Seventeen

Londoner Nicholas Culpeper’s masterwork, The English Physitian (1652), later called Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, was the first major Western pharmacopeia, describing the medicinal uses of more than 400 herbs, from acanthus to yucca.

I TUCKED HOT DOG’S NOTE INSIDE MY BAG, FOUND MY CAR, and got back on the road. My tummy didn’t feel good, but it wasn’t the fault of my lunch. It was the fault of my head, and the swirling eddy of uncomfortable thoughts.

One of my HR mentors liked to say we’re all the hero of our own stories. Not that we see ourselves as Han Solo, saving Princess Leia, who could have saved herself just fine, thank you, and had in fact saved Solo’s backside more than once, if memory served. She meant we all want to justify our own actions, and we tend to tell our stories that way. It was a caution to listen with care when attempting to resolve a conflict—the more persuasive storyteller is not necessarily the most accurate one.

But it was also a reminder to watch how we portray ourselves in our own minds. It’s easy to think evil thoughts of a driver who cuts us off, but maybe we changed lanes at the last minute or were going a teensy bit too fast. I pled guilty on both counts, and sent the driver behind me a silent apology.

Maybe I had misunderestimated the vulnerability behind Tony McGillvray’s fear. If you’ve been in trouble, heads snap your way the next time trouble pops up. Putting what I knew about some of the students at Changing Courses together with Tony’s behavior in my class and Seetha’s suspicions, I was sure Hot Dog had been suggesting drugs were part of Tony’s current trouble. Most addicts don’t become killers, but addiction plays a part in violent crime often enough for the rest of us to make the leap of judgment.

Hot Dog had called me out, and he was right. But he’d also given me a clue.

To what?

I parked and grabbed the delivery for Speziato. Before I bought Seattle Spice, I’d never been in a restaurant kitchen. Now, I was a regular at back doors around the city, and was often invited to taste a special or dine with the staff at “family meal.”

I knocked, then turned the handle. It opened. I stepped inside. Prep hadn’t started yet, the kitchen dark and quiet.

“Helloooo! Edgar? It’s Pepper, with your spice delivery.”

Nothing.

I called out a second time.

Above the stainless steel prep counter hung a rack of knives. I cook; knives are tools. But right now, they made me nervous. I was walking into a nearly empty space, where anyone bent on attacking me could grab a blade. I’d heard the stories of restaurant employees trapped in coolers and back hallways by bosses drunk on power. Of servers and bartenders harassed by customers and groped in dark corners. Of women who kept silent about assault because they needed the job. And as Joelle’s murder made all too vivid, a knife can be a deadly tool.

I heard a noise behind me and nearly jumped. Edgar emerged from the tiny office, his white T-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest and shoulders. I relaxed and let out my breath. It’s a fact of life that women are constantly assessing and reassessing when we’re safe and when we aren’t. Joelle had thought she was safe, walking in and out of Rainy Day Vintage with her boxes of merchandise. She’d been wrong.

But though I’d briefly been spooked, I knew I was in no danger. This was Edgar, who’d started saving bones for Arf when he worked near the Market, in Alex Howard’s flagship restaurant. An immigrant who’d worked his way from busser to top chef, whose only vice that I knew of was to sneak the occasional cigarette in the alley. A man who’d earned my trust, and I his.

“Ah, Our Lady of Spice, bearing smoked paprika, yes?” A grin spread across Edgar’s face and he took the box from me. “You got a boyfriend?”

What? My mouth fell open, but I managed a nod.

“Bring him in for dinner tonight,” Edgar said. “I’ll buy your appetizer. Let you taste for yourself.”

“It’s a date,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the croaky relief in my voice. “Hey, tell me more about this man you saw walking back and forth outside yesterday.”

“What?” He’d set the box on the counter and slit it open with a knife he’d pulled from his pocket. Now, he rummaged inside and lifted out the prized paprika. “Oh, right. Guy I called you about. Same guy I saw last week with Joelle.”

I punched buttons on my phone. The pictures of Justin from the local paper were grainy, his head bent away from the camera. Edgar squinted, his head tilted, unsure. I called up the Logans’ website. On the Welcome page, a picture showed the smiling couple in front of their shop, Brandon wearing the bushy beard I remembered. I held out the phone. Edgar angled his finger to block out part of the shot.

“Could be,” he said, glancing at me, “if he shaved.”

“And you didn’t hear anything?” I asked.

“Nada.”

“When you saw him yesterday, you see where he was going?”

“No. He went down the street, came back about ten minutes later. Where he went, I don’t know.” He led the way to the front of the house and ran a finger down a page in the reservations book. “Seven o’clock? I give you my best table. Inside, by the window. Nice and cool. I tell you, I grew up cooking in this heat. Thought I left it behind.”

“I hear you. But letting you do the cooking sounds great.”

“Two? Or you bring friends?”

A double date with Kristen and Eric might be fun. No, not tonight. “Two.”

“Perfect,” he said, writing in my name.

Edgar let me out the front door and I stood on the sidewalk with a bag of bones, texting Nate with the evening plans. “Perfect” sounded—well, perfect.

I dropped the phone in my bag and strolled toward Rainy Day Vintage. When murder darkened the Spice Shop’s door, I’d felt obliged to carry on. I’d felt I owed it to myself and my employees, and to our customers. But if it had been too horrible, with too much blood and destruction, I might feel otherwise.

My mother would say I was dredging up doom. Inviting trouble and allowing my vibration to become misaligned.

Letting my feng be shwayed.

But to me, it was all part of business planning. Compost happens. And I would hate feeling chased away, leaving a ghastly, ghostly mess for others to clean up. I’d rather poke the bad guys in the eye with the sharp stick of my resistance.

If the man Edgar saw was Brandon, as I suspected, what had he been doing on Eastlake a few days before Joelle’s murder and again a few days later? This wasn’t his neighborhood. Aimee, Joelle, and the Logans had all worked together, but despite Jasmine’s reference to family, I didn’t sense a lot of warmth.

At Aimee’s door, I brightened. Not for her any old neon OPEN or CLOSED sign. Hers read GET IN HERE NOW in red, green, and yellow. Or did when she was open. Right now, the sign was dark and impossible to read if you didn’t already know what it said.

Even though I hate it when people stick their noses on the glass to see inside, when we’re clearly closed, that’s exactly what I did. Aimee sat on a stool behind the counter, one arm folded across her middle, her other hand cradling her chin. A variation of Rodin’s “Thinker.” Call it Worrier Pose.

She started at the sight of me and hurried to unlock the door.

“Pepper. What are you doing here?”

“Spice delivery down the block. Thought I’d see if you were in. How you doin’?”

“Lousy, if you want to know the truth. Detective Tracy said I could reopen any time, but it feels so pointless, you know?” She turned and I followed her into the shop. Behind the counter, a dozen neon lips glowed, each a different color—priced right for spur-of-the-moment whimsy.

But they sparked no joy now. A mournful mood filled the air.

“So don’t open right away. Take a few days off to collect yourself.”

“I can’t afford that. Besides, what would I do if I wasn’t working? The shop is my life.” She ran a finger over the corner of a table, inspected it for dust, then wiped it on her short black denim skirt. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Not to me.”

“Although I wonder if anyone would care if the shop closed.”

“What about your brother? I met him, you know, when I taught at Changing Courses.”

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide. “I didn’t know that.” She exhaled slowly. “You asked why I didn’t start a business sooner. Truth is, I never thought I could succeed on my own. Once I got a good job, I held on, relishing the security.”

That fit, if she’d grown up with instability, as Seetha thought. “I worked hard and saved my money,” she continued. “Tried to set a good example for Tony. When I found out about Steen’s will, I thought the Universe was giving me a kick in the pants. But now . . .”

I glanced around. To think she’d doubted her ability to create such a treasure trove. Ohmygosh—look at that. Along the far wall stood a Japanese step chest I had never noticed. The ancient wood glowed, the time-burnished hardware speaking of generations of use and care.

In an instant, a plan unfolded in my mind. “Maybe I can help you with those lost profits.”

Footsteps interrupted my thoughts. “What does she want?” Aimee had not locked the door after letting me in, and Melissa Kwan now stood a few feet away.

“Hello, Aimee.” Once again, Melissa wore all black, this time full-legged pants and a form-fitting tank accented by a red-and-gold pendant hanging well below her small breasts. Mourning, or her personal uniform?

I stepped forward, hand out. “We haven’t met. Pepper Reece. I saw you last night at the gallery. My condolences—Joelle’s death must have been hard on you.”

Her face seemed to say Who are you? and You have no idea at the same time, but she took my hand. Her skin was soft, her grip firm. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Melissa gazed up at the scrolls and prints hanging in the Asian corner, and her expression shifted.

“Hmm,” she said. “How are you going to explain those things, now that Joelle is gone?” Her red nails flashed as she gestured toward the wall and the display case of Japanese netsuke.

Aimee flushed. “I’ll tell Justin the truth. Let him decide what to keep and what to sell.”

“And admit you helped his wife defraud him?” Melissa’s voice rose, incredulous.

“Wait a second,” I said, hands extended like a referee separating players from opposing teams. “Melissa, are you saying Joelle brought art from her personal collection to the shop, to sell, without her husband’s knowledge?”

“Furniture, too.” Melissa gestured. “That tansu sat in the entry of their lakefront home.”

The chest that had caught my eye.

She ran one hand over a corner edged in metal, leaning closer to study the piece. “Late nineteenth century, probably hinoki— cypress—with a dry finish. At least the pieces look like they were built to go together. Not terribly valuable, but not yours to sell, Aimee.” She peered inside a large urn. “Didn’t this come from the garden? I’m sure I remember it, near the waterfall that fed the koi pond.”

I snuck a quick peek at Aimee, her face stony. Melissa continued to prowl, running a hand possessively over a piece, giving an appreciative look to another. Slapping dust off her palms, she stepped behind the front counter. “Ah, there we go,” she said under her breath, then jerked a few tissues out of a box.

Finally, Aimee stood. “We’re closed today, Melissa. Please leave. As for Justin and Joelle, don’t worry. I’ll do the right thing.”

Melissa threw her a steely glare. “The right thing? As if you even know what that is.” And with that, she marched to the front of the shop and let herself out.