Witnesses put Sam on the scene, and Tory inside. But while no one I’d talked to had seen her open the door for Doc, let him in, or give him tea, nothing I’d learned ruled that out.
They’d found no poison in the shop. Dozens of people, including every employee, had drunk that tea on Thursday, after Doc’s death, and no one had reported even the slightest problem. Nothing the police had taken from the shop could have implicated Tory.
Unless they’d found something in her purse. Or her apartment.
Tracy had said they had two weeks to arraign her, meaning haul her into court and formally charge her. Maybe they didn’t think they had enough evidence yet. Maybe they were still searching for the smoking gun—or the smoking tea bag.
Could we keep that train in the station, to mix my metaphors?
I scrolled down the inventory of items seized:
—Tea, loose, in cellophane bags and one large bulk canister. Location: behind the front counter. The tea we use for brewing samples. Tea, in individual bags, boxed. Location: various.
—Large electric brewing device.
—Large orange insulated drink dispenser.
—Paper cups.
—Straws. Garbage cans, two. Recycling bins. Rubber stamps.
The cups again. My first question, almost the moment I found Doc on the sidewalk, was how he’d gotten the cup. The cops had concluded, logically enough, that Tory had given it to him that morning.
Except for our name and logo, that cup could have come from half a dozen places a stone’s throw from the shop. I closed my eyes and pictured it lying on the street, inches from Doc’s outstretched fingers.
And clearly saw our logo on it.
I put aside the simple explanation—sometimes it’s simply wrong. Had the killer filched one of our stamps and used it to frame Tory? To frame us?
Unlikely. We had two stamps. Tory and Reed had used them Wednesday morning. Then, if they followed their usual practice, put them away in a tin box on the bottom shelf of the tea cart.
Where nearly anyone could have gotten to them.
But had I seen the stamps between then and Friday morning, when Tracy and crew had bagged them up and listed them on the inventory? No way to tell.
And the last item: Computer files seized from office.
I set the papers on my coffee crate and visualized the scene outside, start to finish. From the moment I spotted Doc until the EMTs had loaded his body into the ambulance.
My mental film froze on the image of Sam’s beret falling out of Doc’s coat. Sam had been there. I just didn’t know why. Or how Doc had gotten the beret.
What would Cadfael do?
First, he’d putter in his workshop, checking his tinctures and oils, the bubbling brews, the racks of drying herbs. My equivalent: Make another cup of tea. I opened the infuser and dropped the wet leaves into my kitchen counter composter. (My neighbors turn it into rich, dark compost, giving me a generous share for my herbs and tomatoes.) Refilled it, dropped it in my mug.
The only way to make a single cup of tea in the shop is to microwave hot water and add a tea bag, or nuke a cup of leftover tea. Then add poison. But we’d emptied out both pots the night before, and I’d seen no bag in the cup near Doc’s hand.
I pushed the lever on my kitchen sink for instant hot water, a feature I highly recommend.
So I didn’t know how Doc had gotten the tea, or how it had been poisoned. Whatever the substance, it must not have had a taste that would instantly warn anyone off.
I carried my tea back to the couch. Cadfael was trusted, but sly. He saw what wasn’t there, but should have been.
What did that mean here, in The Case of the Poisoned Imposter?
Evidence of someone present at his death with a motive to kill him.
Dang it. No one anywhere near the scene had any motive except Tory. And Sam. No one else in the vicinity even knew Doc.
I sank onto the couch, the lights on the Viaduct whizzing by. Was that true? Had any of his colleagues, his business rivals, followed him to the Market? Anyone who might have been angry with him, but hadn’t known he was dying.
And how had Doc gotten to the Market? Robbie said Doc didn’t drive anymore, presumably due to his illness.
The idea of a doctor calling a cab to take him to the Market so he could disguise himself as a street man and spy on his daughter was almost ludicrous. The idea of the tenderhearted, sharp-eyed cabbie poisoning the man—a reliable fare—was even more ridiculous.
The idea that said cabbie might have noticed something relevant—now that might have some merit. Though I thought he’d have told me already.
What about the widow? I’d all but ruled Marianne out, but maybe I shouldn’t have. She had our tea—she’d served it to me.
No. She hadn’t sent him off for the day with a warming-but-deadly cup. The moment he smelled it, he’d have dumped it out, furious that she’d defied his orders to shun Tory. I reached for my phone and made a note to ask both Marianne and Robbie how Damien Finch had gotten to the Market that fateful morning.
Once again, I circled back to the cup of tea. Where had it come from, if not from someone inside the shop? From Tory?
When stymied, Cadfael often sat in the Chapel, letting the angelic hosts gathered there wash over him, until insight struck.
I loaded the CD player. The sepulchral tones of the Tallis Scholars and Anonymous 4 rose to the rafters and echoed off the old bricks and pipes. I love my loft the most when I feel the history in the place, when it evokes my connection to the things, the people, the places I cherish. Tory had loved the Market. I pictured Doc and her mother taking her there as a small child, as my parents had.
I sipped my tea, savoring the cloves and citrus. Jane had created the perfectly balanced recipe.
Who would know about poisons besides, hypothetically, the Spice Shop staff?
A doctor.
Everything I’d learned about Damien Finch said he was a proud, arrogant man. Did that make him more, or less, likely to kill himself to avoid the ravages of illness?
But I could not imagine him taking such a drastic step until he’d reconciled with his daughter. And if he had intended the life insurance policy his widow mentioned to provide for Tory, surely he would have realized that suicide invalidates most policies.
Had someone who knew he was dying wanted to keep Tory from getting that money? But why?
I had to believe Detective Tracy knew of Doc’s illness, from the widow or the autopsy, and was asking these same questions.
Thinking of Brother Cadfael and his jars and tonics reminded me that I had recipes to ponder, and labels to choose. But now I knew what to do. I zipped around the loft gathering a few of my favorite things from windowsills, the kitchen shelves, the vintage leather suitcases stacked beside my bed. I packed and padded them carefully into my grandmother’s 1940s train case, a warm contentment settling over me.
One more task before curling up with my favorite monk. I checked the funeral home website. Services had now been scheduled for Wednesday afternoon at St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral. I would be there. Like Brother Cadfael, I would make myself as unobtrusive as possible.
Watch, mingle, and listen.
And pray for the answers.
Twenty-three
Although some say that the term “nose to the grindstone” originated with millers, who judged quality by the aroma freshly milled grains released, linguists trace its roots to knifemakers. First used in print in 1530 to mean treating someone harshly, it’s evolved over the last two centuries to refer to discipline and hard work.
Tuesday morning, I woke up determined to put my nose to the grindstone, to figure out who had wanted Damien Finch dead. Anyone who knew he was already dying could be eliminated, unless they killed him to frame someone else. So I also had to ask who hated both father and daught
er.
I bounded up the steps and wove my way through the maze that is morning in the Market. Held my breath as I neared the shop, but all looked right today. I breathed a sigh of relief.
The vigil for Doc on my doorstep long over, none of the men who spent their days on the streets were around.
“Boss, if we’re gonna get those blends out, we need labels. It’s time to decide,” Sandra said.
“Don’t you fret, don’t you frown.” Finally, I knew how to put my mark on the shop.
As we readied the shop for the day, my thoughts turned once again to Tory and the strained family relationships. Despite Marianne’s explanation, I couldn’t imagine cutting your daughter out of your life. Or a wife and stepmother going along with such an unreasonable demand. But Marianne had done the best she could, helping Tory get a decent job and checking on her occasionally.
But though Marianne looked more like a woman trying to navigate troubled waters than a suspect, I worried that I was crossing the widow off the list too soon. Last night, I’d thought a lot about the challenges of loving a difficult man. Tag was flawed, especially in the honesty and fidelity department, but he wasn’t truly difficult. More like I imagined a young Cadfael—headstrong. Not like Damien Finch and, I suspected, Alex Howard: unconcerned about others’ feelings, men who view compromise as giving in when they’re right.
If the old man in the waiting room was to be believed, Finch ran through partners like race horses through the finish line. How could I figure out who he’d practiced with? Neither Marianne nor Dr. Griffey was likely to tell me. Tory hadn’t known—she’d left home and her father’s good graces ten years ago.
Zak arrived for the day. I plugged in the makeshift tea service. The red light on the pot flashed on and a lightbulb went off in my brain.
“You two okay here?” I asked Sandra. “I’ve got errands to run. And a clue to chase.”
“Piece of cake.” She gave me a mock salute, and I hitched my tote over my shoulder, energized by its contents and the pink shoes on my feet.
On my way out of the Market, I kept an eye peeled for Sam, and asked everyone I met—in a casual, offhand manner—whether they’d seen him.
The word “no” is no fun at all.
At Third and Madison, I popped into my old building and rode the escalators up to the Fourth Avenue lobby, then crossed the plaza to Ripe Café and Deli.
“Apricot crumb cake.” Laurel set plates and forks on a small corner table, next to our coffees. “My new baker is a prize.”
“Speaking of new employees, I need somebody part-time. Get any applicants you can’t use, send ’em my way.”
Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “You can’t give up on Tory.”
“I’m not. But who knows how long it will take to get everything straightened out.”
“What have you learned?”
I filled her in. “So I’m headed upstairs.”
She smiled. “Your grandpa should have called you Tiger.”
“His second choice.”
• • •
“UPSTAIRS” meant “up elevators,” to the forty-second floor.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Callie Carter said. “My mother brought a bushel basket of apples from her trees and insisted on baking pies. She has no idea she wasn’t using her own mother’s nutmeg grinder.”
“Thank me with research assistance.” I explained what I needed.
She walked me down a hallway, past the offices of two dozen lawyers who’d lost their jobs along with us and formed their own firm, representing start-up businesses and small corporations. Callie worked part-time, researching public records and private databases, contributing to the firm’s blog and newsletter, and training new lawyers and legal assistants in research. “Law libraries are changing faster than Lady Gaga between songs.”
Gone the long stretches of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves full of musty, leather-bound volumes of court decisions dating back to territorial days. All that was digital now. Smaller bookcases held specialized treatises and references, while each lawyer had her own personal collection.
“But we still have microfiche.” She gestured at the giant reader. “And I can call up old corporate and partnership filings on the state database, even if they’re dissolved or inactive. Information never goes away.”
I gave Callie my short list of names—Damien Finch, Marianne, Tory, Ken Griffey—and crossed my fingers that she was right.
• • •
“CHICA!” Today, the fabulous Fabiola was decked out in skinny gold pants and a jacket of giant silver sequins. On her head perched one of those jaunty blue caps flight attendants wore in the 1950s, feathers pinned to one side with a copper star. She was barefoot, a pair of high-heeled vintage Spectators on the floor beside her chair.
I air-kissed her cheeks. “You go shopping in a bank vault?”
She flashed me a shiny grin. “So you’re ready to decide. What will it be?” Sparkly gold polish glinted on her nails.
I opened the case and withdrew my stash, item by item. At each piece, her eyes grew wider and brighter.
“Where did you find all this? It’s a treasure trove.”
“It’s all mine. Midcentury American, mostly, but this label is on the back of that old Chinese apothecary in the shop.” I pointed to a photograph I’d taken this morning, leaving the original antique label in place. “And this pill bottle is late nineteenth century.”
“I know just the right font.” She tapped keys on her computer, scrolled, tapped again, waited for my response.
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
“Huzzah!” she shouted, punching a fist into the air. “Now that I know what you love”—she gestured to the shakers, tins, bottles, jars, postcards, and other ephemera—“I know exactly what to do for you.”
What you love—the secret to a happy life. And a happy shop.
• • •
IN the summer of 1889, a cabinetmaker’s glue pot caught fire. The blaze spread quickly, leveling much of downtown, including the lumber mills and shacks of Skid Road. New city codes required all reconstruction to be brick or stone, not wood. Fabiola’s building proved the city fathers right.
I dashed across Cherry to another sturdy relic, and ducked into the Mystery Bookshop.
“Hey, Jen. Twice in one week. How you doing?”
Jennifer the ex-paralegal came around the counter to hug me, her dark hair piled loosely on top of her head. “Great. Selling books is a lot more fun that drafting answers to interrogatories and summarizing medical records.”
“I believe you.” We shook our heads at the shared memory of watching our trusted employer implode. “I need a book.”
She gestured at the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and the tables stacked high with hardcovers and paperbacks. “We got ’em.”
“This one.” I showed her the printout from a website called “Stop, You’re Killing Me,” which catalogs every mystery ever published, by author and lead character. “I’m reading Brother Cadfael, in order, and I’m missing one.”
Her eyebrows rose. “That’s quite a project.” My list in hand, she headed for the historical mysteries. Her fingers danced expertly across the spines until she found her target. She handed it to me, then marched to the back of the shop. “Let me see if I can find . . .”
I followed slowly, perusing the back jacket copy.
“Thought we might have a copy of The Cadfael Companion. Came out when the BBC did the TV show. But how about this?” She handed me a gently used hardcover titled Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden. “Good reference for a spice shop owner.”
Yes, indeed.
• • •
NEXT stop, a spice delivery to the Grand Central Bakery, a block south.
I dropped off the order and walked out the back of the building, another grand post-fire edifice.
As always, I stared in awe at the incredible wall of ivy extending to the roof line, leaving the windows and a few patches of red brick peeking out.
Occidental Park has an old world feel—if the old world boasted hand-carved cedar totem poles along with its cobbles and wrought iron lampposts. No Pioneer Square Farmers’ Market today, and no Out to Lunch concert. But near the band shell, a sax player blew his horn for the pigeons and passersby, and office workers eating bakery lunches.
And if I’d guessed right, one scared man who loves street jazz.
On the far side of the Square, Sam huddled behind the granite blocks of the firefighters’ memorial, wearing a too-small Mariners cap. As the former wife of a cop, I have a tender spot in my heart for this monument, erected after four firefighters were killed battling an arson fire in a frozen Chinese food factory in the International District. I still remember Tag working double shifts, coming home reeking of smoke, eyes red-rimmed from strain and emotion.
Arf scrabbled to his feet at my approach, but didn’t bark or growl.
“Care for company?” I said, sinking to the cobbles.
Surprise flowed through Sam’s gentle features, though it didn’t erase the sadness that clung to him. Arf sat, and I scratched the magic spot behind one ear.
“How’d you know where to find me, Miz Pepper?”
“Followed the music.” Arf settled his big head on my leg, and we listened to the sweet, tangy melody.
“Why’d you leave the Market, Sam?” I said when the sax fell silent. “Place doesn’t feel right without you.”
Sam’s breathing got louder and louder, as if his lungs wanted him to speak but his brain didn’t. Finally, he spoke, his voice so deep and quiet I had to lean in to hear.
“I were there, Miz Pepper. When Doc died. It were awful.”
My fingers caught in Arf’s wiry coat.
“I don’t want to remember, but I can’t forget.” He tugged the faded blue ball cap down lower. “It were my turn for that corner, and he wanted it two days in a row. I gave him grief, and he—he . . .”
[SS01] Assault and Pepper Page 19
