Chai Another Day Read online

  “Any idea where Tony Mc—” Armstrong began, but Tracy interrupted him. “Ms. Reece, has it not occurred to you that if someone is threatening your friend Ms. Sharma, and if that person had anything to do with Mrs. Chapman’s murder, you might be in danger, too?”

  “Of course it occurred to me. That’s why I’m here.”

  The older detective kept his nearly black eyes on me as he shuffled papers on his desk, searching for something. Something, I realized with a stabbing pain in my gut, that he wanted me to see. Color close-ups of knife wounds, jagged holes in pale flesh. Joelle’s flesh.

  If he’d wanted to upset me, he’d succeeded.

  If he wanted to scare me off—fat chance.

  THOUGH the photos had left me badly shaken, not to mention deeply stirred, I managed to leave the detectives’ office without showing it. I hoped.

  When I reached the lobby, I sank on to one of the benches. Okay, I got it—murder is a nasty business. Armstrong might appreciate my insights, but Tracy saw me as an interfering busybody. If shock would get me out of his way, then shock me he would, even if he had to be cruel to do it.

  Deep in my bag, my phone buzzed and I dug it out. Kristen, asking if I wanted to meet her tonight at the memorial, at a gallery on East Olive.

  My thumbs were flying over my reply when I heard my name.

  “Detective Spencer—Cheryl.” I dropped the phone in my bag and stood. Tracy’s long-time partner looked as professional as always, in a trim black pantsuit. “Back on the job? I heard you were out.”

  Spencer extended her hand. “I came in to update the brass on my recovery. Thought it good to dress the part. I should be back to work in a few weeks.”

  “You look great.” To ask, or not to ask, that was the question. “Ovarian cysts,” she said. “No big deal, unless your job includes running, jumping, and chasing.”

  “Glad you’re okay,” I said. “Good thing my job isn’t that physical. Unless you count running in circles and jumping to conclusions. And chasing down leads on true Aleppo pepper.”

  “Aleppo pepper?”

  “Nearly impossible to get, since the war in Syria. The Turkish variety, Maras, is excellent, but Aleppo pepper is the Holy Grail.”

  She smiled, then her expression grew serious. “What brings you here? Not another case, I hope.”

  I explained my connection to the vintage shop murder. “Detective Armstrong seems more in your camp than Tracy’s, when it comes to citizen input.”

  “Armstrong’s a good cop. And so is Mike Tracy. Remember that he sees keeping you—or any witness—safe as part of his job.”

  My cheeks grew hot. It was a gentle chide, but a chide nonetheless.

  “Be careful, Pepper,” she said. “I chose Major Crimes because I like the work, not because detectives have plenty of job security. We don’t need another body.”

  Meaning mine, I knew, as I watched her stride across the lobby and out the front door.

  THE heat was Topic Number One in the snippets of conversation I picked up along Fourth Avenue. Newcomers to the Northwest might tease us as wimps, wilting in the slightest heat, but this summer, they were grousing, too.

  Ripe’s outdoor tables were mostly empty, the lunch crowd choosing A/C over fresh air. I scanned the chalkboard listing the day’s specials. Gazpacho had replaced the usual tomato-basil soup. Cold, chunky summer vegetables would hit the spot. I ordered a bowl and two cheesy breadsticks, and snared a seat at the end of the counter facing the street.

  Laurel delivered my lunch and waited while I took the first bite. “Thizh izh zho good.” I swallowed and started over. “This is so good. It’s what I tell my customers: Foods that are hot, in the sense of flavor, not temperature, are actually cooling.”

  “Right,” she said. “No coincidence that jalapeños come from Mexico, not Montana.”

  I filled her in on the case and bit the end off a bread stick. “I want to help Aimee and Seetha, but I’m not getting anywhere. Maybe I should let it go.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, eyes blazing. “I didn’t know Joelle well, and I didn’t care for Justin. You can tell a lot about someone by the way they treat the people who make them lunch. But they deserve to have this murder solved. They deserve every bit of help you can give them.”

  When the voice of experience speaks, I listen.

  Fourteen

  Food historians speculate that salt shakers became common in the early twentieth century, replacing the tabletop salt cellar, when producers figured out how to keep salt from clumping.

  THE NUMBER OF FUNERAL HOMES IN THE CITY SEEMS TO have dwindled in recent years—a puzzle, because surely people are still dying at the same rate. As for alternatives, not everyone is churched or has a spacious home suitable for welcoming mourners. Though I did think it odd that none of Joelle and Justin’s moneyed friends had offered their air-conditioned homes or lush gardens. Had they lost those friends, too?

  The Rockham Gallery turned out to be one of those places with more white space on the walls than art hanging on them. We were greeted by a woman who identified herself as the owner, in a sleeveless black dress edged with orange poppies.

  The place was nearly full. Seattle’s edgy, eclectic art scene fascinates me, but this gallery was confusing, the work vaguely Asian, vaguely modern. Samurai Jackson Pollock, I thought as I paused in front of one painting, a wide red swath curving diagonally across a canvas covered with vivid drips and spatter.

  In the corner stood what looked at first to be a totem pole, but was actually a stack of paint cans. Black and gray paint streaks ran strategically down the sides, mimicking weathered wood. Curved shapes in red and turquoise evoked the stylized eyes and beaks of Northwest Native art. To me, anyway.

  I surveyed the crowd. I’d thought my pink cotton jersey dress and petal-pink Mary Janes suitable for the occasion—since we weren’t in a church—but they looked downright plain next to these bejeweled women in their linen sheaths, their brightly patterned tunics and wide-legged pants, their strappy, high-heeled sandals.

  “Cava? Joelle’s favorite,” a black-clad server said. I plucked a flute of rose-colored bubbly off a silver tray.

  “It matches my outfit,” I told my companions. Kristen rolled her eyes and took a glass. So did Seetha. Her mid-afternoon text saying she’d join us surprised me. Paying her respects or confronting her bhuts?

  “What’s the difference between a memorial service,” Seetha asked, “and a celebration of life?” The laughter and chatter, the champagne, even the outfits made the gathering feel like a gallery opening. Soft jazz flowed through hidden speakers. A dozen white plastic chairs had been set in rows, as if the organizers had not expected many people.

  “The food,” Kristen said, taking her arm. “Let’s look at the art.”

  My friends drifted off to other exhibit rooms while I took up a post by the paint can tower. The cava was too sweet for me and when the server passed by, I put the glass on her tray. Across the room, I spotted Jasmine Logan in a white dress splashed with green and blue, listening to a tall Asian woman in flared black pants and a black tunic.

  I want to be celebrated when I go, yes, but I want to be missed, too. At the moment, I couldn’t tell whether those assembled were here to see and be seen, or mourn the loss of a friend.

  The murder.

  Where was Justin? There, in a black suit, the knot of his yellow tie askew, standing alone in front of a black-framed print of a raven. Another modern piece with a Native influence. I started to weave my way across the room.

  Brandon Logan reached him first. He and Jasmine must have come separately—I couldn’t imagine her letting him go out in public in his worn khakis and tweed sport coat.

  The two men shook hands and exchanged a few words. No locked eyes, hand on the shoulder, or other male signs of warmth or sympathy. After a moment, Brandon nodded and moved off.

  Hands in his pants pockets, shoulders slumped, nothing about Justin hinted at the powerful man he�
�d once been. I’d told myself I harbored no anger at him because I’d landed in a better place, but I had to confess a smidge of resentment. And the harm he’d caused wasn’t confined to the law firm—families of cancer victims had been denied the truth for too long because he accepted his client’s decision to withhold evidence they were legally required to produce. The plaintiffs had eventually gotten the report, and a pound of flesh to go with it, but they must have felt doubly wronged.

  How many here tonight juggled a similar jumble of emotions?

  The chatter paused and I followed the collective gaze to the entry, where Detective Tracy stood. Behind him, Detective Armstrong doubled the number of men in the room in suits. By the momentary drop in the noise level, I figured either the detectives’ clothing gave them away or they’d already introduced themselves to a good number of those assembled.

  They made their way, casually but purposefully, to Justin. Like Brandon Logan, they shook hands, but didn’t linger. Tracy stopped in front of a particularly baffling painting—I couldn’t decide whether it was a lotus blossom or a half-eaten cookie. The server offered champagne to Armstrong, who shook his head no.

  Then Aimee appeared from the back, thin and pale in a navy dress, and stood near the chairs. She gestured to Justin and he slid in to the front row. A young man and woman I hadn’t noticed sat beside him—his children, I suspected, including the girl who’d babysat Kristen’s daughters. Joelle’s stepchildren.

  The chatter began to die down. Then came the crash of glass on tile, and we all turned instinctively toward the sound. The woman I’d seen talking so intently to Jasmine Logan stood with her red-tipped hands in the air, a horrified expression on her face as she stared at the floor. A server and the gallery owner rushed over to clean up the shattered glass and spilled champagne.

  “Is that Melissa Kwan?” I whispered to the woman beside me.

  She nodded. “Designer. Worked with Joelle at Pacific Imports—I think she was part of that big hotel job up on Orcas that got so much press.”

  That’s it. If I remembered right, a Microsoft squillionaire had bought a rambling, rundown hotel in the San Juan Islands and brought it into the twenty-first century, no expense spared.

  “Sad case,” my informant continued, but before I could ask what she meant, Aimee started speaking.

  “Thank you all for coming. I know your presence means a lot to Justin and his children.” She gestured toward the front row. “I first met Joelle when Steen Jorgensen hired me ten years ago, fresh out of design school. ‘Stick close to Joelle,’ he said, ‘and you’ll learn everything you need to know about this business.’”

  She bowed her head. A moment later, she straightened and continued in a low but steady tone. “And he was right. Joelle helped me understand how much I could learn from our customers. From their instincts about what drew them and what worked in a real home or office. Instead of me, the designer, telling them what they needed, she, and they, taught me that good design brings the things we love into our daily lives. She knew what she liked”—a chuckle of agreement rippled through the room—“but she never tried to impose her taste on anyone else. She believed baseball cards and lava lamps are as valuable as sixteenth-century jade urns, if that’s what brings you joy.”

  She gestured toward the wall in what seemed less a nod to Samurai Jackson Pollock than a general statement. Then she opened her hands to the crowd. “And she dressed like a spring day. Thank you for honoring her.”

  Ahh. They’d all gotten the memo. “More than that, though, she was my friend. Thank you, Joelle. I love you, and I can’t believe you’re gone.”

  The woman beside me sniffed and poked at the corner of her eye with the tip of her little finger.

  The detectives and I had wondered why Joelle Chapman took the job at Rainy Day Vintage. And I knew now that I’d been right. What she needed most had been the security, not of a fifteen-dollar-an-hour job but of friendship. Of knowing she helped people brighten their lives.

  Her voice choked with emotion, Aimee invited others to speak. From the obit in the morning paper, I knew Joelle had no surviving family of her own. Justin’s daughter, whom I pegged at twenty-five, spoke first, eliciting chuckles when she described her stepmother helping her decorate her room. “We painted the walls purple and hung posters of Miley Cyrus and Joe Jonas, and she didn’t bat an eye.” Her brother, a year or two older, told his own stories, followed by Jasmine Logan and others I didn’t know—former co-workers, clients, and neighbors. They all described a woman who knew what she loved and what she wanted, who wanted others to be surrounded with the beauty they loved, too.

  Then Melissa Kwan stepped forward. She fingered the carved red pendant at her throat, cinnabar paired with jade beads. The copper-red streaks in her black hair shone under the tiny track lights mounted on the ceiling. Gold hoop earrings poked out between strands of hair, and as she lifted a hand to her mouth, I saw her gold wedding band.

  She directed her attention to Justin. “Through everything my family and I endured the last few years, Joelle remained my friend. She told me to hang on to what was important. To persevere. To find a way.”

  What had she endured? Two job losses, and something about her children, I’d gathered from Jasmine Logan’s comments. Was there more? I opened my mouth to ask the woman next to me, but she was staring at the now-silent Melissa and I followed her gaze. Aimee stepped forward and put her arm around the other woman, leading her away. The gallery owner called out too cheerily that Justin wanted to thank us all for coming, and please feel free to mingle, share memories of Joelle, and enjoy some of her favorite food and drink.

  Finally, I got a chance to speak with Justin. When I’d last seen him I couldn’t recall.

  “Justin.” I held out my hand. “Pepper Reece. You knew me as staff HR manager at the old firm.”

  “Thank you for coming.” The blank look in his eyes dismissed me.

  “I knew your wife through her work. Aimee McGillvray is a friend of mine. Joelle will be deeply missed.” Did a dark look cross his face, or was I imagining things? “I take it she wasn’t supposed to be at the vintage shop Monday. Such a tragedy.”

  “I told the detectives to take a closer look at those people.”

  Did he mean Aimee? Was he the source Detective Tracy had mentioned?

  I wanted to ask where he’d been Monday, but couldn’t. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell him I might have heard the killer and hadn’t stepped in. I murmured condolences and left him to shake other hands.

  Kristen and Seetha were nowhere in sight, so I began wandering through the gallery. One long narrow room held black-and-white photos and tall bronze sculptures. Forms, the placards called them—nothing recognizable.

  A few doors and displays later, I was lost. As I hunted for the main gallery, I heard snippets of conversation from the next room.

  “Steen thought she walked on water,” a woman said.

  Who walked on water? Joelle?

  “I deserved the same opportunity,” the woman continued, and I thought “she” might be Aimee. The voice sounded familiar. I peered around the corner, one eyelash at a time. A few feet away, a black-clad leg jutted into view and a hand gestured, the bright red nails and gold ring a blur. Melissa Kwan. I leaned forward a micro-meter. “Like you. You can have it all.”

  “God bless the dreamers,” Jasmine Logan replied, with a note of fondness.

  “At least your house is safe. Now I’ll never . . .” Melissa continued.

  “Don’t talk like that. Remember what you said, that Joelle taught you to go for what you wanted. And what about the trust fund?”

  “Hands off until—”

  “Pepper, there you are.” Kristen broke my concentration. “We were afraid you’d been spirited away.”

  “I wish.” I looped my arm through hers, hoping she hadn’t noticed how intently I’d been eavesdropping. Melissa’s anger at the late Steen Jorgensen was intriguing, but didn’t seem connected to Joelle�
�s death. Not that I could see, anyway. We wound our way to the front of the gallery, where Aimee stood near the entrance, Detective Armstrong leaning in close. Lips tight, she listened silently.

  What was that about? So unlike the thoughtful detective to confront a witness—or suspect—at a memorial service, but he must have good reason.

  As he walked away, I saw Aimee stiffen, lifting her chin as she noticed Jasmine and Melissa nearby. She turned toward me, arms open, and we embraced.

  “Your tribute to Joelle was lovely,” I said. “She’d have enjoyed this party.”

  Behind Aimee, Jasmine led Melissa out the door. Where Brandon was, I had no idea. The Pacific Imports family appeared badly fractured, surely not what Steen had intended.

  But then, we never know what chaos our deaths will unleash.

  Fifteen

  When the Market opened in 1907, it bordered a working waterfront “filled with steam-belching freighters, crisscrossed with freight trains and track, and generally a place of industrial chaos. Much of Elliott Bay was essentially one massive sewage pond—not pleasant to be near at all.”

  —Mark Hinshaw, writing in Crosscut, a Seattle news site

  “I DON’T CARE WHAT THE GALLERY OWNER SAYS, THAT WAS not Joelle’s favorite champagne,” Kristen said. “Her taste was waaay more expensive.”

  “Where to?” I said. “For a real drink.”

  We were standing on the sidewalk outside the gallery. Seattle summer evenings were never this hot. What was going on?

  The theme of my life these days.

  Kristen steered us to a newish spot in the next block where she and Eric had gone for Date Night. The three of us snuggled into a booth for two and grabbed menus.

  “Hmm. I had my taste buds set on a Cosmo, but a Pink Lady sounds good. In Joelle’s honor,” I said.

  Seetha read the ingredients. “Gin, grenadine, and egg white? That’s raw egg. You could get salmonella.”