[SS01] Assault and Pepper (3 page)

He wasn’t there. After all that, where had he gone? I scanned the sidewalk, in case he’d thought I’d sent him across Pine to the corner by the Triangle Building. But there was no sign of him.

Had he ducked into the Spice Shop for a spot of tea? We weren’t open yet, but we did sometimes hand out samples of hot tea to help keep the street folk warm.

I glanced inside. Not there, either.

Tory stood in the doorway of our salmon pink stucco building, one hand braced on the forest green frame, the other covering her mouth. Anxiety shaded her usually placid face.

A metallic whizzing followed by the scrape of rubber on a hard surface commandeered my attention, and I spun toward the sounds.

“Damsel in distress?” said a familiar baritone.

Double pooh
. Why couldn’t this have been Tag’s day off?

“We took care of it, Officers,” Zak said from behind me. He knew how I felt about Tag’s tendency to jump right on any dispatch to the Market and wheel his trusty Seattle Police Department bicycle into my neighborhood. I recognized the irony—Zak’s protectiveness mirrored Tag’s. Not that there was anything romantic between me and my employee. He’s just that kind of guy.

So, alas, is Tag, and he hadn’t quite given up on romance between us. Despite his affair with a meter reader. (I couldn’t bring myself to say “parking enforcement officer.”) Despite our divorce.

“A couple of street guys got into a shouting match,” I said. “They both wanted to camp on the same corner, but I got ’em to agree on taking turns. No trouble. Sorry to take you out of your way.”

“Your shop’s never out of my way, Pepper.” Tag balanced his bike, one long, lean leg stretched to the pavement, the other foot on the pedal, ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Behind him, his partner, Jay Olerud, wove figure eights, eyes scanning the crowd. How they manage to stay upright on the cobbles and curbs, swerve in and out of traffic, and speed up hills and down wearing guns, radios, and other gear, all the while sniffing out trouble, I can never understand.

There’s a lot I don’t understand about Tag. Including why he still seems so keen on me. I ran a hand through my spikey dark hair. When my job as a law firm HR manager fell victim to the senior partners’ shenanigans, leaving me unemployed only a year after my divorce, I cut my ties to the corporate world and cut my hair. My morning routine now means sticking my head in the bathroom sink, toweling it dry with a washcloth, and rubbing a handful of goo over the remains. Bed Head R Us.

And for some reason, Bike Boy thinks it’s hot.

He grinned. I reddened. Why does the man always look like he knows what I’m thinking?

“No trouble,” I repeated.

“You’re sure about that,” he said, fingering his radio. At my nod, he keyed a button and reported in to dispatch. His china blue eyes bored into me. “That changes, you call me.”

I gave him a mock salute and turned away before he took off. Those tight shorts reveal things I really didn’t want to see.

•   •   •

SANDRA
and Tory—both true spice artists—and I worked most of the day creating the new blends. I had one advantage: Not knowing what didn’t work made me open to almost any combination.

And after years in law firm admin, I am an organizer par excellence.

We tossed out ideas, using the framework we’d laid earlier, and Tory fetched the jars of herbs and spices. Before I bought the shop—when I was a curious customer who slowly graduated from sipping tea to buying premixed combos, then on to preparing my own—I’d walk around the place, astonished by its beauty. By the bounty of jewel-like colors, intriguing shapes and textures, alluring smells. The vibrance of it all still stuns me.

The variety intimidates some shoppers. They buy cinnamon in the grocery store, where only one jar says “cinnamon.” That way, they don’t have to choose between ground, chunks, and sticks, from Sri Lanka, Indonesia, and Vietnam, or a blend—particularly nice if I do say so myself.

“That’s two parts to one and one, plus one-quarter part Aleppo pepper. Are you getting this, boss?” Sandra nudged me with an elbow, and I broke off my reverie and wrote down the proportions. She slid the mixing bowl across to Tory and me, and we each dipped out a sample.

I closed my eyes, the better to taste with, and sniffed. “It needs to be—darker, if that makes sense. To balance the hint of sweetness.” Turns out herb and spice tasting is a lot like wine tasting, with some of the same vocabulary. Although I’ve never heard anyone refer to cumin’s “legs.”

“She’s right,” Tory said. “Try the other Aleppo, the smokier one.”

We agreed on the pungent and savory blends before turning to names. We planned to continue the pattern that Jane, the prior owner, had begun, using historic names and geographic features of western Washington and a subtitle describing the flavors. Not exactly inspired, but I hadn’t hit on anything better. Last spring, we’d highlighted the bays of Puget Sound: Elliot, Skagit, Shilshole, and Anacortes. A lot of local features bear handles derived from the languages of coastal tribes. The words trip up newcomers, but before long, they rattle off Duwamish, Nooksack, Snoqualmie, and Skookumchuk like natives.

Plus the tongue twisters amuse tourists, and I’m all for that.

Job done, we took a quick break. I left the nook—a raised corner of the shop, set off by pony walls to let us keep an eye on things—just as a regular customer came in. Once a paralegal at my old law firm, Jennifer now works at a mystery bookshop.

She thrust her list at me and waited, a sly look on her face.

“Sumac. Pomegranate molasses. Cumin, allspice, cinnamon, coriander, rose petals.” I raised one eyebrow, pretending to be stumped. “Marjoram and oregano, and three kinds of pepper. Hmm. It’s got to be Middle Eastern.” The sumac gave it away. A bright, lemony flavor and a rich, dark red, it’s essential to
Fattoush
, or Levantine Bread Salad. And the other ingredients make a classic
Kamunah
, or cumin blend. With a few variations, it could be found in Baghdad, Beirut, Tel Aviv, or Istanbul. Or so I understood—I had not yet taken my own Grand Spice Tour.

“Yes. And the cinnamon, caraway, and anise are for a Lebanese pudding made with rice flour.”

God bless gourmet clubs. I weighed and measured, working my way down Jen’s list, while she chatted about last month’s French feast. Meanwhile, Sandra got back to work, but where had Tory gone?

I frowned as I labeled the white pepper. The front door flew open and Tory barged in, Zak two steps behind. She looked furious; he looked flustered.

Uh-oh
. Workplace spat—or romance gone wrong? Had I missed the signs? Wordlessly, Tory returned to the mixing nook. I packed Jen’s purchases in her canvas bag, and she headed out. A pair of women came in, and Zak tended to them.

The door opened again. “Hey, Yvonne. What’s up? The girls watching your stall?”

She nodded. “I just, uh, need a pick-me-up.” She gestured to the tea cart, then crossed the shop and poured a cup.

“Yvonne,” Reed said. “Go see my dad for that bad leg. Acupuncture’s great for pain.”

“Voodoo,” she said.

Zak twisted the lid off a jar of my favorite Hungarian paprika and the sharp scent filled the air. Yvonne sneezed.

“
Gesundheit.
” “Bless you.” The automatic responses echoed around the room, and she left as quickly as she’d come, still limping and sneezing.

Back at the worktable, I puzzled over how to approach Tory about Zak. Ordinarily, I’d just pull an employee aside, report my observation, and ask if she needed help working out a problem. But you’ve got to tread carefully when the relationship you’re probing might be more than professional. Tory and I got along well, but without the friendly jibing Sandra and I shared or the almost motherly feeling I had for Reed. She focused her attention on mixing, blending, smelling, and tasting, giving me no opportunity to speak.

I transcribed our tasting notes. Had Tory’s visible distress this morning stemmed from concern for Zak’s safety? But while the spat between Sam and Doc had gotten loud, it never presented any real danger—not to me, and certainly not to Zak.

“Any idea what’s up with her?” I said to Sandra when Tory stepped away to fetch another jar of sage.

She shook her head. “That girl is as private as a Swiss bank account. She’s worked here two years, and I read her about as well as ancient Cyrillic.”

“Me, too. She pours her passion into her art. But I’ve never seen a painting. You?” Her expression said no. “I wonder if Zak is breaking through her reserve.”

Sandra sealed the last of the plastic bags that held today’s samples. We’d try them all again tomorrow before making final decisions—it takes a blend anywhere from six to twenty-four hours for the flavors to round off. “Maybe. Though he loves to flirt with the orchard girls and sweet-talks every female customer.”

“That’s our Zak.”

But something had shaken my least flappable employee.

I just hoped it was none of my business.

Average number of rainy days in Seattle: 155 days a year. Average number of sunny days: 58. Everything else: shades of gray.

I snicked the Spice Shop’s worn brass lock shut, turned, and raised my face to the last glorious rays. People in other parts of the country think it rains every day in Seattle.

Let ’em.

The Market is tucked smack into one of Seattle’s hills, with Western Ave on—go figure—the west side. First Ave lies uphill to the east, with Pike Place, a curious L-shaped street, and Post Alley sandwiched between. From Western to First is a steep vertical rise. Happily, my loft is on Western and my shop is in the middle, on Pike Place. So I rarely have to trek the whole thing at once.

Right now, I made my way up Stewart to First, a good climb, carrying a special order for a restaurant customer and test bags of today’s blends.

Thinking of Alex Howard, proprietor and chef of the First Avenue Café, brought a smile. Proverbially tall, dark, and handsome. Not to mention successful, intense, and almost flamboyant. A media darling. We’d been out a few promising times.

No, I didn’t mind delivery duty one bit.

At the corner, a woman stepped into view and started across the street. Tory. Two or three feet behind her came a man in an olive green raincoat. He appeared to be talking to her, reaching out his hands.

It was Doc. She shook him off, glancing over her shoulder, and kept walking.

You don’t beg with both hands. You plead with both hands.

What did he want from her?

I hurried up the hill. She reached the corner just as a Metro bus screeched to a halt, and was gone before I could catch her.

Doc stood, hat pulled low, staring as the bus zoomed away.

“What do you want with T—with her?” I stopped myself from blurting out her name. Over the years, I’d had to intervene several times when downtown denizens hassled my young female employees. Bad enough that he knew where she worked and what bus she rode.

Doc did not reply.

“Leave her alone,” I said. “If you’ve got a problem with Sam, or with the arrangement about the corners, you talk to me, not my staff.”

He ducked his head till it almost disappeared between his shoulder blades. Without a word, he trudged down the hill.

I was breathless, not from exercise but from anger and protectiveness. From not knowing whether Doc posed a threat to Tory—or to any of us. He didn’t look like much, but that was no guarantee.

When Doc reached Pike Place, he headed back toward the heart of the Market, to my surprise. Most of the street men—homeless or not—hang out at Victor Steinbrueck Park, a grassy lawn on the Market’s north edge punctuated by a pair of fifty-foot cedar totem poles. The park is named for the visionary architect who saved the Market from destruction by progress. But now that I thought about it, Doc didn’t seem the type to join that crowd—he was more of a loner. Plus, Sam and Arf usually spend the sunset hours there.

I shook off my apprehension. No point worrying without facts.

Several nights a week, Alex Howard presides over the kitchen at his flagship restaurant, the First Avenue Café. He owns the whole building, keeping his corporate offices on the second floor and his apartment on the penthouse level. We met when he grew frustrated with an inconsistent supply of Grenadian nutmeg for his jerk chicken and asked me for help. His charms were undeniable, but I resisted. After thirteen years of marriage to Tag, I’d seen the light: Charm is overrated.

But Alex had kept calling, and now I stood at the Cafe’s side door, delivery bag in hand and hope in my heart.

A prep cook answered my knock. “Hey, Pepper.” He took the bag and yelled, “Alex!”

I’d arrived in that brief twilight between prep and service. I peered into the dining room, fully set but unoccupied—except for the hostess, passing slowly between the tables, adjusting a chair, realigning an errant napkin. Each wooden surface—tables, chairs, floor—gleamed.

Even a glimpse of its casual elegance made me feel underdressed. I’d taken off my apron but still wore my retail uniform: black yoga pants, black T-shirt with the shop logo, black T-strap climbing shoes perfect for Seattle’s hills and the Market’s wobbly streets.

The kitchen’s stainless steel pots and surfaces shone. The
mise-en-place
was all in place—mounds of chopped shallots, parsley, and other ingredients exactly where each cook needed them. The scene hummed with invisible energy, something like how I imagined a high-wire act would be. Or a high-voltage electrical wire. I’ve never worked in a restaurant kitchen, and frankly, the idea terrifies me. The precision, the juggling, the unpredictability—amid all those knives and all that heat. And all that testosterone. No, thanks. Supply and delivery are close enough for me.

“Pepper Reese!” Alex bounded into view and bussed my cheek. “Family meal’s just wrapping up. Curried clams with chickpeas and spinach over rice. A variation of one of tonight’s specials.”

I followed Alex downstairs to the prep kitchen, humid and fragrant. “A bowl for my friend,” Alex called to a line cook. He pulled out two wooden folding chairs and reached for a basket of grilled naan.

I dug spice samples out of my jute carryall. “We’d love your impressions of the flavor balance, recipes, anything you want to suggest.”

“We’ll try them out and I’ll give you a call.”

A woman in white slid a bowl in front of me and I inhaled the sweet-sharp fragrance of a perfectly balanced curry. Remembering what Reed had said this morning about the geography of spice, I closed my eyes and conjured up the map. Hot, saucy. Southern India, with a Pacific Northwest accent.

Scuttle says some chefs begrudge every bite their crew takes and offer barely edible fare below stairs. Not Alex. “How can I expect a waiter to rave about my Dungeness crab cakes if she’s hungry?” he’d told me. “If she’s never eaten them, or she’s ticked off that I fed her watered-down gruel? My cooks need good hearty fuel if I expect them to work their tails off.”

His chair angled toward me, Alex rested his elbows on his knees and watched me eat. In the restaurant, he was all energy. Dark curls glistened on top of his head, the sides well trimmed but not too short. His brown eyes sparkled. He was like a long, sleek cat, pulsing with energy, ready to pounce into action.

Fascinating, and a little bit unnerving.

He rattled off the night’s specials—they made me envy the paying customers—then stood. “Gotta run. Eat all you want. See you Sunday?”

I nodded, mouth full of curry. Chefs sweat over hot stoves all weekend. No Friday nights at the movies or Saturday dinner dates. I swallowed, and he swooped in for a kiss. A long, warm, luscious kiss.

Oh
, I thought as he dashed up the stairs to take the reins of his domain.
Is this what fall tastes like?

•   •   •

OUTSIDE,
the last sunlight set the peaks of the Olympic Mountains aglow in orange and pink, trimmed in deep purple. I felt the same glow inside. From the curry or the kiss?

Who cares?

I’ll be the first to admit, downtown living isn’t for everyone. But I adore it. Tag and I had shared a sweet bungalow in Greenwood, a few miles north of downtown. When we split, it had been time for a serious change. I hadn’t known, of course, that a year later, the law firm where I worked would implode in scandal.

And I hadn’t known I’d find solace—and employment—in bay leaves.

Best. Thing. Ever.

No chill in the air, despite the twilight. Sandra might be sweating and Kristen freezing, but as far as I’m concerned, fall takes all the prizes.

A few last office workers shuffled past me to their bus stops or the light rail station. I strolled down Virginia to Pike Place. The totem poles in the park stood as silhouettes in the fading light.

A couple stood at the railing, arms around each other, watching the sun set over the water and the mountains beyond. Nearby, half a dozen teenagers laughed and joked.

“Miz Pepper.”

The sound of my name took me by surprise. Sam, Arf beside him, broke away from a group of men huddled by the fountain and the
Tree of Life
sculpture.

“How you doin’, Sam? Sorry, boy.” I held out a hand for Arf to sniff. “No treats this time.”

“Oh, he gets plenty. Market folks is good to him. You need a escort? Gettin’ on to dark.”

“Thanks, Sam. I’m fine.” His offer reminded me of the encounter I’d seen earlier. “But I do have a question for you. The man you tussled with this morning, the one they call Doc.”

His brows furrowed but he nodded to me to go on.

“He’s fairly new around here, isn’t he?” Another nod. “Causing any trouble? Other than wanting your spot.”

“Why you be askin’ that, Miz Pepper?”

“I know some of the men”—I gestured toward the group by the totem pole—“take an interest in protecting the women who work in the Market, like you do, and I wondered if you’ve seen Doc helping anyone that way.”

He shook his big head slowly. “No, can’t say as I have. He ain’t here every day. And he don’t stay down evenings. Don’t know where he goes. I ain’t seen him around, at the shelters or getting a meal. You want me to keep an eye on him?”

“Thanks, Sam, but no. It’s nothing.” I rubbed Arf’s head with my cupped hand. “You two have a good night, now.”

Despite refusing Sam’s offer, I had a hunch he’d be watching Doc anyway. Poking around. Some of us are like that.