Free [SS01] Assault and Pepper by Leslie Budewitz Page B

expressions, last-minute changes in a long-established work schedule, and clothes I didn’t think he’d worn coming back from the cleaners.
    In less than a month, I’d closed on the loft. A year later, my job evaporated when the partnership voted to dissolve. The firm had been hit with hundreds of thousands of dollars in sanctions after two senior partners failed to disclose information in a medical malpractice case. In the fallout, the accountants discovered the IT director had embezzled two and a half million. And an entire unit, including eighteen of fifty-six partners, decamped for another firm.
    I’d have voted a lack of confidence in management, too, but nobody asked me.
    And then came the chance to buy the Spice Shop. Took me twenty minutes to decide.
    A good friend admits when you’ve pegged her.
    “You’re right. How can choosing labels and logos be so hard?” Fabiola’s designs were variations of a scheme she’d been suggesting since our first project together, last winter. We’d been introduced by one of the displaced younger lawyers who snared Fabiola’s business after setting up her own firm representing “creatives.” Hate the term; love the women.
    And in truth, I loved her designs. But cute as they were, the change would cost that proverbial pretty penny. I had to be sure.
    Kristen read my mind. “You keep saying you’re doing better than you expected for the first year, money-wise. And it takes money to make money.” She stood, shaking her blond hair out of her eyes, and put her hands on my upper arms. “This place is worth the investment, Pepper. You’re worth the investment. You’ve come alive since you bought it.”
    I blinked back tears and nodded. “I’ll call Fabiola.”
    “And where did you get those shoes?” she called after me.
    •   •   •
    BY six ten, I was alone in the shop.
    The Second Watch patrol—Tag and Olerud’s afternoon-into-evening counterparts—had taken down the yellow tape. I cleaned up the doorway and fluffed the wilting memorial flowers for late passersby to enjoy. In the morning, I’d get a fresh bouquet or two. It would take some good Seattle rain to wash the last bits of black dusting powder away, though the stuff couldn’t be good for the water supply.
    Front door shiny and ready to greet the hordes on the morrow, I went back inside, leaned against the counter, and surveyed my domain. Kristen was spot-on: We were headed in the right direction, despite the cost of refurbishing the space and expanding the inventory. This was no longer Jane’s Spice Shop. It was Pepper’s.
    Time for me to make that statement to the world.
    I scooped up a ginger candy wrapper that had escaped Reed’s broom and dropped it in the trash. As I did, my watchband caught on the rim of the can and popped off my wrist.
    “Dang.” I could barely see the shiny bubblegum pink band. The closer my fingers got, the deeper it slipped into the recesses of the trash bag. I plunged my hand in further.
    No luck.
    I grabbed another bag, snapped it open, and started transferring trash. Halfway down, my nose wrinkled. Flowers? What were they doing in here? My staff knew better.
    Throwing decent flowers in the trash is universal bad karma. It’s seriously bad karma in Seattle, where recycling is religion. Even our sample cups have to be recyclable or compostable. Putting “green waste” in the wrong container violates more rules than you could shake a cinnamon stick at.
    Finally, I managed to extract my watch. It had settled into the folds of newspaper surrounding a bouquet of sunflowers nearly identical to the ones Alex had brought me. The ribbon said they’d come from Yvonne’s stall.
    After spending the day buried, they weren’t exactly fresh as daisies, but freedom and clean water would perk them up. I swapped them for Alex’s bouquet and wrapped my flowers in the discarded paper for the journey home.
    I didn’t know how they’d gotten there, but no city trash