It was an odd conversation for a street corner, I admit, but even odder was Tag’s reaction. Was Mr. Tough Guy Bike Cop crying?
Or had a stray raindrop dripped off the dark green overhang of my building and smacked him in the face?
He wiped his cheek with a gloved hand. Then his radio barked. He clicked it on, barked back, and was gone.
Just another day in the Market.
Inside, I placed a few orders, then called a chef who’d fallen behind on his account. Got a text from Nate saying the salmon were running well and they’d probably hit their quota in time to return Saturday. Laurel texted, too, saying: I survived. Thanks for suggesting cookies.
Ha. Like Mike Tracy could be bought off that easily. Buttered up, maybe, but bought off, no.
Then Edgar called, and I told him where Sandra and I had lunch yesterday. “The food is nice enough”—that prompted a sound I couldn’t decipher, in Spanish, and probably not one I’d repeat, even if I did understand it. “But you’re right. The spicing on the crab cakes is very similar to yours.”
“What you are going to do?”
“I’m still thinking.”
“You think too long, I lose business.”
“Edgar, give me time, okay?” He agreed, though not happily, and I changed the subject. “Heard from your old boss Alex lately?” “An email. He’s in New Zealand. Wanted to know if I could put him in touch with that waitress from the old place who came from there and went back.”
Ah, same old Alex. Still chasing the good-looking women.
“His crew’s scattered to the winds, hasn’t it?”
“When I was a sous, I work four years for one chef. Now I’m lucky they stay four months. Everybody got itchy feet. Bartenders is the worst. They move around like flies on a hot wall.”
I asked him about a couple of other ex-coworkers, then about Tariq. If he had any suspicions, he’d voice them now. Loudly. But no.
“I lost track. Great cook, bad attitude.”
Maybe the talented young cook could redeem himself, by serving up some reliable spice intel.
IN THE afternoon, I headed up to Capitol Hill to call on a young pastry chef, a friend of Cayenne’s from culinary school, who was opening her own bakery and dessert catering company in a space near the old Harvard Exit theater. Talk about a great example of both historic renovation and the city’s evolution. Once a women’s club, when such spaces were influential, it had been converted into a popular movie theater showing foreign films in the days before streaming was a glint in a tech wizard’s eye. My mother swears they used to serve free samples of Seattle Spice tea, back in the day. Now, it houses the Mexican Consulate. I encouraged the baker to include a few south-of-the-border treats on her daily menu.
An order in hand that ran from allspice to za’atar, I wound my way over to Maddie’s office. Her building was classic, but without any particular historic significance that would keep it from the wrecking ball, like, say, the Harvard Exit. The door was on the side. A small brass sign read “Petrosian Properties, LLC.” I pushed the intercom button and announced myself, then headed up the narrow stairs.
The reception area could have been a backdrop for a magazine shoot. Original redbrick walls, richly colored Persian rugs on gleaming plank floors. The furniture looked inviting but not so inviting that an unwanted visitor would linger. A bouquet of creamy white roses and spiky purple flowers graced the front desk. The scent of orange oil and beeswax polish, tinged with coffee, hung in the air.
“I know you,” the receptionist said. “Well, we’ve never met, but I’m Jess, Jen’s sister.”
“Jen at the mystery bookshop?” Had she ever mentioned a sister? We’d met at my old law firm. We mostly talked work back then, and mostly talked books now.
“Yes. You run the spice shop. Maddie raves about you. I can’t believe what’s happened.” Her dark eyeliner was smudged, the skin under her eyes puffy. “Why would someone shoot her?”
That, I couldn’t answer. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? Can you help me piece together the history of the Montlake project? Oh, I brought cookies. Samples from a new bakery opening in a few weeks, down on Tenth.” I pulled a bag out of my tote. It isn’t just major crimes detectives who speak more freely with a sweet treat in hand.
“Those look fabulous. Back in a sec.” She bounced up and stepped into a small kitchenette. A moment later, I heard the faint gurgling of a coffee maker. I glanced around. The door to the corner office stood open. Maddie’s inner sanctum. From the reception area, I could see an antique wood desk, brass planters filled with rolls of what I assumed were building plans and blueprints, and an oak library table. Another Persian rug lay on the floor, deep purple with golden yellow flowers and twining greenery.
Next to Maddie’s office was a formal conference room, the table bare. Several smaller offices ran along the interior wall, all empty. Last came a file room. We appeared to be alone.
Jess returned with two forest green mugs and a plate of cookies. She led me to a pair of wing chairs, upholstered in deep red, at a low oval table.
“It’s just me here today,” she said. “The property manager and maintenance crew are out on site. The builder, too, though he isn’t an employee. He’s the one who found her. Got there late, and there she was.”
“How awful.”
“They all came in last week when the police interviewed us. That short detective
