“For fear of jeopardizing the plan,” I said. “Which tells us she never imagined it had led to Pat’s murder.”
“Look at it from her point of view,” Armstrong said. “Byrd had no intention of recreating what the family lost. Just the opposite. He meant to poke a great big finger in Maddie Petrosian’s eye.”
“Wait,” I said. “Can’t you bring him in for questioning? If the great-grandparents cut his branch of the family off and the Byrd’s Nest condos were his revenge, he must have hated Maddie. He had motive up the wazoo.”
“And an alibi,” Tracy said. “Unless we can break that—and I’m not laying odds, after all this time—we can’t tie him to Halloran’s murder. In the meantime, we can’t risk giving him reason to think we’re targeting him. So you”—Tracy gave me the official police officer glare—“say nothing to no one.”
I nodded solemnly. Tracy instructed Armstrong to assemble a team to bring in Bruce and Deanna for questioning.
Navarro had not spoken for several minutes. He sat at the end of the table, one arm across his torso, tapping his chin with the fingers of his other hand. “Byrd had motive for both crimes. I’m not convinced that his alibi for the first is all that solid—he bought a ticket to the five o’clock matinee, but that doesn’t mean he went in. Or stayed.”
“What movie?” I asked.
“Lady Bird,” Armstrong replied. “And when we talked to him, he knew all about it. But we don’t have anything that puts him at the scene of the second crime, either.”
“Yes, we do,” I said. I looked at Tracy. “I started to tell you this on the phone last night, but you had questions and I forgot. Cody Ellingson works for me—he started this week. His story’s been coming out in bits and pieces the last few days. His parents have been fighting for ages, mostly over money, blaming each other for putting them in a tight spot. On the bus yesterday, we ran into the barista who saw the guy in the alley. The guy who might have been the shooter.” I stood, pacing in the narrow space between chairs and wall, trying to get it all straight in my mind. “You talked with him—you know he couldn’t identify the guy. He’d know Ellingson, though, wouldn’t he? Bruce and Deanna are regulars at the coffee shop.”
“Depends how good a look he got,” Armstrong said. “But the kid’s afraid the guy in the alley was his dad.” I nodded.
“Going after Ms. Petrosian because he thought his wife had killed Halloran and he was cleaning up after her,” Greer said.
“But Ellingson would have known that killing Maddie Petrosian wouldn’t put the original project back on track, because her company owned the property,” Navarro pointed out. “If Ellingson took a shot at Petrosian, it was purely out of revenge.”
“But the barista could easily have seen someone else,” I pointed out. “The real killer.”
“Bring in the whole family,” Tracy ordered. “Separate cars.”
And that was my cue to leave.
I NEEDED to get back to work. But solving the problem of Edgar’s spice blend was also work. I called an Uber for a ride to the rival chef’s joint. Early for lunch, but it was Saturday, the first clear blue day in a week. A few neighborhood types might drift in for crab cakes and a mimosa and call it brunch.
Early also meant I caught the black-coated chef before he was elbow-deep in kitchen chaos.
“Pepper Reece,” I said. “I own Seattle Spice. Hoping we can chat.”
“You’re wasting your time. I’ve got an excellent supplier for all my herbs and spices.”
“I’m sure you do. I’m not here to sell you spice. I’m here to see if we can solve a problem.”
Not the response he’d expected. He gestured to a small table near the kitchen and the hostess brought us mineral water. I explained that the spice blend he was using on his crab cakes, among other dishes, bore a remarkable resemblance to Edgar’s proprietary blend.
He looked like he wanted to spit in my Pellegrino.
“I created that blend myself. I don’t need to steal from other chefs. And if this Eduardo or whatever his name is, is so insecure that he goes around accusing people he doesn’t even know, highly respected chefs with years of experience, he won’t last long.”
“Mmm. Mm-hmm,” I said, or something like that. “I don’t know whether you sent your girlfriend hunting for Edgar’s secret stash, or whether bringing you a sample was her idea. Doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s theft.”
Heat flared off him, like a grease fire on a flaming stove.
“Here’s what we can do.” I reached into my tote and brought out two small tins, each bearing the Seattle Spice Shop label with our saltshaker logo. I’d labeled them “Sample—Proprietary” followed by #1 and #2. “You stop using the stolen blend or any variation. I will persuade Edgar not to file a complaint for theft against the bartender, your girlfriend. In exchange, I’ve created two blends specifically for you. You may attempt to recreate them yourself, or order them from me at an excellent introductory price.” I slid a quote sheet across the table.
He ignored the quote and grabbed the first tin. Pried off the lid and gave me a dark look before giving a tentative sniff, then a deeper one. Stuck a finger in the mix, touched it to his tongue, and gave me another quick glance. Repeated the process with the second tin. Folded his arms and leaned back in his seat.
“And needless to say,” though I said it anyway. “Edgar is no longer in need of your girlfriend’s bartending skills.”
Twenty-Eight
Once you get a spice in your home, you have it forever. Women never throw out spices. The Egyptians were buried with their spices. I know which one
