Six

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ARF IS A MOST EXCELLENT COMPANION ON MY DELIVERIES. After Kristen and I unpacked our haul, I fetched the car and Matt helped me load up, leaving space in the backseat for Arf. At fifty pounds and two feet high at the shoulders, he’s easily portable but big enough to keep us safe on our nightly stroll. He listens well, and almost never tells me I’m barking up the wrong tree.

On Tuesdays, our route covers Capitol Hill. It’s a busy stretch, now that the Pike-Pine corridor has been rediscovered, and I happily accepted a calzone to go from one of my pizza guys. At Starlight, I delivered a large order and visited with the owner, Danielle Bordeaux, whom I’d met last spring.

Then we sped up Tenth and made a left at Roanoke Park, crossed over I-5, and drove down to Eastlake. Dropped off a package redolent with cinnamon, fennel, and other breakfast flavors at the corner café, then peered into the Italian restaurant a few doors from Rainy Day Vintage. Speziato doesn’t serve lunch, and prep for evening service hadn’t begun yet, but the chef was sitting at a front table, staring at an iPad, a notebook and a glass filled with deep red liquid in front of him. Campari and soda, I thought. A Salvadoran in his late thirties with a bushy black mustache, Edgar and I met when he worked in Alex Howard’s First Avenue Café. It was Alex who’d taught me not to date my customers. Edgar took over this kitchen earlier in the summer and now that he was settled, he’d called to talk business.

He spotted me and opened the door. We hugged, and he crouched for a nose-to-nose with Arf, who loves the big guy.

“Coffee? I make a great cappuccino. Or something stronger? And no worries about the dog. Long as he stays up front with you, he’s fine.”

“Thanks. An Italian soda?” If I had one more drop of caffeine today, I wouldn’t sleep for a week.

“Excellent choice.” In the blink of an eye, Edgar set a tall glass in front of me, filled with ice, sparkling water, raspberry syrup, and a splash of cream. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small bone for Arf. From the reservations desk, he grabbed the bowl of Baci—Italian “kisses,” hazelnuts dipped in milk chocolate goo and covered with dark chocolate, wrapped in silver foil studded with sapphire blue stars.

He tossed me a chocolate and unwrapped one for himself. Under the table, my boy gnawed happily. “I’ll tell you a secret,” Edgar said.

“No. Don’t tell me Italian sodas aren’t Italian.”

“They are, but they originated in the U.S. In San Francisco, where an Italian syrup maker settled and wanted to offer his new country a new taste.” He sipped his own drink. “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve learned about Italian food in the last two months. And I know I need better spices. From you. From the best.” He raised his drink in a toast and I did the same.

But after one sip, he set his glass on the table, his face troubled. “You hear about the murder down the block?”

I nodded.

“It’s not like nothing ever happened when I cooked for Howard,” he continued. “You expect some crime, downtown. You know—you deal with it in the Market. Murder, though . . .”

Another nod. The Market is home to more than two hundred small businesses—bakeries, butchers, booksellers—operating alongside two hundred artisans who rent by the day and dozens upon dozens of restaurants. Four hundred–some folks live in the Market, and ten million people a year stroll through its nine acres. Stuff happens.

But mostly, it was small stuff: shoplifting, aggressive begging, fender benders. The occasional fight. Market security keeps a watchful eye, and the bike patrols are a huge help. There had been a murder nearly a year ago, and an arson attempt last spring. Day to day, though, it’s a safe and happy place to work, shop, and live.

“You can’t help worry,” Edgar continued, gesturing with one big hand. “You got customers, employees heading out late at night. A building to take care of. Inventory. The daily deposit.”

“You have any trouble lately? Any break-ins? Equipment gone walkabout?” Knives, maybe.

“No, nothing. Nobody mess with me.” He shook a finger at an invisible opponent. “I got enough to worry about, running this place.”

“Did you know the woman who was killed?”

“Joelle. Tiny, pretty. She met a fellow here for a drink after work last week.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Saw ’em through the window. Looked like him asking for something, her sayin’ no.”

A pass-through, big enough for diners to see the blur of a kitchen crew hard at work and feel like they’re close to the action. And big enough for a new head chef to keep an eye on the room.

“Any idea who he was?” I asked. “Or what they were talking about?”

“No clue. White guy, short hair, baggy pants. About forty? Fifty? I’m no good at guessing.”

Justin? The baggy pants didn’t sound like him, though. But who else could it have been?

“You see anything yesterday, when it happened?”

“No. Good for me, to stay out of it, but better to help catch whoever hurt the poor chica.”

We talked spice and price, and I gave him a few samples. In exchange, he gave me a very sweet order.

Then Arf and I wandered down the street. A CLOSED sign hung in the vintage shop’s window, but the crime scene tape was down and the lights were on. Mindful of the dangers a dog’s tail can do, I told Arf to stay in the courtyard and entered the tiny vestibule, where I rapped on the shop’s door.

Aimee responded quickly, a blue bandanna tied Rosie-the-Riveter style around her head, a scrub brush in one yellow-gloved hand. I was almost surprised she heard me over the grunge rock pounding through the shop’s speakers.

“Pepper, hi.” Her tone was light, forced.

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d check on you.” The odor of bleach stung my nostrils as I crossed the threshold and followed her into the shop.

“They told me to hire a professional crime scene cleaner, but you know what retail margins are. Especially being closed for a few days, and losing business once word gets out.” She stepped behind the cash-wrap counter and turned down the music. Next to the counter stood a bucket and a pile of wet, pink-tinged rags.

I’d thought murder would kill my business, too, when it happened on my doorstep. Not so, perversely. Not so. The regulars were concerned but not put off, and some of the looky-loos bought things.

“These oak floors are old, but we refinished them before we opened and they’re cleaning up nicely. I don’t know what the landlord would say about bloodstains. I wonder if I should put down a throw rug.” She was rattling, understandably.

“A rug will make people wonder. Plus it’s a trip hazard.” Who was “we”? Aimee was single, and I’d never heard mention of a business partner. What family she had I didn’t know, beyond vague mention of a brother. “Looks clean to me.”

I glanced at her, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders collapsed inward. Our yoga teacher would be appalled.

Actually, our yoga teacher embodies grace and kindness. It would do me good to channel her. Aimee tossed the scrub brush on to the rag pile and tugged off her gloves, then sank into a molded red Eames chair. I took its twin and studied her. Pale skin, dark circles under the eyes—all par for a terrible course.

“You said she came in to unpack some new merchandise she’d found,” I prompted.

She choked down a sob. “I’d hoped to get to yoga at noon, but I had to run out for—” One hand rose and her fingers scratched their way down her neck. “For an errand. The cops said there was nothing we could have done—she bled to death too quickly.”

“You tried. You and Seetha, you did your best,” I said. So Joelle had her own keys.

“I guess,” she said. “Poor Joelle. Can you imagine being stabbed? And they haven’t found the knife.”

“Any idea what she was unpacking?”

“No. She brought stuff in all the time—she had different sources than I did. All that’s hers, in the Asian room.” Aimee gestured toward a corner of the shop filled with Asian art and furniture. A saddle stool polished by time caught my eye. Chinese scrolls and Japanese prints hung on the wall.

“Ahh,” I said. “Yes. Her style, not yours.” Aimee’s picks were the neon signs. The dress form with measuring tapes draped around its neck, tomato and strawberry pincushions tied to ribbons and slung around the waist like a fringed red skirt. The shelf unit displaying souvenirs from the 1962 World’s Fair.

“No one loves just one style,” she said. “Part of being a designer is melding different styles. Carrying a mix gives our clients ideas, and tells them we can help bring their vision to life.”

“When did she start here? Not when you opened. But you knew her for years.”

“First of June. But yeah, we met at Pacific Imports. She wasn’t working, and she knew my year would run out fast. Her retail and design experience came in handy.”

“Your year?” I was puzzled. “On your lease, you mean?” And why hadn’t Joelle been working?

“No. To make a profit. Under the terms of Steen’s will.”

Turned out that when Steen Jorgensen, who’d started Pacific Imports decades ago, died the day after Christmas past, his staff learned that the business was to be closed immediately, leaving them unemployed. The second surprise was a better one: His will left a bequest for any employee who started a furnishing or decor business and turned a profit within a year after his death. Two, Aimee and Brandon Logan, had been game.

“How much?” I asked.

“Fifty thousand, but every penny’s got to go into the business. And another chunk at the end of the year.”

A generous legacy from an old man with no family, or a bid for immortality? Or a bit of both.

“Nice. So what’s the catch?” There’s always a catch. “Why did only two of you take the challenge?”

“Because it sounds like more money than it really is. Startup costs are crazy. I thought for sure Joelle would open a design studio with Melissa Kwan, one of the other designers, but neither of them had any cash and they couldn’t get financing. Brandon and Jasmine were able to get a loan. I had some savings.”

Aimee had brought Jasmine into the Spice Shop a few times. Melissa’s name didn’t sound familiar. “What happens if neither of you end the year in the black?”

“I suppose the money goes to SAAM, along with the rest.” Seattle Asian Art Museum, not far from my childhood home. No wonder Joelle had chosen to throw in with the young protégée. The more she did to help Aimee succeed, the greater her own job security.

“Did you tell the detectives about the will?”

Her brow furrowed. “Why would they care?”

Because a murder in her shop made her a suspect and her personal life an open book, even if there was no obvious link between the money and Joelle’s murder.

I shrugged off the question. “Well, you’ll make a profit by the deadline, won’t you?” Her shop was always busy when I’d popped in, and while the location might not be as trendy as, say, South Lake Union, home to Amazonia, it had the advantage of being in a mixed-use neighborhood, with restaurants and other shops nearby. Close to homes and parks, and plenty of weekend foot traffic.

“You know how vulnerable a new business is. They say fifty percent fail in the first year.”

“They say all kinds of garbage. When I bought the Spice Shop, I took a class for new business owners. Eighty percent of new businesses make it past the first year, and fifty percent last five years or more. The longer you keep going, the better the odds.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, palms together. “You are not a statistic. Your taste and style are what bring in the customers. Believe me, I know how awful this is, and how terrible you feel for Joelle. She wouldn’t want you to give up, not after all your hard work.”

“No,” Aimee said slowly. “She wouldn’t. She always found a way to bounce back.”

“Justin and I worked at the same law firm for years,” I said, “though I handled staff HR so our paths didn’t cross much. I never made the connection between him and Joelle. He must be devastated.”

At that moment, we heard a knock at the door. Aimee sprung up to answer it.

The spot on the floor was too shiny. People would notice. But not for long.

At the sound of Seetha’s voice, I tucked my questions away. Time to get going.

“I JUST need to grab some massage oil,” Seetha said a few minutes later, fumbling with her keys. “And some sheets. The yoga studio is letting me use a small room. Oh, and my portable table.”

“Sit,” I told the dog, who’d waited so patiently.

“What?” Seetha replied as the keys slipped from her hand and clattered on the floor. She threw up her hands. I couldn’t tell if she was about to scream or cry. Chill, I thought, but bit my tongue. Maybe I could rope her into a mediation session at the yoga studio.

Ha. Listen to me—the woman who couldn’t meditate to save her life. If you listen to my mother, she says that’s exactly why I ought to do it.

I picked up the keys, found the right one, and opened the door. “Need anything from your apartment?”

She didn’t reply, busy grabbing bottles and jars.

“Why don’t I pop in and check the fridge? You don’t want to come back to nasty smells.” She gave me a grateful look and disappeared into the studio.

I unlocked her apartment door and headed for the kitchen. Found a shopping bag and tucked in a few things from the fridge—a box of very ripe strawberries, an open bottle of Chardonnay, yogurt, and cream. Scanned the room, my gaze falling on a small brown teapot. Likely not an authentic Brown Betty from England— red clay with a rounded belly and a rich, dark brown glaze—but close enough for cuteness. And next to it lay the package of Mrs. Seetha’s Mother’s chai.

Footsteps—one set female, one set canine—echoed in the outer hallway. I dropped the package in my tote and hoped Seetha didn’t notice.

She entered, a canvas bag over one shoulder, a stack of sheets clutched to her chest.

“Sit,” I said, this time to her. Too early for the Chardonnay, too hot for the chai. I filled two glasses with water and ice, and set a small bowl of water on the floor. Arf lapped it up. Seetha downed her water almost as quickly.

I sat across from her and reached for her hand.

“What if the bhuts come back, Pepper? I saw a woman die. I held her hand.”

She’d been so calm when Aimee knocked on her studio door, so reassuring, that I’d fallen asleep on her massage table. But now . . . I tightened my grip, searching for the right words.

“We better go,” she said, standing quickly. I picked up Arf’s leash and the portable massage table. The table wasn’t heavy, just awkward, and lugging it down the steps, turning at the landing, and maneuvering it through the two doors to the outside had me sweating.

And that was before the heat of the day hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Outside, we passed the insurance agent’s office and the children’s clothing store. Passed Speziato, Edgar’s table now empty. Ten feet from the corner, Seetha stopped, arms full, attention fixed on the half dozen people moving toward the curb as the purple and yellow bus pulled in.

One man, mid-thirties, in a T-shirt and hiking pants, stayed put. The other riders surged past him as he glared at Seetha.

He took a step toward us, seemingly unaware of the bus, the small crowd, me standing next to her. Arf strained his leash and I tightened my grip. The man kept his burning stare on my friend.

“Go back to Bombay,” he said. “We don’t need your kind here.”

After one final gesture, he jumped on the bus, its hydraulic doors swooshing shut behind him, the engine humming as it sped away.

Leaving my friend and me on the sidewalk, wiping his spit off our arms.