[SS01] Assault and Pepper Read Online Free PDF

Apparently some people exercise in their yoga pants. The cold steel steps zing my bare feet in the morning, but it’s the only place in the loft that lets me peek over the Viaduct to the Sound. If I think tall. This stretch of the Viaduct is scheduled to come down soon, with all that traffic moving to a tunnel. They say it’s for earthquake safety, but the changes would revamp the waterfront and give us downtown dwellers killer views.
    Plus higher taxes and, no doubt, pressure from developers. My next-door neighbor, a city council member, has his finger on that pulse and keeps us all informed. I settled into a canvas director’s chair, hand-painted by a Market artisan, to meditate on caffeine and morning mist.
    The weather was clearly changing. Well, “clearly” wasn’t the right word. Not today. Vapor from the Seattle Steam plant collided with cool air rolling in off the Sound to create a bewitching white cloud.
    A fog horn blared and an outbound ferry glided into view. I grabbed the binoculars, but the air was too dense for me to make out the name.
    As a child, I’d lie in bed and strain my ears to hear the fog horns, usually falling asleep first. One of my earliest memories is standing at a ferry rail clutching my grandfather’s hand on one of his visits from St. Louis. I might have been destined for my business, but I was not, as most people assume, named for it. Grandpa nicknamed me after the legendary Cardinals third baseman Pepper Martin, known as a ball of fire.
    I like to think I’ve mellowed since then.
    I sipped my coffee, an Ethiopian Longberry Harrar, and ran through what we needed to accomplish that day at the shop. First, repeat the taste tests and settle on our descriptive subtitles so we could get the info to our brilliant graphic designer. Then choose the recipes. Plus the usual daily business of working with our walk-in traffic and commercial accounts.
    Would yesterday’s clash between Sam and Doc be a one-time thing? I hoped so.
    But why had Doc been pestering Tory? Slim chance that I could get her to spill any details, even with careful questioning. She’d shift her shoulders slightly, set her chin, and tell me—without a word—that she could take her of herself.
    I watched another huge green-and-white ferry chug into view—coming from Bainbridge Island, judging from the angle. They truly are iconic.
    Enough in-home sightseeing. Time to get spicy.
    •   •   •
    I crossed Western, bypassed the elevator entrance, and trudged up the Market Hillclimb—my version of a cardio workout—to the Main Arcade. Emerged near City Fish—home of the famous flying fish—and exchanged greetings with the fishmongers. (And yes, that’s what they call themselves.) Passed Rachel the brass pig, Market mascot and piggy bank for the Foundation, which funds housing and social services. Waved hello to the couple who run the Oriental Mart in the Corner Market. Bought a strawberry-banana smoothie at the Creamery and a blueberry bran muffin at Three Girls Bakery, one of the oldest Market tenants. Most retail shops were still closed, although I spotted a few merchants bustling around inside.
    A half-dozen delivery trucks idled on Pike Place, men with hand trucks unloading cartons and crates. The aromas of fish, fruit, and fresh bread mingled with the sharp but mouthwatering smell of cheese making.
    Have I mentioned I love this place?
    I crossed Pine, my attention on the mess inside my tote as I dug for my keys. My feet slowed as I neared our door, on autopilot. “Eureka!” My fingers closed around the keys and I reached for the lock.
    And froze. A truck clattered by on the cobbles. Up on First, commuter buses offloaded passengers, and out on the Sound, ferries blew their whistles.
    While I stared at the man known as Doc, crumpled in my doorway, a paper cup stamped with our logo beside his open hand.

Four

    Seattle’s Public Market houses a year-round farmers’ market, bakeries, meat and fish markets,