Chai Another Day

by Leslie Budewitz

  I peered into the bay, where flotsam and jetsam did their flotting and jetting. What else floated on the waves or lay in the murky bottoms? I flashed on an image of a knife. If I’d stabbed someone, I’d have ditched the evidence as fast as I could. Unless it really had been an antique silver-handled knife and I needed the money.

  But the cops couldn’t go searching in the drink unless they had a darned good idea what they were looking for and where. Too much water in this city.

  “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink, eh boy?” Most waterfront businesses were still closed, but the doughnut cart was doing brisk trade. Arf lapped at the bowl of fresh water the proprietor had put on the sidewalk, and I thought of Hot Dog. I suspected that “allergy to walls” he talked about included a history of addiction and time in prison, and that he relied on the drop-in center where he’d sent me in search of Tony McGillvray.

  And he’d made a good point. I didn’t truly understand what addiction and time behind bars could do to a person. But I could examine times in my own life when I’d felt isolated and afraid. Vulnerable—not the word he’d used, but certainly the sentiment. Comparisons can be dangerous if we’re equating apples and strawberries and thinking they share more than being fruit. But if they allow us to empathize, to use our own experiences as a starting point for seeing things from someone else’s point of view, then they’re useful, right?

  “Arf, we’re going on the hunt,” I said out loud. I tugged on the leash and we started toward the loft.

  Then stopped. The drop-in center on Aurora served patients of the clinic next door. It was probably closed today. I pictured the couple outside the clinic, rejoicing that he’d gotten on the list for bupe, the opioid substitute. What else had he said? “Don’t need to bother with the place downtown.” Then I remembered Tag’s comment about group support and knew what place the man had meant.

  But first, I bought a box of doughnuts.

  Ten minutes later, Arf and I strolled past Pioneer Square, one of the oldest gathering spots in the city. We were on a mission, to a mission. It’s a delicious twist that a homeless shelter with a 24/7 drop-in clinic, run by folks with a decidedly religious bent, is housed in a former brothel.

  No, the man on front door duty told me firmly. I could not come in to look for a friend. It had been a long shot, but I was disappointed anyway.

  “Hey. That an Airedale?” he said. “Guy used to come in here with an Airedale. What was his name? Dog’s name was Arf.”

  Arf and I stared at him. “You mean Sam?” I said. “Tall black man, always wore a long coat and a beret?”

  “That’s him. Haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “He’s doing well,” I said, and held out the open box of doughnuts. “He went home to Memphis, but his sister keeps in touch. He left Arf with me.” That had been a year ago this fall. Best gift I ever got.

  The doorman took a frosted cake doughnut and scratched behind Arf’s ear, evoking a contented sigh. Then he straightened and gestured to a door, a sobriety pledge posted on one side, the Ten Commandments on the other. “Oh, go ahead. Won’t do no harm.”

  Inside the waiting room, hands reached out to Arf. While we moved from one chair to the next with the doughnuts, I surreptitiously surveyed the faces. If, like the man I’d seen at the other clinic, Tony was struggling despite the bupe, or attended group meetings when he could, he might be here.

  But when Arf and I finished our circuit, it was clear we’d struck out.

  Then a door marked “private” opened and half a dozen men and women streamed out, among them a familiar, thin man with a wispy beard.

  A man who instantly recognized me.

  For a moment I feared a repeat of the incident at Changing Courses, with Tony thrashing about and then dashing from the room. And panic did flash in the eyes so much like Aimee’s.

  “Tony?” I said gently. “Can we talk?”

  The muscles in his neck tightened, and he took a deep breath, then gestured to the door.

  Outside, we walked toward the Square. “It’s like fate, you being here,” he said.

  “Fate?”

  “We are supposed to make amends to those we’ve wronged,” he continued. “I owe you for what I did, interrupting your class.”

  If he were making amends, and he was a killer, would a murder confession be next?

  “But you gotta believe, I didn’t kill Joelle. I wasn’t anywhere near my sister’s shop that day.”

  “Want to tell me where you were? Or who can vouch for you?” Beside me, he stiffened. “My sis and I are all each other got, since we were foster kids in Pocatello with everything we owned stuffed in one old backpack. I swear, I would never do nothin’ to hurt her, or her friends. Here’s my ride.” A bus, painted in the purple and yellow of the UDub Huskies, slid in next to the curb. The door opened, he hopped aboard, and the bus zoomed away.

  He had come as close to answering my questions as he could. And I thought I knew what he was telling me without actually saying it.

  BACK in the loft, I threw together the ingredients for chai streusel coffee cake and slipped the Bundt pan in the oven. Cooking is meditation time for me, a chance to let the inner whirl settle. While the coffee cake baked, I drank coffee, chopped veggies, and grated cheese for an omelet, NPR’s Weekend Edition Sunday droning in the background. The tensions in the world made my knife move a little faster, so I took extra care.

  My mother had taught me to make omelets when I was barely tall enough to reach the stove, back in Grace House. I’d loved growing up there, but doubted I could live in a place like it now. Too independent, too opinionated. The adults had made major household decisions jointly, though Kristen and I were allowed to sit in on the weekly meetings as we got older. That ended when I turned twelve and my parents bought a house. The larger circle directed the group’s activism and public outreach, like protesting the presence of nuclear subs in Puget Sound, starting up a free meals program, or taking over a struggling Montessori preschool. All the causes of the 1970s and ’80s.

  Although as I knew now, the group hadn’t always reached consensus. And some members had taken extreme measures the others would never have approved.

  Kitchen shears and colander in hand, I climbed out the window. My herb garden thrived despite the heat, thanks to the filtering effect of the viaduct. When it came down, I might need to install an awning, or get a giant umbrella like the ones at the Pink Door or Rainy Day Vintage.

  With two lofts on a floor and eight total, my building offered potential for greater cooperation. A few of us shared herbs and extra veggies. We maintain a joint compost pile on the roof, which is well-enough supported to hold a larger garden and gathering space. When a resident goes away, another takes in their mail and waters plants. Glenn had kept Arf overnight a few times, and I regularly check on the cat downstairs when his owners go out of town.

  Did that make us a community or just good neighbors, I wondered as I stepped back into the loft, parsley, basil, and oregano in my colander.

  I surveyed the place with an appraising eye. It was big enough for two, if the time came. Nate loved it, I knew. We could make better use of the mezzanine. And buy the tansu.

  Not if the time came. When.

  The cake cooling, I made my omelet and carried my plate through the window to the green bistro table. Despite the lack of a breeze, my potted herbs freshened the air. The loft was a great gathering space, with its open layout and the high ceilings and tall windows, but the outdoor space was cramped. Maybe I should work on that rooftop garden idea.

  Don’t be silly, Pepper. Enough on your plate already.

  I considered strolling up to the Market and popping in to the shop, then decided not to. If my staff needed me, they would call. I cued up a favorite playlist and started to clean the kitchen. One advantage of a small space—cleaning doesn’t take long.

  While I cleaned, I sang along with Brandi Carlile, Ed Sheeran, and One Republic, and thought about Brandon Logan, To
ny McGillvray, and Justin and Joelle Chapman, as eclectic a group as my taste in music. Then a song I didn’t remember downloading came on. And because the mind is a funny thing, Brad Paisley singing about being eager to get a little mud on the tires of his new truck reminded me that last Monday, I had seen a white van parked on the side street half a block from the vintage shop while I waited for the light to change.

  Tuesday, I had seen a white van pull into the alley behind the woodworking shop. Minutes later, Brandon Logan had walked in.

  He’d wanted something from Joelle the week before. He’d gone to see Aimee days after her murder.

  And if I was right, he’d been near the vintage shop at the fateful hour.

  I tossed my dish towel aside. The sign on the door of the Logans’ shop said closed Sunday and Monday, but Brandon seemed like a driven man. I was willing to take the chance.

  Besides, if I struck out, I could always pop into the bookstore.

  I parked in front. The showroom was dark, but I thought I heard the whiz and whir of power tools, so Arf and I sauntered down the alley. At the rear of the former warehouse was a loading dock, its giant rolling door open, the white van parked close by. Inside, a man ran a power sander over what appeared to be a tabletop. A few feet away, Brandon Logan ran a length of wood through a band saw and stopped to wipe the sweat off his brow with the hem of his blue T-shirt. I waved and he caught sight of me, then walked to the edge of the dock, pulling out his earplugs.

  “Working weekends?” I asked. Working extra hours to meet the criteria of Steen Jorgensen’s bequest?

  “Special order,” he said. “What can I do for you? Shop’s closed.”

  “I know, but I was in the neighborhood, and saw you, so I thought—since we were all friends with Aimee and Joelle—I’d ask if you saw anything when you were at the vintage shop last Monday.”

  His eyebrows dipped. “Who says I was down there Monday afternoon?”

  I hadn’t said afternoon. And I wasn’t going to tell him I’d seen his van, or that Edgar had spotted him later in the week.

  He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, a fresh bead of sweat forming below the hairline. From the heat and hard work? Or had my question struck a nerve? He started speaking, fast, as if the sooner he answered my unasked questions, the sooner he’d be rid of me.

  “I had no beef with Joelle. I needed her to help me.”

  “Earn the money Steen set aside for his employees? How could she do that?”

  The brows dipped again. “Hey, boss,” his employee called. “Got a sec?”

  Brandon held up a hand to indicate he’d be right there. “There’s more at stake here than that. Much more.”

  His words held a sharpness that set my nerves on edge. Behind him, a blade whined.

  BACK to the loft, to the kitchen, to recipe testing and meditation. I gave Sandra’s blends a good sniff for inspiration. Then I gathered the ingredients I’d used to spice this morning’s cake and made up enough of the blend for two small jars. Tucked one in my tote for Sandra. The other I would keep on the kitchen counter, sniffing, tasting, and tossing into recipes over the next week or two, adjusting the flavor balance if needed.

  Blends are a busy cook’s best friend. Kitchen novices are often daunted by a lengthy list of ingredients, so giving them a handy combo makes the process more manageable. Another advantage of a blend is that the customer can buy one jar instead of needing to find space for four spice containers in the cabinet and wondering what else to do with ground cardamom. (We can make suggestions.)

  And if we could give them three or four recipes using the same blend, even if one “recipe” is simply to dump half a teaspoon into the coffee maker before pushing “brew,” they’d be more inclined to buy. Blends cost more, because they take time to mix and package, in jars or tins with our custom labels. The serious cook, who keeps a full spice cabinet, might prefer to make her own. But more often than not, she buys the blend, too, for convenience and fun.

  What about a cookie? Google and I went searching. Tag had surprised me by bragging on my gingersnaps to a customer. I’d been wary of asking him for information, but while he’d sternly warned me away from action, he had been helpful.

  Chai Spice Thumbprints? I sent Kristen the link and suggested she try the recipe as soon as the pumpkin kisses showed up in the grocery store—the girls would gobble them up. I was making myself hungry, so I brewed a short pot of half-caf and added chai spice and steamed milk. (So what if that translates to “tea spice” for coffee? Playfulness is a key ingredient in every good recipe.)

  Deee-vine. I dropped in a couple of ice cubes. Double divine.

  What had Brandon Logan meant when he said the stakes were higher than I knew? And how had those stakes led to Joelle’s death—if they had?

  I sat at the counter and kept reading, practically drooling on my iPad. Pumpkin Spice Snickerdoodles. Now that sounded like a great year-round choice, if you hadn’t thought to stash an extra bag or two of pumpkin kisses in season. Did you put the spice in the cookie dough or add the spice to the sugar you rolled the balls in? I read on. Ohmygosh, chai sugar. It could be the next big thing. It was basically what I’d dumped in the coffee, with a touch of sweetness, but I’d never thought of it by that name. Perfect for those who enjoy the taste of fall but don’t care for all things pumpkin. And the ginger and cardamom were a thoroughly modern twist on the classic flavors.

  Cranking up the oven in the morning was one thing, mid-afternoon another. But I had the time, the urge, and all the ingredients. “Will Sacrifice Comfort for Cookies”—not the catchiest bumper sticker, but a good baker’s slogan.

  The oven timer beeped. The first batch looked gorgeous and smelled even better. I slid in the second tray and went back to dancing until the cookies were cool. I didn’t dance quite long enough—the first bite scorched the roof of my mouth ever so slightly. But oh my. Melt-in-your-mouth goodness.

  I kept thinking about the white van and Brandon’s visits to the vintage shop. He denied killing Joelle, said he needed her help. But that didn’t mean he’d been telling me the truth.

  I made up a plate of cookies and coffee cake for Glenn, who accepted the offering with delight. He wasn’t the family cook, and he missed his Nate.

  I missed mine, too, and sent him a long, gooey text before settling in on the couch with a big chef salad and a glass of Prosecco. Just a bite to tide me over until dessert.

  Twenty-Four

  “Pepper is the bride around which everyone dances.”

  —Jacob Hustaert, 1664, a Dutch East India company governor of sri Lanka

  AFTER ALL THOSE COOKIES SUNDAY, I DEFINITELY NEEDED yoga class Monday morning.

  “Roll your left shoulder back, keeping it soft and low,” the teacher intoned. “When your shoulders tense and hunch, ask yourself what weight you’re carrying. When your knee is stiff, are you resisting change? Let your body guide you. Now switch shoulders.”

  I followed instructions, wondering what an upset tummy might mean other than too much coffee and sugar.

  No sign of Aimee.

  We saluted the sun, imitated my dog, and prepared for the battles of the day with warrior pose. Then it was time for Savasana, the little nap at the end. My favorite pose.

  On the sidewalk outside, I blinked in the bright sunlight. “I didn’t know we’d signed up for hot yoga,” one of my classmates quipped. A shirtless runner sped past us.

  “Is it blasphemy to say I miss winter?” another asked. “But not the gray. One day of rain is all I ask.”

  I waved goodbye and headed for the Saab, parked near the vintage shop. No anonymous note writer was going to scare me off from a decent parking space. Upstairs, a light glowed in the left front window. Aimee’s apartment.

  At the loft, I showered and dressed. Class had given me a burst of energy, but it was no substitute for coffee. I filled a go-cup, added a healthy dose of chai sugar, and leashed the dog. Took the elevator instead of the Market stairs—my legs f
elt like overcooked noodles.

  In the shop, I sliced coffee cake and set the tray in the nook. Checked the sales and cash from Sunday—another outstanding day.

  Minutes after opening, I grabbed a bus to Capitol Hill. At Fifteenth and Prospect, I hopped off and took one of the winding paths leading to the museum. Volunteer Park had been carved out of the forest that originally dominated this ridge and later renamed for the locals who fought in the Spanish–American War. The tall trees and native shrubs gave the illusion of coolness. Through the softly shimmering leaves, I spied the old brick water tower where Kristen and I used to meet our friends.

  At the plaza, I paused to drink in the view. The reservoir reflected the lush gardens and the Black Sun, aka the black doughnut, a polished granite sculpture that some residents adore and others mock. I love it. Beyond lay the city, the Space Needle shimmering with its multimillion dollar refurbishing.

  I checked my pink Kate Spade watch, a years-ago splurge I treasured even more after her tragic death by suicide. Working reliably again after last winter’s shenanigans, it told me I had no time to dally.

  The park’s designers, the famous Olmsted Brothers, were sons of the man who designed Central Park in New York City. They’d opposed any construction in the park, even terminating their relationship with the city over the museum plans. “No institutional uses” or some such dictate. But it was impossible for me to imagine Volunteer Park without it, and neither the museum nor the nearby conservatory ever got in the way of a good game of Frisbee or hide-and-seek.

  I opened one of the heavy Art Deco metalwork doors and stepped inside. Cool and quiet.

  An older woman with a stunning stream of white hair sat at the information desk.

  “I’m here to see Roxanne Davidson,” I told her. “A friend is joining us, too.”