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

the chaos out front, I left it for the staff.
    I took a deep breath and placed my hands on Sandra’s knees. “I know you’re feeling off-center, and I don’t blame you for wanting to smash in her teeth. But I need you at your best. Stick to the customers, and leave her to me.”
    She forced out another irritated breath, her dark eyes flashing. We’d talk later about what was really bothering her.
    â€œAll right then,” I said. “Let’s get spicy.” She attempted to smile, mostly failing. I grabbed an apron, put on my pleasant HR expression, and charged out to brave the invader.
    â€œNeed a refill? Black assam and spices, our custom blend.” I poured myself a refreshing cup. Funny how caffeine can hype you up or soothe you down, in the right dose.
    The critic raised her head, her poofy red hair encased in hair spray, but said nothing. She had positioned herself in the booth so she had a full view of the shop—usually my spot. I slid in across from her.
    â€œCharming shop,” she said. I’d heard that sniffiness before. If you prefer your charm superficial and super-sanitized, then don’t come to an urban outdoor market that’s been in continuous operation for well over a century. I ignored the patronizing tone.
    â€œA detail or two from you, if you don’t mind, then I’ll let you get back to business.” She oozed smarmy sweetness, and I reminded myself to keep my cool. “Just spell my name right” might have worked for P. T. Barnum, but us lesser mortals prefer our publicity to include a few kind words.
    For the next ten minutes, she quizzed me about the shop’s history and how I acquired it. “And you had no experience in retail or the culinary arts? None at all?”
    Her incredulity gave me a chance to practice patience. “You can learn a lot by hard work and observation. Plus a top-notch staff. My customers and employees have taught me the business, and I keep up by reading, cooking, and eating.”
    Sandra walked by, carefully ignoring us. From behind the front counter, Cayenne shot me a wide-eyed look, biting her lower lip.
    Finally, Adolfo closed her notebook and slipped her peninto her purse. One of those sleek Waterman pens I’d learned to recognize from a particularly status-conscious lawyer at the old firm, and a Dooney and Bourke leather handbag. Wide-legged white palazzo pants, back in style. I’d seen a similar pair in the window at Nordstrom. If this spice gig didn’t work out, maybe I could take up reviewing.
    â€œMay I offer you a bag of our spice tea? On the house,” I said as she slid awkwardly out of the booth.
    â€œWhat I would take”—she paused to get her footing—“is a sampling of your summer blends.”
    For summer, we featured a fiery grilling rub, a classic Italian blend, and our Herbes de Provence, a perennial favorite. I’d found a new source of culinary lavender to give the mixture the faintest hint of romance. I tucked the three tins in a small bag and handed it to her. “So glad you came by.”
    Her gaze traveled slowly from my wiry, weird hair to my black T-shirt, pants, and apron, and my black shoes muddied by the morning’s adventure. “I’ll admit, you’ve redeemed yourself nicely.”
    With that, she swished out, leaving other customers staring at her ample backside. Leaving me not knowing whether we’d garner a favorable review or a skewering worthy of our barbecue blend.
    â€œWhat country does she think she’s queen of?” Sandra said.
    Cayenne bustled over. “Kristen called twice. She said it’s urgent.”
    Oh, cardamom
. The news had gotten to her before I had.
    Matt was chatting with a customer keen on Middle Eastern food. I beckoned to the others, who gathered around me. “Sad news. Bonnie Clay was killed last night, in her studio on Beacon Hill.”
    â€œOh, good Lord.” Sandra