Chai Another Day Page 8

  “Did he stop, or look up at your window?” Her name was on the buzzer pad, but you had to go in the tiny vestibule to see it.

  “No. No, he just walked on by, as if nothing was going on,” she replied.

  “Well, maybe nothing is. I mean, he knows you live or work in the area, but not where.” I closed my office door and sat.

  “Yeah,” she said, not persuaded. “And it’s one thing to yell at someone, another thing to stalk them.”

  She agreed to call the police if she saw him again, and we hung up.

  What else could she do to protect herself? I needed a professional opinion.

  I sped through the shop and out on to Pike Place, looking for a man on a bike. Tag drives me nuts at times, but nabbing him made more sense than Seetha calling 911 on a man who wasn’t there.

  At the corner of Pike Place and Pine, a few feet from our door, I looked every which way, seeing only the crowded sidewalks that should have made me jump for joy.

  Blast the man. Always around when I didn’t need him, never when I did.

  Ten

  When the clouds part to reveal Mount Rainier, the live volcano that dominates the skyline around Puget Sound, locals greet each other with the cry: “The mountain is out! The mountain is out!”

  IF WAS GOING TO MEET MY MOTHER AT THE APPOINTED hour, I had to get a move on. Back in the shop, I hung up my apron, tossed my phone into my tote, and told the staff I’d be out for a couple of hours.

  As I hiked up Pine to the bus stop on First, my brain puzzled over the unanswered questions: What was up with Cayenne? How could I best help Seetha?

  And who killed Joelle?

  Strictly speaking, the murder wasn’t my business. But I’d spoken the unwitting truth to Aimee after class. Gad, had that just been this morning? I’d been napping while a woman was dying. If I’d intervened when I heard the argument, stuck my head in and called “Hello?” I might have changed the mood enough to change the outcome.

  Enough to save a life? And change the effect on two friends?

  I would never know. And that would haunt me for a good long while.

  I hopped on the Number 13, bound for my old stomping grounds. Hard to believe my parents were seriously considering moving into a modern-day commune in one of Seattle’s hippest and densest neighborhoods, though they planned to keep wintering in Costa Rica. My father, Chuck, had gone south a few weeks ago, taking Kristen’s dad with him, but my mother hadn’t been ready to go—enjoying the city too much, she’d said. She’d have to come back next winter to testify in a murder trial, unless the killer pled out first, and Dad would come with her then. Plus they love hanging with my brother’s kids. So a city place made sense.

  But hadn’t they had enough of communal living way back when?

  The bus crossed the freeway and chugged up Madison to First Hill, the hospital district. I got off near Seattle University, the Jesuit college where both my brother and I had gone. Boy, had that campus changed. To my mother’s consternation, I’d dropped out halfway through junior year, well short of a degree in business with a minor in psychology. I hadn’t known what I wanted to do, and pursuing the degree seemed like a pointless expense at the time. Now I knew how stupid I’d been. I’d blundered into the right field and the right jobs, and had considered going back to finish the degree, but with a demanding day job and a husband on shift work, I’d talked myself out of it. Not my only regret.

  A century and a half ago, the founding fathers’ conflicting goals and personalities had triggered a clash over the fledgling city’s layout, so Pioneer Square is oriented one way and downtown another. On Capitol Hill, the city planners had played at an urban grid, but the concept is breached as often as it’s honored—Madison cuts through at an angle, creating odd, triangular lots, and other streets jog around a park or wind through a ravine.

  When I crossed Olive, I spotted my mother standing outside a handsome four-story, the walls shades of gray splashed with lemon yellow. What used to be there? I ask myself that a lot in Seattle these days, but couldn’t dredge up the answer.

  We kissed each other’s cheeks. “Cute look,” I said, taking in her flouncy blue cotton skirt and embroidered white peasant blouse, a blue ribbon threaded through the neckline and tied in front. “How did you find this place?”

  “Heard about it at the pottery studio.” She checked her watch. My niece teases her about wearing such an old-fashioned thing, but she says one, she is old-fashioned, and two, they’re coming back. Not that she cares what’s trendy—she’s still a hippie at heart.

  And she isn’t a potter. She isn’t an artist at all, except perhaps at the art of life. But after we unexpectedly came into possession of two kilns and a studio’s worth of potter’s tools and equipment, she’d become the patron of an art studio located in an old brick bathhouse in a city park, and she set up a kids’ clay school. So typical of her.

  The door opened and a woman about my age with curly dark hair smiled at us both, then her attention settled on my mother and she held out a hand. “Lena. So nice to meet you.” She gestured and moments later we stood in an open courtyard, gazing up. Each apartment opened to a wide walkway, well guarded by stylish white rails. The yellow walls would be a welcome dose of sunshine in Seattle’s cloudy months—basically September to May—and the interior landscaping softened the stone and concrete. At least, I thought it was concrete. As our guide chattered about optimization of energy and water use, integration strategies, not to mention the inter-generational community, neighborhood partnerships, and monthly values workshops, I lost track of the details. Suffice to say, it was super cool and pushed all the right buttons for my mother.

  “And this is our rooftop farm,” our guide said after we’d toured the one available apartment, a two-bedroom on the third floor, and climbed the last flight of steps. My mother made a slow pirouette and clapped her hands in delight. The garden was amazing, a full-scale organic spread—farm might be overstating it a bit—with views stretching from downtown to the Space Needle. Bird song drowned out the street noise below. The whole enterprise was impressive.

  And no on-site parking. Maybe I could keep custody of the Mustang after all.

  I snapped off a sprig of mint. Gave it a good sniff and a taste. Nice.

  I trailed the two women around the garden as they discussed the application process and the practical details of nine families, ranging in age from a newborn to a retired couple in their eighties, sharing a four-level urban homestead on forty-five hundred square feet. The greenery reminded me of Aimee’s window boxes, and I hoped her herbs and flowers weren’t suffering—this heat was bad enough, but add in a gardener distracted by tragedy and the result could be some mighty sad plants.

  If Aimee lost the business, or decided to close, the neighborhood would suffer. In my opinion, a mix of retail and restaurants is good for a neighborhood. They—pardon the pun—feed each other. Would Seetha stay put, if her neighbor-turned-friend closed shop and moved?

  A few minutes later, we thanked our guide and walked out the front door into a wall of heat.

  “Oddfellows?” my mother asked me, not a comment on the tour but a lunch suggestion.

  “Sure. Then let’s pop into the bookstore and see what’s new.” The Spice Shop’s shelves satisfy most of my literary cravings, but I do patronize other booksellers from time to time. And I would have plenty of time to read when Nate left.

  We passed Cal Anderson Park, a few late lunchers on the grass, the track around the reservoir deserted. ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” blared through the open windows of a parked car, and I knew it would stick in my brain until something better—or worse—came along.

  “What do you think, sweetheart?” my mother asked.

  “I like it. What does Dad think about taking another stab at group living?”

  Her sigh said more than words would have. Opposites may attract, but they also have to work at balancing each other’s needs and differences. I’d inherited a good dose of my moth
er’s extroversion, but every now and then, a streak of my dad’s need for alone time asserts itself, and I hop a ferry or take a drive up the coast. That’s one reason I enjoy my stints in our commercial kitchen— they give me a break from the constant interactions that come with retail. Unlike humans, cinnamon and cloves never try my patience.

  My parents were a good model, held together by a deep love as well as their commitment to activism and social justice. Could Nate and I forge a similar bond? Was he “the one”? My mother always said she “just knew,” when the tall Vietnam vet plucked her, a tie-dyed-in-the-wool hippie chick, out of the path of an oncoming truck as fifteen thousand students and other anti-war protestors marched down I-5 to City Hall.

  But then, I’d once thought I “just knew” Tag and I were meant to be together, too.

  “What’s this?” my mother said, and we stopped in front of a building left over from the neighborhood’s past serving the trades. How had it survived all these years, in a prime corner location with no architectural features to save it?

  “Detour, Mom.” I took her arm and steered her toward the entrance. A white van drove by and pulled in behind the building.

  Brandon Logan’s showroom wasn’t large, though the windows and high ceilings gave it an airy feel that suited the clean lines of his handcrafted furniture. A few of the blown glass pieces so common in the region, influenced by Chihuly and his Pilchuk Glass School, sat on tables or hung from the ceiling. An abstract metal sculpture—brushed aluminum?—filled the wall behind the front counter.

  I ran my hand across a walnut tabletop, the joinery seamless, the surface smooth as butter.

  A door on the far end of the showroom opened. I heard the buzz of a sander and glimpsed the workshop beyond. A whiff of sawdust struck my nostrils.

  “Pepper!” A familiar blonde in a belted denim dress, Roman sandals tied around her calves, called my name. The door slammed behind her. “What brings you here?”

  “In the neighborhood. A little shopping, a little lunch.” I turned to introduce my mother, who looked up from the oak sideboard she was inspecting. Jasmine Logan crossed the floor, a stained concrete that played up the building’s industrial past.

  “I always told Pepper if I needed a job,” Jasmine said, taking Lena’s hand, “I’d call her—I’ve got the right name.”

  “Your place looks great. But do call if you need spices.” I fished for a card and handed it to her.

  “Oh, gosh, cute,” she said, then tossed it on the front counter, a fetching cherry piece. “Hard to believe this is really ours. My husband has dreamed of his own shop for years. He’s a brilliant craftsman, but he leaves the business side to me, thank goodness.”

  “You must be devastated by Joelle’s death,” I said.

  She dropped her chin, swallowing hard, then brushed back her highlighted hair, glossy pink lips clamped together. “I miss her already. She had a fire for design. And poor Aimee—I can’t imagine.”

  “Had you known her long?” my mother asked.

  “Oh, ages. Steen hired us at about the same time. That’s where I met Brandon and married into the family.” A wry smile flitted across her face, then disappeared.

  “Close as you all were,” I said, “I guess it made sense when Joelle went to work for Aimee.”

  “Yes and no,” Jasmine replied. “Aimee was finally following her passion. But women who collect 1950s kitchen gear or who are on a mission to find the Barbie skating costume their mother threw away don’t hire designers. They plan their own spaces.”

  As Aimee’s ideal customer, except for the Barbie doll fetish, I wasn’t sure if Jasmine’s comment was a compliment or a barb. But then, she hadn’t seen my loft.

  Jasmine’s observation made me wonder if Joelle had another reason for working for Aimee. Besides needing a job.

  “And Melissa came to work for you?” I asked.

  “For a while. I’m a mother, too, and of course, your kids come first, but—well, we had to be practical.” Jasmine tightened her lips, then extended an arm and started talking about the furniture, designed and built on the premises by Brandon and a team of fine woodworkers. She led us around the room, pausing to share details about styles and woods, my mother not-so-discreetly checking price tags.

  “You can dance, you can jive . . .” The earworm worked its way into my consciousness.

  I was inspecting a small maple desk when the door to the workshop opened and Brandon Logan emerged. At least, I thought it was him—the man I remembered had worn his hair in a ponytail and sported a beard that would make an old-time logger proud. When he saw Jasmine with a customer, he went behind the counter and dropped a set of keys in a drawer. Then he began shuffling papers. Orders, receipts, drawings—the computer age hasn’t cut down on the paper a business generates, as far as I can tell.

  He popped something into his mouth and tossed a silver wrapper into the trash, glancing up at my approach.

  I introduced myself, not surprised when he showed no sign of recognition. Few of Pacific Imports’ customers would have ventured into his domain.

  “Aimee McGillvray is a friend of mine, and I’d met Joelle a few times. Her death must be a shock. My condolences.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Your mentor would be proud to see you and Aimee putting the skills you learned from him to use in your own shops.”

  Ages ago, in a seminar some of my HR colleagues dismissed as airy-fairy woo-woo, I learned to notice the color of a person’s eyes as a way to make eye contact and form a good first impression. Eyes as windows on the soul, yes, but if you took it a step further, a great memory device. I’d loved the training, but could only describe Brandon Logan’s eyes as nondescript. Colorless.

  But not lifeless. They flashed with an emotion I could not identify, and his cheeks flushed an unattractive shade almost the color of sumac, one of my favorite Middle Eastern spices.

  “It wasn’t what we expected, that’s for sure,” he said.

  I was puzzled. Hadn’t Aimee said Steen was nearly ninety? Although I suppose that even when you expect it, death feels like a shock.

  Or was there something else about the man’s death that upset Brandon Logan?

  “Beautiful work,” I heard my mother say, her voice raised in an obvious time-to-go signal. “Thank you for showing us around.”

  “Do give Aimee our love,” Jasmine said. She stepped behind the counter and put her hand on Brandon’s shoulder.

  “I will.” As I closed the door behind us, I checked the hours stenciled on the nearest window. CLOSED SUNDAY–MONDAY.

  We took our leave and crossed Tenth. The café in the old lodge was full, so we found a table next door in its offshoot, Little Oddfellows, tucked in the back of Elliott Bay Book Company. Our entire family had savored field trips to the bookstore’s original location in Pioneer Square, a sprawling homage to bibliophilia where it actually was possible to get lost in search of the right book. I liked the new location almost as much.

  Over quiche and salad, Lena and I talked of many things. Not quite of shoes and ships and sealing wax, or whether pigs have wings, but almost: the apartment and the concept of co-housing, Costa Rica, and the Spice Shop, where my mother is a surprisingly silent partner.

  “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

  I couldn’t tell her that I was trying to puzzle out a reason for Brandon—or Jasmine—to slip down to Eastlake on their day off and kill Joelle. Aimee suspected they were struggling financially, forcing them to let Melissa go. But murder? I had the sense that the late Steen Jorgensen was at the center of the mystery. Months after his death, his five key employees remained connected—and now one had been murdered. Had he unwittingly triggered a chain of deadly events, along with a desire to follow in his professional footsteps?

  What was I missing?

  “Is it Nate?” my mother asked, and since he was never far from my mind, it was easy to agree.

  “He’s smit
ten, you know,” she said, and I felt myself blush. “But you’ve done a good job hiding your feelings.”

  Oh, gad. I was so not ready for this conversation.

  My mother’s brow furrowed and she reached out to cover my hand with hers.

  “The curse of the divorced woman with long-married parents,” I said. Especially one tinged with Catholic guilt. “Happily long-married parents. We wonder what’s wrong with us, that we can’t sustain a long-term relationship.”

  “Sweetheart, there was never anything wrong with you.”

  Her implication was clear. I hadn’t had the affair. Tag had always insisted he’d just had the one, but once the pieces fell into place, they’d painted a different picture of my marriage than I’d seen before.

  “Yes, but . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “But nothing. You had to a make a choice about what you could accept, and you made it. With those other men”—she flicked away my last two years of dating—“you were learning what you wanted in a relationship. Now you know. Don’t you?”

  I did. But I didn’t know what to do about it.

  “Good.” She picked up her glass. “I thought Seetha was coping well last night.”

  I told her about the racist taunts. “Turns out she mentioned them to her brother, who told their mother, and now Mrs. Sharma is pestering her to move back to Boston. As if the same thing couldn’t happen there.”

  “Idiot. The man at the bus stop, I mean, not her brother. Although he should have known better. Dealing with the expectations of immigrant parents is challenging enough, as I well remember.”

  “Even when you were grown?” My Hungarian grandparents had died before I hit junior high, and my few memories of them focused on my grandmother baking and my grandfather poring over his newspapers. They’d lived in Ballard, surrounded by Scandinavians. They had not understood their younger daughter’s involvement in the protests against the government that had welcomed them after the war. Their war, my mother called it, the Second World War.