Twenty-Seven

“In the Middle Ages, spices were thought to be especially effective when it came to ‘correcting’ the nutritional defects of other foods, with the cook expected to fine-tune every dish. It was a job for an alchemist as much as a chef.”

—Michael Krondl, in The Taste of Conquest: The Rise and Fall of the Three Great Cities of Spice

“ON CAPITOL HILL, A FEW BLOCKS FROM HIS SHOP. A passerby spotted a white van that crashed into a power pole. We found the body inside. He’d been stabbed,” Armstrong said. “We think he was trying to drive himself to the hospital.”

Ohmygod.

“Poor sap bled out before he got there,” Tracy said. He’d perched on a stool at my kitchen counter, accentuating the height difference between the two men.

“When?” I said. That was a busy neighborhood, though probably not on a Monday night. “And not that I don’t appreciate your visit, but why tell me?”

“About three hours ago,” Armstrong replied. I glanced at the clock on the stove. Ten minutes past one. Tuesday. “We called. You didn’t answer.”

I looked at my phone. I’d slept through two calls, only hearing the third one because the buzzer had woken me.

“Because,” Tracy said, “we went to see Aimee McGillvray first. We hoped to find her brother—”

“But he wasn’t there and she was terrified,” I guessed, and he nodded.

“It’s obvious you two have a bond,” he continued. “So we’re hoping you can help explain this mess. And this. We found it in Logan’s pocket.” He slid a plastic evidence sleeve across the counter. In it lay one of my cards.

My hand flew to my mouth. The coffee maker gave off the whoosh that let me know it was done. I set three cups on a tray and filled them, then opened the fridge. “Cream?”

“What are these?”

Armstrong had found the Baci Nate left on the counter after our dinner at Speziato. I set the blue pitcher of half-and-half on the tray next to a plate of pumpkin chai snickerdoodles and carried it to my dining table. “Baci. Italian kisses. Hazelnut and double chocolate.”

“Is this a picnic table?” Tracy said, following me. “Looks like you hauled it out of the trash.”

“I did. Well, my ex-mother-in-law did. She knew I’d like it.” I pulled out the heavy pink wrought-iron chair, a cross between a throne and an ice cream parlor castoff, leaving the weathered cedar benches for the detectives. I caught sight of my hair in the mirror next to the front door—it looked like a dust mop crazed with static electricity. A good look for my lounging-and-falling asleep clothes—gray cut-offs that had once been a pair of my dad’s sweatpants and a faded purple T-shirt reading: KEEP CALM AND WATCH A MOVIE.

“Weird,” Armstrong said. He bounced a couple of Baci in his hand. “I’ve never seen them before but we found a bunch of these wrappers in Logan’s car. The sergeant is Italian, says they’re his favorite candy.”

“That’s the link.” I sank into my chair. “Edgar at Speziato saw Joelle having a drink with Brandon the week before she was killed. They were arguing, though we don’t know what about. And Edgar saw Brandon go past his restaurant twice last Wednesday. I told you all this.”

“Ri-i-ight.” Armstrong sat on one bench, Tracy the other. “So what’s the link?”

I picked up my cup, poppy red. The plates and serving pieces were vintage, but I’d bought new cups, preferring the modern style, more like a mug. They hold more, and they’re easier to cradle when you need comfort. “Nate and I had dinner there Friday night. When someone left the note on my car.”

The two men exchanged glances.

I continued. “He—Edgar—keeps a bowl of Baci on the reservations desk, and the servers put a couple on the tray with your bill. That’s when he—Nate—brought a few home.”

“And where Logan got them,” Armstrong said.

I sipped my coffee. Fully leaded but hey, I wasn’t going to get back to sleep anyway so why not be wide awake?

“So you thought Brandon argued with Joelle, then killed her a few days later. And after the murder, he returned to the scene,” Tracy said, musing.

Searching for that chopstick, I’d thought, though how had he expected to get in? And now . . .

“Stabbed, you said.” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to my next question. “The same knife?”

“Why else do you think we’re here?” Tracy said. “M.E. will compare the wounds and give us an opinion, and we can’t be sure until we find the damned thing, but yeah, probably. It hasn’t shown up in any pawnshops. Neither have the victim’s diamonds.”

“The same killer, then,” I said. “Doesn’t that contradict your theory about Tony McGillvray, though? I mean, why take the trousse set, then hang on to it? I know, he needed the missing chop-stick. But he could have found that anytime.” If he had the key to the shop, as I presumed, he could easily have gone in and found the piece behind the furniture—as we had, and we weren’t looking.

“Junkies aren’t logical,” Tracy said.

That’s why Aimee was so worried. “Okay, so say your theory about Tony going after Joelle is right. Why would he go after Brandon?”

“We asked the wife,” Tracy said. “She didn’t have a clue, but of course, she was pretty torn up by the news.”

I stood and headed for the kitchen, returning with the coffee pot and more cookies. Tracy had eaten all but one. Armstrong had unwrapped a Baci and taken half a bite.

“Don’t care for it?” I asked, pointing at the candy.

“Not big on chocolate,” Armstrong replied, “but I was curious what was inside.”

Not big on chocolate? I could not imagine.

“So if Logan wasn’t the killer, why would he have gone back to the scene of the crime?” Tracy asked.

But I had no answer. My prime suspect was dead. A man with a family, a business, employees—people who cared about him. Why kill him? And who?

“First thing in the morning,” Tracy told his partner, ignoring the fact that it was already morning, “go back and talk to everyone who lives and works on the same block as the vintage shop again. And everybody who works at that restaurant. What’s it called?”

“Speziato,” Armstrong said. “I’m going to need an official interpreter.”

“Right. Immigrants. Half of whom won’t want to talk to us.” Tracy sighed. “I’ll talk to the victim’s wife in more detail. And we need to find Tony McGillvray.”

On their way out, I handed Tracy a small bag of cookies. “Fuel for the tank.”

A double latte and a pain au chocolat had tremendous powers of revival. I couldn’t believe Armstrong didn’t care for chocolate. He had seemed so trustworthy.

“What if it wasn’t Tony?” Kristen asked when she arrived at work and I told her about the second murder. “What if it was random crime? That area’s spiffed up a lot, with all the high-end housing and commercial stuff, but bad things happen.”

“Not likely,” I said. “Two former co-workers stabbed to death, though we don’t know how that connection led to murder. No, I think Tracy’s right on this one. It’s gotta be the same killer.”

Kristen shuddered. “Hey, it’s Seetha’s night to host Flick Chicks. Are we meeting at the houseboat?”

“Oh, yeah. I totally forgot.”

She held up her phone. “Leave it to me.”

While staring at the bedroom ceiling after the detectives left, I’d run over every detail I knew and landed on an approach only I could take. Not too early, though.

A few minutes before eleven, I left my shop and dog in the care of Sandra and Kristen, and grabbed the streetcar to South Lake Union. From half a block away, I could see the red-and-white awning, already unfurled.

“Miz Pepper,” Hot Dog said when I approached the food truck, “you wanta eat my cooking twice in one week? These guys”—he waved a pair of tongs in the general direction of the nearest office building—“they don’t know no better. But you’re a woman of taste.”

“Hot Dog, I spent half the night talking to a pair of homicide detectives and the other half chewing over every detail I know about the murder of Joelle Chapman. I slept terrible. I look terrible.” He opened his mouth to protest, but I kept going. “Save your breath. I’m not here for compliments. I’m here to ask you to help me find Tony McGillvray before they do.”

He shook his head as if to say he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“There’s been a second murder, Hot Dog. It looks a lot like the first one, and they think he did it. It doesn’t help that his sister admitted she hadn’t seen him all night.”

“No!” Ashen before, he looked positively ill now. He set down the tongs, reached for a water bottle, and took a long swig. “Miz Pepper, no. He didn’t kill nobody.”

“So where is he? His sister was worried half to death even before the cops knocked on her door.”

“I told him to call her, but he wouldn’t.” Stuck in the trailer, Hot Dog had nowhere to pace off his nerves, instead swaying back and forth behind the open window. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of young men cross the street and aim our way. “He says he’s gotten her in enough trouble and didn’t want to make it worse.”

“She’s been staying in that apartment alone, completely freaked out by the murder, so he would have a place to come home to. By not wanting to worry her, he worried her more.”

“You think I didn’t say so?” He eyed the approaching customers and lowered his voice, one finger poking at his temple. “He ain’t been thinking straight. He figured the cops would find him there, and make trouble for her.”

I stepped aside. The first customer gave his order without a glance at the menu, but the other man took forever. Seriously, kosher dogs plain, with sauerkraut, or with chili and cheese—how hard can it be?

Patience is not my strong suit. I folded my arms and paced, trying not to look too eager for the customers to make like a banana and split.

Finally, they did, and I bounded back to the window. “He’s been staying with you, hasn’t he?”

“Not every night. But he was with me all last night, Miz Pepper. I can vouch for that. He was having some mighty cravings—stress can do that to an addict—so I stayed up with him. We played cards.” He passed a hand in front of his face. “You can see I missed my beauty sleep.”

“Hot Dog, you have to tell the cops.”

He rearranged the ketchup and mustard bottles. “You have any idea what going back to jail would do to Tony, even if the charges don’t stick? He ain’t strong enough, Miz Pepper.”

I didn’t have much time to persuade him, so I talked fast, explaining why the cops were convinced the same person had killed both Joelle Chapman and Brandon Logan.

“That stands to reason,” he said, “from what you tell me. But I don’t get why they think it was Tony.”

“I don’t know who the killer is, but I am certain it wasn’t Tony. If you can give him an alibi for last night—a truthful alibi that stands up,” I said, and almost smiled at his hurt look, that I or anyone else might doubt his honesty, “then that rules him out for both murders.”

He took off his ball cap and wiped his forehead. “Oh, man. Cops make me itchy, Miz Pepper, even though I been clean for years.”

“You always say you owe me for helping you get into Changing Courses and turning your life around.”

“You always say I don’t owe you nothing, that I done the hard work.”

True, but we had no time to waste in debate. “Help me out, Hot Dog. Help him out.”

He breathed in, long and slow, then exhaled and nodded. I dug for my phone. I ought to have Detective Tracy on speed dial.

Ten minutes later, an unmarked car drove up. My middle-ofthe-night visitors climbed out. I greeted them, then dashed around to the back of the trailer and opened the door.

“Hand me your apron,” I said. Hot Dog’s eyes widened in disbelief, but he pulled the bib over his head. For the next twenty minutes, he sat at a folding metal table with the detectives, talking with his hands while they listened, asked questions, and took notes.

And me, I found out how hard working for a living really is.