Free Guilty as Cinnamon by Leslie Budewitz Page A

said.
    â€œWe can gather sales data for commercial accounts. But individuals buy the stuff, too, and we have no way to track that.” I couldn’t imagine someone buying an ounce at a time and hoarding it, pepper shopping like meth makers hopping from pharmacy to pharmacy snapping up Sudafed.
    The crazy stuff people do.
    â€œRead the damn warrant.” Tracy was losing patience.
    I read it once more, with feeling. They wanted more than sales info. They wanted my stock.
Holy patchouli
. I read on. They wanted all records of my sales to Alex Howard’s company. My brows creased.
    â€œAm I under suspicion?” Tracy ignored me. Spencer gave me the same bland smile I’d given her. “I’m guessing not, or you’d be conducting a broader search. And you wouldn’t let Tag help search Alex’s place.”
    Tracy’s gaze sharpened to a point, and even Spencer looked a tad surprised.
    â€œWell, you can have everything we’ve got on hand. Zak, would you—”
    Spencer extended one hand, palm out in the universal stop sign, then pulled thin latex gloves out of her jacket pocket. “Mr. Davis, kindly direct us to the containers without touching them.”
    He glanced at me, and I nodded, then we watched the detectives bag and label my complete supply of
bhut capsicum
, aka
bhut C
. I wasn’t worried about the loss—not a big seller, and we could get replacement stock in a few days.
    But my insides squirmed at the thought that one of my customers might have used my product to kill another customer. That Alex might have used my peppers to kill Tamara.
    And that he’d only known she was planning to leave because my employee had ratted her out.
    I swallowed back vomit and poured myself tea. Gripping the cup stilled my shaking hands.
    He would have discovered the truth eventually. He’d have been furious no matter when the news became public.
    Listen to yourself. You think he did it.
I forced myself to take a sip, to stop my internal shivers. It didn’t work.
    How would you kill with peppers? Force someone to breathe pepper dust or ingest them? Stick their head in a plastic bag full of ground particles? I pictured Tamara lying on the floor of her future restaurant. Her hands, her expression, all said she’d fought her attacker, but other than scuffed footprints, I’d seen no physical evidence of a struggle.
    My meth lab comparison might not be too far off. If they’d found chile powder on Tamara’s body, could the crime lab compare it to various supplies and determine the source stock? Of course, my competitors probably bought from the same importer as I did.
    That smell. Had my nose fooled me? Not cinnamon, but ghost peppers?
    Spencer noticed my furrowed brow. “Something you want to tell us?”
    I shook my head slowly. “Reed and I will put the sales and purchase data together. Should take—how long?”
    My youngest employee’s hands trembled as he read the warrant. “Three hours?”
    Spencer handed me a list. “Are we missing any spice merchants that you can tell?”
    I read slowly. Were all my competitors getting the third degree, too? “No, but restaurants and retailers get their stock from all over the country. They don’t necessarily buy local.” Particularly true of ethnic restaurants. If you’re buying your mango pickle from an importer in Los Angeles, you might get your cardamom pods there, too.
    The door opened, and Mary Jean the Chocolatier charged in, clearly On A Mission. “Pepper, I just
love
your shop. Where did you find that old map? And that clock. Being on street level instead of hidden Down Under—” She stopped abruptly, as if realizing the couple standing next to me weren’t ordinary customers.
    Sandra to the rescue. I couldn’t hear what she said, but Mary Jean stared at me and the detectives with a mix of surprise and awe. Eyes bulging, she nodded rapidly