Guilty as Cinnamon Read Online Free Page B

leaving you in the lurch. But she also didn’t need to give you time to talk her out of it.” Or to make her life miserable.
    â€œThis isn’t about Tamara,” he said, but I refused to listen.
    â€œNo,” I said. “It’s about you wanting to control other people. To run their lives for your convenience. Sorry, Alex. That’s not my game. I’m happy to be your spice purveyor. But I am not willing to be your spy.”
    His jaw stiffened, and his eyes hardened to marble. After a long, unblinking stare, he flung his left arm out in a “we’ll see about that” gesture. The back of his hand struck a tall treelike sculpture made of found metal objects that stood between the nook and tea cart.
The Guardian
, the sculptor had christened it. Dangling leaves made of silver spoons and forks struck gears and pipes, clattering like a busboy’s nightmare.
    A red scratch opened up on the back of his hand. Alex didn’t notice. Shooting me one last burning glare, he stalked out.
    â€œWhoa,” Sandra said. Behind her, Lynette surveyed the scene, eyes flicking from me to the door and back like a drunken mosquito. “You okay, boss?”
    How had he known?
    My eyes burned as hot as after the ghost pepper incident, and my hands curled tight. To my surprise, the cramp in my jaw let go. I had stood up for myself. I had refused to back down.
    Good girl
, my inner cheerleader said.
    But how had he known?
    Sandra continued to study me, concern welling in her dark eyes. Lynette unplugged the samovar and rolled the red enameled tea cart—one of the few pieces I’d taken whenI left Tag—toward the front counter to empty the day’s old tea into the big sink.
    I frowned. More than an hour left before closing. Besides, that was Zak’s job.
    Zak hadn’t returned yet from his mail run. Kristen was deep in conversation with an avid cook whose tastes run to Middle Eastern and North African cuisine.
    The mental light burst on. And I could tell by the determined way she refused to look at me that Lynette knew I knew.
    â€œNo need to finish that, Lynette.”
    She shoved the tea cart toward the wall, and one balky wheel swiveled the wrong direction. The tower of paper cups crashed to the floor. The samovar teetered, and instinctively, Sandra reached out to grab it.
    â€œNo,” I cried. “It’s hot.”
    Too late. The samovar tipped over and hot tea splashed out. Sandra recoiled in pain. Lynette’s mouth fell open.
    â€œHe deserved to know,” she said, her voice thin and rushed. “He deserved to know that Tamara was planning to quit and try to take his best people with her.”
    â€œLeave,” I said, dashing behind the counter to turn the cold water on full blast. I steered Sandra forward, not sure how badly burned she was, and plunged her hand into the sink. “And don’t come back.”
    *   *   *
    SANDRA was more stunned than hurt, the palm of her right hand a pale, puffy red. Dr. Ron Locke, Reed’s father, had been tutoring me in basic homeopathy, and I insisted she take a dose of cantharis and cover the burn with calendula gel.
    â€œNot your fault, boss,” she said, sitting in the nook soothing on the cooling gel. In a show of sympathy, Arf rested his bearded chin on her black-clad knee.
    â€œShe overheard my conversation with Tamara,” I said.“After the nutmeg grinder incident, she felt humiliated and decided to get back at me.” And when she realized I was onto her, she’d panicked, and Sandra had gotten in the way.
    They call that collateral damage.
    Reed mopped up the spilled tea, and he and Zak carried the samovar to the counter for closer inspection.
    â€œSee that?” Zak pointed to a long, fine crack in the ceramic interior.
    Collateral damage can add up.
    *   *   *
    MOST weeks, Tuesday night is movie night. But two of the four Flick