[SS01] Assault and Pepper Page 23

  To the left, a wall and a handrail. To the right, an open railing, and below, the car deck. Nowhere to go but down. I just needed to get there before he—whoever he was—got to me.

  But with my tote bag on my shoulder, the cocoa in my hand, and the unfamiliar high heels, I could only move so fast.

  “We have to stop her.”

  A few more steps. A few more.

  The big engines chugged and the ferry shifted forward ominously. I grabbed the metal rail, my foot swinging free in midair. Between the rails, I saw only the steel decking and the car roofs below. The ferry stuttered and swung to the side, and I heard a shout. Beneath me? Behind me? Or from my own throat?

  My foot scrabbled for purchase on the metal treads. Found it. Lost it. Found it again. I shifted my weight, struggling for stability. My belt came untied and the long coat flaps twisted around my legs.

  Three steps to go.

  My left leg collapsed. A hand grabbed my coat from behind, jerking me back against the open railing. The metal rail struck me mid-back, knocking the breath out of me. One more shove, one more unexpected movement of man or boat, and I’d go flying.

  I wrenched away and stumbled down the next step, caught in my own coat.

  The hand reached for me again, fingers grasping at my shoulder, my collar, my neck.

  My right foot touched the level surface of the car deck. I spun around and flung the cup of cocoa up the steps.

  And into the face of Sunny Jim.

  • • •

  “YOU followed me. Ow. That hurts.”

  “We had no idea, Pepper. I swear. We must have left the Finches’ house right after you did.”

  “If you weren’t following me, why were you on the boat?” I stifled a yelp as the first mate pressed another spot on my ankle. After my near-crash and twisted ankle, the ferry staff had bundled me into a wheelchair and escorted me and the Griffeys into the terminal. The ferry had unloaded its passengers and vehicle traffic and chugged back to Seattle without its first mate, the officer charged with handling medical emergencies.

  “I wish you’d let me take a look at that. I am a medical doctor.” The remains of my cocoa had been too cool to cause Ken Griffey any damage, beyond making his face and suit jacket a chocolatey-syrupy mess. But the shock had slowed him down.

  “My heart is fine. Except that you half scared me to death, grabbing me like that.”

  “You stumbled. I thought you were going to fall down the steps, or slip through the railing.”

  Hearing his voice had thrown me off balance. But I’d have gotten down safely if he hadn’t threatened to stop me.

  “We were heading home. We live on the island.” Mrs. Dr. Griffey’s first name remained a blank.

  “Let’s elevate this ankle.” The first mate gently raised my leg and rested it on the seat of a chair. “I’ve got to hunt up some ice and call my safety officer.” He stepped out, leaving the door open, and began muttering into a large, black hand radio that crackled in reply. Communications technology on the ferries lags eons behind the Seattle Police Department.

  “You said, ‘We have to stop her.’ And at the house, you”—I pointed at her—“you talked about ‘the kid’ and broken promises. I thought you meant stop Marianne from helping Tory. But you didn’t. You meant me. You wanted to stop me from finding out what you’d done.”

  “No,” Griffey’s wife said, shaking her head furiously. “Tell her everything, Kenny. It’s time.”

  Griffey pried two chairs from a stack and set them facing mine. I wondered whether to call the first mate to witness a murder confession.

  Griffey looked like the peanut butter boy after the factory burned. “We—we wanted Marianne to do what was right, even though her husband hadn’t. She always was his better half.”

  That rang true—she’d kept Carolyn’s memory alive by keeping up a relationship with Tory against her husband’s wishes. She’d even kept Carolyn’s furniture for the girl.

  “It had nothing to do with Tory,” his wife said. “We barely knew her. We were horrified when she was arrested.”

  “Instead of you. Because you killed Doc. Dr. Finch.” Sharp pain shot up my leg.

  At his doorway post, the first mate pivoted, radio in hand, eyes darting from me to the Griffeys and back.

  “No!” they both said.

  I shifted in the hard chair, careful not to jostle my ankle. “Let me see if I have this straight. When you came to work for him, he promised to sell you the clinic when he retired.” They nodded. “But then, he changed his mind. He decided to bring in a new owner to take his place.” Heads bobbed again.

  “I admit, I was furious,” Dr. Griffey said. “I may have said stupid things. Stephanie may have heard me. The cabbie may have heard me. But I would never violate my oath. ‘Do no harm.’” He put his hand over his heart.

  It sounded genuine. But then, sincerity is easily faked. If he could kill someone, he could lie about it.

  “So ‘the kid’ you talked about wasn’t Tory at all. It was Kevin. Dr. Ripken, Marianne’s son.”

  “Finch liked to leave things dangling, throw people off their stride, so he could manipulate them into doing what he wanted.” Hurt and betrayal wracked Griffey’s voice.

  “We thought,” his wife said, “that if the deal with her son wasn’t done yet, we could get her to see reason. Sell the clinic to Ken, as Finch had agreed years ago. Ken had talked to them both, before Finch died. He thought she was on his side.”

  If that was true, then the Griffeys had no motive for murder.

  “And after he died? When she came to see you at the clinic on Monday?”

  “I showed her the contract. But she said Finch had always intended to bring in her son, after he got experience elsewhere. She wanted me to agree to that, to try to work together. A compromise, instead of a lawsuit.”

  Unless I missed my guess, she’d been trying—to use the phrase that kept cropping up—to make things right. Damien Finch had promised his wife to bring her son into the clinic, at the same time as he’d promised Griffey to sell to him when he retired.

  Hoist by his own petard. Caught in his own trap. Snared by his own shenanigans.

  And killed. By one of the dueling doctors, to prevent a compromise over the clinic?

  Or by someone else for a reason I hadn’t yet discovered?

  “But you couldn’t accept that?” I said.

  “It sounds reasonable on the surface,” Griffey said. “But I have a family to provide for. I’ve spent years building up that practice. I needed the security of ownership, of knowing Marianne and her son couldn’t toss me out on a whim.”

  The first mate knelt beside me and repositioned my foot on a bag of ice and a small pillow. I gritted my teeth. Even if the Griffeys were lying about the contract renegotiations, how could they have gotten poison into a Spice Shop cup in Doc’s hands early in the morning on a street corner in the Market?

  Look for the simplest explanation. Much as I hated to admit it, Tag might be right.

  On the other hand, even if they were telling the truth now, the Griffeys could still be killers. So could Dr. Ripken. But I couldn’t place any of them on my shop corner the morning Doc died.

  I couldn’t place anyone there but Tory and Sam.

  “Did you know why Finch decided to retire? That he was dying?” I asked.

  “He didn’t tell me. But I recognized the signs—weight loss, jaundice, enlarged lymph nodes in the neck. One day I found him vomiting in an exam room. He left the office for appointments during the day—something he’d never done before.”

  “You said his mood changed,” his wife prompted.

  “Yeah.” He let out a humorless laugh. “He’d always been secretive and demanding. Manipulative. But he seemed—torn. Anxious. Burdened.”

  “Who wouldn’t be, knowing what h
e knew?” I asked.

  “Then his lab reports got mixed in with a patient’s by mistake. Pancreatic cancer.”

  Just as Marianne had said.

  “I’m taking you back on the next ferry,” the first mate told me. “It’ll be here in a few minutes. If you want to press charges against these people, I’ll have to call the authorities.”

  “Where were you last Wednesday morning?” I asked the doctor. If he said surgery, I’d know he was lying.

  He colored, as even prematurely graying redheads do, and reached for his wife’s hand. “We went for an ultrasound, here on the island. It’s our first baby.”

  She reached for her purse. “I have the picture in my bag. It might have a date and time.”

  No wonder he’d been smiling when he came in, late, to see his elderly patient. “They can go,” I told the first mate.

  Through the window, I saw that bald eagle swoop in and chase a seagull off a pier. I hoped he was having a better day fishing than I’d had.

  Twenty-nine

  I know my herbs. They have fixed properties, and follow sacred rules. Human creatures do not. And I cannot even wish that they did.

  —Brother Cadfael, St. Peter’s Fair, by Ellis Peters

  “I can walk,” I told the first mate as the ferry docked on the Seattle side—smoothly this time. “I only live a few blocks away.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, tilting the wheelchair back and pushing me forward.

  My grumbling worsened when I saw who waited for me.

  “What are you doing here? How did you know?”

  “The safety officer is an old SPD buddy. He recognized your name and called me,” Tag said.

  I thanked the first mate for the first aid, and hobbled into the ancient black Saab as Tag stood on the curb, grinning. Nice as it is to have people take care of you occasionally, it loses its charm when they’re so pleased with themselves.

  I leaned back, eyes closed, images from the screwy afternoon whipping through my battered brain. “Oh, wait,” I said as Tag signaled a turn onto Western. “We need to run by the shop and drop off a key.”

  He grunted and flicked off his signal, rewarded by a beep from the car behind us. As he drove up the hill, I gazed out the window. The patches of blue that had teased me on the return ferry trip were gone, the sky once again a leaden gray.

  I saw the dog before the man. Arf and Sam, lumbering down the alley. Even at a distance, he looked forlorn, the ball cap so not his style.

  Tag drove up First past the entrance to the Market, then turned down Pine. Bumping along the cobbled slope did not help my aching heart or my sore ankle.

  But what nagged at me was the image of that blue Mustang thundering down this very stretch into traffic—if it hadn’t hit the curb first.

  “What did Olerud find in the street the other day?”

  Tag’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

  “He found something,” I said, “where the winemaker’s car was parked. He called to you and you dashed up there. You took pictures and pulled out an evidence bag.”

  His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Before we got married, a coworker told me a square jaw signaled a hardheaded man and to think twice about the wedding.

  “Don’t deny it,” I continued. “I saw you.”

  At the corner, he put the car in neutral and held out his hand. “Give me the key.”

  I dug out the spare and he marched into the shop, returning a moment later with Reed at his heels. Tag hopped in and I rolled down my window.

  “Long story,” I said. “Short version, twisted ankle. Need you to close up. You know the routine?”

  Eyes wide, Reed stood a little taller. “Course I do, Pepper. I’ve been watching you.”

  “Suck-up,” Tag muttered as I rolled up the window.

  “He’s solicitous. It can be an attractive quality. You might try it.”

  He glowered and gripped the wheel.

  At my building, he insisted we take the freight elevator, and I didn’t object. The prospect of hobbling up all those flights of stairs made my whole leg ache.

  By the time we reached my door, the pain had worsened and I accepted Tag’s help getting settled on my soft, welcoming couch and prying those nasty heels off my feet. I didn’t even wince when he tossed his damp jacket over a wicker chair instead of hanging it on the hall tree by the door. Relax, I told myself. He’ll be leaving soon.

  But then he brewed two cups of spice tea and sat in the red paisley armchair in the corner, a serious look on the face I still found endearing. And, heaven help me, sexy.

  If I wanted to solve this crime, if I wanted to find the real killer and get Tory out of jail, if I wanted to help Sam and get back to focusing on my shop and my own life, I needed Tag’s help.

  And if I wanted him to leave, I had to ask for it now.

  “When we turned on First, I saw—” I said just as he said, “You got off lucky this time. Haven’t you figured out yet that sticking your nose into other people’s business is dangerous?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Obviously not.”

  Why did it always come back to us scrapping like cats and dogs?

  I guess I’m kind of opinionated, too.

  He blinked first, letting out a long sigh. “Brake fluid and tiny steel shavings.”

  I nearly dropped my tea mug. “Holy moly. Someone cut the brake line? She could have been killed. The owner, I mean. Are you guys investigating? Who had it in for her?”

  His china blue eye softened and I suddenly understood. “Ohmygod. You think someone had it in for me. They thought that was my car.”

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

  I stared, openmouthed. “But if they want me off the case, they—he, she, whoever—knows Tory is innocent. And doesn’t want me to figure out who the real killer is.”

  Tag looked so miserable I almost felt sorry for him.

  “Have I put her in more danger? Is that why Tory is still in jail, so Spencer and Tracy can keep investigating without tipping off the real killer?” And why you hopped right to it when you heard I’d been hurt?

  He stood and began pacing. “Pepper, you know I can’t tell you anything.”

  “But you can tell me if I’m on the right track. Damien Finch was not a popular guy. His wife went behind his back to stay in touch with the daughter he’d cut off. His partner—or whatever Griffey is—feared he’d lose his chance to take over the clinic. His stepson—”

  Tag’s phone rang and he snatched up his jacket and fished it out.

  Blast the man. I’m begging for info and he takes a call. The current meter maid?

  “Be right back,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure whether I was angrier at him or myself as I heard him dash down the stairs, my loft door ajar. I cocked my head, listening, and heard the soft swish of the building door opening and closing.

  The ice bag slid off my foot and I wriggled it back in place. The loft door opened and Reed walked in, followed by his father, carrying a worn black medical bag. Behind him came Laurel and Tag, lugging a basket of familiar white take-out bags.

  “Am I throwing a party and didn’t know it?” I asked.

  Bags were set down, kisses exchanged, inquiries made.

  “My son said you needed help.” Ron Locke gestured toward my ankle. He had the same unruly black hair as his son.

  Reed shrugged. “Can’t have you on the sick list. Not while there’s a killer on the loose.”

  Five minutes later, I was pinned down good, acupuncture needles ringing my ankle. In the kitchen, Tag and Laurel unpacked her bags and opened wine. A tossed salad and penne rigate with shrimp, asparagus, and a sesame-chile sauce. Warm, herby aromas drifted through the loft.

  Laurel took pity on me and brought me a salty, crusty Par
mesan breadstick, one of my very favorite foods, and a glass of white wine.

  “And salty oat cookies for dessert?” I said, hopeful.

  Tag made a noise like a seagull when it finds a cache of abandoned French fries.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Sold out.”

  The seagull squawked pitifully.

  Tag and Laurel don’t exactly hate each other. It’s more like disdain. She considers him a two-timing, self-indulgent playboy who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

  And he sees her as an interfering, self-righteous snob.

  They’ve each got a point. And yet he’d called her, and she’d come.

  “Brother Cadfael,” Ron Locke said a few minutes later, when we all had full plates and drinks. “Love those books.”

  “What’s in the salad dressing?” Reed asked Laurel.

  “My secret blend.” She winked at me. One of our new blends.

  They’d all come here to take care of me. Reed and Laurel wanted me to keep helping Tory, Tag didn’t, and Ron Locke had no dog in the fight. But they all wanted me back on my feet—no pun intended—safe and sound.

  It’s enough to make a grown woman’s eyes sting.

  And it did.

  Thirty

  THE LA SALLE HOTEL—FRIENDS MADE EASILY.

  —Sign on a long-gone Market brothel

  You never really appreciate your parts until they don’t work. But I had a newfound appreciation for the miracle of acupuncture, and the white cream Dr. Locke had given me. Conjuring up the scents of Brother Cadfael’s herbal formulas and fermenting potions, I’d given it a good sniff. “How can it work if it doesn’t smell?”

  “It’s a homeopathic remedy—a European system rooted in herbalism, but developed centuries after Cadfael’s time. Safe and effective. He was open to all traditions, and so am I.”

  But good as my ankle felt Thursday morning, long treks in search of clues and suspects were out. Driving might not be too smart, either, with a manual transmission and Seattle’s hills.

  Definitely an elevator day.