Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  The boat’s galley was tight, and Nate made me laugh by standing in front of me every time I took a step, demanding a kiss as my toll. We carried the pasta salad and a green salad garnished with the fresh-enough herbs up top, where a small grill and a medium-sized dog waited.

  While the salmon cooked, we sipped wine and told each other about our days. He’d been cleaning up the storage locker in the net shed. “My brother is a great business partner,” he said. “But he’s a pig. And a packrat.”

  “Bad combination for a guy who lives on a boat.”

  “Especially one that’s only half his. Although we each own half of two boats, so we kind of each own a whole boat.”

  I told him about seeing Aimee this morning, checking out the co-housing community with Lena, and dropping in to Brandon and Jasmine Logan’s shop. “He runs the wood shop and she handles sales. They met when they worked for Steen Jorgensen.”

  “Who was he, again?”

  “The man who founded Pacific Imports and offered his former employees cash to start a business, and more if they make a profit within a year of his death.”

  “Ah, I remember now. When’s the year up?”

  “December twenty-sixth. Which will be here in the blink of an eye. If neither of them meets the condition, the money goes to the museum. But that has nothing to do with Joelle.”

  He stuck a grilling fork under one of the salmon steaks for a peek. “Unless someone wants Aimee to fail and thought getting Joelle out of the way would do the trick.”

  “Maybe. But Aimee’s the key to that business.” I paused for a sip of vino. “Speaking of employees, a weird thing happened today. Cayenne dropped a stack of recipes, then fell apart when a customer teased her about it. Sandra let her leave early. Whatever’s going on with her is starting to affect the shop. Time for a serious talk.”

  “You’ll know exactly what to do,” he said, and I treasured his confidence in me.

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you. It’s so funny.” Why it popped into mind I didn’t know, but I relayed the story of the man who wanted us to help him propose to his girlfriend.

  Go figure. Talk of proposals and diamonds made my intrepid fisherman blush as pink as the coho on the grill.

  THURSDAY morning dawned on the boat without a lick of the cool, misty air so common in the early hours. Both the dog and I were reluctant to leave, for different reasons, but despite my excellent employees, the Spice Shop wouldn’t run itself.

  And a couple of those employees needed extra attention today. I was glad the shop’s emotional support animal would be close at hand.

  We made our way up the dock, talking about our plans for the day, and arranged to meet later. We reached my car and Nate put a hand on my hip.

  “You remember I’m leaving Saturday?”

  Two days. How could I forget? This would be our life if that’s what we chose, lived in pockets together and pockets apart.

  I gave him a kiss I hoped would keep him coming back.

  At the Market, I grabbed a dirty latte—tea, spices, and a shot of espresso—and a chocolate croissant from my favorite bakery. The counter clerk chatted happily, as usual, but the barista made my drink and delivered it to me without a word, also as usual. I twisted the cup to see if she’d written me a message, as she often did. “Try ice,” it said. I threw her a grin, then headed for the PDA office to grab a fresh stack of the monthly Market newspaper.

  The streets were already filling, the coffee shops, bakeries, and breakfast joints buzzing. Arf trotted beside me, head erect, eyes and ears alert. Where he’d picked up his gentlemanly manners, I have no idea, but they make him the ideal retail dog. When he barks, I’d learned, there’s a very good reason.

  He barked once now, drawing my attention to the Market entrance. A crowd had begun to gather in front of the home of the flying fish, where the famed fishmongers toss salmon and halibut like backyard footballs. The men in their knee-high boots and rubber aprons were still setting up for the day, but they make even the morning routine entertaining, asking onlookers where they’re from and flinging “Pittsburgh!” and “Santa Fe!” through the air with gusto.

  Next to Rachel, the Market’s brass piggy bank mascot, stood a man in a striped overall, a long red balloon twisting rapidly through his fingers. Out of nowhere, he conjured an orange balloon that seemed to wind around the red one of its own accord. Beside him, a man thumped the ground with a broomstick handle. An upside-down bucket, the other half of his makeshift bass, stood a few feet away. Completing the scene were the Market’s friendly bike cops.

  Not so friendly at the moment. Tag stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Balloon Man while his partner restrained Bass Man, who continued blasting epithets at his nemesis for taking his space.

  Trust me, this is not good behavior in front of the cops.

  The tourists and shoppers had backed away, though plenty of eyes were glued to the turf war—any spot near the Market entrance is prime real estate. I glanced up Pike, where a patrol car inched down the crowded street. When bike cops make an arrest, they need backup for transport. From the direction of the office came the Market Master, responsible for assigning the entertainers their spaces.

  My dog and I watched as a second patrol car arrived, as the tourists kept on touristing, as the Market Master spoke to Tag.

  The episode made me rethink my conclusions about Seetha and the man who’d accosted her on the sidewalk near the vintage shop. A perceived injustice can be a powerful trigger. What if he was linked to Joelle’s murder? With no way to track the man, I’d left that part of the investigation to Tracy and Armstrong, but I hoped none of us dismissed the possibility of a connection too hastily.

  A pair of patrol officers led the balloonist to one car while a second pair tugged the vociferous bassist to the other. They’d sort things out at the station.

  Tag crossed the distance between us in two long strides. “Market telegraph says you were looking for me.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. The detectives knew about Seetha’s fears. If any further trouble arose, she’d call one of them.

  He wagged his eyebrows. “Needed a male perspective, did you? On matters of the romantic sort?”

  I scrunched up my face. “What? What do you know about my romantic life?”

  “Oh, I have my ways.”

  “You’re spying on me?”

  He chuckled, in a manner I always found irritating. Like I was missing the point. “I keep an eye on you, sure. But I wasn’t the only one.”

  I tilted my head, questioning.

  “Your fisherman. You didn’t know?” His blue eyes turned serious, and I felt myself turn furious. “Right here, on this very spot. I’d see him pretty regular, in season, making deliveries to these guys.” He jerked a thumb toward the fish market. “Right about the time you show up in the morning. Didn’t take long to figure out he was timing his deliveries to catch a glimpse of you. Coupla months ago, he asked if I knew who you were.”

  My eyes widened and my breath caught in my throat.

  “Don’t worry,” Tag said with a chuckle. “I didn’t say anything bad.”

  I couldn’t believe it. My chance meeting with Nate at Fisherman’s Terminal hadn’t been so chance, after all. Nate had let me think he’d simply noticed me and the dog out for a walk after Sunday brunch with Laurel and my mom, and decided to strike up a conversation. But it had been a set-up.

  And I’d fallen for it.

  Talk about an unsettled world.

  Thirteen

  Airedales, the King of Terriers, were the most popular dog breed in the country in the 1920s. Presidents Teddy Roosevelt, Calvin Coolidge, and Warren Harding all owned Airedales; Harding’s pooch attended Cabinet meetings, sitting in his own special chair.

  I UNLOCKED THE DOOR, DUMPED THE NEWSPAPERS ON THE front counter, and stood in my shop, steaming.

  “Down, Pep,” I told myself. “It’s no big deal.” But it felt like a big deal. Even though Nate hadn’t known Tag was my e
x-husband, it felt like they’d teamed up. It felt like I’d been fooled.

  So what? Wasn’t it kind of sweet that Nate had seen the opportunity to meet the woman he’d been eyeing and seized it? And that Tag had helped him, instead of warning him off with crazy talk?

  Truth was, I didn’t like Tag being involved in my love life, even if he had given it a needed push.

  “What do you think, dog?” I gazed down into Arf’s loyal, dark eyes. I knew that look. “Males. You only want one thing.”

  I walked behind the counter, Arf at my heels, and picked up the magic tin. Arf sat and waited patiently. The moment I held the liver chew in front of his mouth, all patience and loyalty disappeared, gone as quickly as the chew.

  “Good boy. I can always count on you.”

  I got the morning routine going. The staff arrived, and on the stroke of ten, we opened for business.

  “Pepper,” Cayenne said. “Sorry about yesterday. I overreacted. It won’t happen again.”

  “Thanks. I’m counting on that.”

  At ten-thirty, Matt and I crossed the cobbled street to Lowell’s, grabbed coffee, and carried our mugs to a corner table on the top floor, above the din. Westward, outside the wide windows, the world glistened.

  “You’re a pleasure to work with,” I said when we’d gotten settled. “You’ve picked up the procedures without a hitch, and you seem to genuinely enjoy the customers. You’re developing good product knowledge. Sometimes you need a hand when a customer wants a recommendation on spicing a specific dish, or asks about the more exotic spices, but that’s fine.” Like yesterday. Not that caraway was exotic, but to a guy who considered basil pesto on his turkey sandwich a new discovery—well, hey.

  “I thought you might enjoy these.” I slid two books across the table. Spice: The History of a Temptation by Jack Turner, my go-to guide on the history of spice and its role in the global economy, and Soul of the City, the story of the Market.

  While Matt skimmed the covers and flipped pages, I let my vision drift. On the waterfront, the giant Ferris wheel waited to take tourists for a spin. On the Sound, two state ferries tooted their horns as they passed each other. In the distance, massive harbor cranes plucked shipping containers from barges like a child picking LEGOs from a pile on the playroom floor, stacking them on the docks in an order imperceptible to the casual watcher.

  We all want order in our lives, even if it looks like chaos to others.

  Pleasant retail expression firmly in place, I gave Matt my full attention.

  “So it’s all good,” he said, but his hand shook as he reached for his water glass.

  Uh-oh.“Something you want to tell me?”

  “No.” He tightened his grip on the glass. “No, it’s just—after the incident with Cayenne, I thought . . .”

  “What incident with Cayenne?”

  “When she left yesterday, after she dropped the recipes? You were out.” He raised his gaze to mine, making sure we were on the same page, and I nodded. “Right before that, she messed up a display I’d slaved over, and I gave her a hard time.”

  “Specifically how did you ‘give her a hard time’?” Neither she nor Sandra had said a word.

  “‘See what you did,’ I said, not nicely.” He put on a frown and a harsh tone. “‘That took me twenty minutes and you ruined it.’ She offered to help me put it back together, and I brushed her off. Then when she dropped the recipes, I was still mad and didn’t help her. It was stupid and childish, and you expect better of me. I expect better of me.”

  “Sounds like you owe her an apology,” I said after a moment, “but unless she tells me a different story, it doesn’t change your evaluation, or your raise.”

  He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Any observations you want to share about the shop, or me? Anything you need from us to do your job better?”

  “I kinda wondered about working with a dog at first, but he’s great. You’re great. The Market’s great.”

  We discussed a regular customer who was a bit demanding, then chatted about the new blends and spice trends while finishing our coffee. I encouraged him to think of ways to provide additional customer service, and to make up to Cayenne for his short temper. “Take initiative,” I said. “With her, and in other situations.”

  Then we bussed our empty mugs and wound our way back to the shop.

  Matt’s reaction yesterday was childish, as he’d admitted. But my bigger concern was that Cayenne’s mishaps were more common than I’d realized. What might be wrong? My medical knowledge was slim—I couldn’t begin to speculate. The incidents were affecting the other employees. Had they affected our customers yet? I’d have to keep an eye out.

  Staffing is always on a retailer’s mind. I dreaded losing Reed after graduation. And how long would Kristen stay on? She’d started as a favor to me and hadn’t made any noises about leaving, but spice was my calling, not hers.

  Was it Adam or Eve who first said the only constant is change?

  I took Arf for a quick jaunt, then sent him to his bed behind the counter. Up on First, I caught the southbound Center City Streetcar, a much-needed addition to downtown transit. Years ago, trolleys ran on electric wires strung around the city; though these ran on tracks, they proved the adage that “everything old is new again.”

  My destination was Seattle police headquarters on Fifth Avenue, between James and Cherry, home to the Major Crimes squad.

  “Thanks for filling in the picture,” Tracy said after I’d told him and Armstrong what I knew about Justin Chapman’s “disgrace” and my conversation with Edgar. Tracy’s camel hair sport coat hung on a coat tree in the corner, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and loosened the knot of his chocolate brown tie. “It is curious that the man she had a drink with last week has returned to the neighborhood. Sounds like it probably wasn’t Justin Chapman.”

  “Well, Edgar couldn’t be sure about the man’s age. And isn’t the spouse always a suspect?”

  Tracy rolled his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I continued, “what was going on with their relationship or their finances. It’s not hard to imagine tensions reaching the boiling point. Unless he has an alibi that holds up.” I glanced at Armstrong standing by the door, the faint pinstripe in his navy suit accentuating his height and angular features. I was fishing; they weren’t biting.

  “Speaking of tensions,” Tracy said. “Are you aware of any disagreements between the victim and Ms. McGillvray? Say, over the money the old coot they worked for left them? Could be the victim demanded a share and they argued.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “Aimee wasn’t even in the shop when it happened—”

  “According to her,” Tracy said.

  “According to me. I’d have recognized her voice.” Or at least, I thought so. But we always think we notice and remember more than we do. “Aimee would never hurt anyone. And she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that shop. She’s terrified that the bad publicity and temporary closure will set her back and keep her from meeting the conditions of the will.”

  “You’re thinking logically,” Armstrong said. “Killers don’t.”

  No argument there.

  “Any luck finding the man who harassed Seetha at the bus stop?”

  “In fact, yes,” Armstrong said. “He works in the area and we were able to pin down his movements pretty precisely. He clocked out shortly before the bus reached that stop and his co-workers confirm he was on the job until the last minute. We haven’t caught up with him yet, but we’ll let Ms. Sharma know when we do, and see if she wants to press charges for the spitting. Misdemeanor. Do you?”

  “Only if she does.” A creep, but not a killer? A relief, if it proved true.

  Tracy leaned forward, hands on the desk, ready to push back his chair. “Thank you for coming—”

  “Before you go,” Armstrong said. “Maybe you can shed some light on something that’s been puzzling us. Since you know Ms. McGillvray and you’ve got e
xperience in retail.”

  Tracy frowned.

  “Mrs. Chapman was an expert on high-end Asian art and antiques,” Armstrong continued, “and an interior designer who worked for some of the wealthiest people in the city. No offense to Ms. McGillvray, but wasn’t this job a step down?” He trained his hazel eyes on me. He’d told me he wanted to work with Tracy, that he admired the older detective’s record and thought he could learn from him. But when it came to soliciting help from the citizenry, he’d clearly taken a page from Detective Spencer’s book.

  “I suppose it was,” I said. “And you’d think with the building boom in the Northwest, she could have found a good-paying job with a design firm. On the other hand, she may simply have missed the daily activity of retail. One of my employees barely knew red pepper from black when he started—he’s a retail hound who enjoys learning about the products and dealing with customers.” And as Aimee had said, the affordable Asian items Joelle brought in did mix well with her brand of vintage decor.

  Tracy grunted. “She wasn’t going to earn back all the money he lost at a job paying fifteen bucks an hour. Hardly worth her bother.”

  Another thought occurred to me. “Aimee and Joelle worked together for years. After all the disruption in Joelle’s life, I imagine the routine and the comfort of working with a friend were reassuring.” The flipside of Kristen coming to work for me, when my life turned upside down and I craved a friendly face. But the detectives’ expressions made clear they weren’t convinced. “Is there some particular problem you’re referring to?”

  “We have our sources,” Tracy said, his tone sharp with impatience. What had he heard, and from whom? The Logans spoke of the old crew as family. Would they honestly have badmouthed Aimee to the detectives?

  “My staff might disagree with me from time to time, but I wouldn’t kill them. I might joke about it”—my recent encounters with deadly force had made me notice how often we declare criminal intent without meaning it—“but I’d never do it. Not unless there was a direct threat.”