Read Online Guilty as Cinnamon by Leslie Budewitz - Free Book Online Page B

would be a serious blow to morale. Still, they knew the boss was a show-must-go-on, keep-the-customers-happy kind of chef.
    How would they respond to Alex’s arrest? Would Ops close the joint, or bring in a chef from another restaurant?
    It occurred to me that Tariq might not know about his boss’s arrest.
    I slowed for a light and stole a glance at him. The earbuds hung around his neck, the cord snaking down his white T-shirt to his pants pocket. His head rested against the seat, eyelids half closed, long lashes nearly brushing his cheeks.
    â€œMight be better if you hear the news before you get to work,” I said. “The police have arrested Alex. They plan to charge him with murder.”
    Did Tariq gasp? The traffic noise made it impossible to tell.
    Off the highway, I worked my way toward First Ave. Tariq did not speak, his lips parted, eyes wide and unfocused.
    â€œWe’re in luck.” A bus drove away, and I slid to the curb, not worrying about the police cars parked in front of the Café. Tariq reached blindly for the door handle, and I put my hand on his arm. “Let me know if we can help.”
    He nodded and slammed the door, then reached back to touch Arf. He loped across the street and down the hill to the side door, the delivery entrance. Ops, the accountant, and the front of the house manager stood on the sidewalk. Some kitchen staff leaned against the stone wall; others millednervously. Evicted, temporarily, while the cops did their thing.
    Scott Glass, the Viking-bearded bar manager Alex called Scotty or Glassy, paused in his pacing long enough to notice me. He drew long and slow on the cigarette gripped between his thick fingers.
    I pulled into traffic.
    Not my circus, not my monkeys.
    *   *   *
    I spotted the job applicant the second Arf and I jogged in the shop’s front door. My stumble down memory lane, combined with Mission Tariq, had made us late, and I’d splurged on a parking spot in the Market garage rather than run the Mustang home and dash back.
    First clue: the leg warmers. Who wears leg warmers? Not even dancers, anymore.
    Second clue: the schoolgirl skirt. The yellow, gray, and turquoise plaid did not remotely coordinate with the rainbow-striped leg warmers. She’d topped it with a pale yellow blouse sporting a Peter Pan collar and a navy jacket.
    The Market is a magnet for free spirits.
    Third clue: her kohl-eyed, openmouthed gape at the shelves crammed with round jars, square jars, and ancient painted tins full of culinary and aromatic treasures.
    Alas, she did not glance at the door or me, suggesting retail instincts yet to be honed. But we could work on that.
    We sat in the mixing nook. She “
loved
” our tea. She’d “
never tasted anything like it
.” Spices were “
so fascinating
.” She spoke in italics. I asked about her retail experience. The answer was hard to decipher, but seemed to boil down to a talent for thrift store shopping.
    â€œWhat do you enjoy cooking?”
    She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “Umm. I don’t cook much.”
    Ah
. That would be okay, if she conveyed the slightest interest in food. After all, that’s what brings customers in. But she didn’t.
    I trotted out my standard questions. How would you respond if a customer interrupts while you’re helping someone else? If they ask to use the bathroom? If you suspect a customer of shoplifting?
    What’s the difference between oregano and marjoram?
    Actually, that question is less important than the others. I can teach spice knowledge. I can’t teach patience or tact, though the willing student can learn. And I can’t teach temperament.
    She might have had it, but lacked the life experience to cope with the wildly unpredictable world of the Market. Every job has its quirks and quarrels, but let’s just say every day down here is a full moon.
    And, despite her avowals otherwise, I suspected