Guilty as Cinnamon (2 page)

An ancient token of friendship as well as an ingredient in the anointing oils Moses used, cinnamon is one of the oldest-known spices, well traveled and heavily traded.

“Parsley poop.” The Indian silver chandeliers hanging from the Spice Shop's high ceiling swayed, their flame-shaped bulbs flickering. The crystal candelabra they flanked burned on defiantly. As I stared up, unsure whether to curse the Market's hodgepodge of ancient and modern wiring or the fixtures themselves, all three blinked, then went dark.

“Cash register's got power,” Sandra called from behind the front counter. “And the red light district's open.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the miniature lamp perched on the Chinese apothecary that displays our signature teas and accessories. The red silk shade glowed steadily, a beacon in the back corner.

“Better call the electrician,” I said at the exact moment as my customer asked, “Where's your panel?” and Lynette, my newest and most annoying employee, said, “I'll check the breakers.”

At the very next moment, the ceiling lights came back on, bright and steady.

Kristen started whistling the theme from
Ghostbusters
as she unwrapped a tall roll of paper sample cups for our special tea, black Assam spiced with cardamom, allspice, and orange. Any day now, we'd start serving an iced version alongside the hot brew made in the giant electric pot that looks like a Russian samovar.

“Don't those ghosts know they should be sleeping this time of day?” Whether Sandra Piniella, my assistant manager, believes in ghosts, I don't know, but she holds the wisecrack sacred.

This was one of those undecided mornings, common in a Seattle spring, that could turn gloomy or glorious, and the shop needed lights. I shrugged and turned back to Tamara Langston. I would let nothing—not even the magical, maddening Market—interfere with the prospect of becoming chief herb and spice supplier to this promising young chef, on the brink of launching the city's hottest new bar and restaurant.

“Gotta love old buildings,” Tamara said. “The power in our new space has been giving me fits, too.”

“Tell me more about your plans.”

“Ingredient driven. Simple, yet adventurous. Food I love, prepared and presented in a way you'll love.” An all-inclusive “you,” meaning anyone passionate for a great plate of food. Tamara vibrated with intensity, her presence boosting everyone around her to a higher frequency.

Maybe that's what disrupted the lights. Like people whose personal magnetism stops watches and messes up computers. I'd known a few in my decade-plus as a law firm human resources manager, before buying Seattle Spice in the venerable Pike Place Market.

The chef was a fair-skinned blonde in her early thirties, roughly ten years younger than I. Thin and wiry—from hard
work, not workouts—her features were too intense to call pretty. But she buzzed with an irresistible energy.

“Not vegetarian,” she continued, “but we will champion vegetables. And cocktails. We'll pour the best gin in town.”

“I'm sold. We can get anything you need. Our supply networks circle the globe.” I gestured to the map on the wall, speckled with pushpins showing the sources of our hundreds of herbs and spices. In the year and a half since I'd bought the place, I'd worked hard to expand our offerings. To not follow trends, but set them. Peppers were hot, as was almost anything new. Especially the new
and
hot.

I like to think beyond that. So did Tamara.

“Tamarack is all about flavor,” she said, her small hand, scarred by burns and knife blades, opening and closing as she pumped her lower arm. “Both bold and subtle. Spicing should complement the food, not dominate it.”

Music to my ears. “Love the name. Where's the space?” She hadn't said. Restaurateurs often keep plans under wraps as long as possible, then leak a few juicy hints, aiming to pique curiosity and build buzz.

“Lower Queen Anne.” She kept her tone low and cagey, though we had no other customers at the moment. “Next to Tamarind, the Indian place. I'm spending every spare moment there. The architect came up with the coolest design—woodsy but light filled. Like the best picnic you ever had, but no rain and no ants.”

Tamarack was a joint venture with Danielle Bordeaux, the visionary owner of half a dozen of Seattle's favorite eateries and drinkeries. If I played this right, we might get her business, too.

“Great concept. Good location—near the Center, Queen Anne, Magnolia.” Near money.

“Aren't you worried that the names are too similar—Tamarack and Tamarind?” Sandra swept by, a giant jar of Turkish bay leaves in her plump arms.

“I like the synchronicity. Our image will set us apart.” Tamara's luminous green eyes shone. “Not to mention the line streaming out our door.”

“Isn't that space haunted?” Black Sharpie in hand, Lynette paused in her task of checking items off a delivery list.

“Ghosts, shmosts,” Tamara said.

“Let me give you a sample of those Ceylon quills.” True cinnamon, my finest grade, still called by the ancient name of the island where it originated. I pulled a jar off the shelf and carried it to the front counter.

“Alex giving you a hard time about leaving for a competitor?” I twisted off the lid and reached for clean tongs. Tamara's silence snagged my attention and I looked up.

“I—haven't told him yet.”

Behind her, Lynette straightened, glancing from Tamara to me.

“I want to get all the details in place first,” Tamara said, the words breathy and rushed. “Finish the build-out. Nail down sourcing. Recruit the key staff.”

I read between the lines. “And you don't want to tell him until you're ready to draw another paycheck.”

The creases in her forehead and the red stains blooming on her white flour cheeks told me I'd guessed right.

“Our lips are sealed. You don't honestly expect him to be surprised, do you? Or behave rashly?”

As lead sous for the First Avenue Café, the flagship of Alex Howard's restaurant empire, Tamara knew the man well. He bought his spices from me, even after I'd ended our fling—too fast and furious to call it a relationship—last September. Tall, dark, hawkishly handsome, and one heck of a chef, he boasted the legendary temper and bravado as well as the cooking skills. Rumors of his cutthroat business practices swirled through Seattle's food community, but he'd always been fair with me.

In business, at least.

“Not a chance I'm willing to take,” she said. I reached for her shopping basket brimming with fresh produce, but she tucked the samples into her own green-and-white-striped tote. The quills were for her, not the Café. “I'm dying to try your ghost chiles. Alex makes a terrific relish out of them, but he won't let anyone else handle it, so I'll have to work up a recipe myself.”

From under the counter, I drew a canister of the double-bagged devils.
Bhut jolokia
, better known as
bhut capsicum
, the ghost chile, is a naturally occurring hybrid from the Assam region of northeastern India that blasts the top off the Scoville heat scale. “Alex uses the dried whole pepper, but I've also got a powder. Kinda like ground lava.”

“He mentioned an oil.”

“Right. An experiment he and I tried one night. We extracted the capsaicin by roughly grinding dried peppers, heating them in oil, and straining it off. The result was a gorgeous, fiery red-orange oil. He made the relish by adding a few drops to a medley of fresh peppers, white onions, and cilantro. And fresh corn, if I remember right.” A big “if”—tequila had also been involved. Like Alex, I don't let my staff handle the peppers. I pack them after hours, wearing a respirator and elbow-length gloves. A fleck landed on my eyelashes once and fell into my eye. I stuck my head in the sink and wanted to leave it there. It's the one task that makes me wish for a commercial warehouse, an option I reject at every suggestion. I like running a small show. “You sure? Farmers in India smear it on their fences to fend off elephants.”

“If he can handle it,” Tamara said, “so can I.”

I dropped the peppers into her tote. Confidence is more than half the battle in retail, the legal world, and the restaurant biz.

She scribbled in her notebook, its spring green cover matching the stripes on her tote, and added a quick sketch. “I'll wait for your price list, then make some decisions.”

“Great. End of the week.” I held out my hand. Her grip was firm but not overpowering—capable of wielding a meat mallet or embracing a delicate filet of sole.

After Tamara left, the brass bells on the door chiming behind her, Sandra and I restocked our Spice of the Month table. This month's star: cinnamon—half a dozen varieties, ground and sticks. Supporting players: recipe cards suggesting sweet and savory uses, and a few favorite cookbooks. No one, it seemed, had written the definitive book on cinnamon. I'd searched online, scoured publishers' catalogs, and consulted cookbook collectors. All wasn't lost, as the hunt had been a great excuse to reread a few favorite mysteries, including
Cinnamon Skin
by John D. MacDonald and
Cinnamon Kiss
, an Easy Rawlins outing by Walter Mosley, both now on display.

A customer stopped to watch us. “Cinnamon in April? I think of it in autumn.”

“It's a year-round spice.” Truth was, I'd ordered a special crop of Ceylon cinnamon that had been delayed at customs and didn't arrive until after Christmas. And then, with our staff changes and other hoo-ha, we hadn't gotten around to celebrating cinnamon until now. I took the lid off a small jar and held it out. “Take a whiff.”

“Sold,” she said. I handed her off to Sandra, who held up a copy of Joanne Fluke's
Cinnamon Roll Murder
and shot me a meaningful look.

“Right,” I said. “C'mon, boy. Break time.”

Arf, the black-and-tan Airedale bequeathed to me last fall by a former Market resident, popped up from his bed behind the counter. Technically against the Market rules, no one seems to mind—dogs are commonplace down here. I snapped his brown leather leash onto his LED-studded collar—a gift from the street men, in appreciation for the warmth my staff and I try to show them—and grabbed a scooper bag.

If any food known to woman is unavailable in the Market,
don't tell me. Indulgence may be a hazard of the job, but I make up for it by walking. Walking the dog, walking to and from my loft a few blocks away, walking, walking, walking for nearly every errand.

That's my story, anyway.

In the last few weeks, Sandra and I had become cinnamon roll aficionados. (Lynette, nursing a dream of returning to the stage, declined to participate in the interests of her figure. Kristen, my BFF, and college student Reed, both part-timers, joined the finger-licking fun when they were around, and with Zak, a broad-shouldered, six-foot musician, on staff, we never had to worry about leftovers.)

My current fave featured croissant pastry instead of yeast dough, cream cheese frosting, and raisins. Big enough to feel like you've indulged, but not so big it ruins your appetite for the rest of the day.

After Arf stretched his legs and other parts, and greeted his two- and four-legged pals, we fetched a box of rolls from one of the Market's yummy bakeries and headed back to the shop.

“We can give you your money back, if you insist, but the manufacturer won't refund ours. You must have cranked it too hard.” I wasn't two feet inside the door when Lynette's retort—her tone harsh as her words—shattered my vision of a sugar-and-cinnamon orgy.

“To your bed, Arf.” His nails clicked on the plank floor as he trotted behind the counter. “I'm Pepper Reece, owner of the shop. How can I help?”

The customer, a trim white woman in her forties with thin lips and a tight face, explained that she'd bought the nutmeg grinder from us a week ago. The second time she used it, one of the screws holding the blade in place snapped. “I did not crank it too hard,” she said, her words clipped. “And it was not inexpensive.”

“I am so sorry. Things break occasionally for no obvious
reason. We'll refund the full price and give you a new grinder, at no cost.” A generous offer; that's what it takes to mend a broken relationship. I reached for another style. “Would you like to try the same model? Or this one? You can see it works a little differently. It's what I use at home.”

She chose the second, more expensive version and left with a smile on her face.

After Lynette finished helping a customer who'd come in during Grinder Gate, I invited her to join me in my office. Not much more than a closet with a chipboard remnant jammed over two file cabinets for a desk, a few shelves mounted above, it was strictly utilitarian—and the closest thing I had to a private woodshed.

When Tory left last fall, leaving Sandra the sole employee who'd been here longer than me, I knew she'd be hard to replace. But I had not anticipated such a major pain in the anise. Lynette was my third hire in that slot, an unemployed actress who changed hair and makeup like most of us change underwear, and who could flip the charm off and on like a power switch.