Guilty as Cinnamon Read online

  But Ben Bradley is too common a name for a good search, though we did find a few recent bylines.

  “Check him out on Facebook,” Kristen said.

  “Enough of the proxy stalking. I can’t date him. He’s too young. Besides, my luck, he’s married with three kids and a metal allergy that makes his hand swell up when he wears a wedding ring.”

  “Mr. Right’s sister married a man ten years younger, and it’s a match made in heaven.” Sandra always calls her husband Mr. Right, in contrast to his predecessor, Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.

  Business picked up a bit that afternoon. Kristen and Reed helped customers while Sandra focused on the new wedding registry we hoped to unveil shortly. Zak took the day’s shipments to the mailing station. Lynette straightened shelves and sulked. I huddled in the nook with my laptop, working up Tamara’s price list. Lively, intriguing choices. Consulting with chefs is great—I’m able to see what gets their juices flowing, and steal ideas for combinations to recommend. But helping new cooks is just as sweet. I love when a customer comes in asking for more of our special Herbes de Provence, after insisting she wouldn’t know how to use them, or graduates from measuring out each half teaspoon to developing her own sense of how much of this, how much of that.

  And it’s all a lot more fun than mediating interoffice squabbles between legal assistants or counseling a stressed-out lawyer on how to work with a pregnant staffer whose bladder sends her to the bathroom three times an hour and whose fluctuating hormones plunge her into tears every afternoon at three fifteen.

  The antique railroad clock over our front door had just struck four thirty when the door flew open so abruptly I half expected the glass to shatter.

  “Alex. What a surprise!” If he needs a special spice or runs out between deliveries, he usually calls or sends someone down. He hadn’t set foot in the shop in months.

  His burning eyes said this was not a social visit.

  He delivered his words like a crime boss in a Mafia movie. “I get that you don’t want to be lovers. But I thought we were still friends. I am a loyal customer, and I counted on your loyalty in return.”

  Understanding crept in. “Alex, I sell to half your competitors, at least. Vendor exclusivity has never been part of the deal.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s back end about exclusivity. You knew an employee I took in and trained—an employee I trusted—means to cut my throat, and you didn’t bother to say a word.”

  That was rich. The man who stood me up and lied about it protesting an insult to his honor.

  “When to tell you was Tamara’s choice,” I said, ignoring the muscle spasm in my jaw. “She had her reasons for waiting, and I’d be out of business tomorrow if I ran around spilling my customers’ secrets.”

  He leaned forward a fraction of an inch. I resisted the urge to lean back. “You knew,” he repeated, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. “And you didn’t say a word.”

  A stab of pain shot past my ear and into my skull, but I managed to keep from wincing. “When you were young and ambitious, did you tell your employers everything you were up to? Or wait until the time was right? You know Tamara. She had no intention of leaving you in the lurch. But she also didn’t need to give you time to talk her out of it.” Or to make her life miserable.

  “This isn’t about Tamara,” he said, but I refused to listen.

  “No,” I said. “It’s about you wanting to control other people. To run their lives for your convenience. Sorry, Alex. That’s not my game. I’m happy to be your spice purveyor. But I am not willing to be your spy.”

  His jaw stiffened, and his eyes hardened to marble. After a long, unblinking stare, he flung his left arm out in a “we’ll see about that” gesture. The back of his hand struck a tall treelike sculpture made of found metal objects that stood between the nook and tea cart. The Guardian, the sculptor had christened it. Dangling leaves made of silver spoons and forks struck gears and pipes, clattering like a busboy’s nightmare.

  A red scratch opened up on the back of his hand. Alex didn’t notice. Shooting me one last burning glare, he stalked out.

  “Whoa,” Sandra said. Behind her, Lynette surveyed the scene, eyes flicking from me to the door and back like a drunken mosquito. “You okay, boss?”

  How had he known?

  My eyes burned as hot as after the ghost pepper incident, and my hands curled tight. To my surprise, the cramp in my jaw let go. I had stood up for myself. I had refused to back down.

  Good girl, my inner cheerleader said.

  But how had he known?

  Sandra continued to study me, concern welling in her dark eyes. Lynette unplugged the samovar and rolled the red enameled tea cart—one of the few pieces I’d taken when I left Tag—toward the front counter to empty the day’s old tea into the big sink.

  I frowned. More than an hour left before closing. Besides, that was Zak’s job.

  Zak hadn’t returned yet from his mail run. Kristen was deep in conversation with an avid cook whose tastes run to Middle Eastern and North African cuisine.

  The mental light burst on. And I could tell by the determined way she refused to look at me that Lynette knew I knew.

  “No need to finish that, Lynette.”

  She shoved the tea cart toward the wall, and one balky wheel swiveled the wrong direction. The tower of paper cups crashed to the floor. The samovar teetered, and instinctively, Sandra reached out to grab it.

  “No,” I cried. “It’s hot.”

  Too late. The samovar tipped over and hot tea splashed out. Sandra recoiled in pain. Lynette’s mouth fell open.

  “He deserved to know,” she said, her voice thin and rushed. “He deserved to know that Tamara was planning to quit and try to take his best people with her.”

  “Leave,” I said, dashing behind the counter to turn the cold water on full blast. I steered Sandra forward, not sure how badly burned she was, and plunged her hand into the sink. “And don’t come back.”

  * * *

  SANDRA was more stunned than hurt, the palm of her right hand a pale, puffy red. Dr. Ron Locke, Reed’s father, had been tutoring me in basic homeopathy, and I insisted she take a dose of cantharis and cover the burn with calendula gel.

  “Not your fault, boss,” she said, sitting in the nook soothing on the cooling gel. In a show of sympathy, Arf rested his bearded chin on her black-clad knee.

  “She overheard my conversation with Tamara,” I said. “After the nutmeg grinder incident, she felt humiliated and decided to get back at me.” And when she realized I was onto her, she’d panicked, and Sandra had gotten in the way.

  They call that collateral damage.

  Reed mopped up the spilled tea, and he and Zak carried the samovar to the counter for closer inspection.

  “See that?” Zak pointed to a long, fine crack in the ceramic interior.

  Collateral damage can add up.

  * * *

  MOST weeks, Tuesday night is movie night. But two of the four Flick Chicks—Kristen and Laurel—had kid-related conflicts, so we’d canceled this week. I clipped on Arf’s leash, tugged the collar of my pink-and-gray jacket up around my neck to ward off the early evening mist, and grabbed my tote and market bag, carrot tops poking out.

  “Red or white, boy?” I asked my dog on the way to the wine shop in Post Alley. He did not reply. Silent is not my usual type, but it made a nice change.

  Vinny Delgado—no clue whether his mother gave him the first name or he picked it up on the job—pointed to the treat jar and, at my nod, tossed a liver chew. Arf plucked it out of the air.

  Oh, to be so easily satisfied.

  “Wild world out there, from the looks of your cute mug,” he said as I debated light reds. The old bromide “white with fish, red with red meat” doesn’t take salmon into account. Plus I drink what I like.

  “Short version, I�
��m hiring again.” I chose a Côte de Brouilly Beaujolais and handed over a twenty. A blend rather than a varietal, the classic Beaujolais is full-bodied, tannic, and fruity. According to Vinny, it had recovered nicely from the popularity-driven quality crash a few years ago. “I fired Lynette.”

  “Excellent choice. The wine, I mean. But also canning that wanna-be actress.” He gave me back more bills than he should have. “Employee discount.”

  “You don’t have any employees, Vinny.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Believe me, I know what I’m missing.”

  Have I mentioned I adore working in the Market?

  And I equally adore living downtown. All the comforts of home and no lawn to mow. Of course, my four-legged roommate enjoys a bit of green grass now and again, so we swung by Victor Steinbrueck Park on the north end of the Market before heading home to my warehouse loft.

  With my neighbors’ help, I’d revamped what they charmingly call my “outdoor space” so there’s enough room for a round black bistro table and two slim metal chairs in a vivid willow green. And a propane grill, three varieties of tomatoes, and potted herbs. My neighbors say skip the small pots in a small space—go big to make it feel bigger.

  And by golly, it works. I raised my glass toward their silent veranda. They were celebrating their anniversary with a three-week trip to Paris. “Lucky dogs,” I said out loud. Arf thumped his tail, as if in agreement.

  I reached down and scratched his chin, behind the scraggly beard. He let out a soft, contented sigh.

  After the day we’d had, we were lucky dogs indeed.

  Three

  Pluviophile: (n) a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days

  —Urban Dictionary

  “I can work an extra day,” Kristen said at our Wednesday morning staff meeting. More breathing room in the nook without Lynette. “Until school’s out.”

  “No summer classes for me this year,” Reed said. “Pile on the hours.”

  “Thanks. That’s a big help. But we need another full-timer. Eyes and ears open.”

  Sandra’s right palm sported one small Band-Aid. “A teeny, tiny blister,” she said. “Worth the price to have this place back to ourselves.”

  All heads nodded. Lynette’s departure had been eagerly awaited.

  It amazes me how much good employees will endure without a peep, to avoid creating more trouble. Sometimes, you’ve almost got to be a master of divination to understand what they’re thinking.

  Zak scraped a bit of sugar off the butcher-block tabletop with his thumbnail. He and Tory had deliberately kept their romance from me, to prove that it wouldn’t interfere with their jobs. It had, but in a good way. She’d left to pursue her art, and I was genuinely happy for them both.

  Other employees let it all hang out, setting the place on fire with their hot words. Thank goodness Lynette had lashed out at me, not them—Sandra’s blister aside.

  And if Alex Howard chose to shop elsewhere, fine.

  But the loss of the pseudo-samovar hurt. Electric versions are scarce, and I crossed my fingers that we could find another. For the short term, I’d borrowed vacuum pots from Ripe, Laurel’s deli and catering company, as we had last fall when the samovar spent a few nights in a police evidence locker.

  “Update me on the wedding registry,” I said, returning to the morning’s agenda.

  “The computer terminal should be set up this week,” Sandra replied. We’d created space along the back wall, using a repurposed entertainment center Kristen scored at a block sale on Capitol Hill. She and her family live in the house we grew up in, though it bears little resemblance to the hippie commune slash peace-and-justice center it had been in the ’70s. It’s a blast to work with women who share my love of antique and vintage, despite our wildly different tastes. Mine runs to diner style, while Sandra favors midcentury modern—the Space Age—and Kristen the Gilded Age.

  We brainstormed our contribution to the Market’s spring festival. After Tory left, I’d roped Laurel in to collaborate with Sandra and me on the spring spice blends, which we’d just shipped to our Spice of the Month Club members. A small display hugged one end of the front counter. We had ideas for future blends, and our new gift packs were selling well.

  If only we weren’t shorthanded. But being free of Lynette lightened the mental load so much that I almost didn’t mind.

  I clapped my hands playfully to signal the end of the meeting. “So, let’s have a spicy day!”

  “Pepper,” Zak said when we’d all vacated the nook. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure. I’m meeting a rep from the Historic Commission in”—I glanced at my shiny pink Kate Spade watch, the last splurge before I’d lost my law firm job—“five minutes. After that?”

  His big bald head bobbed. So serious. Must want a raise, or time off for a band tour.

  All manageable, if we were fully staffed. My young employees bring so much spirit to the job, but the trade-off is that their passions often lie elsewhere.

  Oh, for someone who loves food and retail and wants to make spice a career. A younger version of Sandra. I closed my eyes and aimed a tiny prayer at heaven.

  “The design, colors, and materials suit the age and style of the structure,” the Commission rep said ten minutes later as we stood on the cobbles of Pike Place facing my building. “It’s tasteful.”

  I smiled. The new sign—part of my effort to rebrand the shop and give it my own touch—echoed the logo the fabulous Fabiola had created last fall when I’d despaired of finding anything suitable. After a late-night brainstorm, I’d hauled my collection of ’50s glass salt and pepper shakers to her Pioneer Square studio for a dash of inspiration. The tipping saltshaker logo that resulted now adorns our recipe cards, tea boxes, and aprons.

  Never mind that salt is actually a mineral, not a spice.

  We’d sold out of coffee and tea mugs featuring the design and were waiting for a new shipment of mugs and aprons. (I got the idea to add aprons to our stock when a customer asked where she could find one. I took mine off and sold it to her.)

  “We appreciate that you’re willing to shrink it a bit, to avoid safety concerns,” he continued.

  The salmon pink stucco building sports a flat Art Deco awning in forest green. Very distinctive. Very Seattle. Regulations say signs must be mounted below the awning, but high enough that NBA players and other giants can stroll past worry-free.

  “But with no historical evidence showing an exterior lighted sign or a shaped sign, we have to reject your application. Regretfully.”

  I hate the word “no.”

  “You said yourself, it’s classic 1930s. LED, not neon, but it looks like it could have been there.” I fought to keep the pleading tone out of my voice.

  “But it wasn’t. I’m sorry, Pepper.”

  I might hate hearing “no,” but I understand the need to maintain the Market’s historical character and appearance. Without it, the soul of Seattle would be one more outdoor shopping mall. But I’d developed an almost irrational craving for a classic Art Deco neon sign in place of the usual flat wood rectangle.

  “Not your fault.” I held out my hand. The tips of his fingers brushed mine, as if shaking hands would mean acknowledging he could have fought harder for an electric sign if he’d wanted to.

  Inside the shop, Zak came up behind me. “Pepper? Is this a good time?”

  The sign. The samovar. Lynette. The wonky wiring that had sent the chandeliers blinking. Could I please hide in my office and pout? Call Fabiola and whine?

  But when an employee needs to talk, then by golly, you’ve got to talk. Or listen, which is usually what they mean.

  “My timing stinks,” he said, perched on the folding chair I keep in the corner, his big hands dangling between his knees. “Now that Lynette’s gone. But I’d already had two interviews whe
n they called me in Tuesday morning and made the offer.”

  My ears pounded like I’d been underwater and surfaced too fast.

  “It’s only assistant producer, but they train. It’s an opportunity I’ve wanted for a long time.”

  What had I just reminded myself about young employees following their passions?

  “You know what it’s like for a musician and a painter,” he continued. “Tory’s getting shows and sales, and my band works steadily, but this is a great job. One of the best recording studios in the Northwest.”

  “Can you give me two weeks?”

  He nodded, visibly relieved. The space wasn’t big enough for him to stand and fold the chair at the same time, so he backed out, then stashed the chair. “Thanks, Pepper. You’ve been a great boss. I can’t tell you how much—”

  I held up my hand. Not to stop him from expressing his feelings, but to keep me from blubbering mine.

  * * *

  THERE is no accounting for taste. On some crazy days, we crave the comfort of scrambled eggs with tomatoes and fresh chives, baked custard with a sprinkle of nutmeg, or a gratin of macaroni and cheese with herbed bread crumbs.

  On other equally difficult days, only explosions of flavor and spice will do.

  So, after a day that left me a mountainous to-do list and zero idea where to begin, I drove to Lower Queen Anne, then traipsed up First Avenue North to meet Laurel for Indian food, still wearing my Spice Shop black pants and T-shirt. I’d never eaten at Tamarind, but Tamara’s mention of it had gotten me in the mood, and Laurel said his samosas and his paneer with peas and chile-tomato sauce were classic North Indian fare.

  Next to it stood the future home of Tamarack. At the moment, the space radiated negative charm. No quirky, appealing exterior features. Not even a handwritten sign announcing the coming attraction. The black-and-white hex tiles outside the door were dirty and chipped. Brown paper covered six windows trimmed in peeling white paint. An equally blank glass door stood slightly ajar.

  Curiosity called. I pushed the door open and took a step in.