Killing Thyme (12 page)

But the way Terry Stinson had looked at her, and his reaction to Roger's name, made me think it might have been more complicated than that.

My clerk informant had said Detective Washington had a rare private office where he spent his days poring over
thick files and consoling distressed relatives. That's part of any detective's job, but for a cold case detective, the days often become years.

Not for the first time today, I felt like Sam Spade or Lew Archer—make that Samantha or Louise—my all-black retail outfit adding a touch of noir. All I lacked was the 1940s fedora.

“Oh pooh, Pepper. Go home.”

“What an excellent idea.” Detective Tracy appeared at my elbow, and I jumped, unaware that I'd spoken out loud.

I glanced at the number on the nearest office door, then at the card in my hand. He must have just left Washington's office.

He put his hand on my elbow, an odd, old-fashioned gesture that might have been chivalrous if we were Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. I wrenched away and shot him a spiky glare.

But it's not a good idea to antagonize a detective—or to call attention to yourself in police HQ.
Down, Pepper.
I was careful not to speak out loud this time.

The occurrence of another murder had dissolved our temporary truce.

Or maybe I was a teensy bit worried about what I might uncover. Nothing in the
Idiot's Guide
advised on how to dig up the past without tearing up your own roots.

But maybe I should have paid more attention to the section on how to make friends and influence police detectives.

He punched the elevator button. “After your marriage to an officer and your—shall we say, unfortunate experiences, you should understand murder isn't a game. Don't play detective, Pepper.”

The elevator door opened, and I stepped in.
No. That's your job
.

Salt is born of the purest of parents: the sun and the sea.

—Pythagoras

Nothing gets me going like telling me not to do something.

I stomped down Fourth Avenue, swearing at Detective Tracy in my mind. How dare he send me running off like a dog with her tail between her legs.

Why he was so determined to keep me from talking with Detective Washington, I didn't know, but it didn't matter. More than one way to skin a cat.

I shuddered. Tortured animal metaphors may be commonplace, but that they were creeping into my own thoughts was a serious sign of stress overload.

My stomach rumbled as I neared Ripe, at the base of the black tower dubbed “the box the Space Needle came in,” a nod to its origins as a bank. Brian Strasburg's firm had taken over part of our old offices on the fortieth floor.

But no way was I going to confront a lawyer on an empty stomach.

A few minutes later, Laurel set a toasted tomato, basil,
and goat cheese sandwich on a two-top in the corner and sat across from me. Between bites, I filled her in.

“So Bonnie knew who you were all along.” She took a swig of her lemon Pellegrino.

“And I didn't have a clue,” I said through a mouthful of fabulous flavor. So much for being a natural investigator.

That had been Laurel's phrase last fall, when she urged me to probe the death of a stranger at my shop's front door. And experience in HR gives some insight into human behavior, and hones both perception and problem-solving skills.

But personnel problems don't involve unearthing old crimes and sifting through clues that might tie them to the present.

I swallowed and reached for my own fizzy, fruity water. “I'm baffled—why keep her eye on me? And what is—
was
—the tension between her and my mother? I'm almost certain it goes back to those days in Grace House, if not before.”

“So focus on that.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms folded. “Kristen's mom is dead. My mother won't talk. Our dads are off battling wind and wave, not that mine would tell me what she won't. Terry Stinson's moved on. The others from that era—oh, Kristen's working on a list of who came to the party.”

“Call them. See what they make of their old friend all these years later.”

“Bonnie seemed eager to come, but then she didn't circulate much.”

“She looked scared to me. She sat on the stone wall by herself most of the evening.”

“Speaking of scared, I wanted to talk to Detective Washington about the Strasburg case, but Tracy literally steered me away.”

Laurel's eyes took on a sheen of grief. She spoke, her tone uncharacteristically flat. “Detective Washington has brought justice and comfort to a lot of families.”

But not hers.

I finished my fizzy water and laid my napkin on the table. “Now that my stomach's happier, I'm thinking more clearly. Better to talk to Callie first, find out about Brian Strasburg's family before I confront him.” A law librarian and researcher in Strasburg's firm, Callie Carter had given me invaluable help, both when we worked together and more recently.

“Good plan,” Laurel said, her thoughts obviously elsewhere.

Even quicker of wit and tongue than your average lawyer, Strasburg's life and personality had been shaped, I was beginning to understand, by loss and anger.

We'd had a marginally decent relationship—improved by the passage of time—but if I was going to dig up his past, I didn't want to get buried in the rubble.

Because, as I could see on Laurel's face, cases might grow cold, but the pain never cools.

*   *   *

This elevator was swift and quiet. I rode up alone, texting Ben.
Dig up any dirt on Roger Russell?

The door opened on the fortieth floor, and I stepped out, staring at the little screen. He texted back almost instantly.
Stuck in Olympia. Don't know when I'll be free.

Rats.
I dropped my phone in my bag and reached for the law office's door. Before I could grab the handle, the door opened and out strode Brian Strasburg, a sleek black leather briefcase in one hand.

“Pepper! Haven't seen you since spring.” He grabbed my hand and moved in for an air hug. “What brings you to the old haunt?”

“Oh, uh—I had an errand down the street, so I popped in to see Callie. You know how she loves to bake. We got a new cookbook I thought she'd like.”

“Oh, too bad. We just wrapped up a big trial over in
Spokane. I got back Saturday. Her kid's been at her mother's in Chelan, so she's spending a few days there. If you want to leave it . . .” He gestured with his thumb, back to the office.

“Thanks. I'll wait till she's back—more fun to give it to her myself.”

Ten seconds later, we were in the elevator, speeding down.

You can know someone for ages, then learn something new and see them in a whole different light. But he was still the man I'd known.

And there was no easy way to say, “Hey, after all this time, I finally found out what happened to your family. Is that why you've got the personality of a yo-yo on steroids?”

Saved when we stopped on the seventh floor. We stepped back automatically as the doors opened and a young woman entered.

“How'd the trial go?” I asked Strasburg.

“Got everything we asked for. Commercial property dispute. Callie was invaluable—I can't tell you how many thousands of hours we spent researching. Hey, you ever want a real job again, you call me. We'd make room for you.”

The door opened. “Thanks. I'm exactly where I need to be.”

“That's good. Not everyone can say that.”

He strode off, leaving me standing on the broad steps of the black box.

I flashed on an image of another famous box, snakes and secrets spilling out. The gods had told Pandora to keep it shut. Had Bonnie opened it, or was the guilty party my mother? Or me?

The gods always get their revenge.

*   *   *

Deep in my bag, my phone buzzed. Still on the move, I fished it out and read Kristen's text.
MJ waiting 4U. Save us!

The light changed, and I crossed Madison.

“Glad to see your ears didn't fall off,” I whispered to Kristen a few minutes later in the shop. Behind the counter, Matt and Reed refilled tea canisters, trapped by Mary Jean.

“Does the woman never shut up?” She rolled her eyes.

“Not that I've noticed. You get a chance to make that guest list for the detectives?”

She drew a folded piece of paper out of her apron pocket. “I think I got everyone who came. You can double check.”

“Thanks. Hey, has Sandra talked to you about—”

“Pepper! Have you been out investigating? My class was fabulous. The students were so attentive. I told the director, I said, if you ever need a substitute again, call me no matter how short the notice.”

I tucked the list into my bag and gave Kristen an “I've got this” look. Mary Jean the Chatty Chocolatier had grown on me, though I did wonder how she managed to stay alive, given her talent for talking without taking a breath. Me, I need oxygen. And chocolate, so I put up with her.

“I've got your cocoa.” She slid into the booth, opened three tins, and began to detail the origins, processing, pricing, and other merits of each variety. I sat across from her and reached for the tasting tray we use when creating blends—a canister of clean stainless steel tasting spoons and another for the used spoons, along with small bowls, notepads, and pens. While she gabbed, I tasted. (Mary Jean doesn't require responses to her commentary, making it possible to keep working without annoying her.)

“This one's a little darker, richer,” I said. “The middle one has a slight bitterness that will pair well with paprika and a little cayenne, a dash of thyme.” I'd been stockpiling ideas for a spicy cocoa rub. Maybe Ben and I could sample two or three tonight with steak, to make up for my SIL's vegan barbecue.

Mary Jean stacked six smaller tins on the tabletop. “I
brought extra samples, for Sandra and Cayenne. You've got hibiscus blossoms for me, right?”

Parsley poop
. I'd plumb forgotten.

Think fast, Pepper
. “Mary Jean, I am so sorry. We'll get them on the next order.” When that would be, I didn't know. And then, a moment of retail genius struck. “Hey, you know Josh, who used to run the deli at the Italian grocery? He's got his own place now. He does a lot of catering, including weddings. And he just lost his chocolatier.”

She pinched the skin below her collarbone. “Everybody loves chocolate, but you can't make a living one truffle at a time. I called dozens of wedding planners to offer party favors—gift bags for guests, in custom combinations or flavors, but they already had their suppliers. It's mid-June. Wedding season's half over.”

“Did they try your chocolates? And September's getting to be almost as popular for weddings as June. I'll talk to Josh. Meanwhile, we'll test steak rubs, and I'll get those hibiscus blossoms.” Egad. I'd turned almost as chatty as Mary Jean. A side effect of theobromine, or of my guilt in forgetting her order?

She rummaged in her bag, a cloth tote that dwarfed mine, and handed me a shiny brown box tied with her signature raspberry pink ribbon. “Samples. I made them as a gift for a new hotel concierge, but you take them for Josh.”

I sent a silent prayer that the stars aligned.

Whew
. I dashed to the office and called my dried flower source. I could have six ounces this week, at a shipping cost triple the not-inconsiderable price of the blossoms, or I could get two pounds, free shipping, for less than the combined total of the smaller order. I bit the bullet, then beckoned Cayenne. Despite lacking Sandra's experience, she'd proven herself an adept taste tester and recipe designer.

“Think beyond tea,” I said after explaining how much
hibiscus I'd had to order. The wheels started turning as she hustled off to greet a customer.

Alas, no time to squeeze in any research. My to-do list for the shop was much too long, and that's the list that pays the bills.

Sandra and I were deep into a project that kept one of us in the office, on the phone, for at least an hour every day. Today was my turn, and if I blew it off, she'd blow her top. And I wasn't about to add to her stress level or mine by doing that. I sipped a tall glass of our iced tea and settled into the chair with our list of potential commercial customers. Today's targets had bought from us in the past. Customers leave for a variety of reasons. Spice follows the chef, and when a new man or woman takes over a kitchen, they often bring their own suppliers. But with a personal nudge, the door may open.

So far, we were batting .500. Half the folks we'd called had agreed to try a few samples. We had a good on-base percentage—quite a few had ordered a product or two. None had made us their main source, but I didn't honestly expect any restaurant or producer to ditch their suppliers and switch all their loyalty to us—grand slams are as rare in business as in baseball.

“Put me in, coach—I'm ready to play,” as the old John Fogerty song says.

We were banking on the blends. I'd turned Sandra loose, and our offerings had become far more adventuresome. The Spice Shop founder, Jane Rasmussen, had been a visionary, one of the urban pioneers who revitalized the Market in the 1970s. But her idea of spice mixes ended with lemon pepper and an Italian blend.

The times, they do change.

For the next hour, I pitched our wares, our sources, our reliability, and our prices. Promised samples, and made appointments for private tastings.

My last call was to the owner of a specialty canning
company who'd reached out to us. His longtime salt supplier had changed hands, and the quality no longer measured up. Could I do better?
You bet.

“I should be able to get those samples shipped off today, tomorrow at the latest.”

“That's great,” he said. “My rival got Adolfo'd, and I don't want to suffer the same fate.”

“Adolfo'd?” New word, but I feared I knew its meaning.

“Yeah, Nancy Adolfo. New reviewer for
Northwest Cuisine
. She reviewed the pickle company down in Tumwater. They make good stuff. Been around for ages. She said their kosher dills were soft and the spicing lacked imagination.”

If you're craving a pickle, you're probably not seeking imaginative spicing. You want crunch and familiar flavor. “They buy caraway and mustard seed from me.”

“She even griped because she couldn't park in front of their shop—too many customers. We should all have such problems. Stay clear—she's vicious.”

The image of Adolfo's sharp little teeth popped into my head.
All the better to eat you with, my dear
.

We hung up, and when I stood, I literally shook off the dread. Customers pick up on negativity.