Chai Another Day Read online

  I was fingering a rich blue cashmere scarf when another woman arrived, a Starbucks cup in hand. Oh, cranberry. There was nowhere to hide. And her face said she wasn’t any happier to see me.

  The owner gestured, directing the woman—Karen I-forget-her-last-name—my way.

  Karen took a sip—still too hot, judging by her rapid swallow and the hand at her throat—then set the cup on the counter. “Can I help you, Pepper?”

  I resisted the temptation to toss off my usual flip reply—“No, thanks. I’m beyond help.” I try to like everyone. Honestly, I do. But Karen had made it her mission to make snarky comments about me to everyone who would listen, and a few who wouldn’t, after Tag rejected her advances during a time when he was determined to win me back. He and I had made our peace, but Karen could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. A few of her nastier comments about me had reached his ears, and he’d finally confronted her. The gossip had stopped, but by unspoken agreement, she and I had kept our distance.

  “I didn’t know you were working here,” I said. “I thought you ran the gallery up on First.”

  “I needed a change,” she said in a tone that suggested the change had not been her idea. She noticed the scarf in my hand, then flipped through the rack. “Those scarves are handwoven on a women’s collective in Nepal. The ultramarine is nice, but there’s one here that would be much better.”

  To strangle me with? I bit my tongue.

  “Here it is.” She held out a long, fringed scarf in shades of pink and rose shot with gold, the pattern reversed on each side, so beautiful that I inhaled sharply and let her drape it around my neck.

  “Oh Pepper, that is stunning,” the owner said, her transaction completed, her customer swinging a full shopping bag as she left. “Karen has an eye, doesn’t she?”

  No arguing with that. “She sure does.” We air-kissed and I handed her the tea. She thanked me without asking what the gift was for. Like many of the merchants and daystallers, she knew I’d helped police solve a murder on my doorstep nearly a year ago and the killing of a Market artist a few months back. Joelle had no connection to the Market, but I was betting the design community was as connected as the restaurant world. “You heard about Joelle Chapman, right?”

  Her features, usually so cheery, turned somber. “A terrible tragedy. Sorry I had to miss the service.”

  “Joelle and Melissa Kwan brought clients into the gallery quite often,” Karen said. “They followed me here.”

  Melissa. Jackpot. “I take it you know Aimee, too. She’s devastated.”

  A flicker in Karen’s eyes betrayed her doubt.

  “I go way back with that whole firm,” the owner said. “Steen and Pacific Imports, I mean. We occupy different segments of the import market, and they provided design and build services, which we don’t. But we traveled to trade shows together a few times. Karen worked with them on a big hotel job.”

  “Oh, the place in the San Juans?” The woman next to me at the memorial service had mentioned it. “Was that Joelle’s job?”

  “No. Aimee and Melissa, right?” The owner looked to Karen, who nodded. “The Melissa who comes in to buy cinnabar jewelry.”

  “She started buying cinnabar when her son got sick,” Karen said. “It’s supposed to bring good luck.”

  “What? She has a sick child?” Her comments at the memorial about all her family had been through made more sense now.

  “Leukemia. He relapsed, so she couldn’t finish the project and Aimee got the bonus. Double whammy—lose the extra money when you need it most.”

  “How is he now? Is she married?”

  “Okay, I think. Some drug he took didn’t work the way it was supposed to and that set him back, but he did go into remission. Her husband’s a grad student. They were scraping by.”

  Drugs. The drugs Justin’s client had marketed under false pretenses?

  No wonder Melissa was stressed. “So what was your part of the project?” I vaguely recalled hearing that the owner had committed to using local contractors and materials. Didn’t that by definition exclude an import shop? Northwesterners can be a tad snobbish about regionalism.

  “They wanted a particular hand-carved raven mask on the wall in every room, and Karen”—the owner gestured—“has an exclusive contract with the tribe that makes them.”

  No wonder she looked so self-satisfied. “Nice work,” I said.

  Karen snorted. “Right. We don’t all go snooping where we don’t belong to get our pictures in the paper.”

  “What? I never—” An independent weekly had run a full spread on the shop last spring, mentioning my assistance to the police. And the big daily had acknowledged me as “a witness with her ear to the ground in the Market.” But I had never gotten involved in an investigation for the publicity. I personally would have fared much better staying in my shop. But killers would have gone free, justice undone.

  Karen wasn’t finished. “The worst part is sending the cops to read people the riot act when they dare suggest you’re not the latest thing since sliced bread.”

  My mouth fell open, unable to complete the thoughts swirling in my brain, let alone express them. “Whatever Tag said, I had no idea—”

  “Do you actually expect me to believe that?”

  I’d had enough. “I don’t care what you believe. Or why you ever imagined Officer Tag Buhner would give you a second thought.”

  That was more than she could take. She marched to the counter, grabbed her coffee, and disappeared into the back room, her heels pounding on the wood floor.

  The owner’s eyes had gone wide as the Mexican platters hanging on the wall behind her. “I am so sorry. She’s got a short fuse, but she’s never blown up at a customer before.”

  “It was as much my fault as hers. At least no one else was in the shop.” I untied the glorious pink-and-gold scarf and held it out to her.

  She stepped behind the counter for tissue and a bag. “Take it. As my apology.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology. But thank you. I’ll think of you every time I wear it.”

  I could never wear the scarf, beautiful as it was. Because it would only remind me of my own misbehavior.

  THE interaction had left me shaken. Sometimes the best cure for the jitters is the very thing that can cause them. I decided to test the theory and ordered a nonfat double latte, iced.

  Arms crossed, I leaned against a column with an ornate cast-iron capital, an architectural feature that always wows the tourists. How stupid could I be, engaging brain before putting mouth in gear in front of the Market gossip?

  What if Karen was right? Not about my motives. I was a hundred percent positive—okay, ninety-nine point nine—that I got involved with criminal investigations for all the right reasons. To keep someone I believed was innocent out of trouble, and keep someone I was convinced was trouble from getting away with it.

  PRAY FOR PEACE AND WORK FOR JUSTICE said the bumper sticker on the Grace House van when I was a kid. My intent was to live that philosophy.

  I pushed myself upright and rolled my stiff shoulder. That’s how I saw it. What if other Marketeers shared her view? I’d never heard a peep, but would anyone else admit to my face that they thought I was a headline-grabbing opportunist?

  I rotated my shoulder the other direction. No point berating myself. Think about the case instead. Karen would be horrified to know that she’d inadvertently given me useful information. I admit that put a teeny smile on my face.

  Aimee had gotten a bonus from the hotel job—the savings she mentioned that enabled her to open Rainy Day Vintage? Had Melissa resented her good fortune? Totally human. That might explain her contentious attitude in the shop yesterday. But her remarks at the memorial service revealed a genuine connection to Joelle. And if her son had been on the questionable drug, wouldn’t her rage have been directed at the drug company or Justin, not his wife?

  What about Joelle? She’d never had any claim on the hotel job bonus. She wanted money
to leave her marriage. Aimee had given her a job, making up for low pay with the opportunity to sell her prized collections commission-free. Joelle’s anger at her husband, I understood, but if she’d harbored any secret ill will against Aimee, surely she wouldn’t have gone to work for her. I knew of no conflict between the women, and nothing pointing to Aimee as the killer.

  I sensed a pair of eyes watching me and looked up. The wordless barista set my cup on the counter, then ducked behind the big machine.

  “Thanks,” I said, as I always did, whether she could hear me or not. She’d drawn two smiley faces on the cup. One for each shot of espresso?

  No. The first drawing was a frowny face, the second a smile.

  Turn your frown upside down. And then the real message occurred to me. Whether the barista meant the murder or my love life—though she couldn’t have known anything about either one— didn’t matter. I needed to look at things another way.

  Twenty-One

  Pink peppercorns, also known as Peruvian or California pepper, are not a true pepper but the fruit of the schinus bush, a relative of the cashew. So while pretty and flavorful, they can also trigger a severe reaction in people with a tree nut allergy.

  THE COFFEE DID ITS MAGIC, SOOTHING MY RUFFLED NERVES. And my ruffled feathers. The nerve of Karen from Global Touch, maligning both my investigative skills and my commitment to the community.

  I had nothing to prove to anyone, and the attempt would only distract me.

  On Saturdays, I buy the shop lunch. Our delivery from one of the Market’s bakeries slash sandwicheries had arrived while I was out. After helping a customer in search of a nutmeg grinder, I grabbed an egg salad on a ciabatta roll and sat in the nook to eat and browse my photos.

  There. That was the face. Though I’d taken a couple of months off from teaching, I’d attended a few Changing Courses graduations. The program runs on a rolling schedule, with new students starting and finishing every week. On Wednesdays, a guest chef coordinates a three-course dinner, open to the public. Students work as sous chefs and servers, and an opening ceremony honors that week’s graduates. And I’d been there the night “Wispy Man,” as I’d thought of him, had received his diploma and posed for a class photo. There he stood, glowering, in the front row. Tony McGillvray, the caption read, confirming the name I had forgotten or never known.

  I texted Tag. On duty today? Stop in if U have a chance. Not an emergency!

  Then it was back to spice. Dang, I love my job.

  Mid-afternoon, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but the shop was quiet for a moment, so I stepped into the office to take the call.

  “This is Roxanne Davidson,” a smooth voice announced. “Assistant curator of Asian antiquities at the Seattle Asian Art Museum. I’m a friend of Nate Seward’s.”

  “Yes. Thanks for calling.” I sank into my desk chair. “You beat me to it.”

  “Nate told me about the piece you found. Intriguing—I’d love to see it.”

  “I wish I had it. But I’m sure the woman who does will be as interested as I am in getting your take.” We made a tentative appointment for Monday morning, then I called Aimee, fingers crossed that she’d be free. She hesitated, then agreed.

  Nothing connected the stray chopstick to the murder—an event I deliberately had not mentioned to Roxanne Davidson. And yet, the possibility nagged at me. Detective Tracy liked to say he didn’t believe in coincidence, but when odd things happen that involve the same person or place, check it out.

  That’s what I would do. If he gave me grief, I’d take great pleasure in quoting back his own advice.

  Nate had said his former sister-in-law was smart, passionate about her work, and eager to help us. And if I happened to glean a tidbit or two about him, or her sister, that would be icing on the cake.

  Icing. That reminded me that I wanted to try out a chai glaze this weekend. I love browsing our cookbooks, but an online search would be faster.

  “Pepper?” Cayenne peered around the half-open door, her voice hesitant. “Someone to see you.”

  I followed her to the shop floor. Helmet dangling from his fingers, Tag still wore his dark glasses, along with his police vest and black bike shorts, his long legs lean and tan.

  “Iced tea?” I asked and poured him a glass. “This heat . . .”

  “Can’t break soon enough,” he replied. “The new normal, I’m afraid. I just got off shift—we’ve got a temporary schedule change so we’re not riding too many hours in the worst heat. You called?”

  I gestured and we sat on the benches in the nook, the mixing table between us. I found the graduation photo and pointed to the thin blond man glaring at the camera. Tag took off his sunglasses and laid them on the table.

  “Tony McGillvray,” I said as he used two fingers to zero in on the face. “Any chance you recognize him?”

  A few years ago, while we were married, Tag did a short stint as a detective before joining the bike patrol. His choice, not a demotion—a lot of cops prefer the interaction and variety of working a beat. Though most of his detecting time had been in Major Crimes—homicide and other horrors—he occasionally worked with the Pawnshop Unit. And if I remembered right, there had been an incident that could be linked to the present investigation. That might explain why Tony was making himself scarce and why Aimee was so anxious.

  Anyone else would have asked me why I didn’t ask Mike Tracy for info, but Tag knew the man. He knew me. He knew better.

  “Addict. Small-time dealer—the kind who buys more than he sells, and sells only to keep himself alive.”

  “And supplements his income with theft?”

  “You’re thinking about the theft from Pacific Imports.” He handed me the phone. “Surprised you remembered that, but then you always did have a great memory. A collection of Chinese swords and knives went missing. McGillvray worked odd jobs, mostly loading and unloading. His sister worked there, too.”

  Knives. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to be wrong until the word stabbed me in the gut. “I never knew how you identified him.”

  Tag sat sideways on the bench, stretching out his legs. “Well, you always start by looking inside. He had a record for possession, but nothing more. There was no forced entry. He didn’t have a key. We couldn’t pin it on anyone. Until we finally got a break.” He gave me a wary look. “You sure you want to hear this?”

  “I need to know what role Aimee played.” I didn’t think she’d been part of the thefts, or that she’d been siphoning off the collectibles Joelle brought to the Vintage Shop, but I could think of no other reason for Aimee to kill Joelle. I wanted to clear her so we could move on. Even if that cleared the way for blaming her brother.

  “She solved the crime,” Tag said. “Pure and simple.”

  “Hold that thought,” I said, raising a finger as Matt approached, a customer behind him.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but what’s the best way to describe the difference between regular black peppercorns and Tellicherry?”

  “It’s mainly a difference in size and intensity,” I said. “If you want a basic cooking pepper, choose the regular. For a more pungent, complex spice, where you want to taste the pepper—in a salad dressing, say, or a stew with buttermilk biscuits—try the Tellicherry.”

  “You put pepper in biscuits?” the customer asked.

  “She puts it in her gingersnaps,” Tag said. “You have never tasted anything so good.”

  “Tag! You just gave away my secret ingredient!” But I laughed. It wasn’t actually a secret. “Matt will give you the recipes. They’re complimentary—some of our most popular.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Sounds like I need both the black and the Tele—what is it? Not telepathy.”

  “Tellicherry,” Matt said. “It’s a region in India—that much I remember.”

  I turned back to the cop in the nook. “So, you were saying? Aimee solved the theft at Pacific Imports?”

  “She turned him in.” Tag drained his tea
and set the paper cup on the worktable.

  I stared. “She what?”

  “She found a ticket he dropped from a pawnshop down in Kent and followed her nose. They’d stashed the goods in the back room—the stuff was unique enough, and valuable enough, that they hadn’t put it on display. I don’t know how she persuaded them to show her.”

  Kent is one of Seattle’s southeastern suburbs. Great green farmland gone to cookie-cutter housing developments, apartment blocks, and industrial sprawl. And the occasional entrepreneur on the wrong side of the law.

  “And then, she called us. Gave us everything we needed to make the arrest.” He picked up the empty cup and spun it between his palms.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I think she felt guilty, for one. She got him the job, and he stole from their employer. He pled out, but I went to the sentencing hearing. She testified for him—”

  “What?”

  “Not for his innocence, but about his addiction. The family story—the usual mess, worse than some, better than others. The two kids had always stuck up for each other, and she thought he needed a break to turn his life around. Yada-yada.” Tag wasn’t an unsympathetic man, not by a long shot. But I’d seen over the years how hearing the same stories, as if on repeat, brought out his cynical side from time to time.

  It dawned on me. Men aren’t the only ones with a fierce protective streak. “You think she turned him in so the court would order him into rehab.”

  “Right. And that’s what the judge did. But I guess it didn’t take.”

  “Maybe it did.” I reached for my phone and slid it into my apron pocket. “He must have completed treatment and stayed out of trouble or Changing Courses wouldn’t have accepted him into the program. He struggled, but he did graduate. He isn’t working in the food biz, but he does odd jobs for Aimee, and I think he keeps a room in her apartment, above the shop.”

  “So Tracy thinks he was stealing from her and killed the woman to keep her quiet.”