Chai Another Day Page 7

“If you’d heard more, then you’d be at risk.”

  “Only if the killer knows I was there.”

  “Just don’t let him find out. As for the bhuts, those are Seetha’s ghosts, not yours. Let her put them to rest.”

  The buzzer sounded. Nate, right on time. “Ahh. You have a visitor. Time for me to go, then.”

  I grabbed shoes and Arf’s leash. “We’ll walk out with you.” Minutes later, settled in the convertible, she looked over at Nate and me standing on the sidewalk, a knowing look on her impish face.

  “Give that man a key, Pepper,” she said, and drove off into the sunset.

  Nine

  “Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.”

  —Anonymous, probably a yoga teacher

  FISHERMEN GET UP EARLY. THEY GET OUT OF BED EARLY, TOO.

  I had a busy day ahead, in and out of the shop, so Wednesday morning Nate took Arf to the boat. Arf loves the water, the smell of fish guts, and the attention from Nate’s neighbors.

  That gave me a rare opportunity to sneak in an early morning yoga class. Who knew when I’d next get a chance to stretch and moan? And to my surprise, I’d discovered that yoga made me feel happier as well as stronger and more centered, as advertised.

  Seetha had given my left shoulder some much-needed attention last night during the movie, so I raised my arms to the sky without a hitch. Folding over, easy as peach pie. Jumping back into plank? A bit creaky, but judging by the sound effects in the room—human-made, not the electronic bells and whistles filling the airwaves—I wasn’t the only student who struggled with that particular energy flow.

  In between sun salutations, I snuck a peek at Aimee McGillvray, two mats over. When the rest of us moved from Down Dog to Plank, she stayed a pose behind, then glanced at the woman next to her and hurriedly dropped into position. Distracted, but who could blame her? I gave her credit for being here, for trying to stick to some sort of routine. For trying to reclaim a sense of calm and connection—our instructor likes to remind us that yoga means unity in Sanskrit—in the face of violence.

  For mourning her friend and employee by not falling apart.

  “This early in the day, keep your back bends gentle,” our instructor said, her bare feet making soft footfalls as she glided around the room, adjusting an arm, lightly encouraging a shoulder to drop. “From Cobra, let us slide back into Balasana.” Child’s Pose. Considered a beginner’s pose, it always makes my right knee cringe.

  Then it was time for Savasana, resting pose. Instead of stretching out, Aimee picked up her mat and slipped out.

  I did the same.

  “Good class,” I said, reaching for my shoes and keys in a cubby outside the classroom door, and she nodded, wriggling her feet into her sandals. I took a long draw from my favorite water bottle, a thank you gift from a supplier.

  “Gad, this heat,” she said as we left the building. Eighty degrees at not-quite eight a.m., a Northwesterner’s nightmare. She radiated a jangling, nervous energy at odds with everything yogic. I wanted to tell her to go back to class, to lie on her mat all day if that’s what it took.

  Instead, I touched her on the arm and we stopped, facing each other. “It’s not your fault, Aimee.”

  “You can’t say that, Pepper.” Her dark blond ponytail swung back and forth. “If I’d been there, I could have intervened. I could have stopped the argument, stopped the killer. But instead, I had to go running off.”

  This was not the Aimee I knew, the confident woman who loved pillows painted with owls and foxes, who collected odd tools from centuries past, who hung an entire wall with butterflies— painted, carved in wood, sculpted from paper or cut from tin, and botanical specimens preserved behind glass with delicate pins. The woman who’d been determined to scrub the blood off her floors so she could reopen her doors.

  “If you’d been there, Aimee, you might have been killed, too.”

  “I know, but . . .” She covered her mouth and chin with one hand.

  “I’m just as much to blame,” I said. “I heard the raised voices as I came in the building, though not clearly. If I’d opened the door, I might have saved her.” The truth tumbled out of me.

  “What a pair we are,” she said, and we stopped at the curb to wait for the light. “I don’t blame Seetha for moving out for a few days. Me, I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  “Don’t you have a brother? Could you stay with him?” Even in profile, I could see her brows dart together. Apparently not.

  “You seem to know Detective Tracy fairly well,” she said, changing the subject. “Is he as grumpy as he seems?”

  I let out a half-laugh. The light changed. “Yeah. But he’s a good cop. Your shop is so much fun, and obviously makes you happy. I’m curious why you didn’t open one years ago.”

  “Inertia, I suppose. I enjoyed working with Steen, demanding as he was. He taught me a lot. So did Joelle.”

  “Tracy thought the Asian stuff she brought in clashed with the rest of your merchandise.”

  “Well, she wasn’t bringing in Ming vases or other museum pieces. Personally, I think Asian furniture and artwork go nicely with Americana. A lot of Seattleites like to add a hint of the Orient to their decor—those netsuke came in last week and they’re flying out the door.” She moved her hands in a tying motion. “You know, the Japanese ornaments used to hang items from an obi, the belt of a kimono.”

  We passed the Italian restaurant. Dark, but for a bluish light eking out from the kitchen. “You said Brandon Logan borrowed money to finance his business?”

  “He and his wife, Jasmine. We all worked together,” she said. “I told Detective Tracy about the will, like you suggested.”

  Good. That meant I didn’t have to. “Is their place the one up on Capitol Hill? Near the bookstore? Great stuff.”

  “That’s it. Modern Craftsman style. Gorgeous work, but pricey.”

  “Meaning he’s not on track to meet the challenge?”

  Aimee wagged her head in an “I don’t know” gesture. “I do know they let Melissa go, and she was pretty upset. But employees are expensive. That’s why I held off as long as I could and only hired Joelle part-time.”

  “Melissa? You mentioned her yesterday, but I don’t know her.”

  “Melissa Kwan. Another interior designer who worked for Steen.”

  An image of a slender, ethereal woman in black formed in my mind’s eye. I remembered her drifting around Pacific Imports, touching this, gazing at that. We’d never spoken.

  “I get the impression Detective Tracy thinks I killed Joelle,” Aimee said. “An argument over the shop, or her pay. But if I was unhappy with her, I’d fire her. I wouldn’t kill her.”

  “Heat of the moment,” I said. “Look, you can’t tell what Tracy thinks by what he says or the questions he asks. Some cops get one idea and go with it. The good ones are what HR pros and psychologists call lateral thinkers, who consider every possibility. Who would have known Joelle came in to work on Monday? Your brother?”

  She threw me a startled expression. “Tony does odd jobs for me, but he doesn’t work here.”

  Much as Seetha had said. “Okay. Did Justin know her plans for the day? More to the point, could he have killed her? I mean, they lost everything because of what he did, and I wouldn’t blame her for blaming him. Maybe the tensions got to be too much.”

  “I wondered, too,” Aimee replied, “but I heard he claims he was in his office all day.”

  We’d reached her building, and I got the feeling she was eager to get away from me. I’d touched a nerve.

  Enough talk. I had a shop to run.

  WHETHER you’ve got two employees or two hundred, it’s deeply satisfying to gaze upon the faces of your staff, gathered in one place.

  At least when things are going well.

  And things were going well.

  Sandra settled into the nook and reached for a piece of the chai-spiced coffee cake I’d picked up on my mad dash through the Marke
t.

  “I ran the inventory on our blends yesterday.” I handed her a list. “You and I need to schedule some time in the kitchen.”

  Zebra-striped glasses low on her nose, she perused the list. “Might be time to get some help.” She tilted her head toward Cayenne.

  “What about that, Cayenne?” I said. After culinary school, she’d worked in restaurants for a few years. Social as she was, I couldn’t imagine her confined to the space in front of a stove for hours at a time, saying nothing more than “yes, chef,”

  “no, chef,” and “firing table two.”

  Though there was no denying that her sparkling personality had dulled a bit lately.

  She glanced up, not following the conversation. “Ready to give us a hand with mixing blends and packing the big orders?” I asked.

  Mixing isn’t as simple as following a formula. Take our herbes de Provence, for example. Our blend includes lavender. Provençal lavender from the south of France differs from lavender grown on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. The crop from one field might be sharper and less overtly floral than the same strain grown across the valley. Like wine grapes, spices have their own terroir, a unique flavor shaped by soil and climate. I’d developed a decent nose and tongue, but relied heavily on Sandra’s more experienced palate. If the lavender is strong, do we cut it, or balance it with more basil? If the sage is too sagey, do we try another source? Our job is to give the customer the same flavor experience from each purchase, whether she’s a home cook or a four-star chef.

  In other words, spice blending is an art. I thought Cayenne had the makings of a good mixologist. But the prospect didn’t seem to thrill her.

  “Evenings, right?” she said, hesitant.

  “This time of year, yes. When it’s this busy, we need all hands in the shop. Same number of hours, a small increase in pay.” I’d worked hard to meet Seattle’s incremental minimum wage hikes well before they took effect, but it is retail. No one’s getting rich working by the hour, no matter what they’re selling.

  She’d gathered her maroon-streaked black hair in a topknot, the bouncy curls spilling out like bubbles as she tilted her head, then nodded. “Yeah. Good. I’d like to do it.”

  “Okay,” I said, not quite convinced. Something was going on.

  We went around the table comparing notes from the past week. Literally—each staffer carries a small notebook in her or his apron pocket and jots down special requests, complaints, and other do-dah. Did three customers ask about a product we advertised in a local magazine, or ten? Are the two-ounce tins a pain to open, the small print on our labels too small? The staff do the hard work of fielding requests and complaints. Giving them a chance to help solve those problems keeps them invested.

  And that makes us successful.

  “So here’s a new one for you,” I said when everyone had reported in. They hadn’t all heard about the proposal-proposal.

  “Ohmygosh, that is so sweet,” Kristen gushed. Sandra smirked. “Well, how did Mr. Right propose to you?”

  “He didn’t,” Sandra said. “I popped the question to him.”

  Figured. Sandra’s Mr. Right was aptly nicknamed, and they adore each other.

  “Will they let us shoot video?” Reed said. “It could go viral.”

  “He said yes, but we’ll need photo releases,” I replied. “Kristen, can Eric give us a form?”

  “Sure.” She began texting her husband, who handles what little legal work the shop needs.

  The timer on the electric samovar went off, and Matt slid out of the booth to tend to the tea. He stops at the fishmongers on his way in every morning to buy fresh ice. Reed had the day off, so he bid farewell, unlocking the door and flipping the sign to OPEN on his way out.

  “Mission accomplished,” Kristen said as she slid out of the nook. “Time to unpack the new books.” Together, she and I choose most of the cookbooks, chef lit, and food memoir. We’d added food fiction, heavy on the mysteries, and I was eager to see what was new. Of course, I hadn’t been reading much the last few days.

  I smiled at the thought, and hoped Nate and Arf were enjoying themselves at Fisherman’s Terminal.

  “Cayenne, a moment?” I reached out a hand and she sat back down. I clicked open the calendar on my phone. “You and I could run down to the warehouse Thursday afternoon and get you oriented. I can’t do evenings this week.” Not until after Nate left.

  “Thursday?” Her winged eyeliner made her eyes look huge. She swallowed hard, then spoke again. “Actually, I need some time off Thursday afternoon. I was hoping Reed could fill in for me.”

  I glanced at the door instinctively. “Pooh. He just left.”

  “I already asked him. He said yes, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Sure.” I hesitated before continuing. “Cayenne, is everything all right? Your grandfather . . .?” Arf and I had become good friends with the elderly widower, Louis Adams, earlier this summer. He suffered a few residual effects of injuries I blamed myself for, and Cayenne, her mother, and her sister took turns helping him out.

  “No, he’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “Good. Good. Tell him I’ll drop by for a visit soon. On another note, you and Matt have been here about three months now, and he’s asked for a review.” I scrolled through my calendar. “We scheduled his for Thursday. How about doing yours next Monday?”

  Her skin went ashen, and I noticed that she’d skipped her usual coral lipstick. A paler version of herself. “Cayenne, is there something you need to tell me?”

  Her jaw tightened, her teeth clenched. “Pepper, look. I know I seem like an open book because I’m friendly and I talk a lot. You’re a great boss, and I appreciate your concern. But except when I drop things—and I’m being super careful—my health isn’t any of your business.” She bit her lip. “Can I get back to work?”

  I hadn’t uttered a peep about her health. I’d noticed the slight stumbles, the moments when she waved a hand over one eye as if to wipe away a cloud, or a ghost. The dropped jars, which were my business. But I hadn’t said a thing.

  “Sure,” I replied, and she slid out of the nook and rushed to the other side of the shop. I watched her go, thinking.

  At the law firm, I’d dealt with all manner of family and personal leave. Where it gets tricky is a serious illness that takes an employee out of commission for weeks, or longer. Then you ask for detailed info, including medical records, to verify the situation. Big employers can cover the hours easily—at the law firm, we’d had floaters who moved around, filling in, and we’d had plenty of work for them.

  In a small outfit like the Spice Shop, though, picking up the slack can be a challenge, especially during busy periods. We could probably manage—Reed wanted all the hours he could get until classes started, and Kristen would have more time when her girls went back to school.

  But at this point, I had no idea what was up, let alone how we’d deal with it.

  Sandra slid in across from me. “Hey, boss. I started playing with a spice blend for tea last night. It’s simple enough—a question of how much of a bite you want, and whether to sweeten or not.”

  “Decent bite, no sugar,” I said. Sweet has its place, but not in everything.

  “Thought so. And your two-blend concept sounds like a winner. We’ll give tentative cooks a few ideas and more experienced cooks flexibility.”

  Once you start practicing yoga, you see its lessons everywhere. That was the only thought that kept me from asking Sandra if Cayenne had said anything about her health. The sutras preach detachment. Patience is easy if you’re not concerned about the outcome.

  Sandra headed up front to help Matt with a large order. I reached for my recipe planner, half notebook, half sketchbook. Chai spice would be our lead blend for fall. Pumpkin pie spice is a perennial favorite; between Halloween and New Year’s, we sell pounds of the stuff. What else? Highlight our za’atar, so good in soups and on grilled bread? Or a curry?

  The mere thought of curr
y made me break out in a sweat. Much as I enjoy making hay while the sun shines, fall couldn’t come soon enough.

  I looked down at the unlined page. Instead of a list of spices and combos, I’d made a list of people connected to Joelle’s death. Aimee. Justin, Joelle’s husband.

  Steen Jorgenson, former employer, but he was dead, too. His bequest linked him to Aimee, but how could that relate to Joelle?

  Brandon and Jasmine Logan and Melissa Kwan, who’d all worked at the import shop. Any other co-workers? Former customers, vendors, or competitors?

  Joelle had been stabbed. Where had the knife come from, and where had it gone? I’d downplayed the risk of a pocketknife in my conversation with Seetha, but Tag had told me plenty about street fights that turned deadly when a blade appeared.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised, a few years back, if someone had come after Justin. As far as I knew, his role in the drug company’s misdeeds had only been to hide evidence of harm they’d caused— evidence that a cancer drug wasn’t the panacea they claimed. Still, that didn’t mean the thirst for justice had been fully quenched.

  While his actions had helped bring the firm down and cost people their jobs and security, no one would kill over that, would they?

  Don’t be naïve, I told myself. People will kill over stray looks and cigarette butts.

  But none of my theorizing explained why anyone would kill Joelle.

  My cell phone buzzed, and I dug it out of my pocket. My staff don’t carry personal phones on the shop floor, except Kristen, who has young teens at home, but I give myself a pass. It was Seetha.

  “Hey, what’s up? Change your mind about begging your mom for her chai recipe?”

  “Pepper, I saw him.” Her voice was low, almost husky, as though she feared being overheard.

  “Saw who?” I said, sliding out of the nook and taking the phone to my office. “The man who accosted you?”

  “I was walking up the hill to the yoga studio, and the bus pulled up and he got off. I don’t think he saw me, but I watched him. Pepper, I watched him walk down Eastlake, right past my building.”