Chai Another Day

One

Food is a conversation.

—Jacques pepin

ONLY A CERTIFIED NUT CASE WOULD TAKE A YOGA CLASS AT noon then head for a massage on a day hotter than a freshly pulled shot of espresso. That goes double in Seattle, where only the newest and grooviest of buildings boast A/C. Used to be, a hot August day meant seventy-five degrees, maybe eighty, with visitors smiling and natives melting. Walking down Eastlake Avenue, I should have felt a cool breeze rolling up from Lake Union, a few blocks away. But no. The day was so still the only waft of air I caught was tinged with exhaust from the delivery van idling on the side street.

Welcome to the new Seattle, where climate is the only thing changing faster than the city’s skyline.

Between running my spice shop in the Pike Place Market during the height of tourist season and keeping up with my mother, who’d returned to the city for the summer, life was full. Throw a new relationship into the mix and I was happier than the clams at the fish counter in the Market. Though they were on ice, which at the moment gave them the advantage.

Happy, but tired. I’d probably fall asleep on Seetha’s massage table.

The light changed and I stepped into the street. On Eastlake, a bus pulled into the stop with an electric swish, and passengers streamed off. A white guy in olive cargo pants sprinted up the hill and jumped on board moments before the bus drove off. I passed the corner café, a restaurant called Speziato—Italian for spicy— and a handful of other shops and businesses.

Halfway down the block stood my destination, a two-story red brick building with the year 1928 carved into a sandstone block beside the front door. The building sat back from the sidewalk about ten feet, creating a delightful space—half alcove, half courtyard—bounded by the neighboring structures on the north and south, and a low stone wall streetside. Rainy Day Vintage, one of my favorite places, occupied the first floor. Seetha lived and worked her massage magic upstairs.

I felt a fairy godmother’s pride, having suggested the vacant retail space when Aimee McGillvray said she was on the hunt. We’d met when she worked in a sprawling treasure trove of international antiques and imports, where I’d found some of the furniture for my loft. She’d become a Spice Shop customer and occasional yoga classmate, and opened this place last spring. A great fit, if I do say so myself.

Aimee had converted the courtyard into a peaceful city retreat that invited lingering. Teak and iron chairs surrounded a mosaic-topped table, shaded by a striped beach umbrella. A colorful stack of ceramic planters filled the corner. Basil, parsley, and elegantly clownish nasturtiums in orange, red, and yellow thrived in window boxes. The neon sign in the window was off. Too bad. Aimee’s neon collection is to die for.

A dog welded from discarded car parts and tools stood guard, his ears the business ends of well-aged trowels. I gave him a quick pat on the sprinkler head and pushed open the outer door. Inside the tiny vestibule, the door on the left led to the shop while a locked door on the right led to the apartments above. I punched the intercom for the apartments and grabbed the knob. Voices snared my attention, and I cocked my head, listening.

A handful of words seeped through the closed shop door. Don’t you tell me—

The buzzer sounded before I could find out what the speaker didn’t want to hear, and I jerked the door open. The reply was equally angry, but undecipherable. Aimee? I honestly couldn’t recognize the speaker, or tell if the other person was male or female.

But it was none of my business, and my left shoulder ached for the ministrations of my waiting friend, so I closed the door behind me and trotted up the stairs.

Seetha waved me in to her sanctuary with a graceful sweep of the arm. Her royal purple tank top and cotton drawstring shorts were perfect for the day, much better than my sticky T-shirt and knee-length yoga pants. The earthy tang of Nag Champa incense hung in the air.

You cut your hair, I said. It looks great.

I went to your stylist. She raked her fingers through the black chin-length bob. She said she’d lost track of how many women with long hair had come in saying, ‘Cut it all off.’ I thought Seattle summers were supposed to be cool. But at least they’re not humid, like Boston.

Oh, I forgot—this is your first full summer here. I dropped my tote and yoga mat on the floor, and toed off my flip-flops. I wish I could say it’s never like this, but the times, they are a changin’.

Seetha rents two of the three second-floor apartments, the one-bedroom in back where she lives and the studio up front where she works. Aimee had recently taken over the two-bedroom on the other side.

Sing out when you’re ready. She stepped behind the rice paper screen and I heard her washing her hands in the kitchen sink. A striking photo of a birch grove in full leaf hung on one dove gray wall, a poster of the seven chakras on another. I nodded toward the Kuan Yin statue in the corner and paused to inhale the tranquility of the space. Then I peeled off my sweaty yoga togs and slipped between the silky-soft bamboo sheets on the massage table. Either the argument downstairs had ended or the floors of the old brick building were thick enough to muffle the sound. I called to Seetha, closed my eyes, and let my breath begin to slow.

Seetha padded into the room and switched on soft music. I’m not big on soft music, except in certain circumstances, but this was one of them. Tuneless, drumless, meant to mellow the mind without engaging it.

My pal Laurel met Seetha shortly after she moved here, when one of her catering clients suggested Seetha for a massage. They hit it off and Laurel invited her to join our Tuesday night Flick Chicks confab for movies and girl-time. Both the yoga and bodywork were part of my mother’s self-care recommendations, now that I was closer to forty-five than forty.

Tell me what’s going on with your body, Seetha said now.

I described the ache in my shoulder, the result of catching a box of spice jars when one of my employees stumbled, and a few twinges from busy days and too much time on my feet. She folded back the sheet and laid one oiled hand between my shoulder blades.

Simple magic. With each stroke of her hands across my upper back, I drifted deeper and deeper into an other-worldly state, half awake, half asleep, and completely content.

She’d just started on my left trapezius when heavy steps pounding up the stairs broke my trance. A loud knock on the studio door followed, long and insistent.

Back in a sec, Seetha said. I heard her cross the room and step into the hall. As earlier, the words were indistinct, but the urgency was clear. And the visitor was definitely female.

Then Seetha was back. Pepper, there’s a medical emergency downstairs. I’m going down to help until the EMTs arrive. She sounded anxious, though I could tell she didn’t want to worry me.

Aimee? I said, sitting up in alarm. Her shop had been dark when I arrived—unlike me, she closed on Mondays. The clock across the room read twenty minutes after one.

She’s fine. You rest. I’ll be back before you know it. The door snicked shut behind her. Lying quietly was not my specialty, but it would do me good.

I woke with a start and that realization that you’ve fallen asleep without intending to. A sleep so deep I’d only vaguely heard sirens, and thought them distant, not right outside. The clock read one-fifty. No sign of Seetha. A sense of dread snaked across my skin and into my brain. Clearly, the problem was serious after all.

I sat up slowly and swung my legs off the table, giving blood and brain a moment to adjust. The sole window faced the street, so I pulled on my top and yoga pants and parted the blinds to peer out. A red-and-white ambulance blocked the near lane of traffic, its flashers off.

My elbow struck a wind chime hanging from the window frame, and the sudden ringing startled me.

Tote and mat in hand, I tiptoed downstairs. I’ve dealt with customer emergencies myself—fainting spells from the heat or low blood sugar, and in one terrifying instance, a heart attack. Thank goodness Market security and Medic One responded in no time and the man survived. I didn’t want to get in the way—I just wanted to let Seetha know I was leaving and would see her tomorrow at movie night.

A box of medical gear propped open the door to the vintage shop. I heard none of the usual beep and clatter of industrious EMTs intent on their jobs. The silence scared me.

Out in the courtyard, Aimee sat with her elbows on the table, hands clutching the top of her head. Seetha sat beside her, one hand on Aimee’s back. Despite the shadow from the beach umbrella, I could see the horror on Seetha’s face.

And the blood.

Two

In the western world, chai has come to mean a milky black or green tea redolent with spice, but in many regions of India, chai simply means tea or tea with milk and sugar.

PEPPER REECE. NOT YOU AGAIN.

The familiar voice cut through the overheated air. I set the tray of water glasses and pitcher I’d fetched from Seetha’s apartment on the table and acknowledged the compact black man in a camel hair jacket stepping over the crime scene tape that separated the courtyard from the street.

Detective Tracy. Hello. Good to see you on the case.

He grunted. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you found another body.

Aimee gasped, her light brown eyes wide. I—I found her. Joelle, I mean. I can’t believe . . . Blood spatter covered the bodice of her sleeveless dress, a tropical print that could have been new or vintage.

Michael Tracy and I had encountered each other several times in the past year, always over murder. I’d proven myself a useful observer and uncovered critical facts, but he hadn’t fully dropped his skepticism of me, and I didn’t blame him. The odds against the same spice shop owner repeatedly turning up at the scene of violent crime had to be astronomical.

Detective, I said, slipping into one of the teak and iron chairs, this is Aimee McGillvray, owner of Rainy Day Vintage. And Seetha Sharma, my friend and massage therapist. They each have an apartment upstairs.

Nice commute, Tracy interjected. Aimee found her employee bleeding on the shop floor and called 911, then ran up to get Seetha, who was working on me. We told all this to the patrol officer. I gestured toward the uniformed man standing a few feet away.

Tell me, Tracy said. She was still alive when I got to her, Seetha said, and I did CPR. But it was too late.

Tracy glanced at Aimee, who confirmed our summary with a nod, he grunted. Tracy grunts a lot.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. My partner, Detective Armstrong.

I’d never met the rail-thin Armstrong, though I’d heard his name from Tag, my ex, a cop who rides the downtown bicycle beat and swings through the Market regularly. But what had happened to Tracy’s long-time partner, Detective Spencer? I liked her; she was a good balance for the grumpy but effective Tracy. (And yes, they’ve heard the jokes and no, they don’t think they’re funny.)

Tracy read the question on my face. Spencer’s on medical leave. She’ll be back in a few weeks. You three stay put. The two men headed into the shop, Armstrong ducking to avoid the door-frame. He was easily six-five, and funky old buildings like this don’t measure up to modern codes.

I poured Aimee a glass of water and she drank long and hard, choking on the last swallow.

I can’t believe she’s dead, she said a moment later, her voice unsteady. Who could do this?

Shhh, Seetha said, but I knew how it felt to find a body. There aren’t enough soothing words in the world to ease the shock.

What happened? I said. Why are you here? Aren’t you closed on Mondays?

Yes, but there’s always paperwork. And then, I—I had to step out. When I came back . . . Aimee broke off, then collected herself. They’re saying she was stabbed. Ohmygod, Joelle . . .

Did they find the knife? How did the attacker get in?

I didn’t see it. She’d been bringing in a few boxes of merchandise. That’s her car. She pointed at an older blue Camry parked on Eastlake, the rear passenger door open. The patrol officer kept a watchful eye on the car and us. Not what I would have expected Joelle to drive, considering all the diamonds I remembered her wearing, and her bright, expensive-looking clothing. She probably left the door unlocked while she was unloading. Pepper, do you have your phone? I need to call her husband.

Let the police do that, I said. You can touch base with him later.

She shook her head, in disbelief rather than disagreement. Who would want to kill her?

Tracy returned as she was speaking and took the fourth chair.

Through the window, I saw Armstrong standing in the shop, head bent. Looking at Joelle. The body, in cop speak. I shivered.

That’s what we’re going to find out, Tracy said, his tone surprisingly gentle. Tell me about her.

Her name is—was—Joelle Chapman. We used to work together at Pacific Imports, a big sales and design studio.

How old a woman? he asked. And how long have you had this place?

Forty-eight, Aimee said, and I cringed inside. Only five years older than me. Too young to die. Aimee continued. Our boss died the day after Christmas—he was nearly ninety—and his business closed, so I opened my own place in March. We specialize in modern and vintage housewares, furniture, and decor. Joelle started here a couple of months ago.

Tracy frowned. I don’t know much about furniture, but yours doesn’t look particularly modern to me.

Common misconception, Detective, Aimee said. In design, modern doesn’t mean new. It refers to a style popular in the 1950s and ’60s. A sleek, simplified style.

Back when the import company was a going concern, I’d had the impression Joelle specialized in Asian pieces, the older and more valuable, the better. Not Aimee’s stock in trade.

And you didn’t see or hear anything? Tracy reached for the pitcher and an empty glass.

Excuse me, Detective, Seetha said. I’ve got a client coming and—

Cancel your appointments for the day, Ms. Sharma. I noticed that the rear entrance to this building is also a shared entrance. Both will be off-limits until CSU finishes their work.

As if on cue, two vans pulled up on Eastlake, a van from the King County Medical Examiner’s office and a black CSU mobile office. Detective Tracy conferred with the new arrivals, pointed out Joelle’s car, then rejoined us.

Ms. Sharma, I presume you’ll need to go upstairs to call your patients or clients or whatever they are. An officer will go with you to take your clothing into evidence. He gestured toward the purple tank I’d admired earlier, deeply stained from her attempts to staunch the bleeding. I’ll need to talk with you when I’m finished with Ms. McGillvray. You too, Pepper.

Mind if I go upstairs with her? We can wait for you there.

Just don’t talk about anything.

Nothing? We should sit and stare at each other?

You know what I mean. Talk about the weather. Everyone else is.

A CSU officer and I followed Seetha up to her quarters. She changed her clothes and deposited the once-beautiful purple tank into a clear plastic bag. The officer filled out a self-adhesive label with the date and source of the evidence, slapped it on the bag, and left.

While Seetha cleaned up, I called my shop. My assistant manager takes Mondays off, but the new staff hired last spring had settled in well and I’d had no qualms taking a break. My main concern was Arf, my Airedale. Official Market policy prohibits dogs, but no one pays any attention. Heck, the Market Master carries treats in his pocket. Arf has a bed behind the front counter, and the staff take him out to pee when I’m not around. But he’s my baby.

He’ll be fine, Kristen said over the line. A part-time employee, she and I have been besties since we were born and I trust her with my life and my dog. If you’re not back by closing, I’ll take him home with me. The girls will be in heaven. But what about you? And Aimee and Seetha?

They’re hanging in there. At least, on the surface.

I hung up just as Seetha returned, swathed in an oversized UMass sweatshirt that nearly reached her knees. The splash of blood was gone, her cheeks scrubbed nearly raw. She wrapped her arms around herself, huddling, as if the thick cotton could absorb all her fears.

Why do they need my shirt, Pepper? It’s ruined, but why?

I tossed my phone into my pink striped jute tote. To make sure all the blood is Joelle’s, I guess. And to search for anything inconsistent with the description of events she and Aimee had given. They were both suspects, crazy as that sounded, until they weren’t.

Jaw clenched, she shuddered. I’m freezing.

Strangely, so was I. From shock, no doubt. I followed her into the kitchen, where she brewed spiced black tea in a dented pan on an ancient white stove and slowly added hot milk. The scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the air.

This is good, I said a few minutes later as we sipped the fragrant chai at her kitchen table. Soothing. Sugar and spice, balm for the troubled soul.

Seetha’s eyes were bright and damp, and she was shivering despite the sweatshirt. Sudden, violent death rattles the bones and the soul.

Pepper, who could have done this? Why Joelle? And what do I do? I can’t stay here.

I had no answers. The responding officers had cleared the building, so we knew the killer was gone. Seetha had no relatives in Seattle, no boyfriend, and as far as I knew, no close friends beyond the Flick Chicks.

But she did have a powerful fear of the Indian ghosts known as bhuts. She’d told us about them last spring, after Laurel and I stumbled into a murder mystery that involved the owner of a well-known South Asian restaurant, a man Seetha knew. She had a long history with the ghosts, who seemed to haunt her whenever death touched her. They dressed in white, floated, and typically faced backward, though, as I had discovered, there were variations. More disquieting than malevolent, her ghosts had vanished when the killer was caught, but I knew she feared their return.

She cradled her chipped white cup, eyes on her tea as if reading the leaves through the liquid, her sleek, dark hair falling across her face.

There was so much blood.

You were kind and brave to help her, I said. To comfort her as her spirit left this world.

She must have been stabbed right in the heart. Seetha made a fist and mimed the killer’s motion. A single strike. Had the killer known where to aim, or gotten lucky? So to speak.

This chai is terrific, I said, thinking we needed a change of subject. Where do you get it?

Umm. My mother sends me a package every month. She was born in India, you know, and she swears no one can make it like she can.

I’d like to try. Don’t suppose she’d share the recipe?

Seetha’s lips curved in a humorless smile. In your dreams.

The intercom let us know the detectives were ready to see us. Seetha buzzed them in.

What do I say, Pepper? Like a lot of people who’d never dealt with the police, she knew them only from movies and TV, where the dialogue is sharp and polished, every question designed to dig up dirt while sowing a touch of fear. As I knew from thirteen years of marriage, real-life cop-talk isn’t nearly so clever.

Tell them what you heard and saw, and what you did. Don’t leave anything out. I set my cup in the sink.

The detectives arrived and Tracy took a seat at Seetha’s kitchen table, while Armstrong and I retreated to the living room.

Clearly, Seetha had devoted her meager decorating budget to the massage studio—her private space was as bare as a new graduate’s first apartment. A single brass floor lamp stood in the corner. Nothing hung on the walls. Seetha always insisted her place was too small for the Flick Chicks. But we meet once a month on Laurel’s houseboat. Size was not the problem.

The worn, three-cushion couch was too low for Detective Armstrong, and his legs bent like a grasshopper’s, knees in the air. I sat in a chintz-covered armchair. He took me through the afternoon with clear, crisp questions, his one visible reaction a frown when I mentioned the raised voices.

And you have no idea who it was, or what they were arguing about?

Sorry. I only knew Joelle to say hello and chat a bit. I do remember her wearing big diamonds. I tugged on the small silver hoop in my own earlobe. And a tennis bracelet. If she wasn’t wearing those . . .

No jewelry, he said. Though whether robbery was the purpose of the murder or an afterthought is anybody’s guess. The cash drawer was empty, but Ms. McGillvray says that’s because they were closed.

Sounds right. I lock our cash away every night and put it out in the morning.

A few minutes later, Armstrong closed his notebook, interview over. CSU will take your fingerprints. Don’t worry—it’s just for elimination. And no mess—it’s inkless.

I understood—I’d been through this routine before. Detective, has the knife been recovered? And can I ask, what’s going on with Detective Spencer? Tracy said medical leave.

No knife. Not yet, he said, standing. Detective Spencer had surgery. I don’t know the details, except that she’s recovering at home, and doing well. I heard you two were friendly—I’ll let her know you asked.

It’s always a bit disconcerting when someone you’ve just met knows more about you than you