[SS01] Assault and Pepper Page 24

  I limped through the Market, deflecting questions from the orchard girls, Yvonne, Misty the Baker, and others. Despite its bustle, the Market is a small town in many ways, with its interconnections, its rumor mills, its lightning rods, and its whiners. Its friendships and romances, its feuds and petty jealousies.

  Safely tucked in my tiny office, I checked the till and ran yesterday’s numbers. Everything balanced. We’d rebounded beautifully from the wee hit our sales had taken the day of the murder. But I still didn’t know the long-term impact.

  Or who the killer was.

  I opened a file drawer and rested my foot on it. Had I been impulsive yesterday, as Laurel suggested when she heard the story? Laurel, who had practically shoved me into investigating in the first place. Or foolish, as Tag said. At worst, a bit of both. At best, I had misunderstood the Griffeys’ actions and their conversations in the garden and on the ferry, leaving me only myself to blame for my injury.

  At least my mistakes were honest ones.

  Was there the teeniest chance that Spencer and Tracy were right? That Tory really was the killer? From their perspective, it made sense. She had motive, means, and opportunity.

  And no one else did.

  No. I refused to believe it. Plus, if she’d killed Doc, who wanted to warn me off the case? I swung my foot off the file cabinet and started to stand. Searing pain tore up my leg and thrust me back into the chair.

  “No,” I said out loud. Tears flooded my eyes.

  I would keep on doing everything I could to free Tory and get her back here where she belonged.

  In the absence of any brilliant investigative plans, I threw myself into the busywork of running a retail shop. Never any shortage of that. Despite my attempts to spread the word, no serious prospects for our temporary job opening had come knocking while I was out yesterday. So I called the cooking schools, the state job center, and an employment agency I’d used with good luck in the olden days.

  I caught up on e-mail, Facebook, and Pinterest. Bummer that Callie the librarian had not found any leads. Called her to check in, and left a message.

  Truth be told, I was going a little stir-crazy, cooped up in my shop. I like getting out and about. My bad ankle meant I couldn’t drop in on Marianne Finch and pry into the story the Griffeys had told me.

  Besides, pestering a new widow the day after her husband’s funeral is bad manners. And I do have some.

  I thought back to my clinic visit and the old man I’d met in the lobby. What about former patients? Marianne had said doctors had to protect their assets from potential liabilities. But how to identify them? Stephanie might talk, but such prying was better done in person than by phone.

  My old law firm had done some medical malpractice defense. In fact, it was a med mal case that backfired and blew the place apart. Jennifer, paralegal-turned-bookseller, had worked in that group.

  I reached for the phone and it rang.

  “May I speak with Tory Finch?” the caller said.

  “Uh, she’s with a customer. May I take a message?”

  “King County Superior Court Clerk’s Office calling. Please tell her the files she requested are available now.”

  I’d just hung up when the phone rang again.

  “Pepper, it’s Jordan Schmidt. Any chance you could swing by today? We got the tox report on Damien Finch. We’ll retain a toxicologist, but it raises some questions I’d like to ask you.”

  For that, I was willing to endure a little pain.

  After lunch, I hobbled out of the Market and nabbed a southbound bus. The streets ticked by. If the founders had a system for naming downtown’s east-west streets, it’s lost to time. The names run in pairs, from south to north: two Js, two Cs, and so on. Some people use the mnemonic “Julius Caesar Made Seattle Under Protest.” Since the early Romans didn’t get this far west, I prefer my own version: “Jesus Christ Made Some Unusual People.” It’s certainly true, and a good number of them were riding the bus today.

  First stop, Clerk’s Office. I took the elevator to the sixth floor. Waited in line, willing my palms to stay dry, keeping my pleasant HR smile on my face.

  “Records pickup, for Tory Finch.” Putting it that way meant I wasn’t lying to an officer of the court. Sort of.

  The clerk drew a short stack from under the counter and handed it to me. I paid cash, said thanks, and stuffed the bundle into my tote. Nonchalance, that’s the ticket. But the sooner I got out of there, the better I would feel.

  Next up, Public Defender’s Office.

  “So the preliminary tox screen came in. Autopsy report isn’t done yet, but I called the ME and got some good info. Wait a minute, where did I put it?” Jordan prowled through the papers on her desk, a surface about as densely covered as an anthill. She shoved books and files aside willy-nilly, nearly knocking over three of those ubiquitous white paper cups. While she searched the top of her credenza, I snatched up two cups within reach—both half-full of cold coffee—and set them on the floor by my chair. At least if one fell over there, it wouldn’t ruin any files. And the stain would blend in nicely with the carpet.

  “Where is it?” she repeated. “Oh, I wanted to tell you. I got a call from Mrs. Finch. The victim’s wife, the suspect’s stepmother.” She sat up, a thick stack of paperwork in her lap. “She said you went to see her . . .”

  I held my breath while she flipped through the files.

  “And she said . . .” Flip, flip, flip. Next time I run into one of my old employees hunting for a law job, I’ll tell them if you can file, the PD’s office needs you.

  “Here it is!” Jordan thrust a report in the air like a drill team leader raising the flag. “Mrs. Finch said you have her half convinced that Tory’s innocent. She wants to meet with me and the prosecutor. The sooner, the better, she said.”

  Thank you, I silently told the heavens. “Have you talked with the detectives on the case? Spencer and Tracy?” I told her about the vandalism to the blue Mustang and the theory that the real killer—or a confidant—had meant to warn me off the case. I did not tell her that information had come from Tag.

  She scribbled notes on a yellow pad. Would the pages ever find their way into the file? They say a disorderly desk is the sign of a brilliant mind. For Tory’s sake, I hoped so.

  “Apparently the blood tests weren’t much help. They showed therapeutic levels of several drugs, pharmaceutical drugs.”

  “He was being treated for pancreatic cancer,” I said.

  “But they also tested his stomach contents, as well as the paper cup he’d been holding. The results are consistent with the physical findings from the autopsy. Seems our victim died almost instantly from acute aconite poisoning. The chemical signature indicates a plant-based poison, rather than a chemical synthetic. That’s one reason why they’ve focused on Tory. If they are still focused on her. And why I hoped you could shed some light.” She tossed the report onto a stack on the floor.

  “It’s not a culinary herb,” I said.

  “Well, no,” she said. “It’s toxic.”

  “Some edible plants have toxic parts. Rhubarb leaves can kill. Other plants are safe if they’re cooked but toxic if they’re eaten raw, like morel mushrooms.” I’d taken Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden out of my tote the other night, so I found my phone and started searching.

  The first two references to aconite were on pharmaceutical sites, crammed with polysyllabic words only a doctor would understand. Two doctors were on my radar screen, Ken Griffey and Kevin Ripken. “Ah, here we go. Chinese medicine uses the plant to treat arthritis. European herbalists and physicians used it until synthetic substitutes were developed. Grows in the mountains, in the Northern Hemisphere.”

  An image pixelated into view. I strained to make it out.

  “Holy marjaroly.” I didn’t recognize the sketch or the photograph slowly coming into view. But the
common name of aconite gave me the shivers.

  Monk’s Hood.

  • • •

  I called Ron Locke’s clinic for a consult. The doctor of acupuncture and Chinese medicine could see me in an hour.

  Meanwhile, I limped over to Fabiola’s building and up the stairs to her studio.

  In the text and Tweet era, actual phone calls seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird, but this was obviously Call Somebody Day in Seattle. Fabiola pinched her thumb and forefinger together to indicate she wouldn’t be on the phone long.

  I sat on a work stool and rested my foot on another, massaging the cream Ron Locke had given me into my swollen ankle. It brought nearly instant relief.

  They must not want you to know what’s in this stuff, I thought, squinting at the tiny type on the tube. Calendula officinalus, I knew—the flowers are edible. Hamamelis virginiana, Arnica montana. Aconitum napellus.

  Ohmygosh.

  But Ron Locke had promised the cream was safe.

  And I wasn’t dead yet.

  I dropped the tube back in my bag and withdrew the fuchsia folder. Despite its humbling end, my ferry ride and the lovely hour alone this morning in my delicious little shop had convinced me we’d found the right theme.

  Fabiola scrunched up her face, her free hand making the universal “talk, talk, talk” motion. Today, she wore a black jumpsuit with flared legs and jet beading on the broad lapels. The plunging neckline exposed a lacy gold camisole. Her subdued Elvis look.

  I pulled out the court files Tory had requested. They related to three different lawsuits against her father. A five-year-old suit by another medical doctor, alleging breach of contract for, if I understood the legalese, failure to convey partial ownership in the clinic.

  In other words, a disgruntled doctor promised a partnership he didn’t get. Like Ken Griffey.

  But the final document in that file eliminated any motive for murder: a stipulation that the dispute had been settled and should be dismissed, signed by the parties, lawyers, and judge.

  Likewise, the second file, a ten-year-old claim by a nurse for wrongful discharge, had been settled and dismissed. Nobody who sues for money and gets it—whether it’s all they wanted or not—is likely to come back years later bearing a grudge and a cup of toxic tea.

  The third suit, a claim by A. Y. Anderson, asserted malpractice by Damien Finch, MD, causing permanent physical damage, loss of income, and pain and suffering. And loss of consortium, a ten-dollar word I gathered meant the marital relationship.

  “I am so sorry. I thought he would never shut up.” Fabiola tossed her phone on her desk. “That calls for a double shot. You?”

  I nodded and Fabiola fired up her commercial-grade espresso maker, a gift from a client with a very profitable business repairing espresso machines. In moments, the grind, puff, hiss, and drip of beans, hot water, and steamy milk infused the air.

  She set two white porcelain heart-shaped espresso cups on the worktable.

  “I heart these cups. They would fly out my door.”

  “Gift. I found these labels, for your jars. For the tins, we can echo the theme.” She handed me a sheet of four round labels, the images and fonts exactly what I’d pictured. “I used the historic photos you sent and your suggestion to add a little color.”

  “Like those old hand-tinted photographs. And the saltshaker. Oh, wow.” She’d captured the fifties’ diner style I adore perfectly, in a simple line drawing.

  “I did a grayscale version for the recipe inserts and handouts. We can use the same image on your new business cards and recipe cards. On everything printed.” She splayed samples before me.

  “Fabiola, you are fabulous.”

  She raised her cup in a toast and flashed her bright white teeth. “Pepper, my pal, you’re not too shabby yourself.”

  • • •

  VISITING hours had ended, leaving me no chance to consult Tory about the files today. Meanwhile, I needed a translator. And I knew just where to find one.

  I wandered the bookshop while Jennifer perused the documents. The Tea Shop Mysteries by Laura Childs. For Sandra, for Christmas? The White House Chef Mysteries by Julie Hyzy. I’d had no idea there were so many food-related mysteries. The Domestic Diva Mysteries, the Coffeehouse Mysteries, even a Key West Food Critic series.

  My stomach growled.

  “The plaintiff alleges he—or she, we don’t know—was a patient of Dr. Finch. He had a femoral arterial bypass, which means inserting a graft to bypass a blocked artery and restore blood flow to the lower leg and feet. Right here.” Jen stepped out from behind the counter and drew an artery on her pant leg with a finger. “They usually use synthetic grafts, but in this case, they harvested an artery from the lower leg.”

  “Ughh.” I shuddered.

  “If I read this right, the patient alleges that Finch should not have done that, and that in the process, he nicked a nerve, causing permanent damage.”

  “Don’t nerves regenerate?”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

  A customer asked for mysteries set in Ireland. “Light or gritty?” Jennifer asked. “In between,” came the reply. Jen led the way to the Foreign Settings shelves, recommending Sheila Connolly’s County Cork Mysteries and an Erin Hart novel set on an archeological dig.

  Had I been right to wonder about a vindictive patient? Who was this person? And how had Tory known?

  “Where was I?” Jennifer had left the customer to browse. “Oh, right. The failed bypass. Case dismissed.”

  “Settled?” Like the other two.

  “No. I think the judge is saying that the plaintiff couldn’t find an expert witness to testify that Dr. Finch breached the standard of care.”

  “Meaning?”

  “In a med mal case, you need another doctor in the same field to testify that the defendant doctor screwed up. A bad result isn’t enough. You need evidence of an actual error.”

  The customer set a stack of paperbacks on the counter, including the Connolly and Hart books, and two in another series. “You’d love these, Pepper,” Jennifer said, flashing a cover at me. “Sister Fidelma, seventh-century Irish nun and legal advocate. When you finish Brother Cadfael. Planning a trip?” she asked the customer.

  I gathered my files as they chatted and Jennifer rang up the purchase. “Thanks, Jen.”

  “Wish I could be more help,” she replied.

  She’d been more help than she knew. But what I really needed was to know why—or even if—any of this mattered.

  Thirty-one

  If you use an electric coffee grinder to grind fresh spices, be careful not to overdo it. Heat destroys the volatile compounds that give a spice its aroma and lighter flavor notes. To keep your coffee from tasting like fennel—or your cloves like French roast—grind a tablespoon of rice to a fine powder. The grit cleans and sharpens the blades, and absorbs any residual oils. Or try a mortar and pestle—toning your arms at the same time!

  I was beginning to feel like an absentee shop owner. I’d hailed a cab on First to cart me up to Ron Locke’s clinic. Patients jammed the small waiting room.

  “Mercury retrograde,” the receptionist said ruefully. “Everybody’s running late, or their appointment’s running long.”

  As good an explanation as any. I scribbled my cell phone number on a message slip. “Ask him to call when he’s got a moment.”

  I limped down Pine, thinking that we ought to carry a few reference books on medicinal herbs. I’d ask Ron for suggestions when he called me back.

  Meanwhile, why not ask a plant expert?

  “Hey, Yvonne. How’s business?”

  She scowled, her dirt-stained fingers gracefully arranging a bouquet of statice. “Nobody buys flowers in the rain.”

  Trust Yvonne to find the hole in every doughnut.

  “This is a long sh
ot, but you know so much about flowers. Do you know aconite?”

  Her fingers hesitated, then got back to work. The scrapes were healing nicely. She tied a ribbon around the bundle and stuck it in a bucket. From another, she withdrew a long, slender stem with multipronged leaves, topped with a cluster of lovely purple flowers. Bell-shaped.

  Hooded.

  I hesitated before taking it. “It’s beautiful. Is it poisonous?”

  She gave me a withering look. “Would I sell it if it were?”

  “Right. Don’t forget to call Alex’s office. He’s serious about buying flowers from you.”

  A customer asked for pink and white dahlias and Yvonne returned her attention to her flower buckets.

  I crossed Pike Place and stepped up on the curb. It had been a week since Doc’s death, and the memorials had long vanished. The handwritten notes were safely tucked in an envelope in my desk.

  A whizzing sound caught my attention. Tag stopped his bike, balancing on one long, lean leg. The weather had to be pretty nasty before he changed from bike shorts to long pants.

  “Shouldn’t you be inside sipping tea with your feet up?”

  “Shouldn’t you be off-duty? Your shift ended hours ago.”

  “Subbing for a buddy who wanted a long weekend for his wedding anniversary.” As usual, Tag’s eyes were hidden by his sunglasses, but a slight flush crept up his neck. “I was wondering—”

  A delivery truck clattered by, behind him, drowning out his words. “What?”

  His radio squawked and he shifted his weight to keep his balance, one gloved hand gripping the bike’s handlebar. “Umm, I was wondering if you’d like to, maybe, go out for dinner Sunday. There’s a new place on Capitol Hill I’ve been hearing about. French bistro.”

  Dang those sunglasses. But the stuttering and nervous gestures gave it away. Tag Buhner was seriously asking me, the ex-wife who left after catching him with another woman, out for dinner. A dinner date.

  “Unless you have other plans,” he said, glancing around as if hoping a crime would pop out of nowhere and save him.