Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  “Sorry. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” I reached for my water glass and took a long swallow. Caught my breath. Between bites—my potato dumplings hadn’t gone completely cold—I told him about my afternoon search for Tony McGillvray and how Hot Dog had set me on the trail.

  “What are you getting yourself into?” Nate said. He held up a hand. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s dangerous and I’m not trying to stop you. I’m just wondering.”

  “Good question.” I speared a wayward chunk of tomato.

  For which I had no good answer.

  Nineteen

  You find yourself craving a latte half a block from Starbucks. You can’t go to a movie without buying popcorn, and your mouth waters when you pass a bakery. It’s called scent marketing, and it’s evil. Evil genius, perhaps, but evil nonetheless.

  NOT ONLY HAD OUR APPETIZER BEEN ON THE HOUSE, EDGAR insisted on giving us a box of cannoli dipped in chili-spiced chocolate and pistachios to take home.

  I should dine with my customers more often.

  We strolled down the sidewalk, hand in hand. When we passed the vintage shop, I glanced inside. Dark, except for the neon lips glowing over the cash-wrap counter. I could hang two or three above the tansu, assuming I eventually bought the thing. A warehouse loft ought to be fun, and glowing lips pretty much define fun.

  Nate tightened his grip.

  I’d parked in the next block. “I hate it when they stick ads under the wipers,” I said as we neared the Saab, a piece of paper flapping in the wake of the passing cars, the only hint of a breeze. Temps hadn’t dropped more than a degree or two while we were in Speziato. “Doesn’t everybody hate that? How can it possibly work?”

  But it wasn’t an ad for takeout pizza or tires, or a political candidate.

  “STEER CLEAR OF RAINY DAY VINTAGE,” it read, in block letters made with thick black marker on plain white paper.

  The chill should have felt good. I held the note out across the hood so Nate could read it. His eyes widened and met mine.

  “You’ve got to call Detective Tracy.”

  Tracy had the night off, his cell rerouted to his new partner. “Stay right there,” Armstrong said. “Don’t touch a thing.”

  We sat on a bench outside a closed office building and waited. We didn’t have to wait long.

  “I live on Lower Queen Anne,” the tall detective said, explaining both his quick response and his outfit—shorts, a T-shirt, and boat shoes so long they could almost double as kayaks. On the inside of his ankle was a tattoo of an orca. “CSU is on the way.”

  I introduced Nate. After the handshake, Armstrong drew a notebook out of his back pocket and quizzed us. When had I parked, who might have seen me, where had we been? Then I told him about swinging by the drop-in center this afternoon, looking for Tony.

  “We know he goes there sometimes,” Armstrong said. “Makes the support group circuit. But we haven’t had any luck catching up with him. His sister tell you where to find him? She’s been pretty closed-mouthed with us.”

  Meaning I’d probably guessed right about drug rehab. “I’d rather not say. My source”—the phrase fit, despite the cliché— “would not want it known that he shared any information.”

  “Can you assure me that your source”—he gave the word a twist normally done with air quotes—“is not otherwise associated with this case?”

  Meaning not a suspect. “Absolutely. One hundred percent.” I didn’t even need to cross my fingers behind my back.

  “We’ll let it go then. For now.” He paused, ears perked by a sound I couldn’t distinguish from the rest of the Eastlake traffic and neighborhood noise. I followed his gaze. Sure enough, a black van with POLICE in big letters and CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION below appeared. The driver pulled into the “no parking” zone two spaces away. Special dispensation.

  Armstrong excused himself to greet the CSU detective—each team is led by a detective—then handed her the note, which she tucked into a clear plastic sleeve and sealed. They both initialed a label the CSU detective stuck on the back. Armstrong directed her and the tech to my car, and Nate and I watched as they fingerprinted the wiper blade and mechanism, the windshield, the door handles.

  I sighed. That fine black powder would work its way through every crack. Even a drive through the Pink Elephant on the way home might not save us from its inky fingers.

  Meanwhile, Armstrong strode down the street to the vintage shop. He was back before the printing process was complete. “Shop looks undisturbed and no one answered my ring at Ms. McGillvray’s apartment. We’ll knock on doors, see if anyone saw someone hanging around your car.”

  “Detective.” Nate slipped his arm around my shoulder. “You’re taking this note seriously.”

  “‘Steer clear’ reads like a threat to me,” Armstrong replied. “Especially when left on the car of a witness in a murder case, a block from the scene of the crime.”

  “But who? And how would they know what she drives?” Nate asked.

  One more mystery, but unlike the mystery of the silver and bamboo chopstick, this one left me more rattled than I cared to admit.

  CHALK up another advantage to texting: You can message an old girlfriend at nine-thirty on a Friday night while your new girlfriend drives through the car wash to remove evidence of a criminal investigation, if not actual evidence of a crime.

  At least, I assumed she was an old girlfriend.

  “How long was it?” Nate asked, thumbs pausing. Outside, the automatic nozzles jerked and herked around the car, squirting us with powerful streams of water. I always like to close my eyes and imagine I’m at Snoqualmie Falls. “The chopstick and handle, together?”

  “Nine or ten inches.”

  He texted her my reply and stared at the tiny screen. What did we do before cell phones?

  We looked at each other and we talked.

  I watched the water splay across my windshield. He was trying to be helpful. He was leaving the next morning, he was worried, and he was trying to be helpful.

  I reached over and squeezed his thigh. He flashed me a quick smile, and a tiny jolt of electricity shot through me. Then I imagined the two of us, at the waterfall.

  “She says it could be a chopstick used at court or part of a trousse set.” He spelled the word out loud and I rummaged in my brain for leftover French. Bundle? Case? The root of the outdated word trousseau—the clothing and other items a bride brought to her marriage. “Chinese—Manchurian or Mongolian. A pair of chopsticks and a knife to cut meat, in a sheath. She’d need to see the chopstick to estimate its age. Not worth much without the mate.”

  He had me at knife.

  The water stopped and the red light turned green. I shoved the Saab into gear and drove out of the wash bay to the drying area, where bright lights shone and giant fans whirled. My pupils constricted against the light with a sharp pang.

  Nate leaned sideways as he slid his phone into his pocket, our shoulders touching. Was the knife of this trousse set the murder weapon? This theoretical set—we didn’t actually know it existed.

  But if it did, where had it come from and where had it gone?

  And who was this invisible woman giving Nate answers to my questions?

  “She’s intrigued. She’s eager to see what you found.”

  “Who is she?” I turned on to Battery, heading downtown. Don’t be jealous, Pep.

  “Roxanne Davidson. My ex-wife’s younger sister. She’s the assistant curator for—I don’t know—small weird Chinese things. At the Asian Art Museum.”

  Don’t be an idiot, Pep. Though apparently it was too late for that.

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “That was the regular art museum when I was a kid. Where we rode the marble camels.” The originals now sit inside the main museum downtown—nearly thirty years old, but new compared to the 1930s Art Deco building in Volunteer Park, where replicas of the camels serve as greeters and guardians. Kids still love to sit on them.

  “She’s
whip-smart and obsessed with her work—she’ll know what that chopstick is. I gave her your number—hope that was okay.”

  Then we might be able to tell if it was connected to the murder. “We”—I’d have to convince Aimee to let Roxanne see it.

  “Sure. Nice that you’ve stayed friends.” The garage door squealed open and I drove in.

  “As you have with Tag’s family. And Tag.”

  “Ha. Some days.”

  Upstairs, Nate stashed the cannoli in the kitchen while I changed shoes and grabbed Arf’s leash. We walked north along the waterfront, past the cruise terminal and commercial moorage. Ahead, lights shone from the landmark Edgewater Hotel at Pier 67. It had climbed further upscale in recent years, befitting its stellar location, and its advertising no longer trumpeted the ability to fish from your window.

  “I’m still puzzled by Melissa’s appearance at the shop this afternoon,” I said. “She came—well, I don’t know why she came. But then she spotted the merchandise Joelle had brought in and started hinting that Aimee could get in trouble.”

  Twisting the knife, I almost said.

  “She could, couldn’t she? Aiding and abetting? Is it theft to sell something if you aren’t the sole owner?”

  “I suppose, since she meant to keep the money herself. I can’t see how that implicates Aimee, though. Except if neither of them reported the income, the Department of Revenue could come down on her. And what did she do about sales tax?” Our monthly reports were automated, thank goodness, but gave me headaches anyway.

  We paused while Arf lifted a leg and aimed a stream through the fence to the murky waters below. “But none of this sheds any light on who killed Joelle.”

  “Maybe she surprised a burglar,” Nate said. “I know Aimee said nothing was missing, but you also said she didn’t know what all Joelle brought in. If only her things were taken . . .”

  Like a silver trousse set?

  Was that why Tony McGillvray didn’t want to be found, and why his sister worried about him? Had he gone back to drugs, financed by stolen merchandise and Joelle’s jewelry?

  Nate continued his train of thought. “What if the killer heard you outside, thought it was Aimee coming back, and figured he or she had to get out of there? Snatched what he could and ran out the back door.”

  “Possibility,” I said. “Joelle’s bracelet would have been easy to grab, but not the earrings. And silver’s not worth a lot, but prices have gone up. It must have had some kind of stone on the end at one point. Where could you sell a thing like that?”

  “Ask Roxanne,” Nate said. “She’s strictly on the up and up, but she might know.”

  And so might my detective friends. Who were probably tired of hearing from me.

  “You know what I think.” Nate slung his arm around my shoulder and steered me the way we’d come. “I think I’ve had enough talk of such things.”

  “Okay. What do you want to talk about?” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I had successfully avoided the topic of our relationship all evening.

  “No talk.” He pulled me close and kissed my ear.

  Arf paused to sniff an overflowing trash can. “We’ve got treats at home. And coffee, or dessert wine.”

  Nate kissed my ear again, his other hand running up my belly. “Mmm. Treats.”

  I laughed and tugged on Arf’s leash. “Come on, boy. Let’s see how fast we can get home.”

  Twenty

  The MarketFront opened in 2017, the first major expansion of Pike Place Market since its historic designation in 1971, on the site of the Municipal Market, which burned in 1974. When complete, the mixed use, multi-tiered structure will link the Market to the waterfront for the first time.

  “HEY THERE, SUNSHINE.” NATE WALKED INTO THE BEDROOM carrying two white, heart-shaped espresso cups and saucers.

  I scooted up against the pillows. Through the open door, a barnwood slider I rarely close, morning light streamed in.

  “I slept like a rock. Not even the smell of coffee woke me.” The aroma began to work its magic now.

  He handed me a cup, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Certain activities are good for that.”

  It had been a delicious night, filled with sweet lovemaking, a pause for cannoli, and a return to canoodling.

  A tiny silver-wrapped chocolate sat on the saucer. “I snared a few Baci last night at Speziato,” he said. “Fun cups, by the way.”

  “Product sample. When we started the bridal registry, I ordered them for the shop and the distributor sent an extra set for me. The dog,” I said with a start.

  “Has been walked, peed, and fed. And I put your keys back where I found them, next to your bag.”

  He’d told me once that the key, no pun intended, to living and working in a boat’s tight quarters is to put everything in the same place every time. That, and not having a lot of stuff. I managed the first, most of the time, except for my phone. But as for stuff . . . I glanced at the wall where I’d pictured the tansu.

  I’d need to measure to be sure, but I thought it would fit like a glove.

  “Ah, that smile.” Nate bent toward me for a kiss. “Mmm,” I said a long moment later. “You make great coffee.”

  “Thanks.” And then his eyes, those beautiful green eyes, turned serious. “Wish I could linger but . . .”

  “But you’ve got a flight to catch.” My voice broke on the last word.

  “It’s what I do, Pepper. I fish.”

  “I know. And I’m not asking you to change.” That never works. “I called an Uber to get me back to the boat.” He set my cup and saucer on the floor with his, then took me in his arms. “Early October? End of September? Depends on the run. And prices.”

  By the time he got back, we’d have spent more time apart than together. Texting and Facetime are great. But they were no substitute for warm hands and long walks, for a face across the dinner table, for the man I’d begun to love beside me.

  “Who will bring me coffee?” I said. “Arf!” Nate called. “Want to learn a new trick?” And then, with a quick kiss followed by a longer one, he was gone.

  Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the shower. Nate would be back on the Thalassa by now, tossing things in his ancient gray duffle. In the kitchen, I opened the bag of coffee beans and reached for the espresso maker.

  Blast. How could I resist a man who’d known I’d want a second cup and left the machine all ready for me to push the button? I tugged on the dishwasher handle. Sure enough—there was his cup.

  Arf padded up beside me and rubbed his muzzle on my bare leg. I stroked the wiry curls and soft ears.

  “It’s what he does, dog,” I said. “We sell spice, and he fishes.” MISS you already, Nate’s text read. He must have sent it five minutes after he left.

  Thanks for the coffee, I typed back. And the kiss. I carried my cup and phone out the window and sat at the bistro table to nibble on the chocolate-smothered hazelnut and scroll through my messages. My mother, saying she was coming to the Market this afternoon and would pop in. A voicemail from Laurel, reminding me of the old saying about guests being like fish, good for three days, and she didn’t want to be too harsh, but she had enough on her mind without dealing with Seetha’s indecision and could we talk about how to make her feel safe in her apartment again so Laurel could have her houseboat to herself?

  Followed by a text from Seetha asking if I’d made any progress on the investigation because Laurel was driving her nuts and she just wanted to go home.

  It would have been funny, if it had been funny.

  And it underscored my urge to solve this crime, for myself and my friends.

  Pulling on my black pants and T-shirt reminded me of Melissa Kwan and her all-black outfits. If I wanted to figure out who killed Joelle Chapman, and help Aimee and Seetha restore some semblance of their normal lives, I needed to know more about Melissa. And Brandon and Jasmine Logan.

  I nearly slapped myself on the forehead. How
could I have forgotten a potential source so close at hand?

  But I wasn’t able to leave the Spice Shop until well after opening. A shipment of bottles and jars that should have gone to our commercial facility had instead been dumped outside our front door. Matt and I carted the boxes inside, ears alert for sounds of broken glass, and piled them in a back corner. I made a mental note to report the error to the delivery service.

  Job done, I rubbed my shoulder. Too much late-night exercise? But while I might be puzzled over the future with my traveling fisherman, the memory of the evening made me glow.

  Then a pair of women planning a major blowout for a friend’s sixtieth birthday came in, and Cayenne and I helped them choose a few recipes and gather the necessary spicery. They couldn’t decide which of them should buy the cookbook we consulted, so they each bought a copy, plus one for the birthday girl, and a box of spice tea for everyone on the guest list. As if that weren’t enough, one decided to restock her own kitchen while they were here, inspiring the other to do the same.

  Nothing like a triple-digit sale to boost the mood on a Saturday morning.

  Finally, the Spice Shop settled into a steady rhythm. I grabbed a box of tea—I am not above bribery—and sprinted through the Main Arcade and down the ramp to the lower level. The upper lower level, if that makes sense.

  Though both called themselves import shops, A Global Touch bears little resemblance to Steen Jorgensen’s shuttered firm. The cozy haven was an urban pioneer, one of the first tenants to stake a claim after the Market was saved from the wrecking ball in 1971. You can’t buy an antique Chinese apothecary or a twelve-foot dining table made of reclaimed lumber from a Bainbridge Island barn here, but if you need a Balinese singing bowl, fair trade jewelry, or scarves sewn from recycled fabrics in a Syrian refugee camp, this is the place.

  Global’s owner was busy showing a customer darling leather coin purses from India when I walked in but she gave me a “be right with you” expression of acknowledgment. I returned the nonverbal greeting and started browsing.