. But I still wasn’t positive that Yvonne had killed my father, and I needed you on the case. Besides, if she knew I’d told you, she’d have come after you again. I couldn’t have lived with myself if you’d gotten hurt because of me.” Tory brushed away a tear. “Hurt worse than you already had been, I mean.”

I didn’t tell her she’d be surprised how much she could live with. Instead, I drew an envelope containing a full paycheck out of my apron pocket. “Go home. Rest. Eat good food. And call your stepmother. She does love you.”

“One more thing. You’re the first to know,” she said, and I tilted my head, questioning. “I said yes.”

Took me a moment to realize what she meant.

My cheek muscles were sure getting a workout.

Shortly after Tory and Zak left, my phone buzzed. A text from Alex, replying to the phone message I’d left. And no, it’s not okay to break up by voice mail, but we weren’t really together—which had been the point of my message. I never had found out what dirt Tag thought he had on Alex. Didn’t matter. I’d found out for myself that I valued reliability, trust, and honesty more than a flashy fling—and that I trusted my own judgment.

So sorry
, the text read.
But it’s probably for the best.

No argument there.

I thank the Lord that I’m not a poor man. I’m not a sad man, no, not me. I’ve got the sun and the moon and the wind and the rain. And I never lack for good company.

—Traditional American folk song

three weeks later

The streetlights in Pioneer Square glowed as evening descended on the city. Laurel, Gabe, Fabiola, Arf, and I picked our way across the cobbles toward an abandoned storefront. No more heels for me—I wore my magic pink flats.

Make that formerly abandoned. Tonight, as part of the Seattle Storefronts project, the space teemed with color, music, and motion. Heart, and soul.

Outside the entrance stood a tall metal piece. I recognized a bicycle fork, chain, and gears, hotel silverplate, and a pair of surgical forceps, among other metal detritus. It waved like a tree reaching for the sky. A paper tag hung from a leafy shape that looked suspiciously like a grapefruit spoon.
THE
GUARDIAN
, it read.
KEYRA
JACKSON
.
NFS
.

Blown glass forms filled the front window of the storefront turned temporary gallery and studio for the artists calling themselves “The Twelfth Avenue Collective”—tenants from Tory’s apartment building and friends and neighbors.

Inside, I filled the small water bowl I’d brought along. “Sit, Arf.” Arf sat, and Gabe sank to the floor beside him.

Along one brick wall hung light sculptures and masks made from bark, fabric, and metal. Sturdy cases in the middle of the space held pottery. Keyra’s found-object art hung everywhere, even from the ceiling.

A temporary stage held the setup for a band.

But what drew me was the exhibit on the opposite wall. Titled “Two Generations,” it was anchored by two oils: the small, sweet portrait of young Damien at the piano that I’d spotted in the Finches’ living room. And Tory’s fairytale painting of house and garden, now complete.

To one side hung the paintings Marianne Finch had shown me, from her secret sitting room. On the other were the pieces I’d seen in Tory’s apartment, and a small grouping I’d seen in the conceptual stage, titled simply “The Spice Shop Series.”

Tory had not come back to work since her release. I’d found a part-timer to start next week, and this time, I was determined to get to know my employees from the beginning.

But Tory and her pen and sketchbook would always be welcome.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Marianne handed me a glass of champagne. “I only wish Damien had lived to see it. To see his mother and his daughter as the amazing artists they truly are.”

“I’ve been saving these for you.” I drew the envelope of notes from my pocket. Her eyes dampened as she read them.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

A drumroll sounded. The chatter stopped and all eyes focused on the stage. Resplendent in a red-and-black plaid sweater dress and black tights, Keyra wrestled the microphone from the stand.

“So much to celebrate tonight. This space, this art!”

We all cheered. Sandra and Mr. Right had arrived, as had Seetha, Kristen, Eric, and the girls, and Reed and his parents. Jane, rhinestone-studded bobby pins tucked into her white crown, wound her way past clusters of people and looped her arm through mine.

“The Twelfth Avenue Collective will occupy the space until it’s leased,” Keyra said. “We’ll keep regular gallery hours. Collective members will work here, and we’ll be open for studio visits. Thanks to the Storefronts project, rent is one dollar a month. Even we can afford that.” Another drum roll.

“Music tonight is by the Zak Davis Band. Happy thirtieth birthday, Zak.” Drums plus cymbals and loud cheers.

I glanced back at Arf, his big head in Gabe’s lap.

Keyra raised a champagne flute. “And congratulations on your engagement, Zak and Tory.”

Cheers arose, and the spotlight picked out the happy couple. Zak, a black sport coat over his black T-shirt and jeans, beamed down at Tory, his arm around her waist. She glowed—no other word for it—in a shimmering red lace dress. They kissed, and we all clapped.

“But wait. There’s more.”

The lights dimmed, a single spotlight on the stage. Fabiola took the mic and images flashed on the wall. For once, the setting outshone her outfit, a simple navy coatdress from the 1940s.

“We are also celebrating the first anniversary of the new ownership of a Seattle institution, the Seattle Spice Shop,” she said. “All the food tonight is seasoned with the Spice Shop’s fall spice blends. And here to unveil the new logos and labels is Pepper Reece.”

Truly, I’d had no idea. I stepped onto the stage and Fabiola handed me a small remote.

“Oh, my gosh. Thank you.” I clicked through the slide show she’d created. First, the vintage labels we’d chosen for the jars: creamy white with a double red border, a classic midcentury design. For teapots and other accessories, paper tags on strings, evoking vintage retail. Plus she’d found a source for the red-and-white-striped mailing labels I remembered from packages my grandparents sent.

Our tins featured historic Washington State ferries and their crews, black-and-white photographs tinted with shades of blue, forest green, and that blushing pale pink. A different boat for each blend: the
Klickitat
, the
Walapa
, the
Klahanie
, and the
Tyee
.

“Great art, music, friends. Not to mention good food. Let’s celebrate!” I snapped the microphone back into the stand and stepped down, my ankle not even giving a twinge.

“Good dog, Arf.” I took his leash and we made a quick circuit on the cobbles, stretching our legs and drinking in the fresh air.

Back at the entrance, I paused to study Keyra’s sculpture. Tory and Marianne joined me, arm in arm. Tory’s fingers reached for the dog’s floppy ears.

“We were wondering,” Marianne said. “If you might find room for this piece in the shop.”

I stared, wide-eyed.

“He isn’t eligible for a leaf on the
Tree of Life
,” Tory said, referring to the sculpture in Victor Steinbreuck Park erected to honor the county’s homeless after their deaths. “Since he wasn’t actually homeless. But for all his faults, my father never forgot that his first obligation was to protect me. He died watching over me. And we were hoping . . .”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. I know just the spot, by the tea cart.”

Because everyone needs tea. And everyone needs a guardian, now and then.