“You knew,” she said, her gaze on Cayenne, who was behind the counter, measuring tea for Matt, “and you didn’t tell me. You let us think she was pregnant.”
“I never said that. I just didn’t correct you when you guessed. And you weren’t the only one—Matt and Sandra thought the same thing. But it wasn’t my secret to share.”
She grunted. That reminded me of my grunting friend, Detective Tracy. Surely he’d be at the public meeting tonight. With real news, I hoped. I’d bought a newspaper on my way in and flipped through it quickly before stashing it in my office. The annual update on Pat’s murder was on the front page. I’d skimmed it, noting official statements from the police chief and the Agent-in-Charge of the local FBI office. Both said they had nothing to share with the public “at this time,” but that there had been developments and the investigation was ongoing. I read that as a reference to Maddie’s shooting, which the article did not mention.
“Is the owner in?” I heard a customer ask when I returned to the shop floor. “She’s always been so helpful.”
“Here she is,” Cayenne said, gesturing.
I didn’t know the woman, so I introduced myself. “Pepper Reece, Mistress of Spice.”
“I was remembering a shorter, older woman with white hair.” She ran her fingers across her temples, evoking the coronet of braids the former owner always wore.
“Ah, Jane Rasmussen. She sold me the shop two years ago this month and retired to the San Juans.”
“Well, that tells you how long it’s been since I’ve stopped in.”
“You only come to the Market when I come to town,” her companion said. She said it “mah-ket,” her New England accent strong.
“Then, may I suggest that your spice cabinet might need a refresh?” They laughed and agreed, and we got to work filling their shopping baskets.
Nineteen
Pottery shards found in northern Germany establish that hunter-gatherers six thousand years ago spiced their food with crushed garlic mustard seeds they foraged, giving roasted fish and venison a peppery flavor, in what researchers call the earliest known use of spice.
“WE’RE FIRST-TIMERS,” SANDRA TOLD THE SERVER WHEN WE were seated and had ordered iced tea. “What do you do better than any other kitchen?”
“Oh, easy,” he replied. He wore black, like all the front-of-house staff, including a knee-length black apron, and a man bun. I’d thought—hoped—man buns had gone out of style. “Crab cakes. The chef makes his own spice blend. There’s nothing else like it.”
We’d see about that.
“They’re served with our house slaw—red cabbage with green beans, white beans, and cherry tomatoes—and toasted Seattle sourdough. A little retro and a lot of fun.”
“Sold,” I said. “In fact, that spice blend sounds intriguing. Is it in any other dishes?”
The server pointed to two other items and we ordered one of each to share. Fingers crossed that we weren’t being too obvious.
The place was about half full, decent for midweek. The three tables nearest us were taken by pairs of women. A spot for ladies who lunch. Like us.
Sandra leaned forward, her red-and-white zebra striped glasses low on her nose. “Love being a spice spy,” she whispered.
The atmosphere was hip, but like the slaw, slightly retro. Not self-consciously so, like those places where you’re sure the designer spent days hopping from one thrift shop to another and was determined to cram in every 1950s cast-off she’d found. Instrumental versions of American standards and tunes from the 1960s played. Leather chairs sat at square wooden tables. The flatware had a decent heft. Okay, canning jars as water glasses are a trend better left to picnics and sandwich joints, but I quibble.
“Nice menu,” Sandra said. “Modern American with a Northwest accent. Not too precious.”
“Meaning they aren’t sprinkling hazelnuts and wild hop berries on everything?”
“Exactly.” She reached for her water. The twist of her lips said she shared my opinion of the canning jars. “Will Cayenne really be able to keep working? I’m not sure I know how to work with a disabled employee.”
“Don’t think of her that way. She’s still Cayenne, but there’s some things she can’t do.” The server delivered our iced tea and I took a sip. Nicely flavored, with a hint of lemon grass. “Like you can’t figure out Instagram.”
“Ha, ha.”
We talked about the shop and the changes we’d made in the last two years. We talked about Matt’s revelation about his parents, which had been news to her, too, and how to be compassionate without being overbearing. We talked about Maddie and the shooting, and how hard it is to know what to do when a friend is in pain, physical or otherwise. Then our plates came.
And they were beautiful.
“Hmm,” she said of the crab cakes. “Good uniformity and color—nice browning. Maybe a little scant on the crab meat. But you can’t judge the insides by the outsides.”
Her tone told me she was talking about more than fish.
I cut a bite and dipped it in the sauce. “Nice.” I followed with a fork full of slaw. “Sturdy. The flavors don’t compete with the crab cakes, but they don’t stand out, either. Wouldn’t be hard to spark it up, though. Use a citrus champagne vinegar instead of the basic white wine vinaigrette.”
She moved on to the next dish and gave a similar assessment.
“What do you think about the spice blend?” I kept my voice low.
“If it’s not the same as Edgar’s, it’s close.” She gestured to the dishes on the table. “All of it is close, but not quite.”
“I give the place six months.”
“You’re too optimistic.”
I didn’t notice our server approach until he spoke. “How are the crab cakes?”
“Very nice,” Sandra replied. “Tell us about the spices. Sweet paprika, marjoram, and . . .”
I recognized her technique. Laurel uses it,
