Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  “Especially then, after you were born. Sounds like Seetha’s mother hasn’t realized she can’t control her daughter any more than her mother could control her.” Lena knew the story Seetha had told us all earlier in the summer, about her grandmother faking a heart attack to lure her daughter and grandchildren back to India.

  “And Seetha doesn’t have the heart to say so.” Not that I could criticize my friend. I was too chicken to tell my mother that I didn’t want her to join the Flick Chicks. My phone buzzed with a text and I dug it out. Sandra, saying Cayenne had left work early, in tears, and was I coming back soon? I groaned and texted a quick reply. “Gotta go, Mom. Thanks for lunch. Pick out a book for me?”

  I kissed her on the cheek and sped out. Spice Queen, having the time of her life.

  Eleven

  “Beware of an old chef. His food will be over-spiced and overpriced.”

  —An anonymous eater

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” I ASKED SANDRA. WE WERE STANDING near the back of the shop, between the nook and the fabulous red Chinese apothecary an elderly neighbor had left me years ago, now stocked with tea and accessories. I wrapped my apron strings around my waist and tied them.

  “She tripped on her way to refill the recipe racks. The pages went flying and she scrambled around on the floor, snatching them up. A customer called her a klutz—teasing, not being mean. Bless her, she held it together until the woman left, but I could tell how upset she was.” Sandra let out a sigh. “I told her she could take a break. She said no and kept working for an hour or so, then asked if she could leave early. I didn’t see any harm in letting her go home.”

  The Spice Shop isn’t always everyone’s happy place.

  “Good call,” I said, and slid my arm around Sandra’s sturdy shoulders. “I’ll be here all afternoon, so we’re covered.”

  The dark eyes behind today’s glasses—a floral print—betrayed the same worry nagging at me.

  Kristen had created a display of our barbecue rubs, accented with tools from the kitchen shop up the hill and a stack of cedar grilling planks, the coastal Natives’ contribution to the national sport of charring food on the back deck. I added a cookbook on grilling fish, another on traditional Southern barbecue, and one on creative picnics, while keeping my eye on the door and the customers. A few special orders had come in for our brides, so I updated the registry and set the packages aside for Kristen and Sandra to wrap.

  The door opened and two women sauntered in, one popping fat green grapes into her mouth.

  “Oh, what gorgeous grapes!” I grabbed a jar of our Italian Herb Blend and held it out. “I’ve got just the thing. Cut fresh mozzarella into cubes and marinate it for a few hours in herbs and olive oil. Thread a bamboo skewer with a grape, a slice of prosciutto, and a piece of cheese, then repeat. Easy, yummy, and party-perfect.”

  Both women walked out with jars of herbs, headed to the Italian grocer for prosciutto and mozzarella. I love my job.

  During a lull, Sandra set out several cups of fragrant, milky tea, each numbered, her notebook open on the nook table. “These are the test samples I created last night. You won’t believe what I found in the bag you swiped from Seetha’s kitchen.” She held out a fragment of a brown paper bag lined with Mylar, part of a torn gold label bearing the name of a tea shop in Boston.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked. “Seetha’s mom doesn’t blend her chai at all. She buys it at this shop, repackages it, and sends it to her daughter as if it’s her own.”

  Sandra nodded, a wicked glimmer in her eyes.

  Ohmygarlic. Seetha’s mother was every bit as sly as her own mother had been. Granted, on the scale of daughterly deception, faked tea barely registered a blip compared to a fake heart attack half a world away. But nature or nurture, the tendency apparently ran in the family.

  “You’re not going to tell her, are you?” Sandra asked. “That you’re a thief and her mother’s been lying to her?”

  “Are you kidding? And spark a modern tea revolt? No, but I do want solid evidence to test our theory. Or liquid evidence.”

  Five minutes later, thanks to Google and online ordering, a sample bag of Keemun black tea blended with Indian spices was on its way across the country.

  Before I could test Sandra’s samples, Matt summoned me to answer a customer’s questions about caraway.

  “This time of year, it’s most often used in potato salad. In the fall, it’s great with pork and cabbage, or baked apples, and rye bread,” I said. “Cheesemongers sometimes add caraway to havarti—the earthy, anisey taste balances the richness of the cheese. Unlike the spices that drove so much exploration and commerce, it’s native to Western Europe, though the Dutch are the largest producers. It may have been spread by the Romans in their travels, and now shows up in other cultures as well. We use it in harissa, a North African blend. It’s great on—”

  The woman smiled indulgently, and I interrupted myself.

  “Sorry. Carried away by caraway. How can I help you?”

  “A friend’s been reading James Beard’s memoir and wants to make his famous seed cake. She asked me to pick up some caraway while I was in the Market. But won’t she need other seeds and spices, too?”

  We found the recipe in one of Beard’s many cookbooks, and sure enough, the only spice it called for was caraway. I handed her back to Matt to measure and pack her order.

  Retail involves a surprising amount of shelf straightening. I rescued a tea infuser from the cookbook shelves and returned it to the Chinese apothecary, where I found a copy of today’s newspaper, left by a lazy shopper. I’d meant to look for reports on the murder earlier, but skipped the morning paper in my rush to get to class.

  On the lower left, below the fold, a small headline read: WIFE OF DISGRACED ATTORNEY FOUND STABBED IN EASTLAKE SHOP.

  Justin Chapman could win the Nobel, the Pulitzer, and an Oscar and forever be described as “disgraced attorney.”

  No matter how close a couple, “disgrace” is a big deal. Saying “for better or worse” is one thing; living up to it another. How had Joelle responded to the loss of her home and financial security, not to mention social standing?

  Had she been a loyal wife, or as horrified as everyone else?

  Or had she known, and gone along with it? That I doubted. The whistleblower had been a young lawyer assigned to the case, and there had never been any indication that anyone outside the law firm or the drug company knew about the secret, damning report.

  I slid into the nook with the newspaper. I’d been a betrayed wife myself, and though Justin had broken a different vow, I was sure his actions hurt her just as much. You assume spousal fidelity, unless you’ve agreed otherwise, and you assume your spouse will abide by the ethics of his profession and not risk his reputation and his livelihood.

  The old saying about what happens when you assume does hold a certain amount of truth. I hadn’t been willing to work out my problems with Tag, which went beyond infidelity—the bromide about the last straw is true, too—but even if Joelle had been willing to forgive Justin’s misdeeds, the situation had to have strained their marriage.

  I turned to the inside page and finished reading the account of Joelle’s murder. The weapon had not been found. Preliminary indications, Detective Tracy said, were of a sixto eight-inch blade, of fairly thick steel.

  The thought made me cringe. But the gruesome detail did make the random-attacker-with-a-pocket-knife theory unlikely.

  Had a memorial service been scheduled? I texted Aimee to see if she’d heard. Growing up, my family had had a curious relationship with the Church, preferring pursuit of its social justice mission over attending services. My mother had loved the ritual and hated the hypocrisy. We’d spent countless hours in the basement of St. James Cathedral, cooking and serving meals to underprivileged families, but rarely ventured into the nave for Mass.

  Wherever two or more Catholics are gathered, there will be guilt. But guilt isn’t always bad, especially i
f it prompts you to do the right thing. Heartfelt kindness, random or otherwise, might score higher on the charity scale, but any kindness counts.

  So when Aimee’s reply said there would be a celebration of life Thursday evening, I vowed to go, and meet up with Nate later.

  While I had my phone out, I texted Cayenne a message. Hope you’re okay. Tomorrow will be better! At least, I hoped it would. I was willing to cut her some slack until I knew what was going on, but when an employee’s behavior interferes with getting the work done, you have to take action.

  I couldn’t help thinking about Justin. While the spouse is always a suspect—at least on Law & Order and NCIS—I wasn’t prepared yet to view him with anything but sadness. Being a bad lawyer didn’t mean he’d been a bad husband. But I didn’t need the inside scoop on their marriage to imagine her being furious with him, even after all this time.

  Still, I never understood why an unhappy spouse chose murder over divorce. Both are messy, true, but only one is socially acceptable, let alone legal. A spontaneous argument could turn deadly, but wasn’t that more likely to happen at home than work? Had Justin nursed a grudge against his wife? Had he gone postal, tracking her down and wreaking revenge? That’s a long, slow burn. That’s a plan, and a far cry from hiding a damaging piece of paper.

  And it usually ends up with the killer dead.

  Matt passed by and mimed sticking his fingers in his cheeks and pulling them into a smile. I obeyed, chagrined at having let my questions about Joelle’s murder invade the workplace and mess up the pleasant retail expression I preach.

  I laid the newspaper aside and focused on Sandra’s samples. Chai is so varied and forgiving that we almost couldn’t go wrong. I knew what I wanted: classic, with our own flavor twist. What exactly that meant, I wouldn’t know until it hit my tongue.

  I’d even come across recipes for a few chai cocktails. Now that was research I was looking forward to.

  The next sample combined Vietnamese cinnamon, cardamom, and a pinch of clove. How should I handle Matt’s review tomorrow? In retail, you need to assess how well the employee handles the mechanics of the job—weighing out product and ringing up sales, stocking shelves, and interacting with customers and co-workers. In that arena, Matt’s experience served him well. As for spices, he could extol the virtues of smoked paprika, one of my favorites, and knew Mexican oregano from Greek. But lesser-known critters, say carob and caraway, confused him. And he hadn’t showed much initiative yet. But all that was a matter of time.

  Beyond free spices, Wednesday treats, and Saturday lunch, I can’t give my employees a big benefit package, but Matt had earned a raise.

  I touched the tea with the tip of my tongue. Too heavy on the cinnamon. I made a few notes and reached for the next sample.

  Performance reviews should go both ways. Did he think he could make a greater contribution, or have changes to suggest?

  Mmm. This one smelled great—ginger and black pepper, for a nice bite. I reached for the spoon but Sandra interrupted before I could give it a taste.

  “Boss. Phone call—Edgar from the Italian joint.”

  I stepped behind the counter and took the call. Corded phones are a must in retail. Otherwise, we’d be pinging lost receivers all day.

  “Hey, Edgar. I’ll get that order to you tomorrow.”

  “No worries,” he said. “Could you add a few ounces of smoked sweet paprika? I tried the sample you gave me in baked goat cheese and the staff swooned. I’d like to serve it as a special appetizer this weekend.”

  “You got it.” Baked paprika cheese. Now who would have thought of that? That’s why Edgar was the chef and I the mere supplier.

  Have I mentioned I love my job?

  “I wanted to tell you,” he continued. “The man I saw having drinks with Joelle last week? He walked by the restaurant twice this morning.”

  Curious, I thought.

  “And he looked mad enough to kill.”

  Twelve

  According to the folks at a popular Seattle seafood joint, salmon fishing in Puget Sound alone has an economic impact of $100 million a year.

  CAYENNE DID NOT RESPOND TO MY TEXT. I DID NOT KNOW whether she would return. I did not have any idea who Edgar had seen, first during an unpleasant cocktail hour with Joelle, then pacing up and down Eastlake. I did not know which of Sandra’s tea blends was the winning combination.

  But I did know I had a dinner date with a dog and a fisherman. And I knew which one I was happier to see. Sorry, Arf, I silently told my spirit animal, mentally promising him extra liver chews.

  The Market was in that curious buttoning-down phase when I left the shop. The last dinner-frantic customers were gone. The early diners hadn’t arrived yet, and the drinks-after-work crowd was already perched on their bar stools or seated under wide umbrellas.

  Stores with doors, like mine, were closed. But that didn’t mean the streets and sidewalks were abandoned. Shops and vendors with extra produce and baked goods were piling cartons on the sidewalk for the Market food bank. The highstallers were closing, the daystallers packing up, and as I wove my way through the frenzy, I exchanged greetings with merchants, artists, craftspeople, and growers. Herb the Herb Man asked after Arf and handed me a bag of mint and parsley that was fresh enough for dinner but not fresh enough to sell tomorrow. I don’t go looking for late-in-theday handouts, but I rarely turn them down.

  At the loft, I splashed water on my face and swapped my daily black for a pink-and-blue floral print dress and brown leather sandals. Grabbed a few overnight things, a couple of salads from the fridge, and a chilled bottle of Vinny’s summer wine. Pulled the Saab—how I missed that Mustang!—out of the garage and joined the throngs escaping downtown. At six-thirty, traffic was beginning to thin. Some of my pals wonder how I can stand to live downtown as well as work there. But to me, Seattle’s abominable traffic is one more incentive to work close to home.

  Besides, I’m a city girl. I love the hustle and bustle. Seattle has plenty of greenery and beachery—this city will build a park almost anywhere—and all variety of waterfront.

  And the Peninsula, the San Juans, and the North Cascades beckon, even if it isn’t always easy—literally or figuratively—to get out of town.

  Western merged with Elliott and I drove northish through Interbay, then made the weird half-circle that put me on Nickerson. Funny how you think you know your city well, but still find pockets that surprise you, the sights unfamiliar and the directions akilter. I’d been on the obligatory grade school tour of the locks and the terminal, home to the North Pacific Fleet, and I’d long been captivated by the romance of the boats and the lure of the unfamiliar gear. Now I was actually getting to know the fishermen’s haunts.

  I parked at the north end of the lot. Nate had texted to find him—them—at Net Shed #5. The Port developed this property more than a hundred years ago, and in those days, nets had to be hung to dry. Hence, the expansive net sheds. These days, nets are made of synthetics that dry easily, so the sheds have been converted to storage lockers and other uses.

  A not-unpleasant blend of fish, salt, and diesel, all made a touch acrid by the day’s heat, hit my nostrils as I wound between the garden and main terminal, then passed the Fisherman’s Memorial. Fishing is a dangerous business, and granite slabs mounted beside the bronze statue of a fisherman hooking the big one, sea creatures at his feet, hold names of nearly seven hundred killed in fishing-related accidents in the past century. Some had vanished at sea. This memorial was all their families had left.

  It gave me a chill, though the evening was way past warm. Tools and gear fascinate me, no matter what the trade. But while I love the smells, the gizmos, grunge, and color, I couldn’t tell a purse seiner from a purse snatcher. I didn’t have a locker full of rubber boots and overalls, and jackets embroidered with the names of factory ships I’d worked on. I’d sailed and kayaked, and when my soul is troubled, I calm it with a ride on one of the ferries that ply Puget Sound. But I had never
“been to sea.”

  And the sea was Nate’s life.

  The fishermen’s world and mine did intersect in one critical way: We both provide food. Granted, they venture out in wicked wind and weather to catch the fish, battling swelling seas, fickle markets, the changing climate, and themselves. Me, I’m a shop jockey. That wasn’t completely fair—it’s not always easy to forge relationships with suppliers and distributors over the phone, and I’ve made plenty of foul-weather treks to herb farms, some no bigger than a boat slip, in search of the goods. I work late hours in the shop, toil in the commercial kitchen, and wage my own battles with everyone from the bank to FedEx to the PDA—the Public Development Authority—to keep our shelves stocked and our customers happy.

  Was love of hard work and good food sufficient to link one very committed fisherman and me?

  Nate and I both love history and books. We love Seattle, although he leaves it half the year. We love Arf the dog and long walks and early mornings.

  I thought I was coming to trust my judgment again, and to love him.

  I stepped around a pile of floats strung like beads on a necklace for a giantess. I wouldn’t know how good this relationship, unconventional as it was, could be unless I tried. Until I tried.

  But when I saw the man and dog silhouetted in the vast open doorway of the net shed, I had no doubt.

  “Arf, my boy!” I crouched and let the King of Terriers leap at me like a pup, lunging into my open arms and licking my cheek. Then I stood and greeted Nate with only a smidge less enthusiasm.

  Arms around each other, Arf’s leash in my hand, we strolled down the dock to the Thalassa.

  “Let’s throw a little salmon on the barbie,” Nate said.

  “Your Aussie accent is terrible.”

  “Have you been there?” he replied, and when I shook my head, said, “So how would you know?”

  “Used to work with a gal from Sydney.” Thinking of the law firm reminded me of Justin and Joelle. I dismissed the thought. Murder was not going to invade this evening.