Guilty as Cinnamon Read Online Free PDF

them—Sandra’s blister aside.
    And if Alex Howard chose to shop elsewhere, fine.
    But the loss of the pseudo-samovar hurt. Electric versions are scarce, and I crossed my fingers that we could find another. For the short term, I’d borrowed vacuum pots from Ripe, Laurel’s deli and catering company, as we had last fall when the samovar spent a few nights in a police evidence locker.
    â€œUpdate me on the wedding registry,” I said, returning to the morning’s agenda.
    â€œThe computer terminal should be set up this week,” Sandra replied. We’d created space along the back wall, using a repurposed entertainment center Kristen scored at a block sale on Capitol Hill. She and her family live in the house we grew up in, though it bears little resemblance to the hippie commune slash peace-and-justice center it had been in the ’70s. It’s a blast to work with women who share my love of antique and vintage, despite our wildly different tastes. Mine runs to diner style, while Sandra favors midcentury modern—the Space Age—and Kristen the Gilded Age.
    We brainstormed our contribution to the Market’s spring festival. After Tory left, I’d roped Laurel in to collaborate with Sandra and me on the spring spice blends, which we’d just shipped to our Spice of the Month Club members. A small display hugged one end of the front counter. We had ideas for future blends, and our new gift packs were selling well.
    If only we weren’t shorthanded. But being free of Lynette lightened the mental load so much that I almost didn’t mind.
    I clapped my hands playfully to signal the end of the meeting. “So, let’s have a spicy day!”
    â€œPepper,” Zak said when we’d all vacated the nook. “Can we talk?”
    â€œSure. I’m meeting a rep from the Historic Commission in”—I glanced at my shiny pink Kate Spade watch, the last splurge before I’d lost my law firm job—“five minutes. After that?”
    His big bald head bobbed. So serious. Must want a raise, or time off for a band tour.
    All manageable, if we were fully staffed. My young employees bring so much spirit to the job, but the trade-off is that their passions often lie elsewhere.
    Oh, for someone who loves food and retail and wants to make spice a career. A younger version of Sandra. I closed my eyes and aimed a tiny prayer at heaven.
    â€œThe design, colors, and materials suit the age and style of the structure,” the Commission rep said ten minutes later as we stood on the cobbles of Pike Place facing my building. “It’s tasteful.”
    I smiled. The new sign—part of my effort to rebrand the shop and give it my own touch—echoed the logo the fabulous Fabiola had created last fall when I’d despaired of finding anything suitable. After a late-night brainstorm, I’d hauled my collection of ’50s glass salt and pepper shakers to her Pioneer Square studio for a dash of inspiration. The tipping saltshaker logo that resulted now adorns our recipe cards, tea boxes, and aprons.
    Never mind that salt is actually a mineral, not a spice.
    We’d sold out of coffee and tea mugs featuring the design and were waiting for a new shipment of mugs and aprons. (I got the idea to add aprons to our stock when a customer asked where she could find one. I took mine off and sold it to her.)
    â€œWe appreciate that you’re willing to shrink it a bit, to avoid safety concerns,” he continued.
    The salmon pink stucco building sports a flat Art Decoawning in forest green. Very distinctive. Very Seattle. Regulations say signs must be mounted below the awning, but high enough that NBA players and other giants can stroll past worry-free.
    â€œBut with no historical evidence showing an exterior lighted sign or a shaped sign, we have to reject your application. Regretfully.”
    I hate the word “no.”
    â€œYou said yourself,