Guilty as Cinnamon Read Online Free

Dustin Hoffman. I’ve seen
All the President’s Men
at least a dozen times.” She likes to say she named my brother for Carl Bernstein, while my dad insists he’s named for Carl Yastrzemski, the Red Sox left-fielder, but in truth, Carl is a variation of an old family name.
    â€œMaybe you can show me around the Market. Give a newcomer the insider’s view.”
    I peered outside. The rain had held off. Sandra and Kristen eyed us like a pair of fifth graders plotting a trick on their teacher. He was young, but cute. And they were convinced I needed a new man in my life. Despite a few fun dates over the winter, nothing had ripened into a relationship. Turns out I kinda like being single—most of the time. Okay, some of the time.
    â€œSure,” I said, grabbing my shopping bag and a jacket for insurance. We made the tour into a walking lunch, starting with pizza at DeLaurenti’s. At Rachel the Pig, the Market mascot that stands guard beneath the iconic sign and clock, we stopped to ogle the fishmongers flinging whole salmon through the air, and I bought a filet for dinner. We ambled up the Main Arcade, past the daystallers who haul in their produce, art, and crafts season after season.
    We stopped to chat with Angie Martinez and taste raspberry and strawberry jam from her family’s Central Washington orchard. Tried honey from the beekeeper in the adjacent stall and checked out Herb the Herb Man’s crops. Tulips, daffs, lilacs, and other spring bloomers filled the flower sellers’ buckets. Too soon for aconite, thank goodness. Not their fault that on sleepless nights, bundles of their purple blossoms crowd my dreams.
    Early produce filled the tables, and I picked out gleaming white scallions, peppery arugula, and fresh spinach. Ponderedradishes: classic red balls or a slender white-tipped French variety that I’d discovered last year? Pointed at a bundle of orange, red, and purple carrots. Ben made a face at the purple roots, until the farmer scrubbed one clean and handed it over for a taste test.
    â€œIt’s sweet.” His eyebrows dipped in surprise. “Orange inside.”
    â€œPurple Haze. Very popular in Seattle, birthplace of Jimi Hendrix.” I paid the farmer and tucked the veggies in my shopping bag.
    As we reached the end of the Arcade, I glanced west to Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. A hint of clearing.
Nice
. The skies, the walk, the company—all nice.
    We crossed the cobbles of Pike Place, the Market’s main thoroughfare, on our way back to the Spice Shop. A familiar whizzing sound snagged my hearing. My jaw tightened. Beside me, Ben stiffened reflexively, as people often do at the sight of a uniformed police officer. Even one on a bike.
    â€œHello, Tag,” I said flatly. “Is there a problem?”
    â€œYou tell me.” He stretched one long leg, in sleek black spandex, to the cobbles, the other foot on the pedal. “Seattle’s finest, here to serve.”
    â€œBen Bradley, reporter, meet Tag Buhner, beat cop. My ex-husband.” I sent Tag an unspoken message to play nice. We’d worked our way back to being friendly, even going out together a few times to catch up, but he had a history of not being so friendly to men who showed any kind of interest in me.
    Ben extended a hand. Tag, Ray-Bans gleaming, ignored it, flexing his fingers in their black gloves.
    â€œThanks for the interview and the tour, Pepper. I’ll call you about the feature,” Ben said to me. Then, with a slight nod, “Officer.”
    â€œThe future?” Tag drawled as Ben walked away.
    â€œ
Feature
, as in newspaper.” I pushed past him into my shop, the brass door bells chiming like a call to prayer.
    Sandra and Kristen stood shoulder to shoulder, conspiratorial looks on their contrasting faces—one round and olive skinned under a dark pixie cut, the other narrow, her fine bones framed by straight blond hair.
    â€œI