Guilty as Cinnamon by Leslie Budewitz Page A

rehydrated—or re-oiledrated—but nothing happened when we chopped them.”
    He held one finger in the air, putting me on pause, while the other raced down the page. Then he snapped the book shut. “My best guess is the autopsy revealed an inflammatory response in the lungs, sending the ME searching for other evidence that a hostile substance had entered the lungs. They may have found residue in her throat and lungs. Or particles trapped in the nose hairs—their function is to filter the air we breathe. Then they examined those particles by microscope and determined they were capsicum of some sort.”
    â€œHow could they tell it’s the ghost pepper?”
    â€œI doubt they’d have a plant DNA analysis completed already, so it may be an educated guess. They’d ask what kind of capsicum would trigger an immediate immune response, severe enough to kill. Fluid fills up the lungs. It’s essentially asphyxiation.”
    Uggh
. Maybe I wouldn’t replenish my stock after all.
    And I certainly wasn’t going to eat hot Thai curry anytime soon.
    At the sound of my footsteps entering the shop, Arf barked once—a rare sound, the canine equivalent of “Where have you been? I missed you.” I crouched behind the counter, giving him a good rub and an air-kiss. The employees take charge of him in my absence, and he’s as fond of them as they are of him, but he clearly considers me his best bud. Besides, dogs have their needy moments, too.
    â€œI could never work here.” A chubby black woman with flawless skin pointed to the HIRING sign. “Just walking in makes me hungry.”
    â€œOccupational hazard,” I admitted. One more reason to run around chasing a killer—exercise.
    â€œBut my sister would love it. And she’s looking.”
    I handed her my card.
    Kristen emerged from the back room, her nose turned up in distaste. “I’ve called everywhere. No replacement samovar.”
    â€œSo we buy a big stainless coffee urn and fake it.”
    She fixed me a determined glare. “I am not giving up.”
    I sent Reed off to make a copy of the sales records we’d compiled, and retreated to the office to review the payroll and sign checks. Slipped Lynette’s into an envelope. Hesitated, then added a note card sporting the shop’s saltshaker logo.
Thank you for your work. Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors
. Better a boring cliché than a glowing fib—you never know what a disgruntled ex-employee will tell the unemployment office.
    Losing Zak, on the other hand, set off a good pout. No one else on staff is tall enough to dust the chandeliers, even with the rolling ladder.
    Time for a task I’d put off long enough. Over a day-old croissant and a bruised banana lunch—easy on the tummy,a little unsettled after Ron’s hypothesis of death by
bhut C
—I studied the shop’s tax return. Decent numbers. No room for emergencies—or for a staffing screwup. Your average employee doesn’t have a clue about the costs of hiring. Hard costs like advertising, fees to headhunters and job services, expenses for uniforms and equipment. But the biggie is the cost of time and stress. All those hours recruiting, interviewing, and training. The time the rest of your staff spends picking up the slack and helping the newbie get up to speed.
    And in my shop, wasted product when she measures out blue poppy seed instead of white or fenugreek when the customer wanted fennel. Staff take mistakes home, but it’s money lost.
    I still steam at the memory of the legal secretary who accepted the law firm opening I’d offered her only to quit a week later when the local FBI office made her the offer she’d been waiting for. When the personnel specialist called for a reference a week after she’d left me in the lurch, I answered the standard question “Would you rehire?” honestly.
    Or as honestly as I