[SS01] Assault and Pepper Page 20

  “Talk to me, Sam.” I kept my voice calm, conversational. I had to get the story without upsetting him. Without sending him to ground.

  “He grabbed my coat.” Sam grabbed his own lapels, demonstrating. “I thought he was shoving me, and I yelled at him, but he weren’t. It was weird—one side of his face went all red, the other ghostlike. Like Jim and his scars.”

  I nodded and he went on. “It were like he got dizzy, or were having a heart attack, grabbing me so he didn’t fall down and crack his head.” His big hands reached out, replaying the interaction. “I held him, gentled him to the ground, wrapped his coat around him.”

  And that’s when he lost his beret.

  “He were clutching, moaning like it hurt something bad. Like this.” Sam placed his big hands under his jaw, heels shoving up, neck strained, dark eyes open wide.

  “Oh, Sam.” I touched his sleeve. “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “I knew they’d think I done something, but I didn’t.” His features burned with grief and fear.

  A classic Catch 22. He didn’t expect to be believed, so he ran, heightening suspicions. And no doubt if he were interviewed, his nerves would make him sweat and squirm, more signs easily interpreted as guilt or dishonesty.

  “Sam, do you know why Doc wanted that corner so badly?”

  He shrugged. “Tips is good. People walk by from the bakery and coffee shops. They got loose change. Sometimes they give me bread or an apple, or summit for the dog.”

  So he hadn’t figured out that Doc was there to talk to his daughter.

  “You ever see Tory talking with him?”

  He thought a moment. “No, ma’am. I don’t think so. That’s what’s so strange. I know you said Tory’s his girl, but why they think she’d poison him?”

  “Sam, did Doc have a cup of tea that morning? Spice tea? Did Tory bring him one?”

  “She do that sometimes, for all of us, but not that morning. No offense, Miz Pepper, but I were hoping she wouldn’t. It don’t sit so well with me.”

  I smiled. “That’s okay. It is pretty strong. I wondered if maybe he had a cup that she’d given him before you came along.”

  “He had a cup, now that you say so. I thought it were for begging. ’Cept he didn’t beg much. Took what people gave him, but he didn’t ask. He were a strange one.”

  He were indeed.

  “Sam, I’ve been hearing that Tory gave you help when you needed it. Now she needs your help. If I go with you, would you tell the police what you told me?”

  He ratcheted around, one huge hand grubbing for the granite block behind us. “No, ma’am, Miz Pepper. Don’t ask me to do that. They’ll put me away for sure.”

  Arf bounced up and began to bark the moment Sam moved. Without my shop apron, I had no treats to quiet him.

  “No, ma’am,” Sam repeated, struggling to get to his feet. “She innocent, but she don’t need me. Girl like that, nobody want to put her away just ’cause they can. Not like me.”

  I stood, extending a hand to help him. He ignored my offer. On his feet now, he picked up Arf’s leash and shambled out of the Square, muttering and shaking his head.

  Nothing to be gained by following him, pestering him to talk. I believed his description of the incident with Doc, but I also knew that as much as Sam might want to believe me “one of the good guys,” he didn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  And there are some things we just can’t make ourselves do.

  Twenty-four

  Much virtue in herbs, little in men.

  —Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard’s Almanack (1734)

  I sat in the park a few minutes longer, half listening to the music. A pair of pigeons squawked and scratched for crumbs, and a seagull sporting gray wingtips swept in for a stray French fry.

  Sam knew something he wasn’t telling me. There was no other explanation for his refusal to talk. I’d made a mistake suggesting the police—I should have known Sam was paranoid enough to fear the worst.

  Would he talk to Tory’s attorney? I’d suggest it.

  Probably not many doctors’ daughters on the Public Defender’s client list, let alone one accused of patricide. Shivery word. I trekked up to the office, explained myself to the receptionist, and was told to wait.

  Five minutes later, a petite blonde in a charcoal gray pantsuit approached, shifting her black leather bag to her left hand and extending her right. “Jordan Schmidt. I’m headed to the jail right now. We can chat on the way.”

  For a small woman, Jordan set a quick pace, so I talked fast, explaining why I believed Tory innocent and what I’d been doing to help prove it. She shot me a doubting glance or two, but I didn’t take it personally. The line between help and interference can be faint at times.

  “So tell me that part again, about the tension between Dr. Finch and his daughter.”

  “He’s your classic difficult man. Thinks he knows what’s best, and if you don’t agree, you simply don’t understand. But Tory’s strong-willed, too, as determined to be an artist as he was to persuade her otherwise.”

  We stopped for a red light. “Okay, so he’s a doctor. Wants her to be practical, choose a career where she can support herself.”

  “She supported herself just fine, working for me.”

  “No offense, but retail isn’t the most secure field in the world and the pay . . .”

  “I pay a living wage. My assistant manager’s worked in the Spice Shop for twenty-two years.” Old argument, not relevant right now. “Listen, I don’t know all the details, but he drew a line in the sand. If she didn’t do things his way, she better not come around and she better not expect any help from him.”

  “You realize you’re making the case for motive,” Jordan said. The light changed and she stepped off the curb, half a stride ahead of me. “And he got the mother to cut her off, too?”

  “Stepmother. She loved her husband, but feared him a little bit, too, I think. Went along to get along.”

  I opened the jail’s front door for her.

  “And this Sam character? What does he know that would help my client?”

  “Not sure,” I said as we approached the security check line. “But he was there when Doc died, and something he saw has him worried.”

  Visiting hours had ended—though not for lawyers—and a stream of people flowed past the other side of the screening equipment, toward the door. My eyes were on Jordan, but a face in the exit line caught my eye. Yvonne the flower seller?

  I turned to look but the crowd had surged by, and all I could see was a woman her height with graying hair.

  Jordan put her bag on the screeners’ table. “Okay. I’ll ask about her dad, and what she knew about his illness. And the old guy—tell me his name again?”

  “Sam. I know you don’t have to figure out who did kill Doc, but what about his old partners? Other doctors he forced out, or employees who hated him? Can’t you dig into his business dealings?”

  “Can and will. But make no mistake. She’s in serious trouble.” She waved her hand as she stepped through the X-ray machine.

  Back outside, I scanned the sidewalk for Yvonne, but she—or her doppelgänger—had disappeared.

  I could not deny the truth of Jordan’s parting words. Tory would need all the friends she could get—and other than Zak, me, and her neighbor Keyra Jackson, I imagined her guest list was short.

  Like the list of suspects.

  • • •

  FABIOLA had worked quickly, e-mailing sketches for the new packaging that afternoon. She promised to work all night, if that’s what it took, to rough out the design for the fall tins—front and back labels, plus artwork for the recipe inserts. “I’m on fire for you!” her message declared.

  Glad someone was.

  Reed staffed the front counter and cash register whil
e Zak took care of the day’s shipping. On the phone, Sandra tried to help a customer identify a spice she’d had in a dish she couldn’t name at a restaurant she couldn’t remember.

  I was working with a woman putting together a basic spice set for a bridal shower gift for her younger sister, a novice cook. Loved the idea. We could develop a checklist and kits for beginning and more advanced cooks. A natural expansion—we already did a brisk business with our salt lovers’ gift boxes, cocoa sets, and other theme packs. Ooh—what about a spice, tea, and cookbook registry?

  We picked out a storage system—a never-ending challenge, and somewhat personal, depending on kitchen space and layout—and discussed the pros and cons of traditional matched salt and pepper shaker sets. I made my pitch for freshly ground pepper, for freshness and the degree of control it gives a cook.

  “But then, what about salt?” she said.

  “More options. Shakers, mills, or grinders for crystal salt, cellars or unglazed clay jars for flake varieties. We can do a matched set of salt and pepper mills. But this might be your best bet.” I picked up an acrylic shaker-grinder combination and showed her the removable saltshaker on top. “Pour your peppercorns in the bottom, pop the top back on, and twist to grind. It’s our best seller.”

  She gave it a practice twist. “I should get one for myself.”

  “What about tea?” I said. “A pot, strainers, infusers. We’ve got it all.”

  “Our other sister drew that. I’ll send her in.”

  We were piling her choices on the counter when the door opened. In walked Alex Howard.

  “I’ve got this, boss,” Sandra said, bumping me aside. She grinned wickedly and gave me a wink.

  I swallowed a bad word. Had I been too harsh on him last night? But I wasn’t going to apologize unless he did. Maybe not even then.

  “Hey, Pepper. Got a moment?”

  “Just,” I said, wincing internally at the unintentional witchiness in my voice.

  “I blew it,” he said when I left the counter to join him in a quiet spot. “I should have called you the moment my friend showed up. Can you forgive me?”

  “Your friend? The beautiful blonde with the blue Mustang?”

  He had the grace to color. “Hey, I admit, I’m a sucker for good-looking women who drive classic sports cars.” Like you, the movie-star smile implied.

  Cripes. Here he was flattering me, not to mention looking yummy in his chocolate brown leather bomber jacket. I ran a hand through my hair, back to its usual spikes. Are you really ready to torch this relationship—such as it is—so soon?

  “I’m taking the night off. Any chance I can make it up to you?” This time his voice held a note of seduction, mingled with a touch of presumption.

  “Tuesday night,” I said, shaking my head. “Flick Chicks.”

  “Don’t you get together every week? Skip it this one time.”

  But I refuse to be one of those women who ditch their girlfriends when a hot guy comes along. Just because a man has an irresistible smile doesn’t mean you can’t resist.

  “No. But give me five minutes and you can walk me home.”

  Leaving Sandra to close up, I grabbed my bag and Fabiola’s sketches. We crossed the street, and I paused at Yvonne’s stall to drink in the floral scents and thank Alex again for last week’s bouquet.

  “We should source more of our flowers for the restaurants locally, don’t you think?” he said.

  “Absolutely.”

  He beamed that GQ smile at Yvonne. “Big arrangements for the hostess stands. Small bouquets or individual stems for the tables. We’d need a wholesale rate, but we’d give you plenty of volume. What do you think?”

  Yvonne eyed him warily. “No greenhouse. I’m strictly seasonal. March to November.” She glanced at me, brows furrowed in a doubting expression, then turned her attention back to Alex, chin raised defiantly.

  “Small problem. Not insurmountable.” He slid a dark brown leather card case out of his jacket pocket and handed her a card. She wiped her fingers on her apron before taking it. Scrapes and scratches covered the back of her hand and the side of her chin. Hazards of the garden trade. “Call my operations manager and tell her we’ve talked.”

  He put his hand on my low back to guide me away. I called out over my shoulder, “Thanks for going to see Tory. I’m sure she appreciated the visit.”

  A shadow crossed her face. I understood. The jail was only a few blocks from the vibrant, bustling Market, but with all that it represented, with all the sadness and pain it held, it might as well have been in another galaxy.

  Twenty-five

  Seattle’s Lake Union houseboat community nearly died out in the 1960s, pressured by urban renewal, monopolies on moorage, and city officials scratching their heads over the unconventional properties. From loggers’ shacks on rafts to million-dollar “floating homes,” from city scourge to movie sets, the Seattle houseboat’s come a long way.

  “Last dinner on the deck,” Seetha said, settling into a chair on Laurel’s rooftop deck. Behind her, pots of red, yellow, and orange flowers bloomed next to planters of parsley, chives, tarragon, and rosemary.

  “No!” the three of us cried in unison.

  Laurel set down a tray of oven-toasted parchment paper packages, exuding the distinctive aromas of salmon and cilantro. I’d already brought up a wooden bowl of salad greens tossed with creamy Parmesan dressing flavored with one of our new spice blends, and a basket of warm bread. She plucked a flute of Prosecco from the tray Kristen held and raised it high. “But it is the last of my basil and tomatoes. Cheers!”

  People not familiar with houseboats picture two extremes: Artistic hippies camping on rusty barges with limited space and even more limited utilities, or the classy, glassy palace where Tom Hanks lived in Sleepless in Seattle. In reality, Seattle’s houseboats, or floating homes, have all the comforts of landed living, but less square footage and a terrific sense of community.

  Laurel’s rooftop offers a panoramic view of Lake Union, Gasworks Park, and Queen Anne Hill. All manner of boats and birds pass by, and people, too. After Patrick’s death, it had been the perfect refuge. Now, two years later, I couldn’t imagine her living anywhere else—and neither could she.

  “We bundle up, but we sit out here all year round,” she told Seetha. Our newest Flick Chick had moved to the Emerald City a few months ago from Boston.

  “Brrr.” Seetha gave a mock shiver in anticipation.

  Laurel passed me the Caesar. “How was your date with Alex?”

  I wriggled in my chair, feeling a flush rise up my neck. I took a belt of Prosecco and told the story.

  “Poophead,” Kristen said.

  “Scumbag,” Laurel said.

  “She might really be an old friend,” Seetha said.

  Laurel and Kristen snorted. I didn’t want to explain about Tag and the sore spot I should be over by now, according to most people. But betrayal has a long tail. “We’re going to try again next Sunday.”

  “What I want to know,” Laurel said, “is what’s up with Tory.”

  Not easy to relate all the details between bites, but I did my best.

  “You can’t impose your will on your children,” Laurel said when I finished. “If you do, you lose them. Simple as that.”

  “But you want to influence them,” Kristen said. “Guide them toward the right choices. This salmon is heavenly.”

  “Teach them how to make good choices,” Laurel said. “What’s right for them is up to them. You can’t control the outcome.”

  Next to me, Seetha stirred uncomfortably. “Need a sweater?” I glanced southwest-ish, where the Space Needle stood in silhouette against the Olympics beyond, the sky a graphic of light blue, deep gray, and that orange-pink that occurs nowhere else in the world.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head.


  “I think the wife did it,” Kristen said. “Or she hired a hit man. Hit poisoner.”

  I gestured with my champagne flute. “But what poison? That’s what’s driving me to drink.” Admittedly, a short trip.

  “Darned if I know. But you said they have a killer garden. Ooh. What if it was something he grew himself?”

  What about that? I’d seen no yellow caution tape or other remnants of a law enforcement visit, or anything else suggesting that the storybook Tudor was a gingerbread trap. But surely the cops were taking a close look at Marianne—and their home and flower beds.

  “Remember that movie Black Widow?” Kristen went on. “Theresa Russell marries all these rich guys and kills them, but she changes her appearance so nobody realizes it’s her, over and over, until Debra Winger, who’s a cop, gets on her trail. It’s super scary.”

  “Marianne could be the killer,” I said, “But not a black widow. Why kill him after fifteen years? Who’s coming to the funeral with me?”

  “Can’t,” Laurel said. “We’re catering a private party at SAM.”

  Seattle Art Museum, not Sam the man. I hoped his fears had eased. Maybe I should seek out Jim, ask what he could do. Maybe I should forget about it all until tomorrow.

  Fat chance.

  “I would,” Kristen said, “but I already offered to work for Zak.”

  “I can see Tory not wanting to talk to her father. Despite him tracking her down.”

  The change of subject surprised us all, and we turned to Seetha.

  “When a parent is that controlling, it forces the kid—even if they’re grown—to see everything as an attempt at manipulation. Because it usually is.”

  Laurel stretched out a hand. “Is that why you moved to Seattle?”

  Seetha brushed her long, layered hair away from her face. She had to be a good ten years younger than Kristen and me, and twenty years younger than Laurel, who’d brought her into the group. “Not me. My parents. My mother’s parents refused to accept their marriage. They didn’t come to the wedding, and they never came to visit.”