A couple left the rail, and I took their place. Raised my face to the last warm rays, the damp salt breeze moistening my cheeks.
What had I learned? That Sam had, in fact, been at my corner Thursday morning, and that he was terrified of something. And that Tory’s arrest only added to his worries.
That Tory had not investigated poisons on my shop computer, but that she—I had little doubt it had been her—had tried to access court files.
Angie had spotted Doc peering into the shop, our lights already on. Had Doc gotten his daughter’s attention? Had she talked to him?
Or, as Tracy believed, given him poisoned tea?
I needed to find out what court records Tory had requested. To ask her some good hard questions. And I had more questions about Doc and Sam, and what he’d seen.
All that had to wait. Business hours and weekends were cramping my investigation.
Bet that never stopped Brother Cadfael.
Eighteen
In ancient Greece, the word for cook, butcher, and priest was the same—magieros—and the word shares an etymological origin with “magic.”
—Michael Pollan, Cooked
Sunday mornings, Laurel and I meet for breakfast and a stroll. Sometimes Gabe joins us before dashing off to teenage boy world. This morning, we met at Louisa’s on Eastlake, earlier than usual so I could walk off my Dungeness Crab Cakes Benedict before going to the shop.
“Where’s Gabe?” I asked, leaning in for a quick hug.
“I took pity and let him sleep. He’s studying for the SATs next weekend, and they played a double header yesterday.”
“Win or lose?” The waitress set steaming white mugs in front of us, and Laurel reached for honey and cream. She’s got doctoring her coffee down to a science.
“Two wins. He scored both goals in the first game, and the winning goal in the second. Fingers crossed for that soccer scholarship.”
The high-backed burnished oak booths score big on charm, but they make my bottom ache, so I folded my fleece jacket into a cushion. We were seated, as usual, in a window booth, the clerestories tilted open to let in the morning air. Church bells rang for nine o’clock services. But this was my church: the communion of sinners and seekers over coffee, eggs, and the best Challah French Toast on the planet. Laurel was just perverse—or ecumenical—enough to order it with a side of bacon.
She slid the Seattle Times across the smooth, dark table, open to the death notices. “‘Damien Finch, MD, 64,’” I read. “Longtime Seattle cardiologist and surgeon; died Thursday, September 11, of undetermined causes. Services pending.” The name of a prominent funeral home followed the notice.
“Sixty-four used to sound old,” she said, cradling her mug. Her wild, graying curls flew free today, and she’d draped a soft purple paisley scarf over a loose white blouse.
Despite my makeshift seat cushion, I squirmed. “Pending. That must mean the body hasn’t been released. They may not be certain about the cause of death yet.”
“But they know the manner of death—at least, they think they do, or they couldn’t charge Tory with murder.” We called on the random smattering of legal and forensic terms gleaned from our marriages.
I pulled out my phone. The joint catered to a younger, more casual crowd than Maximilien, with less persnickety waitstaff. A toddler at the next table sang her ABCs over and over, stopping each time at P. I found the funeral home’s website.
“Ah, here’s the listing. No further details yet.”
“But you already know who his family is. You talked to her, right?”
Last night, I’d followed up on the snooping that had given me Damien Finch’s profession and his clinic address, and dug around in the state’s online property tax records. No property listed in Damien’s name, but Marianne Finch owned a house in Seattle’s tony North Beach neighborhood. The area overlooks Puget Sound north of Golden Gardens, an urban refuge at what had been the end of the streetcar line a century ago. It boasts sunset views and classic older homes, many waterfront, and priced to match. Off my turf, but I suspected I’d be getting to know the neighborhood a lot better real soon.
“Yes, but—” The waitress refilled our mugs, and I waited until she’d gone, speaking in a hushed voice. “She says she didn’t kill him, and I believe her. But she’s convinced no one else will, and it’s taken the fight out of her.”
“You have to persuade her. Justice will prevail.”
“She doesn’t believe that.” But why? A woman who spontaneously gave old men hot drinks, who helped them find medical care—what left her convinced that justice was outside her grasp?
Mentally, I replayed our conversation. Tory had said her father always got what he wanted. But he hadn’t: He’d wanted to talk, and she had refused.
No, that wasn’t quite what she’d said: “He always said he would stop me.” And what had Jim said of Doc? “Interfering after he’s dead.”
What did Tory think her father was after? What was so awful between them that she refused to listen?
Legally, all she had to prove was a reasonable doubt about her guilt. But to stop this train wreck sooner rather than later, I needed to give Detectives Tracy and Spencer another suspect.
Who?
What one detail explained her doubt? And what details would prove her innocence?
“I’m seeing Alex tonight,” I said as the waitress slid hot plates in front of us. “He’s making me dinner, at the loft.”
“Now you’re cooking with fire, girlfriend.”
I grinned and picked up my fork.
• • •
AFTER breakfast, we headed for Gasworks Park, built on a point of land at the north edge of Lake Union. The old gasification plant, abandoned decades ago, offers water, space, vistas, curious structures, and cool public art. Plus the gasworks, all rusty obsolescence. The boiler house had been turned into a covered picnic shelter, and the compressor thingy a children’s play barn, the original equipment cleaned up and brightly painted.
My dad used to bring us here to fly kites on the hill. I still love standing in the middle of the Sun Dial—a marvel of bronze, concrete, water, and inlaid shells near the lakeshore—and seeing where my shadow falls. Today, though, a woman in a ministerial purple robe stood in the center in front of a young couple—he in a dark suit, she in a short, lacy white dress. Wedding guests ringed them.
We paused, smiling. Who doesn’t smile at a wedding?
“Keep the pressure on,” Laurel said when we got back to my car. “Keep asking questions. Keep seeking the truth. And call me if I can help.”
I dashed home, parked the Mustang, and trotted up the steps from Western to First. Hurried past the shops. Waved to my buddies at the newsstand and the corner florist and hustled to our front door.
Head bent over his phone, Reed lounged against the wall by the door. Where the CSI detectives had taken prints and I’d scrubbed black print powder out of pink stucco.
When would this horror end so we could get back to normal? With a full staff, no suspicious glances, and no rumors or gossip? Justice would prevail, but sometimes it needs a kick in the rear end.
I switched on the lights and got the cash drawer ready while Reed started the tea. It had been ages since I’d worked a Sunday. Busy in summer, slowing as the weather turns, Sunday sales trend toward gifts and prepackaged items. Thank goodness Sandra had been able to create enough replacement tea to keep us going for a while.
Did Tracy have any idea what havoc he’d wreaked? Wrought, wrocked—whatever. He wouldn’t care. Did our insurance policy cover the cost of replacing product and equipment seized as part of a criminal investigation? I made a note to check.
An hour after opening, we had the place to ourselves for a few minutes.
“Reed, what do you know about Tory outside of work?”
He wiped up a spill on the tea tray, avoidi
ng my gaze. “Not much. You know how she is.”
“And I know how you are. Mr. Social Butterfly.”
A smile teased his lips. “I run into her sometimes. At clubs, or on the Hill.”
“With Zak?”
His expression brightened but quickly became guarded. “Yeah. They’re great together. But she thought you might make one of them quit, so she wanted to keep it quiet. To prove it wouldn’t interfere at work.”
What contradictions we all are. Tory projected such self-confidence, but didn’t show her artwork, and feared letting her boss know she’d fallen for a coworker.
I consider myself open of mind and heart. Had I known, would I have been as understanding as I hoped?
Dating. That conjured up an image of Alex. I smiled and tucked it away for later.
“She ever talk about her family? About Doc?”
Reed swept his bangs off his face. They promptly fell back down. “He came in once. You weren’t here—might have been a Sunday. She listened, then told him to leave.”
“How was he dressed?”
He tilted his head. “Normal, now that you mention it. Without that funny coat and hat.”
Puzzle pieces shifted in my mind. He knew where his daughter worked—possibly from Marianne. But when he had something to say to her, he came here—suggesting he didn’t know her phone number or where she lived.
But she didn’t want to talk to him. So had he started watching her? Following her. Stalking her, in hopes she’d give him another chance to plead his case.
What could be so important?
“Do you remember when?”
He thought a moment. “Mid-August. Right after summer school ended.”
A month ago. That fit—we’d started seeing Doc just before Labor Day. He had to know Tory would see through the disguise. Still, it gave him an opportunity to watch. To keep an eye on her.
The front door opened and a pair of women—sisters, I guessed—sauntered in. They’d come from the Sunday chef’s demo—a local chef showing how to make a meal from the day’s tastiest offerings—and wanted seasonings to help them re-create the magic.
Moments later, the door burst open and in strode Zak, all six-two and two hundred pounds. The sleeves of his black T-shirt rode up on his bulging upper arms, showing off enough ink to have kept Madame Lasorda, the Market’s tattoo queen, busy for weeks.
His eyes looked wild and a bit frantic.
“Zak. Stop.” I put my hand on his chest. “Breathe.”
I left the customers to Reed and headed to the back room, Zak on my heels. I shut the door, then leaned against the small sink that stood between the office and the restroom, clearing the way for Zak to pace. From toilet to desk, two and a half strides.
“She won’t talk to me. I understood when she sent me away yesterday, but two days in a row? We’re supposed to be a couple. Why is she shutting me out?”
“Zak, Tory’s a complicated woman. This is all really complicated.”
The pain on his face spoke volumes about complication. His pacing slowed. “I’ve got to help her.”
“Sit.” I pointed to my desk chair. “Tell me everything you know about her family.”
“It feels wrong to tell. She’s so . . .”
“Private,” I said. “It feels like betrayal. It’s not. It’s love.” His eyes told me I was right.
He sat, big bald head in his hands. “She grew up in the north end. Only child. Her mother died when she was a kid.”
“Sounds tough. Her father remarried, though, right?” Had Doc worn a wedding ring? I pictured his hand, lying open on the sidewalk, but my memory homed in on the Spice Shop cup rolling out of his fingers. Besides, lots of married men don’t wear rings. Tag never had.
“Yeah. Two older stepbrothers she barely knows. She never said much about her stepmother, but I got the impression she understood Tory’s problems with her father.”
“And what were they? Time to come clean.”
He stared at the floor, shaking his head, and I realized I had two employees in crisis, not one. I tried to think like a father. Like a widowed doctor with one precious child.
At last, he raised his eyes. “I can’t understand why a parent would stand between his child and her dreams. My folks hauled me to piano lessons and band camp. Bought me my first guitar. My dad took me to concerts of bands he hated because I loved them. Though he ended up kinda liking them, too.”
“Because,” I said in Universal Mother Mode, “parents fear the things they think will hurt their children. Like bad marriages or dropping out of college. Or coming out of the closet.” Although Reed’s parents seemed cool about that. “And choosing careers in the arts, where only the very lucky reach the level society values.”
“I know. But I don’t get it, you know?”
I probed, but he knew nothing more about Doc and Tory. “The Martinez girls said Tory helped Sam when he needed some medical attention. Did she take him to the Market clinic?”
A spark lit up Zak’s eyes. “Was it Sam?” he said. “I never knew. No, not the clinic here. She took him to her father’s office.”
• • •
WHEN one of the city’s premier chefs promises to make you dinner, what do you do? Prepare for magic. Stick white in the ice bucket and open red. Set the table with your favorites: Fiestaware, white linen napkins scored way on sale at Sur la Table, and my grandmother’s sterling, Carillon by Lunt. And French wine tumblers. My style is nothing if not eclectic.
Step back and admire it all. Adjust that one stray spoon.
And slip into your favorite dress. I chose sleeveless with a deep V-neck and a long, swirling, angled hemline, in shades of blue shot through with silver. It went well with my dark hair, scrunched into loose curls rather than my usual spikes, and brought out the specks of blue in my hazel eyes. I added a sweeping line of ultramarine above my black eyeliner, and donned silver loop earrings and bracelets from the import shop.
What music? I had no idea what Alex liked. My iPod playlist—meant for walking—might be a tad raucous for a romantic evening at home. So I loaded a few mellower faves into the CD player: Chris Botti’s trumpet genius, Cold Play, classic Pearl Jam. And for the quiet side, Gloria Estefan’s Standards.
Some people are more “ish” than others when it comes to time, so when my eyes kept flicking to the schoolhouse clock on the wall, watching the hands tick tick tick past six, I told myself to chill. Poured another glass of water and picked up the Brother Cadfael mystery I’d started Saturday night.
Put it down and rearranged the display on the coffee table. My heart, the clock, and the music all beat in different rhythms.
At six twenty, I decided something must have happened at one of the restaurants, or to his car, and double-checked my phone for a message or a text. Nothing. “Still on?” I typed.
Then just to be sure, I left a voice mail.
At six thirty, I opened the white, a lovely Italian Verdicchio. A shame to drink it alone, but more of a shame to let it sit on ice, cold and lonely. At six forty-five, I was convinced he’d been in an accident, and at six fifty-five, I broke open a box of Italian flatbread crackers and sliced up prosciutto. Turned the knife to yesterday’s leftover melon and it slipped.
“Yow.” They say dull knives hurt worse than sharp knives, and they’re probably right, but that’s no consolation when you see the skin on your forefinger split open, a thin red stream leaking out. I stuck my finger in my mouth, then made a soft fist and shook it in pain.
Was Alex hurt? I wondered, rummaging in the bathroom for a Band-Aid.
I wiped blood off the butcher block and refilled my wine. Worry mingled with anger and embarrassment in an uneasy stew. I felt guilty feeling mad—what if he wasn’t okay?
Odds were Alex was just fine. He’s the kind of man who is always fine.
The more time that passed without a word, the worse I felt, getting stood up in my own house.
At seven thirty, I pronounced myself ditched. I tossed my sparkly blue dress into the wicker laundry basket and pulled on black yoga pants and an oversized white I COSTA RICA T-shirt.
Saturday after work, I’d plunged into the adventures of Brother Cadfael, falling asleep moments after finishing A Morbid Taste for Bones. Now I fished in my mother’s box for the next—Monk’s Hood? No—that came later. One Corpse Too Many.
I sighed. How many are too many? Depends whether you’re a shopkeeper or a medical examiner, I guess. Or a detective. Hadn’t Cadfael, in his callow youth, left a woman behind, gone off to battle in the Holy Land, and forgotten to return for a decade or two?
Alex Howard, I thought as I speared the last chunk of cantaloupe with a sterling silver fork, my cut finger throbbing, had better have an excuse so good.
Nineteen
With all the coffee shops in Seattle, you’d think the people would walk faster.
—Paul Levine
“Look what the dog dragged in,” my friendly espresso maker said, in her singsongy Ethiopian accent. Her dark eyes laughed.
Not with me. At me.
“Better make it a triple.” I’d need that much caffeine to climb my way up the Market steps. Today might be an elevator day.
I wasn’t hungover on alcohol—although I had drunk my share of the Verdicchio before switching to decaf spice tea. Call it the aftereffects of too much emotion and too many late nights for a woman with an early bell. Alex’s no-show had triggered a surge of negativity, a virtual replay of every time I’d ever been stood up, let down, or otherwise tossed around. At least I’d been home, where I could climb into my jammies, rant, rave, stalk, stomp, and cry without anyone knowing. Anyone except for my sweet neighbor who came over once to check on me, using his own white linen handkerchief to dab at my eyes and telling me any man who missed a chance with me was a fool not worth crying over. “Present company excepted,” he’d said with a wink.
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