Killing Thyme (21 page)

“But Roger was doing more than picking up overripe bananas and day-old maple bars,” Carl said.

“He'd been scoping the neighborhood for days, weeks, figuring out the Strasburgs' schedule. Neighbors had seen him, but they saw our logo on the van so they trusted him. That may have been the worst betrayal—hiding behind a program that fed hungry kids, and all the while, he was plotting violence.”

“What if he didn't mean it to turn violent?” I said. “He broke in while the house was empty. He attacked the computers Walter Strasburg used to create code for the nuclear subs. Not that the vandalism wasn't criminal, but he didn't plan on attacking the family.”

“He had a gun and explosives,” my mother said flatly. “And when the family surprised him, he shot the father in front of his son. Yes, Walter Strasburg got out his own gun, and yes, that was wrong. But Roger created the danger. He was responsible for everything that happened after that.”

“What triggered the explosion?” Carl asked.

“According to Detective Washington,” I said, “a simple device anyone could have made, with the right materials.”

“No one in our group ever got involved with bombings,” my mother said. “We eschewed violence. We had no reason to think Roger had explosives.” She raised her glass, but her hand shook badly and she set the glass on the crate.

“A few months before the shooting, Greg Hoffman—Kristen's father—” she said to Tag, “cleaned out the garage behind the house. It was ancient and half falling down—it hadn't housed a car since the days of the Model A.” She reached out a hand and wiggled her fingers. I found a clean tissue and laid it in her palm. “He found . . . We assumed it was left over from when old Mr. Hoffman set off fireworks displays for the neighborhood.”

“Mom, what did they find?”

“Blasting caps. Detonator cords. Everything you need to make a starburst in the sky.”

“Either he didn't find it all, or Roger had a secret stash,” I said, my voice shaking. “And he used it at the Strasburg house.”

“So that's why you flew home, and we stayed,” Carl said. “I remember Dad called you a lot, and Grandpa got all riled up about the phone bill, even after Dad said he was good for it.”

I might bemoan the cost of my cell package, but I didn't miss the days of overpriced long distance. But I knew Grandpa's heart. His irritation over the phone bill was a cover-up for his worries about his family.

“Tension gripped all of us,” my mother said. She untucked her legs and propped her feet on the coffee crate. “The police made noises about shutting down the clinic and the pantry. It was a pressure tactic, and it scared us, but the truth was, none of us had known what they were up to. We couldn't believe that two of our own were involved. We were so angry, we couldn't mourn the deaths properly. And that poor family . . .”

Tag had been quiet during Mom's revelations. “Lena, any idea why Peggy took the bracelet, then left it behind?”

She frowned. “Peggy never showed any interest in
jewelry. Ellen had a diamond that had been her mother's reset in an engagement ring. A simple setting, but pretty. I remember all of us trying it on, except Peggy. She said diamonds were ostentatious. Symbols of greed and vanity, and exploitation in the mines. Tact was not among her gifts.”

“What did Peggy want, Mom?” I said.

“What we all wanted, I thought. Peace, justice, a home, and friends. But every chance she got, she chose something else.”

Choices.
A cramp bit my side, and I massaged it. “Mom, last week at the Market, you went back to her stall. There was shouting. Everyone heard you.”

“I could not believe she'd been alive all those years and never told us. Not a word. And then she just turns up again, as if nothing had happened.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

My mother had always looked like she'd sipped from the fountain of youth. At the moment, the fountain had run dry. She answered my question. “I don't know.”

Carl's pocket buzzed. He scanned the screen, sent a reply, and stood. “I gotta get the kids—school decorating party. Remember, Mom, school assembly tomorrow. I'll pick you up at noon.”

“I'd better say good night, too.” Tag stood and leaned down to kiss my mother's cheek. Then, sliding from former son-in-law back to the cop I'd almost forgotten he was, he added, “We'll do everything we can to catch her killer, Lena. I promise.”

*   *   *

“I walk this dog alone every night. It's not even close to dark.”

“You're not walking alone tonight.” Arf peed in the storm grate—a habit I'd been unable to break—and we strolled on, Tag matching his stride to mine.

We walked the first block of Western in silence.

“Nobody thinks my mom killed Bonnie, do they? You heard her. Besides, she was home at Carl's, and how would she have known where to find the woman?” Carl did have a white SUV. And Mom did have the keys. And she could have taken Bonnie's business card with her studio address, like I had.

“When Washington heard that Peggy Manning—Bonnie Clay—was back and asked me to keep an eye on her, he hadn't yet refocused on the others in the community. Eventually, he realized I'm Chuck and Lena's son-in-law and officially put me out of the loop. Sorry.”

His use of present tense caught my ear.

He went on. “But in cold cases, you go back and retrace all your steps. Reinterview the witnesses, reexamine the physical evidence. That means tracking down everyone who was part of that community. Your parents and Kristen's dad are the only ones left.”

“From the house, yes. But there were others. Terry Stinson, Dave McNally and his wife, Tim McCarver and his ex. They were all at the party.”

“So they all saw Bonnie,” he said. “And the bracelet.”

“Oh, she makes me so mad. My mom, I mean, but Bonnie, too. I thought I was investigating
for
them, but now I'm investigating
them
.”

“How about them Mariners?” Tag said.

I laughed. “Don't you have to work at dark thirty? I haven't seen much of you lately. You seeing someone?”

Beside me, Tag stiffened. “I've been out a few times, but no one special.”

Kristen always tells me not to get involved with Tag again, and I know she's right. But at times like tonight, when his presence was a help and a comfort, when we seemed to understand what hadn't been spoken, I wonder.

We rounded the corner and headed for Alaskan Way. He spoke quietly. “I've been too hard on you about Ben. About dating. I need to let you make your own choices.”

I stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, and Tag grabbed me before I fell. Arf glanced back at us, and for a brief moment, I thought that if Tag hadn't just mentioned Ben, he might have kissed me.

Ben might not be my Mr. Right.

But that didn't mean Tag was.

A group of thirtysomethings came out of a restaurant and swelled around us. “Good dog,” one said, stopping to pet Arf, then sprinting after his friends.

“Your mom's a lot nicer to me now that we're divorced,” he said. “She never liked me.”

“That's not true. She never disliked you. She just didn't think we were a good match.”

“Same thing,” he said, “when it comes to your kids.”

“Do you ever—” I stopped myself. No point asking if he ever regretted that we hadn't had kids. That by the time he was ready, something in me had said no.

“Yes,” he said, in a tone that told me he'd read my mind.

The phone I'd slipped in my pocket buzzed. Since I'd actually bothered to bring it, I figured I'd better look.

And almost wished I hadn't.

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. . . . Because the Lord causes the sun to rise on the evil and the good, and the rain to fall on the just and the unjust.

—Matthew 5:44–45

A light rain fell as we came out of the Harborview ER a tick past midnight. Tag offered to bring his car around, but I didn't mind. After the shock of Cayenne's call and the hours of worry, the rain—not much more than a mist—had healing powers. I closed my eyes and raised my face, like a baby bird.

If it hadn't been for that cast-off three-iron, Mr. Adams might not have made it. But he'd given nearly as good as he got. Somewhere in the city, a hooligan—the ER doc's overly polite euphemism for a would-be killer—nursed a cracked shin, or worse.

“You have to work in three hours,” I said. “You didn't have to stay.”

“I called in. I'm taking second watch today.”

Eleven thirty
A.M.
to eight
P.M.
, much more reasonable hours. “Watch” for “shift” had an almost medieval sound
that I found reassuring. It reminded me of Brother Cadfael, but I was too tired to wonder what the old monk would do.

I hadn't been surprised to see Spencer and Tracy arrive minutes after we did. A beating that sends an old man to the hospital is obviously going to summon the police, and some sort of cross-indexing would quickly flag the case for the dispatch supervisor, who would alert the detectives. They don't care for that attack-on-a-possible-witness thing.

Turned out that Cayenne had shortcut the system. After her mother had called to relay the news, Cayenne called me from the car while her husband raced to the hospital, then tracked down Detective Spencer herself. She didn't like that attack-on-a-witness thing, either.

Tag unlocked the black Saab, and I slid in. “I can't believe you're still driving this car. We bought it, what, fifteen years ago?”

He gave a halfhearted laugh. “Said by a woman who drives a car older than she is.”

“The Mustang is a classic. Though if my parents move home, I'll have to give it back.” I leaned against the headrest. “Thanks. You didn't have to take me up there, and you didn't have to stay.”

He made a left on Madison and crossed the freeway. “Of course I stayed. I can't believe you said that.”

“What happens next? With the investigation, I mean. All Mr. Adams saw the night of the murder was a car speeding away—at least, from what he told me.”

“Someone thinks he saw more than that. They'll go over his statement with him. Put the bits and pieces of his recall tonight together with the Friday night incident and see if anything jumps out. He may remember more as time goes on, as the shock passes.”

I bit my lip to keep from crying. “He was already so frail.”

Tag reached across and squeezed my hand. He eased the Saab onto Western and stopped in front of my building.

No point telling him he didn't have to walk me up the stairs.

Inside the loft, my cheek warm from his lips, I set my tote gently on the bench beside the door and peeled off my shoes. In the glow of the light my mother had left on in the kitchen, I saw that she'd put away the pasta and cookies and washed the dishes.

On his bed by the window, Arf raised his head. I crouched beside him and whispered, “He's going to be okay.” I buried my face in the terrier's thick black-and-tan fur and let him nuzzle me. “Tell me everything's going to be okay.”

Minutes later, I climbed the iron staircase—barely more than a ladder—salvaged during the building's conversion and peeked into the mezzanine. “Meditation space,” the builder had called the area above my bedroom, obviously on my mother's wavelength. She'd fallen asleep on the futon—it pulled out into a double bed, but she hadn't bothered. A paperback from my collection lay on the floor—Margaret Frazer's
The Traitor's Tale
.

Back in the kitchen, I poured a glass of a dry Washington Sauvignon Blanc that Laurel calls “loft white” because I drink so much of it. (Turnabout being fair play, she's got her own “houseboat red.”) Sank into the paisley chair where Tag had sat hours ago, found on closeout at an import store.

We'd reached the hospital minutes after the family. In the ER waiting room, Cayenne had introduced her mother, a regal woman easy to picture controlling a rowdy classroom with the flick of an eyelash, and her father, the source of her height. I already knew Cayenne's husband and her sister, who'd seen the
HIRING
sign in our front window and sent her to me last spring.

“A concussion,” Cayenne told us. “And a broken arm—a compound fracture. They're taking him to surgery as soon as an anesthesiologist is free.”

With her and her mother as our escorts, Tag and I had been
allowed to visit Mr. Adams for a few minutes. He'd been ashen, in pain, but called me by name without prompting.

He'd heard a noise outside the back door and opened it to investigate.

“Did you turn a light on?” Tag asked.

“'Course I did. I'm a fool, but not that big a fool.” Mr. Adams winced as he tried to sit up. His daughter's hand on his shoulder stopped that nonsense. “Yard's all fenced. I thought it musta been a stray dog, dug his way in, ripped up my shrubs. But then I saw him, the thug that hit me. I hit him back, I did.”

“Did he say anything?” And to think I'd dismissed the thug theory of murder as an old man's delusions.

“He yowled up a storm when my three-iron hit his leg, I'll tell you that for nothing.”

“What about before that, Pops?” Cayenne gripped the rail at the foot of the bed.

“‘Keep your mouth shut, old man, if you know what's good for you.'”

“Shut about what?” Cayenne's mother asked.

Tag spoke quietly. “Did you get a decent look at him?”

“It happened so fast. White guy, short hair. Tattoos all down his arms.” He tried to raise his left arm, but the IV tube got in the way. “Used to be a nice neighborhood, when we raised our kids there. Then a killing and this.”

“Maybe it's time to think again about coming to live with us,” his daughter had said. He did not protest. His eyelids fluttered shut, and I'd been about to suggest we go when Tag reached out and touched the old man's hand.

“Patrol officers are checking around your house, and they'll interview the neighbors. We'll do everything we can to make your neighborhood safe again.”

Safe in my loft, I stared at the Viaduct, the lights racing past. The cool wine could not quench my guilt. Louis
Adams, patriarch, had been attacked because someone thought he'd seen something the night of Bonnie's murder.

But no one would have ever made that connection, if not for me. If they hadn't seen me chatting with him on the steps last Saturday. Or they'd seen me this morning, when I stopped to visit after finding Bonnie's van.

I'd led the attacker to him.

Maybe the police didn't need my insight, my knowledge of the people involved, my willingness to ask any questions that occurred to me, not bound by protocols or procedures or preconceived ideas.

Maybe I needed to spend more time in my shop. More time with customers, preventing Bridezilla repeats. More time building relationships with the food press, so I didn't have to bite my nails, worrying that one wrong word from Nancy Adolfo could destroy us.

More time calling on commercial accounts, so we could avoid situations like the one Sandra had reported at the staff meeting. If he wasn't important enough to get a call from the “boss lady,” a chef had told her, then he saw no reason to give us his business.

Maybe I needed to focus on my sorry love life. All week, Ben had ignored me while he chased a story. But I'd been equally bad, more interested in what he dug up than in him. The feelings I still had for Tag had been enough to remind me of the feelings we'd once shared and make me long to feel that way again.

I didn't know what my mother saw in Ben's stars, but I knew what was in my heart.

I picked up the glass float the gillnetter had given me last Sunday at Fisherman's Terminal and cradled it in both hands. It had traveled a long way, caught for who knew how long in an abandoned net, then hauled to the surface.
In a ghost net
, the fisherman had said.
You never know what you'll find.

Was I messing up what mattered most because I was too
busy pretending to be Nancy Drew or Dame Frevisse? My shop was suffering. My love life was plummeting. My relationship with my mother was in turmoil. My best friend had withheld the truth from me, for thirty years. My assistant manager was stressed beyond belief, and the employee I had such hopes for might never forgive me for what had happened to her grandfather.

It isn't quitting to realize you're in over your head.

I wanted to pace, to work out the problem on my feet, but not with a sleeping dog across the room and a sleeping mother upstairs.

As a kid, I'd thought that once you got to be twenty-five, you had your life all figured out and you lived it. Then I turned twenty-five and there went that illusion. So then I hit forty and it finally seemed, in the year or two after, after everything fell apart, that I had put my life back together the way it was supposed to be.

And now it was falling apart again.

If Laurel were here, she'd tell me I was churning, letting one negative thought spiral and drag me down.

But Laurel was home asleep, as I ought to be. I carried my wineglass to the kitchen.

Maybe the Universe needed to stop dragging me into these situations. Because I was not about to close my eyes and ears to the troubles around me. I'd been given a talent and a natural curiosity, and I had an obligation to follow through.

It wasn't just curiosity or nosiness, though I'll never believe those aren't good traits. Useful traits.

The success of a life depends on the choices we make.

And I was never going to choose to turn my back on people in need.

*   *   *

The Wednesday night mist had left a Thursday morning shine on the world outside my loft. The Sound—what little
I could see of it—sparkled. Outside, water glistened where it had pooled on the mint leaves and in the cupped petals of my zinnias.

Inside, all was quiet. My mother and the dog were gone.

I tugged at my rat's nest of hair and took a shower. The moment I toweled off, the smell of coffee enveloped me. I pulled on a robe and checked my phone, then poured a cup and joined my mother on the veranda.

“How is Cayenne's grandfather?” she said.

“Surprisingly good.” I took the empty bistro chair, the bright green of spring pea shoots. “She texted this morning to say the surgery to repair his broken arm went fine, but they're going to keep him a couple of days, to make sure that knock on his noggin isn't causing any internal bleeding.”

“I thought I might fill in for her this morning, until Carl picks me up.” She sipped her coffee, eyes averted.

“Sure. If there's time after you talk with the detectives.”

She let out a long sigh. “Why is it we put off doing what we know we need to do? We only make it harder on ourselves, churning things over in our minds.”

Churning.
The same word I had used in my internal rant last night. I knew with the next sip of dark roast that I would call it quits with Ben today. Or whenever we managed to get together.

And in the sip after that, I realized how pissed I was at her. Not sure I trusted her to reveal all the gory details. “And I'm going with you, like it or not.”

She reached out and gripped my hand. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”

I texted Sandra to ask if she could come in early and open the shop. You can't hear grumbling in text messages—one of their advantages—but I knew that despite her stress over Mr. Right's condition, she'd do everything she could for me.

And as soon as this is over
, I vowed,
I'm doing everything I can for her
.

•   •   •

“WE understand Mr. Adams is expected to make a full recovery,” Detective Spencer said an hour later as we took seats around the small conference table. Behind her, Detective Washington closed the door. “He gave us a good description, and we're interviewing all the neighbors. But if you've got any leads, please, fill us in.”

“Wish I did,” I said. “Obviously someone thinks he saw something important. Or—”

“Or what?” Tracy looked his rumpled self, but I knew he'd been at the hospital or down on Beacon Hill much of the night. He'd earned the wrinkles in his jacket and the bags under his eyes.

“Or maybe someone saw him with me, someone who knows I've been investigating, and thinks he must have given me the critical details. But no one's come after me—”

Or had they?

They all stared.

“I was sure it was just an accident.” I dug in my tote while telling them about the white SUV that had nearly struck me in Pioneer Square after I'd gone to meet Hannah Hart at the gallery. I held up the parking stub. “Eureka! Partial plate number, from a witness.”