Eighteen

“Every use of the words ‘exotic’ or ‘spicy’ on a menu raises the price of a dish, while use of filler words like ‘delicious’ or ‘tasty’ indicates lower prices.”

—Linguist Dan Jurafsky, in The Language of Food

THE DOOR CLICKED SHUT BEHIND MELISSA, AND THE TENSION left with her.

Aimee collapsed on to the saddle stool. I started to rest my elbow on the counter, spotted the three-foot-high china replica of the Space Needle, and took one of the Eames chairs instead.

“Is she right? About Joelle selling family things without telling Justin, I mean.” Although Melissa’s closing throw-down about “doing the right thing” also had me curious.

“Yes. She’d decided to leave him, but she needed money. The big design firms wouldn’t hire her—too skittish. And the small ones didn’t need her.”

“Because of him,” I said, another reason Joelle had been slumming in retail. Although I still thought friendship part of the draw. “They thought hiring anyone connected with a lying, cheating drug company and the lawyer who helped cover it up might taint their business. Seems kind of petty, if you ask me.”

“Oh, designers can be as petty as anyone else, trust me. I think only a couple of firms turned her down, but getting the door slammed in your face is rough. Designers can be over-sensitive, too.” Her eyebrows rose and fell in a gesture of mockery. “By the time she knocked on my door, she was pretty desperate, so I agreed to hire her and let her sell things without paying me a commission. I had the space”—she gestured toward the Asian room—“and the foot traffic would be good for us. You never know when a netsuke collector will want a neon sign or a vintage bowling pin.”

“Why was she leaving him? I take it he didn’t know.”

“She stood by him through the hard times,” Aimee said. “The law firm collapse, his suspension from practice, the publicity. They barely managed to avoid bankruptcy.”

For better or worse.

“When all the drama died down, she finally saw that he felt no remorse,” Aimee continued. “He was sorry he got caught, and that he lost everything. But that he’d done wrong, that he’d knowingly harmed innocent people, including her—it never sunk in. Once she saw that, she couldn’t stay.”

Ahh. That explained the mood at the service last night.

“It must be a comfort to have friends who knew her, too,” I said. “Your former co-workers, I mean. Aside from Melissa.”

“Last night was the first I’ve seen of them since Joelle died.”

Hmm. If it had been Brandon who met Joelle for drinks the week before she died, did Aimee know? I was sure he’d come back to the shop this week—why didn’t she want to tell me?

“Before I go, can I take a closer look at that chest? Even if you can’t sell it.” Yet.

“Sure. Most tansu sit flush on the floor, but this one is raised up a few inches.” Aimee stood. “As Melissa said, it’s actually separate pieces. The oldest versions were made for traveling. As home use grew, the pieces were often clustered, but they can also be used alone.”

“You know more about Asian antiques than you let on.”

“I learned a lot from Steen and Joelle. The pieces are wonderful, and great for mixing and matching.”

Exactly what I had in mind. “The hardware is fascinating.” I ran a hand over a metal corner plate on a drawer and crouched to inspect the joinery. “What’s that?”

On the floor next to the baseboard lay a long, thin object. I inched the chest away from the wall with a grunt that would have made Detective Tracy proud. For an instant, a flash of metal shimmered in the low light, then the shadows returned.

My heart pounded like a bass drum. The knife that killed Joelle?

Aimee leaned down, fingers outstretched.

“Don’t touch it!” I cried. “Not with your bare hand.” I grabbed a handkerchief—vintage, from the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair—out of a basket and used it like a glove.

“It’s a fancy chopstick, right?” I held it up for closer inspection. A bamboo stick, six inches long and carved to a stubby point, like an eyebrow pencil, was attached to a silver handle worked in an elaborate filigree. “Not the murder weapon. Not sharp enough, or the right shape. Besides, there’s no blood.”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

A hollow at the end of the handle appeared to have once held a stone. I showed her. “The stone must have fallen out. And where’s the second chopstick?”

Aimee opened and closed the tansu’s three drawers and its single hinged cabinet. We scooted furniture away from the walls, crawled on our hands and knees, scoured the space.

And found nothing.

I set the solo chopstick and napkin on the counter. Another mystery, but not related to the murder.

The tansu would fit perfectly in my bedroom, and its clean lines spoke to me. Nate could leave a few things in it. Whoa, Pep. Don’t let the cart run away from the horse. Sooner or later, if we made a life together, we’d need a shared home base. That, I knew. But not yet—it was too soon for commitment. Or was it?

In the meantime, I didn’t want to spend half our time together traipsing between downtown and Fisherman’s Terminal with my underwear in my tote bag.

Besides, I kind of agreed with Seetha about sleeping on a boat.

I flipped the price tag tied to one timeworn drawer pull. Manageable.

“Melissa’s right about one thing,” Aimee said. “I do have to tell Justin about the pieces Joelle brought in. I’ll find out what he wants to do and give you a call.”

“Perfect,” I said, repeating the watchword of the day. Maybe that would give me enough time to decide what I wanted to do.

I gave Aimee a hug. “Call me any time you need an ear.”

On the wall near the front door, a neon sign glowed down at me, the block letters asking the real question, of both Aimee and me:

WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?

DELIVERIES done, I zipped up Aurora to the address on Hot Dog’s napkin. Stared at the building, a narrow single-story with a shingled overhang and cracked stucco walls. Twenty years ago, I’d spent many Saturday nights here, drinking Redhook and listening to bands aspiring to break into Seattle’s grunge scene. On occasion, an established musician would drop in and join them for a set, surprising everyone.

That made its current incarnation as a drop-in center for those struggling with addiction and mental illness either an irony or a karmic twist, depending on your point of view.

Next door stood a shiny new clinic, its lines sleek and clean, neither the location nor the contrast in architecture a coincidence. I parked the Saab in the clinic lot—probably a no-no, but I didn’t expect to be long.

A brightly colored sign on the drop-in center’s door assured me all were welcome and that this was a place of no judgment. I hoped that included me.

The reception area was small, the off-white walls scuffed, the greige industrial carpet in need of replacement. But the space was clean and the woman behind the desk wore a pleasant expression. Her smile faded when I asked if she’d seen Tony McGillvray recently. Saying Harold “Hot Dog” Reynolds had sent me didn’t lower her protective shield. Not that I blamed her. It was her business to keep the clientele safe from prying eyes.

I had a hunch I wasn’t the only person who’d been asking about Tony. And that the others might have had what I lacked: a warrant.

I left my card, “in case he comes by.” Whether my friendship with his sister would outweigh Tony’s residual anger—or embarrassment—over the incident at the cooking school, I couldn’t guess. It’s tricky, being helpful without being intrusive.

Outside, I paused to check my phone. A few feet away, a woman in white capris and a tank as red as her hair sat on a bench, arms crossed, one sandaled foot bouncing rapidly. She straightened at the sight of a man in faded jeans and a gray T-shirt who came out of the clinic and rushed toward her. “Got it,” he said. “We don’t need to try the place downtown. I finally got on the list for bupe.”

“Thank God,” she said, then stood and threw her arms around him. “That stuff saved my life.”

I got back to the shop mid-afternoon and took Arf for a stroll up to Victor Steinbrueck Park at the north end of the Market. My dog had a lot of friends along the route, so the trek took a while. I didn’t mind—my lunch had long worn off, and the takeout spots along the way helped restore my energy and spirits.

As we walked, I thought about Tony McGillvray. Had he been the man I’d seen dashing up the street the afternoon of the murder? No. More likely, that was Seetha’s bus stop loudmouth. And the man Edgar saw? The description was too different. That had to have been Brandon Logan.

Come to see his former co-workers, but about what? And why hadn’t Aimee wanted to admit it?

I wasn’t any closer to knowing why Joelle Chapman had died. Not random, I was certain. A random killing would happen on the street, or if inside a shop, near the front or back door.

I’d known of Justin’s reputation for playing hardball. But he’d done more than that. He’d aided and abetted a deception that kept sick people and their families—their survivors, in some cases—from knowing they’d been lied to about the very drug that was supposed to cure them. I hadn’t known, until Aimee’s comments, that getting caught bothered him more than what he’d done.

Yet, she didn’t seem to think he’d been the killer.

Could the murder be linked to Pacific Imports? Or to Steen’s bequest? But what would that have to do with Joelle?

And why, if they’d been in dire straits, had she not sold those diamond earrings and the bracelet? Family heirlooms? Reminders of better times?

Questions, questions. And the only answer at hand was a mini-cheesecake. Arf waited patiently while I chatted with the baker and pondered my options. Citrus sounded cooling. I chose key lime.

A great choice. I picked half a dozen assorted flavors for my staff. Back at the shop, I set the goodies in the nook and got back to work.

Late afternoon, the man we’d christened Red Goatee arrived with the engagement ring.

“I was hoping to get her down here this weekend,” he said. “But it’s going to have to be next Saturday. I’m trusting you with this until then.” He held up a lovely classic diamond ring.

“Don’t worry, man,” Matt said. “We’ll write you out a receipt, and the boss will lock it up until you two cross the threshold. Wait till you see what we made for it.”

Who was more surprised, Red Goatee or me, I couldn’t say. Matt had come up with the idea of using an antique spice tin and created a darling label. Good. Showing more initiative, as we’d discussed.

Nate and I had agreed to meet at the restaurant—he had a neighbor going that way who could drop him off—so at six-thirty, I made sure Arf had fresh water and a bone, tugged at the hem of my dress, and got in the car.

The baked paprika cheese was every bit as good as Edgar had promised. And my date looked equally tasty.

“I’ve never seen you in a blazer before,” I said. Charcoal gray with narrow lapels, black trim on the collar and pocket flaps, and black sleeves in a soft fabric that easily pushed up, exposing his well-muscled forearms. Over a white shirt with dark buttons and dark blue jeans, the jacket looked great. I gave him what I hoped was a sexy smile. “It’s hot. You’re hot.”

“I am,” he said. “Mind if I take it off? It will almost be a relief to get back to Alaska for the temperatures. Except I hate to leave for other reasons.”

Without the jacket, he looked even hotter.

Our waiter refilled the wine, a crisp Italian white Edgar had chosen for us. The specials were fish—“fresh off the boat,” our waiter had said, and Nate’s twinkling eyes briefly met mine. I can never resist gnocchi, and these promised to be house-made, served with tomato sauce and fresh basil leaves. Nate chose the osso buco with saffron risotto.

The table was splendidly romantic, as Edgar had promised. The conversation less so. I had a feeling we were both tiptoeing around the topic of our relationship. Easier to talk about the boat—Nate’s brother had charge of the crew while he was away, and they’d meet him in Dutch Harbor Sunday morning, then head straight back to sea.

I told him about my visit to Rainy Day Vintage and the strange encounter with Melissa Kwan.

“How did she know Joelle was selling off joint assets without telling her husband?” Nate asked, spreading tangy cheese on a slice of baguette.

“A lucky guess, I think. Clearly, she recognized some of the pieces.” I twirled my wine glass. “There was definitely some other tension between Melissa and Aimee, but Aimee wouldn’t talk about her. It’s too bad she can’t sell the stuff now. I saw the most beautiful tansu, an antique Japanese step chest. It would go great in my bedroom.”

Nate eyed me, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Our main courses came. Sometimes the simplest dishes are the best choices to size up a menu. The sauce on mine was so fresh the tomatoes were practically still growing, lightly herbed and salted to let the flavors shine. Nate’s plate was beautiful, the crosscut veal shanks dusted with chopped parsley and a bit of fine lemon zest I could smell from across the table.

“Oh, my goodness,” I said after the first bite. “Tastes as good as it looks. Yours?”

His expression gave me the answer.

With fabulous food and stunning service, Edgar had turned a basic—even nondescript—neighborhood Italian joint into a tasty picture of rustic elegance.

“So I wanted to tell you,” I said a couple of bites later, putting my fork down and reaching for my wine. “What we found behind the tansu. Neither of us had seen anything like it.” I described the silver and bamboo chopstick.

“And Aimee didn’t know where it came from?”

“No. We searched high and low, but no sign of the mate. And because she was letting Joelle sell off the books, she didn’t have an inventory.”

“I know someone who might be able to tell you more about it,” he said. “I’ll text her after dinner.”

Her? Who?

Before I could ask, a streak of motion outside grabbed my attention. Someone who shouldn’t have been there.

“Back in a flash,” I said. I slid out of my chair and scooted out the front door, scanning the street.

But no sign. As if I’d seen a ghost.

Back inside, hot and disheveled, I took my seat and tried to reclaim my cool. Nate raised his eyebrows but didn’t say a word. He’d kept on eating, his dinner half gone.

“Sorry. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” I reached for my water glass and took a long swallow. Caught my breath. Between bites—my potato dumplings hadn’t gone completely cold—I told him about my afternoon search for Tony McGillvray and how Hot Dog had set me on the trail.

“What are you getting yourself into?” Nate said. He held up a hand. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s dangerous and I’m not trying to stop you. I’m just wondering.”

“Good question.” I speared a wayward chunk of tomato.

For which I had no good answer.