Assault and Pepper

Book 1: A Spice Shop Mystery

by Leslie Budewitz

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Pepper Reece, owner of the Seattle Spice Shop, thinks she can handle any kind of salty customer-until a murderer ends up in the mix . . .



After leaving a dicey marriage and losing a beloved job in a corporate crash, Pepper Reece has found a new zest for life running a busy spice and tea shop in Seattle's Pike Place Market. Her aromatic creations are the talk of the town, and everyone stops by for a cup of her refreshing spice tea, even other shopkeepers and Market regulars. But when a panhandler named Doc shows up dead on the store's doorstep, a Seattle Spice Shop cup in his hand, the local gossip gets too hot for Pepper to handle-especially after the police arrest one of Pepper's staffers, Tory Finch, for murder.



Tory seems to know why she's a suspect, but she refuses to do anything to curry favor with the cops. Convinced her reticent employee is innocent, Pepper takes it on herself to sniff out some clues. Only, if she's not careful, Pepper's nosy ways might make her next on the killer's list . . .

Release date: March 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

 

Acknowledgments and Historical Note

Inventory—Aka the Cast

Pepper Reece—owner

Sandra Piniella—assistant manager and mix master

Tory Finch—salesclerk and artist

Zak Davis—salesclerk and musician

Reed Locke—part-time salesclerk and college student

Kristen Gardiner—part-time salesclerk, Pepper’s oldest friend

Pepper

Kristen

Laurel Halloran—restaurant owner, caterer, houseboat dweller

Seetha Sharma—the newest member

Gabe Halloran—Laurel’s teenage son and honorary member

Angie and Sylvie Martinez—aka the orchard girls

Yvonne Winchell—grows the best flowers in the Market

Jane Rasmussen—founder and former owner of Seattle Spice

Doc aka Damien Finch—the mysterious newcomer

Sam and Arf—a man and his dog

Jim and Hot Dog—Sam’s friends

Marianne Finch—Damien’s wife

Ken Griffey—Damien’s partner

Alex Howard—restaurateur Pepper may or may not be dating

Fabiola the Fabulous—graphic designer

Keyra Jackson—Tory’s sculptor friend and neighbor

Jen the Bookseller and Callie the Librarian—Pepper’s former law firm employees

Vinny—the wine merchant

Officer Tag Buhner—on the bike beat, Pepper’s former husband

Detective Cheryl Spencer—homicide

Detective Michael Tracy—homicide

One

An herb is a fresh or dried leaf. A spice is a dried plant part—a bud (cloves), bark (cinnamon), root (ginger), berry (peppercorns), seeds (fennel), or even stigma (saffron). The same plant may provide both—fresh or dried cilantro leaves are the herb cilantro, while the dried seeds are the spice coriander.

“What does autumn taste like? How does it smell?”

Even as I asked, the questions seemed utterly ridiculous. This was already shaping up to be one of those glorious September days in Seattle that make you think the weather will never change, that the sky will always be a pure cloudless blue, the leaves on the trees a painter’s box of green, the waters of Elliot Bay calm and sparkling.

I’ve lived here all my forty-two years, and I still get fooled.

But as the owner, for the last ten months and seventeen days, of the Seattle Spice Shop, it was my job to think ahead. Fall would be here in less than a week, by the calendar. And by my nose. I really could sense the difference right about this time of year. The annual run on pickling spices for the last cukes would soon give way to cider mulling mixes. And before long, our customers would be asking for poultry seasoning and scouting for Christmas gifts.

“The taste,” I repeated to my staff, gathered around the butcher block worktable in our mixing nook, “and smell of fall.”

Sandra fanned herself with a catalog from the kitchen shop up the hill and peered over the top of her reading glasses—today’s were leopard print. “Fall, shmall. It’s seventy-six degrees out.” Spot-on to most Seattleites, but my assistant manager is one of those native Northwesterners who thrive in a narrow temperature range. Anything above seventy-two and she sweats; below forty-five, she shivers. And complains, cheerfully. A short, well-rounded woman of sixty with smooth olive skin, pixie-cut dark hair, and lively chocolate brown eyes, she came with the place, and I say daily prayers of gratitude that she stayed.

“Apples,” Zak said. “Applesauce, apple butter, spiced apple cake. Plums in brandy. Plum pudding. Fruitcake.” Zak had been my first hire after I bought the shop. Six-two and almost thirty, with muscular shoulders, he’d seemed an unlikely candidate for employment in a retail spice shop in Seattle’s venerable Pike Place Market. But I’d been desperate and he’d been earnest. And he pleaded for a weekday job so he could rock the nights and weekends away with his band.

Plus he’s my ex-husband Tag’s best friend’s nephew, and I have to admit, Tag Buhner isn’t always wrong about people.

“You have fruit on the brain,” Sandra said. “Been flirting with the orchard girls again?”

Zak blushed, a sweet look at odds with his shaved head, fierce dark brows, and black goatee.

The orchard girls, two sisters with shiny black hair, full red lips, and curves in all the right places, had caught the eye of every straight man under thirty-five in the Market since they took over the family fruit stand this past summer. Their looks and the location of their stall—they usually draw a prime spot across from us on Pike Place, the Market’s long, cobbled main street—guarantee plenty of attention.

That their fruit is the freshest and their jams the tastiest doesn’t hurt.

“Our tea is the essential fragrance of the Market year-round,” I said, pointing my pen at the ornate brass electric teapot that resembles a Russian samovar. We’d just resumed serving the hot black Assam tea spiced with cardamom, allspice, and orange, although the iced tea dispenser would stay out a few more days.

“That, and fresh fish.” Zak had recovered from his embarrassment. The fish merchants near the Market’s main entrance put on a comedy routine to rival the Marx Brothers’, tossing whole coho salmon like softballs, teasing customers, and welcoming both locals and wide-eyed tourists to the heart and stomach of Seattle.

Zak filled his mug, emblazoned with a Z, and snatched a hazelnut cookie from the box. It wouldn’t be a staff meeting without treats from the French bakery.

“We need three or four new blends,” I said. “For our home cooks. Zak’s zeroed in on the harvest aspect of fall. But I’d like something to rub on those fish, or a slow-cooked chuck roast. To warm up the salty mist and stave off the chills, until we get into the familiar tastes of Christmas.”

My staff turned thoughtful, summoning their own ideas of fall. They say the sense of smell is the most intimately linked of all our senses to memory, and I believe it. One whiff of a familiar scent, even one we haven’t encountered in years, can transport us to a time and place long forgotten, even before we consciously recall the memory.

Our task was to find common elements and translate them into balanced blends of herbs and spices to evoke a positive sensory experience for our customers.

The Wednesday morning staff meeting is one of the few times we’re all in the shop together. Such a satisfying sight.

Actually, we were one person short. I checked the clock—a large, copper-rimmed metal ticker—next to the front door. As if on cue, the door opened and a blond cloud swept in.

“Right on time for the eight-seventeen meeting,” I said with a grin. Kristen Gardiner and I have been best friends since childhood, when our families shared a creaky, turn-of-the-century house on Capitol Hill. She still lives in the house, a classic Seattle Box built by an ancestor, although now it glows with an attic-to-cellar makeover that would color any decorator in the Emerald City green. She helps out in the shop a few mornings a week, and she is never, ever on time.

“I’m so sorry, Pepper. One of the girls forgot her lunch and I had to—”

I held up a hand. “You’re fine. We’re brainstorming fall blends.”

“Something pungent and flavorful.” Reed spoke without glancing up from his task of running a rubber stamp of the shop name over small white paper cups. Shoppers who drop in for a sample of tea often end up buying herbs, spices, or other goodies they’d forgotten they needed. Or that they didn’t need, but the fragrance and possibilities set their taste buds and imaginations awhirl.

“It’s so neat how you can trace geography and history through spices,” he continued. “When I open a jar of chili pepper cocoa, I’m in the world of the Aztecs. Ask me for a curry, and I’m halfway to India.” Maybe five-six, an inch shorter than me, slight, with shaggy black hair and hooded eyes, Reed Locke is a history major at Seattle University. Wednesdays, he comes in early before dashing off to classes. His father runs an acupuncture clinic nearby, so he practically grew up in the Market.

We all turned to the world map on the wall, where colored pins mark the origin of every spice we carry. Many spices have migrated and become integral to cuisines and economies far from their genesis. The map also hides an ugly water stain on the plaster that paint didn’t cover. Spice has added flavor to the Market since shortly after its founding in 1907, when our main competitor opened a shop, still prospering. In the fervor surrounding the campaign to save the Market from redevelopment in the early 1970s, hippie chick Jane Rasmussen threw her lot in with capitalist competition and started this shop. Why she thought the Market could support two separate spice merchants, I don’t know—but she’d been right, running this one for forty years until she sold it to me and retired to an island in Puget Sound. Our building once housed a nursery, and in spring, we honor that heritage by carrying seed packets and potted herbs.

I like to think of myself as the caretaker of one piece in the Market puzzle.

“A curry is a good idea,” I said. “Can we add a pinch of a chili or some other pepper, for our pungent mix? Put a chutney on the menu, and you’ve got Zak’s harvest touch, with an international accent.” Heads bobbed. “Okay, now we need a savory combo, and a comfort blend. Everyone’s sense of comfort varies, but we’re after something that evokes that feeling of coming home after a walk in the rain, or spending a Sunday afternoon reading by the fire.”

“If we’re spicing to feel warm, we’ll be using the same stuff until April,” Kristen said. She wrapped a black-and-white Indian madras scarf around her neck, tucking the ends into her apron, black with the shop name in white. “It’s freezing out there.”

Sandra rolled her eyes.

“We’ll trot out our pie spice mix, of course. It’s perfect for coffee, or oatmeal—”

“Or pie,” Zak said.

“For the comfort blend,” Tory said, “you want something earthy. Familiar, but not boring. A mix that makes you want to cook just so you can taste it.”

Tory Finch had also come with the shop. Twenty-eight, with a shapely figure, even in her black shop apron, and light brown hair in a chin-length blunt cut. She met my gaze, her golden brown eyes a touch less guarded than usual. Painter by night, spice girl by day, there was little question which she regarded as her real work. But when she spoke at our meetings—which wasn’t often—everyone listened.

Every business needs at least one employee like that.

I nodded, with a glance at Sandra, my master mixologist. “Something for dips and sauces or to give a little oomph to chicken. Add depth to sautéed spinach or roasted squash.” Labels inside the metal tins would include a recipe or two, with more on our website.

A tiny smile tugged at Tory’s mouth, shiny with her usual pale pink lip gloss, and she reached for the second stamp to help Reed with the cups.

“And for the savory,” I began, breaking off at the sound of angry voices outside. Zak strode to the door, and I dashed after him, confirming with a quick pat that my phone was in my apron pocket.

“I told you, again and again. This is my corner. When you gonna listen, old man?” Sam, a Market regular, jabbed his forefinger and pointed at the sidewalk where Pine Street meets Pike Place, the Market’s cobbled main thoroughfare. Though he stood on the street, Sam towered above the man pacing on the sidewalk. Sam’s wiry black hair, flecked with gray, peeked out from under a black wool beret that matched his long, flowing coat, and his beard stubble looked like coffee grounds against his dark skin. Beside him, Arf the dog, a tall gray-and-brown terrier mix, stood at heel, his emerald green nylon leash slack. Dogs aren’t officially allowed in the Market, but you’d never know it.

“Hey, guys.” Zak extended his hands like stop signs.

“Everybody cool it,” I said, stepping in front of him and sizing up the situation. No fists were being thrown; no one appeared injured. “What’s the problem?”

“He’s got my corner.” Sam stood as tall as Zak. The other man barely topped my five-seven.

“These are public streets,” I said. “Anyone can be anywhere.” Technically true, but that doesn’t keep the regulars from staking their claims. Aggressive begging is illegal, as is blocking foot or vehicle traffic. But I’d rarely seen a problem—and never from Sam. Trouble usually comes from outside.

Sam’s chin jutted out. He lowered his head apologetically, gnarled fingers tightening the dog’s leash. I glanced at the other man, who’d shown up a few weeks ago and often stood on this corner or across the street. Sam, who had to be sixty, called him “old man,” but it was hard to judge his age, with the khaki rain hat he wore every day tugged low over his forehead and his thin shoulders hunched inside his olive green raincoat. It hadn’t rained in weeks.

“You’re Doc, right?”

He punched his hands deeper into the coat’s big pockets and nodded. Though I don’t have children—by the time Tag felt “ready,” the batteries on my biological clock had run down—Doc’s response made me feel like I was separating squabbling toddlers.

“Sam, since Doc’s the newcomer, why don’t we show him a little Market hospitality and let him pick which corner he’d like today. You take that one.” I pointed across Pine. “Tomorrow, you switch.”

A long silence before Sam said, “Yes, Miz Pepper,” a touch of the South in his deep, shy voice.

“That okay with you, Doc?” He raised his head briefly, then lowered his golden brown eyes, terror-stricken. He didn’t speak.

“If either of you misses a day, just keep alternating. And if there’s a problem, talk to me.”

“I’ve called the police,” a woman’s breathless voice said.

Pooh. Yvonne Winchell sold the freshest flowers in the daystalls—customers had come in all week carrying bouquets of her colorful dahlias, sunflowers, and others I couldn’t identify—but I’d never met such a worrywart. The Market is safe and clean; still, put thousands of diverse people in a small space seven days a week and things do happen. This was minor.

Behind her, one of the orchard girls watched us.

“No need,” I said. “Everything’s under control.” Yvonne stared intently, then ducked back under the shed roof that covered the long rows of daystalls, the long wooden tables with built-in benches rented by farmers and craftspeople.

“C’mon, Arf,” Sam said.

Both man and dog were clean, if a bit scruffy, so I suspected they had regular shelter somewhere. I fumbled in my pocket for a liver chew, keeping it hidden in my hand. Arf perked up, his long gray and caramel ears flopping back as his nose rose. “May I?”

“Yes’m. Whachew say, dog?” he said as Arf licked my hand. Man and dog headed for the opposite corner, and I turned back to Doc.

He wasn’t there. After all that, where had he gone? I scanned the sidewalk, in case he’d thought I’d sent him across Pine to the corner by the Triangle Building. But there was no sign of him.

Had he ducked into the Spice Shop for a spot of tea? We weren’t open yet, but we did sometimes hand out samples of hot tea to help keep the street folk warm.

I glanced inside. Not there, either.

Tory stood in the doorway of our salmon pink stucco building, one hand braced on the forest green frame, the other covering her mouth. Anxiety shaded her usually placid face.

A metallic whizzing followed by the scrape of rubber on a hard surface commandeered my attention, and I spun toward the sounds.

“Damsel in distress?” said a familiar baritone.

Double pooh. Why couldn’t this have been Tag’s day off?

“We took care of it, Officers,” Zak said from behind me. He knew how I felt about Tag’s tendency to jump right on any dispatch to the Market and wheel his trusty Seattle Police Department bicycle into my neighborhood. I recognized the irony—Zak’s protectiveness mirrored Tag’s. Not that there was anything romantic between me and my employee. He’s just that kind of guy.

So, alas, is Tag, and he hadn’t quite given up on romance between us. Despite his affair with a meter reader. (I couldn’t bring myself to say “parking enforcement officer.”) Despite our divorce.

“A couple of street guys got into a shouting match,” I said. “They both wanted to camp on the same corner, but I got ’em to agree on taking turns. No trouble. Sorry to take you out of your way.”

“Your shop’s never out of my way, Pepper.” Tag balanced his bike, one long, lean leg stretched to the pavement, the other foot on the pedal, ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Behind him, his partner, Jay Olerud, wove figure eights, eyes scanning the crowd. How they manage to stay upright on the cobbles and curbs, swerve in and out of traffic, and speed up hills and down wearing guns, radios, and other gear, all the while sniffing out trouble, I can never understand.

There’s a lot I don’t understand about Tag. Including why he still seems so keen on me. I ran a hand through my spikey dark hair. When my job as a law firm HR manager fell victim to the senior partners’ shenanigans, leaving me unemployed only a year after my divorce, I cut my ties to the corporate world and cut my hair. My morning routine now means sticking my head in the bathroom sink, toweling it dry with a washcloth, and rubbing a handful of goo over the remains. Bed Head R Us.

And for some reason, Bike Boy thinks it’s hot.

He grinned. I reddened. Why does the man always look like he knows what I’m thinking?

“No trouble,” I repeated.

“You’re sure about that,” he said, fingering his radio. At my nod, he keyed a button and reported in to dispatch. His china blue eyes bored into me. “That changes, you call me.”

I gave him a mock salute and turned away before he took off. Those tight shorts reveal things I really didn’t want to see.

•   •   •

SANDRA and Tory—both true spice artists—and I worked most of the day creating the new blends. I had one advantage: Not knowing what didn’t work made me open to almost any combination.

And after years in law firm admin, I am an organizer par excellence.

We tossed out ideas, using the framework we’d laid earlier, and Tory fetched the jars of herbs and spices. Before I bought the shop—when I was a curious customer who slowly graduated from sipping tea to buying premixed combos, then on to preparing my own—I’d walk around the place, astonished by its beauty. By the bounty of jewel-like colors, intriguing shapes and textures, alluring smells. The vibrance of it all still stuns me.

The variety intimidates some shoppers. They buy cinnamon in the grocery store, where only one jar says “cinnamon.” That way, they don’t have to choose between ground, chunks, and sticks, from Sri Lanka, Indonesia, and Vietnam, or a blend—particularly nice if I do say so myself.

“That’s two parts to one and one, plus one-quarter part Aleppo pepper. Are you getting this, boss?” Sandra nudged me with an elbow, and I broke off my reverie and wrote down the proportions. She slid the mixing bowl across to Tory and me, and we each dipped out a sample.

I closed my eyes, the better to taste with, and sniffed. “It needs to be—darker, if that makes sense. To balance the hint of sweetness.” Turns out herb and spice tasting is a lot like wine tasting, with some of the same vocabulary. Although I’ve never heard anyone refer to cumin’s “legs.”

“She’s right,” Tory said. “Try the other Aleppo, the smokier one.”

We agreed on the pungent and savory blends before turning to names. We planned to continue the pattern that Jane, the prior owner, had begun, using historic names and geographic features of western Washington and a subtitle describing the flavors. Not exactly inspired, but I hadn’t hit on anything better. Last spring, we’d highlighted the bays of Puget Sound: Elliot, Skagit, Shilshole, and Anacortes. A lot of local features bear handles derived from the languages of coastal tribes. The words trip up newcomers, but before long, they rattle off Duwamish, Nooksack, Snoqualmie, and Skookumchuk like natives.

Plus the tongue twisters amuse tourists, and I’m all for that.

Job done, we took a quick break. I left the nook—a raised corner of the shop, set off by pony walls to let us keep an eye on things—just as a regular customer came in. Once a paralegal at my old law firm, Jennifer now works at a mystery bookshop.

She thrust her list at me and waited, a sly look on her face.

“Sumac. Pomegranate molasses. Cumin, allspice, cinnamon, coriander, rose petals.” I raised one eyebrow, pretending to be stumped. “Marjoram and oregano, and three kinds of pepper. Hmm. It’s got to be Middle Eastern.” The sumac gave it away. A bright, lemony flavor and a rich, dark red, it’s essential to Fattoush, or Levantine Bread Salad. And the other ingredients make a classic Kamunah, or cumin blend. With a few variations, it could be found in Baghdad, Beirut, Tel Aviv, or Istanbul. Or so I understood—I had not yet taken my own Grand Spice Tour.

“Yes. And the cinnamon, caraway, and anise are for a Lebanese pudding made with rice flour.”

God bless gourmet clubs. I weighed and measured, working my way down Jen’s list, while she chatted about last month’s French feast. Meanwhile, Sandra got back to work, but where had Tory gone?

I frowned as I labeled the white pepper. The front door flew open and Tory barged in, Zak two steps behind. She looked furious; he looked flustered.

Uh-oh. Workplace spat—or romance gone wrong? Had I missed the signs? Wordlessly, Tory returned to the mixing nook. I packed Jen’s purchases in her canvas bag, and she headed out. A pair of women came in, and Zak tended to them.

The door opened again. “Hey, Yvonne. What’s up? The girls watching your stall?”

She nodded. “I just, uh, need a pick-me-up.” She gestured to the tea cart, then crossed the shop and poured a cup.

“Yvonne,” Reed said. “Go see my dad for that bad leg. Acupuncture’s great for pain.”

“Voodoo,” she said.

Zak twisted the lid off a jar of my favorite Hungarian paprika and the sharp scent filled the air. Yvonne sneezed.

“Gesundheit.” “Bless you.” The automatic responses echoed around the room, and she left as quickly as she’d come, still limping and sneezing.

Back at the worktable, I puzzled over how to approach Tory about Zak. Ordinarily, I’d just pull an employee aside, report my observation, and ask if she needed help working out a problem. But you’ve got to tread carefully when the relationship you’re probing might be more than professional. Tory and I got along well, but without the friendly jibing Sandra and I shared or the almost motherly feeling I had for Reed. She focused her attention on mixing, blending, smelling, and tasting, giving me no opportunity to speak.

I transcribed our tasting notes. Had Tory’s visible distress this morning stemmed from concern for Zak’s safety? But while the spat between Sam and Doc had gotten loud, it never presented any real danger—not to me, and certainly not to Zak.

“Any idea what’s up with her?” I said to Sandra when Tory stepped away to fetch another jar of sage.

She shook her head. “That girl is as private as a Swiss bank account. She’s worked here two years, and I read her about as well as ancient Cyrillic.”

“Me, too. She pours her passion into her art. But I’ve never seen a painting. You?” Her expression said no. “I wonder if Zak is breaking through her reserve.”

Sandra sealed the last of the plastic bags that held today’s samples. We’d try them all again tomorrow before making final decisions—it takes a blend anywhere from six to twenty-four hours for the flavors to round off. “Maybe. Though he loves to flirt with the orchard girls and sweet-talks every female customer.”

“That’s our Zak.”

But something had shaken my least flappable employee.

I just hoped it was none of my business.

Two

Average number of rainy days in Seattle: 155 days a year. Average number of sunny days: 58. Everything else: shades of gray.

I snicked the Spice Shop’s worn brass lock shut, turned, and raised my face to the last glorious rays. People in other parts of the country think it rains every day in Seattle.

Let ’em.

The Market is tucked smack into one of Seattle’s hills, with Western Ave on—go figure—the west side. First Ave lies uphill to the east, with Pike Place, a curious L-shaped street, and Post Alley sandwiched between. From Western to First is a steep vertical rise. Happily, my loft is on Western and my shop is in the middle, on Pike Place. So I rarely have to trek the whole thing at once.

Right now, I made my way up Stewart to First, a good climb, carrying a special order for a restaurant customer and test bags of today’s blends.

Thinking of Alex Howard, proprietor and chef of the First Avenue Café, brought a smile. Proverbially tall, dark, and handsome. Not to mention successful, intense, and almost flamboyant. A media darling. We’d been out a few promising times.

No, I didn’t mind delivery duty one bit.

At the corner, a woman stepped into view and started across the street. Tory. Two or three feet behind her came a man in an olive green raincoat. He appeared to be talking to her, reaching out his hands.

It was Doc. She shook him off, glancing over her shoulder, and kept walking.

You don’t beg with both hands. You plead with both hands.

What did he want from her?

I hurried up the hill. She reached the corner just as a Metro bus screeched to a halt, and was gone before I could catch her.

Doc stood, hat pulled low, staring as the bus zoomed away.

“What do you want with T—with her?” I stopped myself from blurting out her name. Over the years, I’d had to intervene several times when downtown denizens hassled my young female employees. Bad enough that he knew where she worked and what bus she rode.

Doc did not reply.

“Leave her alone,” I said. “If you’ve got a problem with Sam, or with the arrangement about the corners, you talk to me, not my staff.”

He ducked his head till it almost disappeared between his shoulder blades. Without a word, he trudged down the hill.

I was breathless, not from exercise but from anger and protectiveness. From not knowing whether Doc posed a threat to Tory—or to any of us. He didn’t look like much, but that was no guarantee.

When Doc reached Pike Place, he headed back toward the heart of the Market, to my surprise. Most of the street men—homeless or not—hang out at Victor Steinbrueck Park, a grassy lawn on the Market’s north edge punctuated by a pair of fifty-foot cedar totem poles. The park is named for the visionary architect who saved the Market from destruction by progress. But now that I thought about it, Doc didn’t seem the type to join that crowd—he was more of a loner. Plus, Sam and Arf usually spend the sunset hours there.

I shook off my apprehension. No point worrying without facts.

Several nights a week, Alex Howard presides over the kitchen at his flagship restaurant, th