Okay, a twinge. Which I promptly banished to the black side of my heart.
We stepped into his closet-sized office, and Justin gestured to a pair of upholstered client chairs. Both desk and chairs looked like they’d been scrounged curbside in June when the students move out of their apartments and pile their cast-offs on the sidewalk for the taking. Aimee and I weren’t squeamish—we love old junk—but I felt the same bit of “eww” I saw on her face before we perched gingerly on our seats.
To think he’d once had a corner office on the forty-fifth floor and owned a home featured in Substance and Style magazine.
He stood behind the desk, his expression dark. The other night, he had seemed defeated. Today, the intensity was back. He was all prickles and edges.
“We wanted a chance to tell you privately,” Aimee began, “how sorry we are about Joelle’s death.”
“Thank you.” He bit off the words.
“I need to tell you something else,” she continued. “It may come as a bit of a shock.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders tensing. I doubted even daily yoga would relax him.
“Justin,” I said as kindly as I could. “Please sit.”
Gaze fixed on Aimee, he sat, a spring in the chair groaning, though he wasn’t a big man.
“You know Joelle had been working for me, at Rainy Day Vintage.” She paused to clear her throat. “A few weeks ago, she brought in a Japanese wood block print of a plum tree in bloom. To my surprise, it sold that afternoon, for a nice price. I knew she needed cash, so I didn’t charge her the usual forty percent consignment fee.”
He showed no surprise, and I wondered if he’d known, followed her to the shop to confront her and lost his temper. Had his alibi checked out? In the movies, only the guilty had a good alibi because only the guilty needed one.
“She brought in two more, then a pair of Chinese scrolls. She asked if we could keep the sales off the books, and took the money in cash.”
“Saving up to leave me.” His calm, even tone made me nervous. “I assumed the objects had been bought during your marriage. That she was selling off joint assets, though I didn’t ask her.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” A sharpness crept into his voice.
Aimee said nothing. I could hear her struggle to control her breathing.
It was Justin who broke the silence, exhaling loudly, then sending his pen skittering across the desk. “My wife lost interest in me once I lost my money and prestige.”
Not how Aimee had described Joelle’s motives. What was the truth?
Aimee laid the bundle on the desk and unwrapped it. “We found this in the shop, near Joelle’s other things. I was hoping you’d recognize it.”
He gave the chopstick a quick once-over. “No.”
“It may have been part of a set, with a silver sheath and a knife,” I said. “Ring any bells?”
“I couldn’t say. She had so much of that stuff. Not my thing.” He grabbed the arms of his chair, ready to push himself up.
He was convincing. And yet, I knew he was a seasoned litigator, able to put on a game face. Beside me, Aimee didn’t flinch. “Over the last few weeks, Joelle brought in several pieces of furniture, some porcelain, and about a dozen netsuke,” she said. “We can schedule a time for you to pick it up.”
“What makes you think I want any of it?”
The contempt in his tone shocked me. Was he so hard-hearted? Or did he truly believe his social standing had mattered that much to her?
I took in the walls in need of repainting, the desk nearly bare of files. He stood, and we followed suit, nothing left to discuss.
Back in the reception area, Justin bade us a curt goodbye and returned to his office, closing his door with a firm click.
“Must have been a shock when the police came by on Monday,” I said to the receptionist. “Cute hair, by the way.”
She brushed her hair lightly with her fingertips. Her nails were done in shades of pink and red, too. “Most days, he comes and goes. But that day, last Monday, everybody was crazy-busy. The other lawyers had a client from the old law firm in for hours, working on finalizing a deal. And Justin never left. Ordered lunch in. Popped in and out of the other lawyers’ offices, consulting. Asked me to type things, make copies—you know.”
“Working on a big case? A deadline to meet?”
“I guess. He was looking over my shoulder all day.”
Curious. As if he wanted to be seen.
I pictured Cadfael, alone in his workshop with the jewel-toned tinctures brewing, the drying herbs giving off the aromas of sage and lavender. I pondered what turned a man so hard, whether he had truly hated his wife, what was this big case he had going.
And why an innocent man would work so hard to establish an alibi.
OUTSIDE, we parted ways. Though I’d taken the bus to the museum, we were now close enough to downtown for me to head back to the Market on foot. I made for the nearest entrance to Freeway Park, an unassuming set of concrete steps. As I followed the path that jogged between fountains and flowerbeds, I thought about all we’d learned this morning.
If the missing knife from the trousse set were the murder weapon—a big if—then the killer either brought it with him or found it in the vintage shop. Him or her—though I’d replayed the mental tape over and over, I still had no idea who I’d heard. Justin hadn’t identified the chopstick as Joelle’s, but it seemed like the sort of thing she’d have loved—a shiny conversation piece.
Aimee had never seen it before we found it. If it belonged to Joelle, either it had gotten lodged in the tansu and fallen loose, as we’d theorized, or she’d brought it to the shop in the box of items she’d been unpacking. The box the police had taken. Of course, you can’t identify what’s missing unless you know it should have been there. Like Sherlock Holmes said of the dog in the night-time.
From an unseen part of the park came the sounds of an accordion waltzing through the air. I needed to tell the detectives about the missing knife.
In an open area shaded by ivy-covered walls and leafy trees, half a dozen older people practiced tai chi.
At the museum, Aimee had said she might reopen later this week. Did she intend to hire a replacement for Joelle, or run a one-woman show? Not easy, but not impossible. My HR instincts kicked in and I flipped my mental Rolodex for prospects.
Thinking about former staffers gave me another idea. I perched on a concrete bench and called Callie Carter, one of my favorites from the old firm, and asked her to look up any current litigation involving Steen Jorgensen or the museum. I watched the tai chi while she searched the King County court system’s online index.
“Nothing,” she came back on the line to tell me. So the relative wasn’t actively pursuing his threatened claim—yet. I thanked her and we chatted about getting together soon before ending the call.
Joelle, I knew now, had given up on finding work in the high-end design world and created her own opportunities with Aimee. Why had Melissa not found a higher-paying job? Because of her son and his illness? And had the Logans let her go because of her job performance, or their own financial struggles? The connection between the ex-coworkers had to be the key to Joelle’s murder.
Those stakes Brandon had mentioned? But what were they?
Near the exit at Seventh and Union, I perused a chalkboard advertising upcoming events. A daily book cart sold used books to raise funds for the library, but it was at the other end of the park. And I hardly needed more books. Sunday blues and jazz concerts. If Nate were here . . . No, I told myself. Having a man in my life again didn’t mean I couldn’t keep doing things alone. Or invite Glenn to be my date. He was right—the park offered tranquility and escape, but so much more, and I ought to use it more often. It had been built to connect disconnected neighborhoods, and connection is always good.
I could only hope some of the bits and pieces rattling around in my brain connected soon, so I could solve Joelle’s murder and help my friends
put their lives back together.
I powered my way past the office towers and shopping district. At the Market entrance, I grabbed a slice of pizza, surrounded by the comforting chaos. In my law firm days, I’d often nibbled on pizza while I browsed the newsstand, then grabbed a cup of tea in the Spice Shop. Never did I imagine that I’d buy the shop.
After a few minutes of scanning magazine covers and head-lines—royal babies and movie-star weddings—I strolled down the cobbles. Saw Balloon Man in the same spot where the feud with the wash bucket bass player had erupted. I paused to watch him tie his fantastical creatures.
He handed me a unicorn in a rainbow of colors, and I thanked him by slipping a couple of singles into the vintage train case at his feet. On my way down Pike Place, I handed the magical beast to the first small girl I saw.
In the shop, I greeted Arf with a vigorous head rub. Cayenne, on cashier duty, gave me an anxious look.
“I need to make a phone call and check on a few things, but don’t worry. We will talk this afternoon.”
In reply, she gave me a shaky smile.
Tell the cops you think you’ve identified the murder weapon, and faster than a speeding bullet, they are on your doorstep.
“My apologies, detectives.” I gestured toward the nook. “But you’ve seen how small my office is.”
“Should have made you come to HQ,” Tracy said. But he sat, and reached for a napkin and a slice of cake. “Mmm. This is terrific. You make it?”
“Chai Spice Coffee Cake. We’re testing our fall spice blends and working up a few seasonal recipes.”
“Funny,” Armstrong said. “‘Chai’ means tea. So, it’s tea spice coffee cake.”
As I had joked myself. “And not a drop of either beverage in it, so it goes with anything. How did you know chai means tea?”
He set his notebook on the worktable and picked up a slice. “My wife was in sub-Saharan Africa with the Peace Corps, before we were married, and I visited her there. We traveled all over the region and parts of India.”
Places where the tall, slender white man would have stood out.
“That’s impressive. What does she do now?” I asked, thinking about how people are drawn to the most unexpected things. Asian antiquities, say, or spice.
“She’s a program officer with the Gates Foundation working on global engagement with African issues.”
I was about to ask for a translation when Tracy spoke. “Hey, this get-to-know-you stuff is great, but we’re here about a murder weapon.”
“Right.” I showed them the pictures I’d taken at the museum, summarizing what we’d learned from Roxanne Davidson.
“Wait. Slow down,” Tracy said. “Who is this woman? And where did you find this chopstick?”
“What dynasty?” Armstrong asked. Tracy gawked at him as if he’d started spouting Mandarin. You hear it occasionally in Seattle, but not from a guy who looks like Armstrong.
“Qing,” I said, and spelled it for Tracy. “The q is pronounced like the ch in church. Trousse is from the French, obviously. How Mongolian eating utensils got a French name, I haven’t a clue.”
“Probably from the Jesuit missionaries,” Armstrong said. “The Qing was the last imperial dynasty, ending with the revolution in 1912. It originated in Manchuria, in the northeast region of modern China, then spread south and west, conquering pretty much everyone in sight. Including Mongolia, so your expert’s deduction that the trousse set is Manchu or Mongol makes sense.”
Tracy stared.
“The Last Emperor,” I said. “Great movie.”
“I majored in criminal justice, minored in history,” the young detective explained.
“And here I thought you were just another pretty face.” Tracy turned to me. “Show me that fancy knife again.”
I swiped the screen until I landed on the photo of the knife in the museum’s collection. “Ms. Davidson said blade length and width varies, and the shark sheath is rare, but it’s otherwise a typical example. The one that goes with the chopstick we found may have a matching silver handle.”
Tracy studied the photo, then handed my phone to Armstrong. After a long, close look, Armstrong raised his head and nodded.
Meaning, if I read them right, that a knife much like it had killed Joelle Chapman. A heat shiver ran through me.
Tracy blew out his breath. “Now, where was this chopstick hiding?”
I explained how we’d found it behind the tansu, another word that crinkled his brow, until Armstrong sketched out an illustration in his notebook. “It could have been in the chest, but we searched it pretty thoroughly and didn’t find the mate, or see a crack where it might have fallen out. So we—I—think the set was in the box Joelle was unpacking. The killer grabbed it and used the knife to stab her, and in the process, sent the chopstick flying.” To a spot the police search team had missed, which I didn’t point out.
“Meaning the killer knew there was a knife in that sheath,” Tracy said. “If your theory holds water. Any killer worth the name would have dumped the sheath and blade the first chance he got. My money’s on the brother.”
Not an unreasonable bet, from the official point of view. His criminal record, according to Tag, involved drugs and theft, and the incident in my class showed he could lose control.
The detectives would collect the solo chopstick from Aimee and alert the Pawnshop Unit. Tony had worked at Pacific Imports unpacking shipments of knives and swords from China, both antiques and replicas, which was how he’d chosen what to steal all those years ago. If he’d seen the trousse set in Joelle’s box, he could easily have slipped out the knife.
And he had full access to the vintage shop. Which, oddly, might put him in the clear. He would have realized one chopstick was missing. If he’d come back to search, he’d have found it easily.
But while I had told them about the knife, I kept my conversation with Tony to myself. I’d learned nothing that would help them.
“Brandon Logan worked for Steen Jorgensen, too. He could easily have known that sheath held a deadly knife, and he was in the neighborhood a few days before and a few days after. Maybe he swung by on Monday, too.” I told them about seeing the white van in the neighborhood and outside the woodworking shop, and Edgar’s tentative ID of Brandon’s photo. “But I can’t see a motive.”
“Means and opportunity,” Tracy said. “Two thirds of the holy trinity.” He gave his partner a sharp-eyed look. “You inventoried that box of the vic’s without ever letting on that you knew about that stuff.”
“I’m no expert. Just interested,” Armstrong said. “But there was no silver-handled knife, no sheath, and no bamboo chop-stick.” Phone in hand, he started scrolling. These days, officers and detectives take field shots of evidence, though the CSU crew remains responsible for the official photographs. He showed me a picture of the box.
“Oh,” I said, surprised to see a polished wooden chest, roughly eighteen inches wide and twelve inches high, with a brass knob-and-key closure. Not the standard cardboard moving box scrounged from Costco or the liquor store that I’d expected. No wonder Armstrong had been intrigued when I described the chest in Aimee’s shop. “It’s a tansu. Or part of one.”
“Right,” he said. “A traveling trunk.”
“May I see what else was in it?” This was a cop’s phone, after all. Holding it so I could see, he swiped through the next few shots. The box had held a veritable scholar’s studio: brushes with intricately carved bamboo handles and sheaths; porcelain ink pots decorated with flowers, leaves, and insects; and boxes covered in silk brocade with ivory clasps that held chops, the carved stone pieces a calligrapher dipped in ink and used to stamp his name on his work. And rolling loose in the bottom, one dark orange, flat-bottomed glass bead.
Twenty-Six
“We’ll bring everything back as it was, except for the grease on the walls.”
—George Bartholick, an architect involved in the Market’s 1970s renovation
TRACY SLID
OUT OF THE NOOK A FEW MINUTES LATER AND brushed the crumbs off his camel hair blazer. If he owned any other jacket, I’d never seen it.
Armstrong laid a hand on the table. “Good work on that chopstick. As for Chapman’s alibi, you’ve given us a couple of new details.”
“I’d say ‘my pleasure,’ but we are talking about a murder.”
“Sorry to say, no luck with the fingerprints,” he continued. “Paper is notoriously difficult to lift from because it’s so porous and hands are so sweaty. Got a partial on the wiper, but it’s not in our system.”
“And without a match, we don’t know how seriously to take the threat.”
“Seriously,” Armstrong said. “Always take threats seriously. And thanks for the coffee cake. It’s terrific.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll share the recipe in store and on our website after the weather changes.”
“A moment we’re all waiting for,” Tracy said. “Like I’m waiting for you, Armstrong.”
It would take more than one slice of coffee cake to sweeten up Detective Tracy.
I saw them out, then popped into my office to check the shop’s email. Pooh. The Aleppo pepper had been back-ordered again. I tried my number two supplier, but their website said out of stock indefinitely.
Double-pooh.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed. Pout position—not a formal yoga pose, but one I practice regularly. I’d given the detectives all the info I had, leaving me temporarily out of the investigation game. Good, because I had other things to do. Like find a new supply of Aleppo pepper, finalize the chai recipes, and summon all my personnel management skills for the meeting with Cayenne.
Honestly, I do love my job. But some days, I wish I could just sell spice and ignore all the admin work I’d switched careers to escape.
“Do you work here?” a woman said when I returned to the shop floor. She held one of our Twenty-Minute Dinner recipes, this one for Grilled Halibut Cheeks in Lemon Sauce.
“Sure do. How can I help you?”
“This recipe says ‘season to taste,’ but I never know what that means. How much salt and pepper should I use?”
Chai Another Day Page 20
