[SS01] Assault and Pepper Page 4

  I faced my ex squarely. “But why the police, for an old man’s heart attack?”

  Eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses, he shrugged one shoulder. “Control the crowd. Preserve the scene. Do whatever these guys need.” He cocked his helmeted head toward the EMTs. One knelt by the body, repacking a box of equipment, while the others unloaded a gurney.

  I glanced at the group gathered around Olerud. Misty, the baker, talked with her hands, but I couldn’t read her lips or fingers. Yvonne looked gray and weary, as always. Talk was, she’d had a hard life. Health problems and a divorce from her mechanic husband, before I knew her. The orchard girls, Angie and Sylvie Martinez, wrapped their arms around each other and concentrated on the good-looking officer. The new manager of the cheese shop—his name escaped me—folded his arms across his chest, brows furrowed. Behind him, the nurse listened attentively.

  “What I don’t get,” I said, “is how he got my tea. We don’t open for”—I peered at my Bazooka pink Kate Spade watch, one of my last splurges before losing my comfy salary—“oh, pooh. I should have been inside half an hour ago. Where are my keys?” I slid my bag off my shoulder and rummaged inside. They must have gotten tossed back into the depths when I saw Doc. I glanced reflexively at his body, still stretched out on my sidewalk, the EMTs standing guard. What were they waiting for?

  “There they are.” My key ring—silver-plated with OFF WE GO! engraved on the fob, a birthday gift from my law firm boss, made ironic when we all got fired a few weeks later—lay on the ground next to the body. I took a step forward. Tag’s arm shot out and blocked me. I looked up, stunned. Behind him, an unmarked car inched down the cobbled hill and stopped at an angle, blocking the road. A white woman about my age, in a stylish but practical black pantsuit, climbed out the driver’s side and picked her way down the slope. Detective Cheryl Spencer probably had a closet full of nearly identical black suits. Her partner, Detective Michael Tracy, got out on the passenger side.

  The light sweat I’d worked up on my jaunt up the Market steps froze on my skin. In my years of marriage to a Seattle police officer, I’d met hundreds of officers and detectives. This long-running duo had racked up a great record, despite their contrasts—the tall slender blonde and her black male partner, inches shorter and verging on stocky. They’d heard the jokes about their last names, and no, they didn’t think it was funny.

  Homicide cops are like that.

  Tag’s attention shifted to Pike Place, where the black CSI van had parked. A woman waved in acknowledgment, then helped her partner unload their gear. A white van marked KING COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER arrived. A man got out and suited up.

  “You think this is a crime scene.” I glared at Tag in anger and disbelief. “On my doorstep.”

  He glared right back in his “Don’t question my authority” mode.

  “This is my shop.” I pointed at the door, my voice rising. “I must have dropped my keys when I checked on him. I’m going in and you are not stopping me.”

  “Pepper,” Tag said. He’d dropped his arm, but not the controlling tone. “We can’t touch anything, even your keys. We have to treat it as a crime scene until we know what happened. Any suspicious death, we do that. You want to know what happened, don’t you?”

  I let out a sharp breath, not meeting his eyes. It was protocol, not distrust. Still, I hated that he was right.

  “If you don’t let me have my keys, how am I supposed to get in?” I also hated that he brings out my whiney side.

  “Looks like someone’s already in.” Detective Spencer peered through the front windows, shaded by deep soffits, still the original forest green. I followed her gaze toward the mixing corner and the silhouette of a seated figure.

  “Nice to see you again, Pepper. Sorry about the circumstances,” the detective said, holding out her hand.

  I took it, nodding. “I’m always the first one here. From this angle, I can’t tell who that is.”

  “And knowing you,” Tag said, “no spare key.”

  “In the loft,” I said, tired of the constant tug-of-war between us. “That I can’t get into without my keys.” The spare loft key was in the shop. “Hold on.” I rummaged in my bag and yanked out my phone.

  Spencer approved my plan, so I called inside and asked the early arrival to meet me at the side door, on Pine Street, but as the detective instructed, not to step outside or touch the door frame or exterior. As we headed up the hill, the EMTs slid Doc’s body onto the gurney. His coat flopped open and a dark lump of cloth fell onto the sidewalk. Both Spencer and Tracy stepped forward for a closer inspection.

  But I didn’t need to. I’d seen it, on this very corner.

  Sam’s black beret.

  • • •

  SPENCER was going to want to know why Tory was in the shop so early. I admit, I was mighty curious, too.

  The detective had not been in the shop before, at least not during my shifts. I pointed out the key features, including our private restroom and tiny back office. She strolled the aisles, hands clasped behind her, head tilted slightly, as though examining specimens in a curious museum. In profile, her otherwise straight nose bore a slight bump, as if once broken.

  I leaned against a double-sided bookcase—we’d nearly quadrupled our cookbook and reference offerings since I took over—and watched. After opening the door for us and being introduced, Tory had returned to the mixing nook. She sat on one of the built-in benches, head back, eyes closed. She did not respond visibly to the news of Doc’s death. She was too old to be my daughter, but my heart longed to reach out and my arms ached to embrace her in what Kristen calls “Universal Mother Mode.”

  Spencer stopped at the tea cart. Both the samovar and insulated iced tea jug were empty. First thing every morning, I start the day’s tea. I glanced at the wall clock. No point getting anxious—no chance of opening on time today.

  Through the glass in the front door, I caught a glimpse of Tag stretching yellow tape around our entrance. My gut cramped and I hoped hoped hoped it said CAUTION or DO NOT ENTER, and not CRIME SCENE.

  Nearly six feet in her low-heeled black shoes, her blond bob falling slightly forward, and her hands still clasped behind her back, Spencer continued to study our tea cart.

  What about that cup of tea Doc had been clutching? Had there been spilled tea on the ground? Or had he been bringing an empty cup back for a refill? That made no sense. I closed my eyes, remembering. Had I given him one yesterday? I didn’t think so—no chill on the morning. I couldn’t picture a cup in his hand during the spat with Sam, or when he’d been following Tory to the bus stop.

  Sam. I’d think about him later.

  Had Doc shoved an empty cup in the pockets of his oversized raincoat? But why? We never begrudge a paper cup. Customers who pick up a sample while wandering the store often take a refresher before leaving, but no one brings them back for refills later.

  Detective Spencer turned to me. “What do you call this thing? There’s a word.”

  “Samovar. The real thing is Russian, runs on coal. This one’s electric. More like a big coffee urn than a true samovar.”

  “Ah. Like at that old Russian tea shop. Miss that place. They served those little turnovers—what are they called?”

  “Piroshky. You can get really good ones up the street.” That reminded me of the blueberry muffin I’d bought on the way here and no doubt dropped alongside my keys. Pigeon food by now.

  “But they don’t serve that beet soup.” She wiggled her fingers as if to summon the name. “Borscht. You ever make that?”

  Cut the chitchat, Cheryl, I wanted to say but didn’t. She didn’t care about my cooking. She wanted to put me at ease, get me talking, by pretending we were old friends.

  “So where do you make the tea?” she asked.

  I pointed to the big double sinks in the corner, behind the front counter. Directions are a bit ske
wed along Pike Place, so it’s hard to say north or west with any precision. The front counters do double duty as display cases. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the side walls, crammed with jars of tea and spices. In the center of the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier I found in the antiques store in my loft building and a pair of Indian silver chandeliers from the import shop Down Under, the name given to the Market’s lower level. The effect is internationally eclectic, and pretty cool, if I do say so myself. A beam of sunlight shining through a clerestory window struck a crystal and sent shots of color dancing around the glass-filled shop.

  “Every morning?” she asked.

  “Except on my days off. Then whoever’s running the shop that day, usually Sandra Piniella, makes it.”

  “And are the pots empty by the end of the day?”

  She could reach out and touch one. But I knew from living with Tag that cop training is better than any grandmother for teaching you to keep your hands in your pockets. Of course, that hadn’t kept him from putting his hands in other places they didn’t belong.

  “If they aren’t empty by closing, we dump them out. See for yourself. They’re empty now.”

  “So how,” she said, “did he get one of your teacups if you weren’t open and hadn’t made tea yet?”

  “Not a clue. He had a heart attack, right? Or some other illness?” Market residents are mostly low-income and have clinic access, but they don’t all use it. And it’s a shameful fact that the street people, homeless or not, often die from treatable conditions.

  “Probably. But until that’s established, we have to investigate.”

  What Tag had said. Spencer looked into the mixing nook. “Any idea how he got the tea?”

  Tory opened her eyes slowly, as if she felt Spencer’s attention shift to her. Her golden brown eyes reflected the light as she returned the detective’s gaze with a slow shake of her head. “No.”

  “When did you get here?” Spencer asked. “And which door did you use?”

  “Seven o’clock. Front door.”

  An hour before my usual arrival, and an hour and a half before her scheduled time. She could have made tea for him, in the microwave in the back office. But after he’d harassed her last night, I doubted she’d have taken any pity on him. And why would a beggar be on the streets before the crowds?

  I opened my mouth, but Spencer spoke first. “Did you see him milling around when you got here, or spot him through the front door?”

  A silence, followed by another “no.”

  Spencer gestured toward the table where Tory sat. “What are you working on that brought you in so early?”

  “Sketches.”

  That caught me by surprise. I had never seen Tory drawing in here. A sketchbook lay open on the nook table, an artist’s pen beside it.

  Reaching over the pony wall, Spencer muttered a quick “May I?” and picked up the book without waiting for an answer. She studied the drawing in progress, then flipped back through more pages covered with black lines forming squares and rectangles, patterns both familiar and unrecognizable.

  “I’m not getting it,” Spencer finally said. “Explain, please.”

  A spark flashed across Tory’s face. “They’re studies. For a series of paintings.” She glanced at me, as if uncertain of my response. “Of the shop.”

  Both Spencer and I looked again. This time I got it. Abstract oils, I surmised, recalling the slight odor that sometimes clung to Tory. With all the colors and shapes in the shop, and the ever-changing light, it was a natural subject.

  And I had never known.

  Spencer laid the sketchbook on the table. “Good luck with it. Pepper, you’ll need to use your back door for customers until CSI finishes out front.”

  “How long will that take? And you’ll let me know when you figure out what happened?”

  “Sure,” she said, answering my second question first and waving her hand as she headed for the exit. “My guess, they’ll wrap up by late morning, maybe noon.”

  Fat chance, I thought. Everything official takes longer than it should. The medical examiner would conclude Doc died from natural causes but no one would bother to tell us. Spencer and Tracy would be on to something else by then, reducing Doc to a leaf on the Tree of Life in the park, the sculpture honoring the men and women who had lived and died on the city’s streets.

  I followed Spencer up the short flight of steps to the back door and outside. A white-suited CSI detective—I knew their rank, from Tag—was packing a case by the door, the frame now filthy with fingerprint powder.

  “Thanks again, Pepper.” Spencer and I shook hands a second time, so very businesslike.

  They walked down the hill, the CSI guy to his van and Spencer to chat with Tracy. The ambulance and ME van had left. No sign of Tag or Olerud, or my Market neighbors. Delivery trucks had resumed their routes on Pike Place. The sounds of engines idling and hand trucks squeaking up and down curbs rivaled the squawks of pigeons and gulls. A trio of young women in Crayola-bright dresses crossed Pine, nibbling croissants, sipping iced coffee, and chatting. They detoured around the CSI officers without missing a beat.

  Just another day in the life.

  Five

  The use of perfumed oils, or a blend of cassis and cinnamon, to prepare a body for burial dates back millennia. The practice slowed bacterial decomposition, but made the spices more costly.

  After buying the shop, I took a business training class the PDA—the Pike Place Market Preservation and Development Authority—held for tenants. It covered a lot of ground. But no amount of planning prepares you to find a dead body on your doorstep.

  Had you asked me yesterday, I’d have said that after thirteen years as a cop’s wife, nothing would rattle me. Early in our marriage, I’d listened patiently while Tag shared graphic details of his encounters with the worst of man’s—and nature’s—inhumanity to man, until finally realizing that talk might be good therapy for him, but if I ever wanted to sleep through the night again, he ought to talk to someone else. He agreed—his caddishness emerged later—but even so, there were times when the job followed him home and weaseled its way into our dinner conversation.

  So when I closed the door behind Spencer and went to help Tory fill the samovar, I was startled to see my hands shake.

  I measured out our custom tea blend before speaking. “Why didn’t you want the detective to know that Doc followed you to the bus stop yesterday?”

  Watching Tory’s face was like watching grass get longer. You know something is happening, though you can’t actually see the change.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, making a decision. But she did know, and she knew I knew. Not that I’m a mind reader, but when I was the staff HR rep at the law firm, half the women I worked with didn’t want to tell me what was bothering them while the other half couldn’t wait to recite every excruciating detail. The trick was to get the first half to trust me enough to talk, and the others to trust me enough to shut up.

  It’s a rare woman who doesn’t open up to her employer once in a while, but in nearly a year, Tory and I had never had a truly personal conversation, let alone an intimate one.

  And the polite firmness in her low, calm voice said the door to having one now was closed.

  A knock on the front window distracted me: Sandra trying to get my attention. I gestured to the side door and wiped my hands on my apron.

  Sandra was puffing her way up the hill when I stepped outside, bracing the door with my foot and raising my face to the sun. This promised to be an un-Septemberly warm day.

  “First I ask my aging knees to carry me down the hill. Then I ask them to carry me up. What the heck, they’re asking me, and not so nicely, is going on?”

  Zak cruised in behind her, so I filled them in together, repeating the story for Kristen a few minutes later. I left out the part about
seeing Doc follow Tory, since I wasn’t sure it meant anything.

  “I wonder what his story was,” Sandra said. Her dark eyes dampened, seeming even larger than usual. “Who’s missing him.” It isn’t uncommon for relatives of the lost or missing to circulate through the Market, pictures in hand, searching. Reunions are rare. Some folks don’t want to be found.

  Zak said nothing, but I spotted him giving Tory a surreptitious glance. What, I wondered, as I had yesterday, is up between them?

  Ten minutes later, we opened for business, the first batch of tea chilling and the second abrew. I washed the fingerprint powder off the door and frame, glad to be wearing black—one drop of water and the stuff turns to India ink. Zak wrestled a petunia-filled concrete urn he borrowed from the Inn up the hill into place as a doorstop, and we welcomed our first customers.

  And told “the story” for the first of many times. “An elderly man seems to have taken shelter in our doorway and had a heart attack. The police want to make sure they haven’t overlooked anything.” My version might not have been entirely true, but it wasn’t untrue. And one thing an HR professional learns quickly is that not everyone needs to know everything. Tell them enough to satisfy their curiosity so they can get back to work.

  And shopping.

  After the first few customers panted in the side door—their complaints good-natured, but still complaints—I stifled the urge to call the police and demand our front door back. Calling would not make it happen any faster, and would only give Tag another reason to swing by and play Tough Cop.

  Instead, I thanked each customer for making the extra effort to visit us and offered a small bag of cinnamon sticks, on the house. I rattled off our story in a kind-but-reassuring tone, and asked how we could help them. In a few minutes, the staff had the patter down and we stumbled back into the groove. Our tea scented the air, along with whiffs of ginger, curry, dill—whatever the customer ordered.