Read Online Killing Thyme by Leslie Budewitz - Free Book Online Page A

Kristen
, I reminded myself as we hustled down Pike Place. The Market was at its midday busiest, a mélange of browsers and serious shoppers.
    My shop was a madhouse. I sent Arf to his bed behind the counter, tossed my bag in after him, and helped Reed with a customer restocking the kitchen of her summer home on Bainbridge Island. Matt had his hands full, assisting a customer planning an Italian feast for twelve, and Cayennewas on the phone, the customer grilling her, from the sounds of it, on everything from Jamaican allspice to Israeli za’atar. I scooped out four ounces of sweet marjoram—the last item on the customer’s list—and asked Reed, under my breath, “Where’s Sandra?”
    â€œBack room. Meltdown. The new columnist for
Northwest Cuisine
is waiting in the nook. I gave her tea and cookies. You didn’t answer your phone.”
    â€œWhat? She’s here? On a Saturday?” I set the marjoram jar on the restocking cart, marched over to the nook, and held out a slightly grubby hand—no apron to wipe it on. “Pepper Reece. So nice of you to stop in.”
    A full-figured woman of about fifty, wearing a lime green twin set and a beaded necklace of black jet, gave me a once-over. A spiral-top notebook lay open on the butcher-block work surface next to her untouched tea, and she’d jotted half a page of notes in compact script.
    â€œNancy Adolfo. Apparently your staff forgot to mention our appointment. But I’m enjoying watching the place hum.”
    If she’d wanted to catch us at our crazy-busiest, she’d timed it right. “I promise, in two minutes, you’ll have my full attention.”
    Adolfo smiled, revealing tiny, shiny, sharp white teeth. I headed for the back room and the squeaky door that kept it more secure than any alarm.
    â€œSandra? What’s up?”
    My assistant manager swiveled the desk chair back and forth, arms crossed, chin lowered. I could almost see steam coming out of her ears.
    â€œShe lies. Whatever she told you through those perfect veneered teeth is a lie.”
    I unfolded the wooden chair we keep behind the door and sat, knee to knee. Reached out and stopped the chair. “Sit still and tell me what happened.”
    â€œA woman called earlier this week and demanded toknow what days you work. Refused to let me help her or say what she wanted, but she made me hinky.” Sandra huffed. “Now she shows up pretending she had an appointment and that I screwed up. She wants to catch you off guard and see how you respond.”
    Adolfo had joined the regional food scene a few months ago, reporting on Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, B.C., and the Northwest wine and orchard country. She’d quickly developed a reputation as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her beat was specialty food retailers—wine tasting rooms, butchers, ethnic grocers. Spice merchants. I understood not making an appointment—if you want to evaluate customer service, product freshness, and retail readiness, best not give your marks time to clean up their act.
    And she treated the producers and retailers like marks, taking aim and firing away. Her reviews ran the gamut from gnarly to nasty. There’d been talk of a boycott of sorts, modeled on one in another city where restaurants refused to give a harsh critic a dinner bill, forcing him to accept a freebie, an ethical no-no, or publicly demand a check, airing dirty linen in front of diners. How to make a similar standoff work in businesses that sell products and offer free samples, no one could figure out, so the effort had fizzled. I’d never worried about her showing up here—our spice tea may not be everyone’s cuppa, but our reputation is solid. Reviews matter, but word of mouth matters more.
    But a woman who would lie to me about my own employees bore watching.
    The phone on the desk lit up, and the ringer made the tiny office feel like the inside of a bell. Despite