Read [SS01] Assault and Pepper for Free Online Page A

happened. Any suspicious death, we do that. You want to know what happened, don’t you?”
    I let out a sharp breath, not meeting his eyes. It was protocol, not distrust. Still, I hated that he was right.
    “If you don’t let me have my keys, how am I supposed to get in?” I also hated that he brings out my whiney side.
    “Looks like someone’s already in.” Detective Spencer peered through the front windows, shaded by deep soffits, still the original forest green. I followed her gaze toward the mixing corner and the silhouette of a seated figure.
    “Nice to see you again, Pepper. Sorry about the circumstances,” the detective said, holding out her hand.
    I took it, nodding. “I’m always the first one here. From this angle, I can’t tell who that is.”
    “And knowing you,” Tag said, “no spare key.”
    “In the loft,” I said, tired of the constant tug-of-war between us. “That I can’t get into without my keys.” The spare loft key was in the shop. “Hold on.” I rummaged in my bag and yanked out my phone.
    Spencer approved my plan, so I called inside and asked the early arrival to meet me at the side door, on Pine Street, but as the detective instructed, not to step outside or touch the door frame or exterior. As we headed up the hill, the EMTs slid Doc’s body onto the gurney. His coat flopped open and a dark lump of cloth fell onto the sidewalk. Both Spencer and Tracy stepped forward for a closer inspection.
    But I didn’t need to. I’d seen it, on this very corner.
    Sam’s black beret.
    •   •   •
    SPENCER was going to want to know why Tory was in the shop so early. I admit, I was mighty curious, too.
    The detective had not been in the shop before, at least not during my shifts. I pointed out the key features, including our private restroom and tiny back office. She strolled the aisles, hands clasped behind her, head tilted slightly, as though examining specimens in a curious museum. In profile, her otherwise straight nose bore a slight bump, as if once broken.
    I leaned against a double-sided bookcase—we’d nearly quadrupled our cookbook and reference offerings since I took over—and watched. After opening the door for us and being introduced, Tory had returned to the mixing nook. She sat on one of the built-in benches, head back, eyes closed. She did not respond visibly to the news of Doc’s death. She was too old to be my daughter, but my heart longed to reach out and my arms ached to embrace her in what Kristen calls “Universal Mother Mode.”
    Spencer stopped at the tea cart. Both the samovar and insulated iced tea jug were empty. First thing every morning, I start the day’s tea. I glanced at the wall clock. No point getting anxious—no chance of opening on time today.
    Through the glass in the front door, I caught a glimpse of Tag stretching yellow tape around our entrance. My gut cramped and I hoped hoped hoped it said CAUTION or DO NOT EN TER , and not CRIME SCENE .
    Nearly six feet in her low-heeled black shoes, her blond bob falling slightly forward, and her hands still clasped behind her back, Spencer continued to study our tea cart.
    What about that cup of tea Doc had been clutching? Had there been spilled tea on the ground? Or had he been bringing an empty cup back for a refill? That made no sense. I closed my eyes, remembering. Had I given him one yesterday? I didn’t think so—no chill on the morning. I couldn’t picture a cup in his hand during the spat with Sam, or when he’d been following Tory to the bus stop.
    Sam
. I’d think about him later.
    Had Doc shoved an empty cup in the pockets of his oversized raincoat? But why? We never begrudge a paper cup. Customers who pick up a sample while wandering the store often take a refresher before leaving, but no one brings them back for refills later.
    Detective Spencer turned to me. “What do you call this thing? There’s a word.”
    “Samovar. The real thing is Russian, runs on coal. This one’s