“The alcohol will kill the germs,” I said. Her mouth fell open. “I’m joking. I’m sure they use pasteurized eggs. The risk is minimal.”
We ordered drinks and Kristen chose appetizers to share. I sat back, my eyes stinging with the emotion of the day.
“Remember when you were a kid,” I said, trusting that my friends had felt much the way I had, “and you thought when you were twenty-five, you’d have life all figured out and you’d just live it and there wouldn’t be any problems? Gad, I wish that were true.”
“It’s not?” Kristen said. I stuck out my tongue.
“I thought it was just me,” Seetha said. “That things were coming together late because my upbringing was a mix of so many cultures.”
“Then you hit forty,” I said, “and realize everybody’s always trying to figure it out. Even those people in their flowery outfits, pretending to enjoy cheap champagne.”
“They were there for the art,” Kristen said, and we all giggled. “I swear, sometimes the pretension makes me want to gag. I miss funky Seattle. I miss when Northwest fashion meant the latest in plaid flannel and the hot new Gore-Tex rain jackets.”
“As if,” I said. “You haven’t worn plaid flannel since we went camping at La Push in, what, 1997? It rained all weekend. A forest of Gore-Tex wouldn’t have kept us dry.”
She had a point, though. Natives and long-time residents do sometimes feel like the city’s gotten too big for its britches, believing the hype and overindulging in pseudo-sophistication.
But I didn’t want to go all cranky over that right now. I had enough other reasons to feel cranky.
Our server set our drinks on the table. Mine was frothy and pretty, the pale pink deepening to dark rose near the bottom of the martini glass. I touched my tongue to the icy surface. “Delish.”
Seetha sipped her Moscow Mule, the copper mug speckled with condensation. “I can’t believe it was only Monday. I can’t believe Joelle is dead.”
“She reminded me of a butterfly, in those colorful jackets and tunics,” Kristen said. “Though one who knew her own mind.”
As her friends had remarked.
“Poor Aimee,” I said. “No wonder she wants to crawl into a hole and tell the world to go away.”
“Poor Justin,” Kristen said. “Bad enough to lose his wife, worse yet to murder. But I suspect some people find it hard to feel much sympathy for him, given all the lives he damaged.”
I sipped my drink. I didn’t honestly think anyone had taken their anger at Justin, their hunger for revenge, out on Joelle. Too cruel, the events too long ago. But something about this group of people, linked by their ties to Steen and Pacific Imports, had me baffled.
“How are you?” I asked Seetha. “Really.”
“Laurel says I can stay as long as I want.” She let out a long sigh. “But I feel like I’m imposing. And can I confess? Sleeping on a houseboat isn’t as relaxing as I thought it would be. I get a little queasy.”
“We won’t tell, promise.” The police may have released the crime scene, but until the killer was behind bars, I couldn’t blame Seetha for hesitating. I remembered my own tangle of anger and grief and guilt, when a man died outside the Spice Shop’s front door.
“I can only borrow work space at the yoga studio until their regular massage therapist gets back. And this apartment is the first place that’s ever truly felt like home.”
“Plus rents are going crazy. Not to mention the PITA factor,” I added. Moving is a pain in the allspice. In the last few years, Seattle had gotten ridiculously expensive. I’d lucked out buying my loft, and Kristen had inherited her family’s historic home.
“Is Aimee staying in her place?” Kristen asked. “I don’t think I could. Not yet, anyway. Until they catch him.”
We sat back while our waiter set plates of crispy shrimp wontons and curried beef spring rolls in front of us. If I lived above my shop and the unspeakable happened, could I stay?
“When Laurel and I walked up yesterday to get my mail, the shop was all dark,” Seetha said after the waiter left. “But I heard noises in her apartment and got freaked out, even if it was just Aimee. And yes, the landlord changed the locks.”
I reached for a spring roll. “Oh, good. So what about this brother of hers? She says he does odd jobs for her, but I’ve never seen him around.”
“Now that you mention it,” Seetha replied. “I haven’t seen him since the murder. She’s never said, but I think he has a problem.”
“Like what?” Kristen said around a mouthful of shrimp. “Drugs?”
Seetha nodded.
“Cops might make him antsy, then, especially if he thinks they suspect him,” I said. “Is that what Detective Armstrong was asking Aimee, at the gallery? He started to ask me about her brother, today at the station, but Tracy interrupted and then I left. But I don’t know him. Tony, I mean.”
“You might,” Seetha replied. “I’m pretty sure he took that program where you teach.”
“Changing Courses?” The program trains homeless and disadvantaged adults to work in the food service industry. I’d started volunteering there last spring, teaching a class on herbs and spices, but took the summer off. I was eager to return when things slowed this fall. “What does he look like?”
She described him, and I knew immediately who she meant. I taught each group of students for one two-hour session and I didn’t know most of their names. But one man, one incident, in June stood out. Was the man who’d freaked out over salt Tony McGillvray, Aimee’s brother? And if he was, what did that mean now?
“Do you know where he lives?”
“I think he stays with her a lot. I see him off and on, at night or in the morning, and she’s got the two-bedroom, so she’s got room. They grew up in Idaho. I got the impression they had a rough family life, but they’re close.”
“Do the police consider him a suspect?” Kristen asked. “That might explain why Aimee was so on edge tonight.”
“I noticed that, too,” Seetha said. “Who was the woman in black who got all emotional about Joelle?”
“Melissa Kwan,” I said. “They used to work together.” Mouth full, brain in gear, I pondered. By all accounts, Joelle wasn’t supposed to have been at the shop that day. Had she walked in on Tony in the middle of a drug deal, or trying to steal valuables? If he had disappeared, as Seetha suggested, was Aimee afraid he’d been involved?
I’ve got a brother, too, and while he can take care of himself, I’d do anything to keep him alive and well. But what if he killed someone?
I’d swapped my usual tote for a smaller bag, now stashed on the seat, and it vibrated with a text. Kristen felt it, too. And she noticed me decide not to fish it out and read it on the spot.
“You can’t know that’s your mom,” she asked. “You’d be all over it if it were Nate, unless something’s up. What’s up?”
It probably was Nate. I’d promised to call after the service so we could meet at my place. Why hadn’t I?
Because he was leaving in two days, and I didn’t know when he’d be back. I liked my life—my shop, my friends, my dog. My loft—the place where I felt most truly at home, as Seetha said of her apartment. And yet, I wanted to share it all with someone. Nate had slipped into my life as though he belonged there.
What would happen when he left again?
I set my drink down and let out a heavy sigh. “Turns out our ‘meet cute’ wasn’t so cute after all.” I told them how Tag had seen Nate watching me in the Market and tipped him off.
Seetha covered her mouth, holding back a laugh. Kristen wasn’t so restrained.
“Oh, my goodness gravy. That is hysterical. Especially that you’re mad about it.”
“It is not funny. Tag had no right to—”
“To what? Tell a cute guy who a cute woman is and where she works? And not tell you?” Kristen twirled her Lemon Drop. “Of course, it’s Tag telling the story, but still, it’s hilarious. It’s even cuter than meeting on the doc
k because Nate liked your dog.”
“But Nate didn’t tell me, either.”
“And you’re mad about that?” Kristen’s eyebrows rose. “Pepper, don’t be an idiot.”
My back stiffened and my teeth clenched. I felt my cheeks turn as bright as my half-finished drink. My friends had me cornered, literally.
Kristen raised her glass to her lips. “You know I hate to say this, but even Tag can be sweet now and then.”
“Prompted by his own guilt,” I replied.
“Whatever works,” Seetha said, and I laughed in spite of myself.
Kristen set her glass on the table and covered my hand with hers. “Trust yourself, Pepper. Just because Tag was a jerk . . .”
And Alex. After him, sweet, boring Ben. I’d been about to break it off when he beat me to it. My dating life the past two years was a road paved with potholes and littered with poor choices.
“Nate is a good guy,” she continued. “And if you don’t trust yourself, trust Arf. Dogs always know.”
I snorted. “Arf knows he likes the smell of fish.”
Though I had to admit it was growing on me, too.
FOR the second time this week, I met Nate outside my building.
“Look at you,” he said, eyeing me appreciatively. “Pink is your color.”
“You like it because it reminds you of salmon,” I said as I unlocked the door.
“The color of money.”
I changed my shoes and grabbed Arf’s leash and a scooper bag, and we headed out for our evening walk. Arf has a nose for green grass, and we’ve managed to scout out a surprising number of patches downtown. Tonight, we dropped down to the water-front. It was early, nearing sunset, and for sheer gorgeousness, the western sky far outshone anything I’d seen in the art gallery. And the breeze off Elliott Bay was a welcome relief.
Couples walked hand in hand, children jumped and shouted, and the Great Wheel at Pier 57 glowed, the lights the same pinks, purples, and golden oranges as the last rays coloring the sky.
As we walked, I told Nate about the odd gathering.
“My impression? People genuinely liked Joelle, but they weren’t rushing to console Justin.”
“And you think that was because of his disgrace?”
“I think”—Arf went right around a light pole while I went left, so I had to stop and hand myself the leash—“I think these were mostly her friends, not his. I recognized a few people from the law firm, who came to pay their respects and left as soon as they could. It’s been a couple of years, but many of them lost jobs and partnerships. Even lawyers who worked for other firms must have found it deeply unsettling to watch one of their peers lose everything. Not to mention a sober reminder of the cost when you screw up.”
“It’s tough,” Nate said, “when someone you know commits a crime or does something you can’t put up with.”
His knowing tone got me curious.
“We’ve had a few run-ins,” he said. “Suffice to say fishermen are not always model citizens. Like anyone else.”
We’d reached a spot where people lined up along the iron rail to watch the sun set. Nate wrapped one arm around my shoulders and I tucked mine around his waist, Arf at attention beside me. A spontaneous chorus of oohs and ahhs erupted as the sun slipped between the clouds and slid behind the mountains. More than a few people clapped.
No matter what we humans do, the world keeps going round. Kind of a relief, that.
“Doggy!” A girl of about three let go of her father’s hand and reached for Arf.
I crouched beside my boy. He’s a patient fellow, but it’s good to keep a close eye. “Put your hand where he can see it,” I told the child, “and let him sniff you.” She followed my instructions, and when the dog poked her with his nose, she didn’t pull back. I guided her small, chubby hand up his muzzle to his ear and showed her how to rub it between her fingers. Arf leaned into her touch and she giggled and clapped. The adults all smiled at the sweet moment, then her father swung her up into his arms and the family moved on.
“’Bye, doggy,” the little one called over her father’s shoulder, and we waved goodbye.
Back in the loft, I gave Arf a treat and he trotted to his bed by the window.
“I’m starving.” I flicked on the ceiling fan, used more so far this summer than in all the time I’ve lived here. “I’ve had two sips of bad champagne, one great drink, and not enough food.” In the kitchen, I gathered red grapes, crackers, and a bowl of herbed cheese spread. As I reached into the cabinet, I felt that sense of being watched in a particular way. In a maybe-not-so-great way. And I knew I was bustling in part to avoid the inevitable conversation.
I set the food and plates on the peninsula. Nate was sitting on a bar stool on the other side. Slowly I raised my eyes to his.
“Pepper, we need to talk. I’m leaving in a couple of days.”
“I know.” My voice was small, not much bigger than that of Arf’s new friend on the waterfront.
“I don’t want to leave without knowing what’s going on between us.”
My throat spasmed shut, cutting off any possible reply.
He set his hands on the butcher block, the strong fingers interlaced. “I thought we were creating something special together. But tonight, I wonder if I’ve been reading you wrong. Whether it’s this murder that’s got you preoccupied, or the problems at the shop with Cayenne—I don’t know.” His voice cracked, but his gaze remained steady. “What’s up, Pepper?”
I busied myself pouring the wine. I slid a glass across the counter. Nate took it, but didn’t drink.
“I talked to Tag this morning.” I took a long swallow, then set my glass down. “Sounds like it was quite a lark, two guys bonding, ogling a woman as she crossed the street.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I knew he’d seen me watching you, so I asked if he knew who you were. I figured the cops on the Market beat know everyone.”
That one knew every woman, anyway. “That’s Tag,” I said, immediately regretting my snarky tone. Nate was being honest, and I was being stupid. I was being scared.
“He didn’t say much, and he didn’t say you were his ex-wife, but I could tell from the way he talked that you were special.”
I lowered my gaze and gripped the counter to keep my hands from trembling.
“And he was right,” Nate continued. “But I didn’t need him to tell me that. I could see it first-hand. I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself to you that morning—the fishmonger wanted to talk about the catch and what could we supply and I don’t know what all—so when you walked by the boat that weekend at the Terminal . . . Well, any guy who doesn’t take a chance like that is a fool who doesn’t deserve it.”
My breath moved in and out noisily, like Arf’s does when he’s chasing a cat in his dreams.
“I don’t know how to do long-distance,” I said. The words totally surprised me. I hadn’t planned to say that, or at least not so bluntly.
“It’s worked fine so far,” he said. “Hasn’t it?”
Yes, it had. But we’d only known each other two months, and he’d been gone nearly half of that. Had hearing Seetha talk about her fear of losing her place, or touring the apartment built for two yesterday with my mother, set me looking too far down the road before I knew which road we might take, scaring myself in the process?
“You have your work here, and you’re totally into it. I thought . . . I thought . . .” His words trailed off.
He’d been married for a few years, divorced more than ten. His wife had a demanding job and her own circle of friends, and he’d thought she liked their lifestyle. Until one day she told him she’d had enough, that she wanted a husband who would be there when she needed a shoulder or the toilet sprung a leak.
He pushed back the bar stool, stood, and came around the counter. “Pepper, I want to make this work. Can’t we take it one step at a time?”
“One trip at a time?” I could feel my smile wobble.
/> “Something like that.” He pulled me close. I drank in the scent of him, relished the warmth of him, and knew I wasn’t ready to let this go. I didn’t want Nate to give up the life he loved. That life was part of what made him the man he was. Nor did I want to put my life on hold, to be at the mercy of someone else who decided when he came and went, much as I had with Tag, all in the name of his career. Boy, had that come back to bite me. But it didn’t have to feel that way, did it? Weren’t my feelings, as my mother always said, up to me?
“Yes.” I returned Nate’s embrace, leaning in to him. Maybe, as Melissa had said in her comments about Joelle, it was time to find a way.
Sixteen
In 1926, Seattle elected Bertha Knight Landes the first female mayor of a major city, on a platform of “municipal housekeeping.” After clamping down on bootlegging, dance halls, and reckless driving, Mayor Landes was not re-elected, and the city did not elect another woman mayor until 2017.
FRIDAYS BUSTLE IN THE MARKET FROM PRE-DAWN TO post-dusk, and I was determined to get to work early. But I am easily distracted, and Sandra had the morning routine well in hand before I turned my key in the lock.
“Look what the dog dragged in,” she said, reaching out a hand to Arf, and I felt myself blush. “Ha! I was right. You have that glow about you.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“It’s good to see you happy,” she said.
Happy. Yes, I was.
A few minutes later, the Friday crew had arrived. Cayenne was off today, and I hoped the breather would be good for her, and the rest of us. Tea was chilling and Kristen was arranging the fresh flowers I’d bought from a tiny Hmong woman in the Arcade. “Good job, gang.” I clapped my hands. “Let’s have a spicy day.”
“Boss,” Sandra said. “Caught up on the orders last night, and blended a new batch of tea.”
“Great. Matt can make the Market deliveries while I take the driving route.” I wanted to check on Aimee—after seeing her behavior at the gallery, then witnessing Seetha’s angst over whether to move back in or move on, I was worried. And I wanted to visit with Edgar. “Thanks for putting in the extra hours this week so I could spend more time with Nate. I’ll make it up to you next week.”
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