Free Guilty as Cinnamon by Leslie Budewitz

she’d be a temporary hire. This sounded like fun, the pay was decent, and wouldn’t it be cool to work in the Market? Maybe that was the best I could hope for. But what I wanted—needed—was a food lover fired up about foodie retail.
    Or who at least took it seriously.
    â€œI’ve got a few other people to talk with”—happily, the lie did not set my pants on fire—“before I make a decision. If you get another offer before you hear from me, give me a call.”
    She gushed her thanks before dashing out.
    Retail: fun and easy, except when it’s not.
    Leg warmers
.
    Sandra was thrilled to get the baseball tickets. It’s fun to treat your employees.
    Hold on to that thought
. I’m a big believer in reaching for the positive, no matter how minor, when it seems like the world is falling apart. Those tiny things keep us afloat.
    An hour later, Sandra, Reed, and I clustered around the terminal for the new gift registry. The tech had taken us through its paces, showing us how to register hopeful giftees,create wish lists, and enter purchases. All that was missing was the software that would link the registry to our inventory system, triggering a memo to me when we had more requests for pepper mills than we had in stock.
    To Reed, it was a shiny new electronic toy. To Sandra, a gadget she was both afraid to touch and eager to master, so she could help more customers. To me, dollars out and, my fervent wish, dollars in.
    â€œNow all we need are brides,” I said. Our ads in the spring bridal magazines would appear any day now. They’d cost a pretty penny—one more worry.
    The front door opened and I turned, half expecting a vision in white beaded satin, trailed by her dazed-but-happy mother.
    But no. Our consolation prize was the Dynamic Duo. Starsky and Hutch. Cagney and Lacey. Batman and Robin. Andy Griffith and Barney Fife.
    Turner and Hooch.
    I suppressed the urge to share my smart-assery—as I said, in my experience, homicide detectives aren’t big on humor. Instead, I pasted on my bland-but-pleasant HR smile, anticipating more questions about my grim discovery at the building site.
    You know what they say about assumptions.
    So I nearly lost my socks—and my lunch—when Tracy slid a folded paper out of his inside jacket pocket.
    â€œWe have a warrant,” he said. “For your sales records.”
    Whatever I might have expected, it wasn’t that.
    â€œNot all of them,” Spencer said. I followed her wary gaze as she assessed the crowd, or lack thereof. “Quiet in here.”
    â€œMidafternoon on a wet Thursday barely into April. What records? And do I get to ask why?”
    Tracy handed me the warrant.
    â€œ
Bhut capsicum?
You’re joking, right? Who cares who bought ghost peppers? When you walked in, I expected morequestions about—the body. Then I decided you wanted evidence related to Alex Howard, since you’ve arrested him.” They exchanged looks, wondering how I knew, and I sent Tag a mental apology for squealing. “But you think—you think ghost chiles killed her?”
    Their silent, impassive faces spoke volumes.
    â€œI suppose it’s possible, physiologically. But you’d need a ton of the stuff.” The papers shook in my hand as I scanned the list: my purchases and sales, and the dates and amounts of all transactions. “It would take more than I’ve sold at any one time. Diners crave heat these days, but chefs don’t keep a lot on hand. Peppers go off quickly.”
    No double entendre intended.
    â€œWhat I mean is, we sell it dried, not fresh, right? With a dried spice, the balance of oils is critical. It can’t be measured. The lighter volatile notes deteriorate faster than the darker or lower notes, and the flavors turn sharp and bitter. You’d think that wouldn’t matter, with all the heat, but it does.”
    â€œI didn’t know that,” Spencer