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

electric. More like a big coffee urn than a true samovar.”
    “Ah. Like at that old Russian tea shop. Miss that place. They served those little turnovers—what are they called?”
    “Piroshky. You can get really good ones up the street.” That reminded me of the blueberry muffin I’d bought on the way here and no doubt dropped alongside my keys. Pigeon food by now.
    “But they don’t serve that beet soup.” She wiggled her fingers as if to summon the name. “Borscht. You ever make that?”
    Cut the chitchat, Cheryl
, I wanted to say but didn’t. She didn’t care about my cooking. She wanted to put me at ease, get me talking, by pretending we were old friends.
    “So where do you make the tea?” she asked.
    I pointed to the big double sinks in the corner, behind the front counter. Directions are a bit skewed along Pike Place, so it’s hard to say north or west with any precision. The front counters do double duty as display cases. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the side walls, crammed with jars of tea and spices. In the center of the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier I found in the antiques store in my loft building and a pair of Indian silver chandeliers from the import shop Down Under, the name given to the Market’s lower level. The effect is internationally eclectic, and pretty cool, if I do say so myself. A beam of sunlight shining through a clerestory window struck a crystal and sent shots of color dancing around the glass-filled shop.
    “Every morning?” she asked.
    “Except on my days off. Then whoever’s running the shop that day, usually Sandra Piniella, makes it.”
    “And are the pots empty by the end of the day?”
    She could reach out and touch one. But I knew from living with Tag that cop training is better than any grandmother for teaching you to keep your hands in your pockets. Of course, that hadn’t kept him from putting his hands in other places they didn’t belong.
    “If they aren’t empty by closing, we dump them out. See for yourself. They’re empty now.”
    “So how,” she said, “did he get one of your teacups if you weren’t open and hadn’t made tea yet?”
    “Not a clue. He had a heart attack, right? Or some other illness?” Market residents are mostly low-income and have clinic access, but they don’t all use it. And it’s a shameful fact that the street people, homeless or not, often die from treatable conditions.
    “Probably. But until that’s established, we have to investigate.”
    What Tag had said. Spencer looked into the mixing nook. “Any idea how he got the tea?”
    Tory opened her eyes slowly, as if she felt Spencer’s attention shift to her. Her golden brown eyes reflected the light as she returned the detective’s gaze with a slow shake of her head. “No.”
    “When did you get here?” Spencer asked. “And which door did you use?”
    “Seven o’clock. Front door.”
    An hour before my usual arrival, and an hour and a half before her scheduled time. She could have made tea for him, in the microwave in the back office. But after he’d harassed her last night, I doubted she’d have taken any pity on him. And why would a beggar be on the streets before the crowds?
    I opened my mouth, but Spencer spoke first. “Did you see him milling around when you got here, or spot him through the front door?”
    A silence, followed by another “no.”
    Spencer gestured toward the table where Tory sat. “What are you working on that brought you in so early?”
    “Sketches.”
    That caught me by surprise. I had never seen Tory drawing in here. A sketchbook lay open on the nook table, an artist’s pen beside it.
    Reaching over the pony wall, Spencer muttered a quick “May I?” and picked up the book without waiting for an answer. She studied the drawing in progress, then flipped back through more pages covered with black lines forming squares and rectangles, patterns both familiar and unrecognizable.
    “I’m not getting it,” Spencer finally said.