Killing Thyme (13 page)

I put on a friendly face and headed out to the shop floor to pack up the salt samples. I gathered my jars and stepped behind the front counter. Set them down and bent to scratch Arf's ears. When I straightened, Kristen was standing in front of the cash register, gazing into outer space.

“Earth to Kristen.”

She jerked her head toward mine, one hand flying to the silver-flecked scarf around her neck. “Pepper, you startled me. I was thinking about the bracelet. I don't know what's worse—that someone may have broken into my house, or that someone I know is a thief.”

I stared at her, thoughts sparking, a jar of North Sea flake
salt in my hand. A customer approached. Kristen weighed out his basil, thyme, and red pepper flakes and suggested he try our “perfect for pasta” Italian blend, in the refillable jar. Few customers—especially the male variety—refuse her. She added the blend to his order, and he left, whistling.

I'd been wondering how the killer got into Bonnie's studio, and why a woman would leave her door unlocked. More likely, I realized now, the killer had left it open.

“Neighborhood thugs. That's who Mr. Adams blames for Bonnie's murder,” I said. “He lives across the street.”

“You said her place didn't look ransacked. Burglars and thugs would have made a mess, searching for cash and jewelry.”

Our eyes locked. “No mess at your house.”

And that meant the murder and the theft had something in common, besides the links between Kristen, Bonnie, and me. Both the killer and the thief had, in all likelihood, known us. No common criminal, despite Mr. Adams's theories, but someone who had walked into Kristen's house—her home, her warm, gracious, welcoming home—and walked out carrying thousands of dollars' worth of jewels. And who had then sauntered into Bonnie's studio—and taken her life.

Someone connected to the deaths of Roger Russell and Walter Strasburg? That, I wasn't sure about. But if that's the direction Detective Tracy thought the evidence pointed, then he would point Detective Washington at my mother.

And that was terrifying.

“So who had a key to her studio?” Kristen asked.

I weighed out salt and dumped it into a bag. “Hannah, who sublet her the place, but wanted it back. The landlord, maintenance people, property managers. Though why they would kill her, I can't imagine.”

Kristen picked up the jars of salt, cradling them like twins. “Then find Hannah.”

Greeks and Romans burned thyme bunches to purify their homes and temples and to build courage in those who inhaled its smoke.

—Michelle Schoffro Cook, “All About Thyme,”
Mother Earth Living

I hoped Josh Gibson was a workaholic, like most entrepreneurs—though one who stayed in his shop more often than I'd been staying in mine.

The sight of cars idling in every parking spot told me a dance class was just letting out. As I glanced in my rearview mirror, a dozen girls and a couple of boys surged up the hillside on the south end of the building. By the time I'd circled around, a space had opened in front of the gift shop.

The Dr Pepper cooler in the window called to me.
Someday
. I opened the door, a bundle of cards advertising our wedding registry in hand. The owner was out, and the salesclerk hadn't known Bonnie or Hannah. I refilled my slot in the rack labeled “More gifts from the heart.”

In the window of the dress shop next door, closed on Mondays, wigged mannequins showed off bridal cream puffs—yards of white lace and satin festooned with seed
pearls or glass beads. In a corner of the display, a headless dress form held a one-shouldered emerald green silk, above the knee.

If I ever have another wedding . . .
Unlikely. Especially the way my life was going.
Focus on the challenge at hand, Pepper.

Inside the bakery, two women about my age sat at the front table, drinking espresso and chatting with girls flush from class. The familiar twinge of regret over not having children—at having waited for Tag, only to find out it was too late for both my body and our marriage—zinged through me.

“Josh around?” I asked the barista over the noise of her machine and the alt-rock blaring through the speakers. She flicked her eyes toward the kitchen. Through the open window, I saw the baker/chef/delivery man's bandanna-wrapped head bob in and out of view. “Thanks.”

I stood at the pass-through and watched Josh work. He pulled two huge trays of roasted eggplant out of the oven and slid in two of summer squash. Poured olive oil into a giant bowl full of chopped onion and spread the glistening white chunks on a waiting tray. Threw handfuls of herbs on a cutting board. Turned to grab a knife and spotted me.

“You're still cooking this time of day?” I said.

“The fun never stops. Roasted veggie salad for tomorrow.” He pointed the knife toward ingredients piled on the worktable behind him. “Prep cook makes the tossed salad fresh every morning, but I make our deli staples every afternoon.”

“I hate to interrupt, but I was wondering—” I started, at the same moment he said, “Any news?”

“You took the words out of my mouth,” I said. “So I guess the answer is no, for both of us.”

“Cops keep finding excuses to pop in, me being an important witness and all, but I notice they keep their lips
zipped tight.” He stretched out of view and reappeared, a green water bottle in hand.

“You mean because you found her? Yeah, that does get their attention.” As I knew too well.

He drank, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Apparently, I was the last person to see her alive. Except the killer.”

“What?” With all the commotion Saturday, and Josh speeding off to the wedding, I'd missed that.

“About nine thirty Friday. We close at six thirty, but I was sitting up front, working on my dairy order. Surprised me to see her walk by—most nights, she worked even later than me. Lots of times, I took dinner to her—leftover quiche, a day-old brownie.”

“No chance you saw anyone else, I suppose.”

“Sorry. Right after that, I headed upstairs to my place. Baker's hours on top of owner's hours make for a long day.”

And the circles under his eyes.

“The Market Master's pushing me to find a place for her stuff, because I knew her,” I said.

“He called me, too. I suppose I'll have to clean out her studio and apartment, unless I hear from a relative pretty quick. And find a new tenant.”

Before I could ask if that wasn't Hannah's responsibility, I remembered the other reason for my visit. “I nearly forgot.” I slid my tote off my shoulder and dug around for Mary Jean's truffles. “I heard one of your counter people say you'd lost your chocolatier. A woman in the Market might fit the bill. You'll make a killing from the dance moms alone.”

The word “killing” hung in the air between us. Josh set his water bottle on the pass-through counter, wiped his hands on the white apron tied over his black-and-white pants, and reached for the box.

“So your tenants have keys to the main door. Cleaning
people? Anyone else? Any idea who would have a key to her studio?”

“Street-level tenants and the dance school have their own doors—they don't have keys to the main entry. I clean the hall and stairway—not very well, I'm afraid. The studio . . .” Box in hand, he sagged against the counter.

Patience . . .

“They say don't mix business and pleasure, but for me, they've always run together. And I guess I didn't know where to draw the line.” He exhaled heavily. “The tenant who sublet to Bonnie—”

“Hannah Hart. I've been wanting to talk to her, but no one seems to know where she is. Bonnie was a friend. I'm hoping Hannah remembers something helpful.”

He studied the floor. “When I decided to start my own restaurant, my parents urged me to buy rental property. They put up half, and I borrowed the rest. The rents pay for the place, and that's giving me time to develop the business. Anyway, the building came fully occupied, including Hannah.” He paused, face flushed. “She's quite—alluring, and I wasn't thinking. Not with my brain, anyway.”

“What? You mean
you're
her boyfriend?”

“Ah. I see our reputation precedes us,” he said wryly.

I set my tote on the floor. “Mr. Adams said she and her boyfriend fought a lot, but he didn't mention any names.”

“I finally called it quits. Her lease was running out, and I told her I wouldn't renew it. She blew up and moved out early. Not that I minded, but then Bonnie moved in, and I had no idea no what was going on. Turns out, Hannah rented the place to her without telling me.”

“Whoa. Wait.” My brain felt like it was caught in the high-speed mixer bolted to the worktable. “How could she sublease without your permission? And why? To help you out, or cause you trouble?”

“Oh, trouble, no question. Hang on.” He sprang across
the kitchen, out of sight, and I heard him shuffling papers. A minute later, he was back, waving a newspaper.

“I kept the advertisement as evidence.” He began flipping to the back. “In case I had to evict Bonnie, or whatever.”

I reached through the window and stopped him, then drew his attention to the front page. The page showing me in my black apron, standing next to the old samovar.
MISTRESS OF SPICE
, the headline proclaimed.

The same article Bonnie had read and kept. What did this coincidence say about the Universe?

Poor Bonnie. She claimed she wanted a home and yet she chose a temporary arrangement. Did she sense that it wouldn't work out?

Was he saying—?
“Josh. You don't mean Hannah would kill someone to make trouble for you?”

“No. I don't know.” His fingers grazed his forehead, ran over the bandanna, and tugged at his hair. “No, she would never go that far. Ever since she left, I've been expecting a time bomb to go off. But murder? I can't imagine that.”

I couldn't see the connection, either. “You said you might need to evict Bonnie. Why?”

He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his biceps bulging below his white T-shirt sleeves. “She was a great tenant. But Hannah stuck herself in the middle, overcharging and interfering, telling Bonnie to contact her if she had a problem, not me, because I'm an ass—” His voice had risen, and a woman standing at the counter while her young son chose a cookie glared at him. “Sorry,” he called, then to me, “Big-shot downtown lawyer I talked to said change the locks, wait till the lease expires, then write Bonnie a new lease. But I didn't trust Hannah not to have some trick up her sleeve.”

I didn't tell him Hannah had been pestering Bonnie to give her back the space—that little trick he'd feared. “At least she doesn't have a key anymore.”

The tips of his ears reddened. “We've been so busy, I never called the locksmith.”

Holy cardamom.

So Hannah could have let herself in Friday night and confronted Bonnie. But it's a long way from using someone to get revenge on an ex-lover to murder.

For that matter, Josh had a key, too. But as much turmoil as Hannah's petty scheme was causing him, he had no beef with Bonnie—and getting rid of her would not have solved the Hannah problem.

Besides, Mr. Adams had seen someone speeding away. Josh lived upstairs.

“One more thing. Mr. Adams across the street said there have been questionable people hanging around. Thugs, he called them.”

He stuffed his hand in a big oven mitt. “Lou worries too much. Any guy under thirty wearing baggy pants, he thinks they're a gang member. Last week, he saw a couple of guys he didn't like the looks of, and he hobbled over to warn me, in front of my customers. They were just doing odd jobs for the dance school.”

“I suppose even gang members get a cookie craving now and then.”

He grinned. “Truth. Hey, I don't know where Hannah is—mooching off somebody—but when you find her, wear your tap shoes.” The oven timer rang, and he went back to work, tossing one more comment over his shoulder. “Because the truth and the redhead have a way of dancing around each other.”

I love cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in the food.

—Cook's motto

“Got a special shipment of a Walla Walla white.” Vinny disappeared behind a stack of boxes, but his voice trailed after him. “Crisp, light, with a hint of grapefruit. From all that Central Washington desert sunshine.”

“Thanks, Vinny. It's steak night, so I need a red. I'm working on rubs using cocoa, espresso, and a bit of heat, so—”

He reappeared. “So you want something bold, but not overpowering. Lemme show you this primo Pinot from Benton-Lane in Oregon, in the Willamette Valley.”

“Sounds too rich for me.”

“Nah. Get a good Pinot Noir, the fruit and tannins pair with beef like . . .” He kissed the ends of his fingertips, eyelids fluttering as he raised his face heavenward. “And your employee discount makes it affordable.”

I am not in Vinny's employ, thank goodness, but he likes me and always gives me a good price. Not a sign of unrequited romance; just a sweet touch.

I walked out carrying two bottles, the second from a
small winery near Paso Robles in central California, having promised to give Vinny a report on the steak rub tasting and a free jar of the final product. Not all Market merchants work together like we do, but it's high on my list of job perks.

Arf and I strolled through the park, then down Western to the loft. After my chat with Josh, I'd wanted to talk to Bonnie's neighbors in the building. But with Sandra off today, I'd had to rush back before closing. And I wanted to think over my approach carefully. If I found Hannah first, I might not need to ask Josh's tenants to dish on their landlord and his love life.

Ben had sent his regrets to my texted dinner invitation. Still on the trail of infrastructure funding, traipsing down to Portland to interview an expert on regional planning. After that, I'd called my mother—with some trepidation, as my efforts to question her had sent her hackles, whatever they are, into overdrive, and she was sure to spot this as an excuse to continue probing. But she'd gone to a summer solstice celebration.

My conversation with Josh still had me puzzled. Women scorned—and men, too, for that matter—will resort to all kinds of chicanery, but there had to be more he wasn't telling me. Unless she was a whack job.

He doesn't owe you the whole truth, Pepper. We're obligated, one human to another, not to kill or steal or lie.

There's a lot of room in between.

But when someone you both know dies, and you call a friend for help, doesn't that create a sort of bond?

Cool it, Pepper. Not everyone feels your weird sense of loyalty.

As Arf and I climbed the steps to the loft, I decided it was not a night to eat alone. And taste-testing is easier with a buddy. I knocked on my neighbor's door.

“Care to join me?” I raised my two bulging tote bags. Downtown living is great exercise. “Red meat, red wine.”

“And I have red hair,” Glenn said. “Beats reading the monthly statistical analysis from the police department. Or updates on the tunnel project.” The glamorous life of a city councilman.

In the loft, Glenn chose a bottle and found a corkscrew, entertaining me with city nitty-gritty while I unpacked the groceries and considered flavors. When I bought the Spice Shop, I'd retrofitted one long shelf on the kitchen wall for spice jars. My collection had since grown to three shelves, as collections do.

“Continually amazes me,” Glenn said, “how stupid some crooks are. You hear about the doofus who sat in his truck drinking beer and selling rock cocaine in front of City Hall Park?”

I pulled spices from shelves, measured, and mixed, jotting down proportions.

“Thing is,” he went on, “catching the idiots takes resources that would be better put to use on other crimes. Dang, this is good. Try it.”

He slid a glass toward me, a tasting pour. I sipped. “Vinny knows his Pinot.”

“Not that every crime isn't serious, but you know what I mean.” He topped off my glass.

I did. I climbed out the window to fire up the grill. Back in the kitchen, I julienned jicama and a red pepper and dumped them into a wide mahogany bowl, piled high with sturdy greens. Found a jar of my wasabi salad dressing in the fridge. Unwrapped two beautiful filets.

“Here's the plan. I've made four combos, ingredients known only to me. I'm cutting each steak in half, and we'll split them.” I massaged a different blend lightly onto each piece, then speared them with numbered metal flags Sandra's Mr. Right had fashioned for this very purpose.

We carried our wine outside, and I put the steaks on the grill, telling him about the murder on Beacon Hill. He's a
great listener—a precious quality in a politician—and he took off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you, Pepper. It's important to hear about the lives behind the statistics. I gripe and grouse, but you know I have complete confidence in our officers. The new chief—she's turned things around.”

“Tag thinks so, too.” I'd seen her in the Market and around town, a sharp-eyed woman with a pleasant Irish face who wore pearls and dress blues equally well.

“But how are
you
, Pepperoni? This can't be easy.”

My eyes watered, and not from the smoking grill. I grit my teeth to quiet my quivering chin. It didn't work. Kindness has that effect.

Glenn slid an arm around my shoulder, careful of the hot spatula in my hand.

Minutes later, we sat at my inside table with salad, wine, a baguette, a plate full of numbered steaks, and notepads and pens. We inspected, sniffed, tasted, pondered, and talked. Used words like bite, bright, pungent, peppery, sweet, sharp, acrid, bitter, coffee-tinged, dark. Balance and nose. Punch and heat, edge and mmm . . .

“You know,” Glenn said, leaning back in the pink wrought iron chair and raising his glass, “this is the first time I've enjoyed dinner since Nate's been gone.”

This neighborly thing goes both ways.

After he left, I compiled our notes and snuck Arf the last bite of steak. Although it isn't sneaking if no one else is watching. I poured the unused rubs into clean, numbered jars so any willing soul on staff could try their hand. Grilling, pan frying, slow cooking, and using different cuts of meat all give different results. Spice making is a collaborative process. I hoped we could add a midsummer bonus to our lineup.

“Ooh,” I told Arf. “What about a rotation, like brewers with their seasonal ales? Or managers with their pitchers?” I pumped my fist.

My dog ignored me.

Though Glenn had drunk his share, I'd gone easy on the wine, to keep my palate clear. After Arf and I took our evening stroll along the waterfront, I poured another glass and tuned in to the Mariners' road game. Like my father and grandfather, I'd rather listen to a game on the radio than watch it on TV. The radio announcers give you more details—more color, as it's called, to paint the pictures you can't see. Plus you don't have to stare at the screen to follow the game.

And that brought me back to murder. Killers and other crooks don't stop while you try to catch them. They zig and zag, responding to your moves, covering up their tracks and trails.

What was happening while I wasn't watching?

Like two teams on the field, two competing possibilities were at play: Was Bonnie's killer someone from the past, or the present?

So far, I'd focused on time gone by. Bonnie had not made many new friends, but no one in the Market seemed to harbor any ill will toward her.

That led me to her neighbors at home. Had Hannah seriously believed she could move back into the building? Why? Carrying a torch for Josh? Easier to worm your way into someone's graces if you're close by. Or maybe she was a little crazy. Not thinking things through. I didn't buy into the impulsive artist stereotype—my experience with Tory, Fabiola—our graphic designer, and many of the Market folk proved that artists can plan ahead. Creating a business isn't all that different from creating an art piece; it's just a different medium.

But plans are notorious for changing; it's their worst feature.

Where had Hannah gone? As the jeweler had said, it's not easy for an artist to find good working space. Maybe she'd been so desperate to get her studio back that she'd have risked the wrath of Josh. If she got rid of Bonnie . . .

But even she had to understand that when the lease expired, she'd be SOL. She'd have bought herself weeks or months, at best.

What if the argument wasn't over getting the place back? What if Hannah had stored things in the studio and needed access Bonnie hadn't wanted to give her?

A sharp crack of ball on bat caught my ear. Line drive to left field, no throw. One out, one in, runners at the corners. The Ms had tied the game, top of the seventh. I crouched by Arf's bed to rub his ears, then rooted in the kitchen for the Turkish delight I'd brought home over the weekend.

“Mmm. Pistachio. Peppers and pistachio are classic. What about adding a dash of cocoa?” I made a note. Sandra says no combination is ever too weird to give a second thought, although some don't warrant a third. The ones you think are brilliant may flop, but the ones you dismiss might make a million bucks.

A woman can dream.

I poured more wine, sat on the couch, and waited for the next pitch. Curve, strike one. I licked powdered sugar off my fingers. Low, ball one. The announcer's words created a picture of the two teams concentrating, players and coaches fidgeting in the dugout, fans rising, rubbing their arms.

Full count.

If Tory's contacts didn't pan out soon, I'd have to try another tack to find the slippery Ms. Hart.

“Swing and a miss. He strikes out.” I groaned, and the crowd in a faraway stadium cheered. Time for the seventh-inning stretch and the singing of “God Bless America,” to be followed by the crowd belting out “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

Traditions are great, but sometimes they keep us from seeing other possibilities.

What was I not seeing?

My mother's scrapbook still lay on my packing crate
coffee table. I studied the single photo of Terry and Bonnie—Peggy, back then—and the line outside the cathedral door. The paper had yellowed, the black-and-white photo had faded, but the way he looked at her . . .

At his office this morning, it had been clear that her death touched him deeply. They'd been close. They'd all been close.

Bonnie had been involved with Roger, I was all but certain. Where had that left Terry?

And then Roger died . . .

Thirty years ago.
Why did the memory hold such power to trigger present grief, to open old wounds of loss and betrayal?

“Why,” I asked my dog, “does every question beget more questions?”

He ignored me, no doubt thinking, “Humans.”

The Mariners' ace reliever sent the other team down one, two, three, and we moved to the top of the eighth.

My thoughts turned to Kristen's missing bracelet. The police wondered if someone had seen the party and snuck in, hoping to be overlooked amid the hubbub. On the other hand, a party meant more witnesses, more people to spot someone who shouldn't have been there.

As Glenn had said, most criminals are not too bright.

Kristen's list of partygoers was in my tote. I got up and dug it out.

No one missing. No brainstorms; no connections I hadn't seen. Her family and mine. Her neighbors. Spice Shop staff and folks from Eric's firm. Friends from the dozens of walks of life we all travel. From the Grace House past, Bonnie, Terry and his family, and a few other couples and solos—men and women I hadn't seen in years but who'd been delighted to see my mother. And vice versa—no obvious tensions.

The burglary detectives had probably contacted most of them by now, with Spencer and Tracy keeping a close eye
on the investigation. I could not imagine anyone from that community a thief.

Two out, two on. The batter laid down a bunt, and the runner on third tagged and scored. “Dang it.” The Mariners returned for the top of the ninth, and a buzzing snagged my ear. I fished my phone out of my tote—I never remember to tuck it carefully in a side pocket—and read Tory's text:
A mutual friend will reach out.

Would Hannah talk to me, a friend—more like an acquaintance—of Bonnie's? Depended, I supposed, on whether the police had already found her and left her feeling under suspicion. Approaching her through the artists' web was good. Less threatening.

The radio relayed a low rumble from afar. Top of the ninth, a one-run game.

Ball one. Ball two. I sat up. Strike one. “Take your pitch,” I told the batter. “You got this.”

The batter took his time, stepping out of the box, stepping back in, working his way to a full count. My shoulders tensed. I quieted my breath, hands in loose fists, arms ready to cheer.

My brain kept firing possibilities at me. I had to find Hannah. Because only two people were known to have had recent tensions with Bonnie, and the other was my mother.