Killing Thyme (10 page)

I flipped idly through an album, stopping at a shot of Kristen and me sitting on the front porch. “What do you remember about Bonnie Clay? Or Peggy Manning. And Terry—were they friends?”

“They were all friends. A community.”

“Until they weren't.”

“Meaning what?” Kristen's voice took on an unfamiliar edge.

“Meaning Bonnie shows up and my mother clams up.
That makes me think something happened that she doesn't want me to know about.”

“No law says she has to tell you everything.”

“No, but if it relates to Bonnie's murder—”

“Hey, I gotta change and go.” Kristen gestured toward her bare feet, her cutoff sweatpants, and her Disneyland T-shirt. Any other mother would have no trouble wearing that outfit to drop off a kid, but not her.

Two shakes later, my dog and I stood on Kristen's front porch. The dead bolt snapped shut behind us.

“Tossed out on our ears, Arf.” I tightened his leash, and we started down the steps. “Musta been something I said.”

Now home to a fish market, a creamery, produce stalls, and apartments, the Sanitary Market, built in 1910, got its name from being the only building where horse-drawn carts were not allowed.

—Market history, City of Seattle website

“Boy, am I glad to see you.”

The day the deal closed, the Spice Shop felt like home. It still does. I am more myself here than almost anywhere, except in the loft or at the rail of a Puget Sound ferry in a stiff breeze.

But while I appreciated Cayenne's enthusiastic welcome, I suspected it was chased by a problem.

“That customer,” she said. “He's—weird, but I can't put my finger on it.”

Late thirties, wearing cargo pants and a loose shirt. His pockets appeared to lay flat, not hiding any merchandise. His left elbow jiggled in a hyperactive way.

Oh, the things you learn in retail.

“Go to bed, Arf.” The dog obeyed, and I crossed the room quickly. There wasn't much to shoplift—spice grinders, boxes of tea, tins of our custom blends—but any theft hits the bottom line. “Hi. What can I help you find?”

The customer practically jumped out of his worn brown deck shoes and let out a squeal that made me want to grab the WD-40. “Oh, I—umm.” He glanced from me to the jar-lined shelves, then back. “Umm, you sell spice, right?”

I nodded.

“What about—” His gaze darted around the shop, landing briefly on Cayenne, who watched him as though she had her finger ready to call the police, then on the couple browsing cookbooks. His voice dropped, so low I had to lean in. “What about marijuana? I mean, it's legal in this state, right? Not that you would sell it, but who does?”

There's a first time for every question. “Both medicinal and recreational marijuana are legal in Washington,” I said, “but they can't be sold within a thousand feet of any place intended for children, meaning schools, libraries, parks, and playgrounds.”

He tilted his head in a question, dark hair flopping over one eye. He needed to visit the Market barbershop, Down Under.

“There's a preschool and a park in the Market,” I said. “But if you're after a taste of Seattle, our tea will give you a pleasant glow. It's a blend of spicy and mellow. Not exactly a high, but quite nice.” I held out a box.

He took it in both hands, studying the label and our saltshaker logo.

To my surprise, he bought three boxes. “For my mother and sisters,” he told Cayenne before wandering out. The moment the door shut behind him, we started giggling.

“Remember the Walmart lesson,” I told her. “The best way to prevent shoplifting is to greet every customer.”

Reed came in, bearing two iced coffees. Other than the pot-seeker, my staff had the shop well in hand. They didn't need me. I suppressed a pout and headed for my office to do a little research.

Okay, call it snooping.

Like any good HR manager in the modern world, I'd
developed a few skills for checking out potential employees online—all perfectly legal. Call it self-defense after a handful of self-inflicted hiring failures.

Time to apply those methods to this case.

Searching two names doubled the work and the frustration. Neither Bonnie nor Peggy had a Facebook account, Twitter handle, or website. That was a puzzle. Most artists I know set up a public portal, for curious browsers who find them by serendipity. Or tourists who get home to news of a grandbaby on the way and wouldn't those adorable stuffed critters they saw in the Market be just the thing?

I checked all the usual suspects: Etsy, Pinterest, Instagram.

Big fat zeros, all around.

Either Bonnie wasn't market-savvy or she hadn't gotten around to it.

Or, she didn't want to be found.

For fun, I searched myself, under both my names. Nothing under the legal one, thank heavens. Good news only for Pepper Reece, including the terrific profile Ben had written of me when he first came to town.

I sat back, arms crossed. What else? With no idea where she'd lived all those years away from Seattle, or under what name, I had no clue where to start the hunt.

But I knew who to call. Though I didn't know what my mother saw in Ben's stars, and I understood her warning not to let myself be used for a story, he was a good guy. And he had research skills.

“Hey, you busy? I need a little help from my favorite investigative reporter.”

“Ha. That's a glorified label for a news grunt, but I'll take it. What's up?”

I explained.

“Meet you at the loft in, say, thirty minutes?” he said, and I agreed.

On my way out, I asked my staff their Sunday evening plans.

“Family dinner,” Reed said. “The one day a week my mom cooks Chinese.”

“Going to my grandpa's house,” Cayenne said. “We tend his garden and cook up a storm. The leftovers last him all week. There's been trouble in his neighborhood, and my mom's worried. But he's too stubborn to move.”

“He's lucky to have you close by.”

Arf and I strolled down Pike Place to my favorite produce stand for greens and tomatoes. We ducked into the Sanitary Market—happily, no longer strictly an animal-free zone—and grabbed peppery Genoa salami and mild, slightly sweet
provolone dolce
, and a chunk of Parmesan. Backtracked for another box of Turkish delight. Those things are addictive.

Across Pike Place in the artists' stalls, I caught my friend the jewelry maker in a good mood after a big sale.

“You said Bonnie was worried about her sublease and having to move again. Were the problems with a woman named Hannah Hart?”

“Honestly, Pepper, if she mentioned the name, it escapes me now.” She pinned a pair of earrings onto a gap in her display board. “Got my eye out for a piece of a car like you drive.”

“Nightmist Blue.”

And then I had—well, not a brainstorm. A slight ripple in the weather. Arf and I trotted over the Desimone Bridge, pausing to toss a couple of dollars in the violin case of an all-women trio. How the bass player coaxed music from an upside-down plastic bucket, I could not fathom. In a quiet spot overlooking the construction site for the new Market Front, I fished in my bag for my phone. Tory Finch wasn't one to gossip, but I'd crossed a few lines for my former employee last fall, and she knew it. Besides, if I asked too much, she'd say so.

“Painter. Muralist,” Tory answered without hesitation. “Let me see what I can find out.”

“Thanks. How's Zak? And the gallery? I miss you guys.”

“We miss you. And the Spice Shop. We're having a big opening end of the month, including pieces inspired by my grandmother's work. Zak's band's playing. Say you'll come.”

“I'll come. Anytime—you know that.”

A few minutes later, I hoisted my overloaded tote higher on my shoulder, switched Arf's leash to my left hand, and unlocked the door to my building. We climbed the wide staircase, greeted by the odor of stale popcorn mixed with eau d'ancient sawdust, a smell that would probably never go away completely, and a touch of bacon.

Ever since my neighbor Glenn's husband had gone back east to care for his ailing, elderly mother, Glenn had been indulging in comfort food. Not that I blamed him. In the month that I'd camped at Kristen's house after leaving Tag, I created roughly two dozen varieties of mac and cheese, my routine broken by the occasional baked potato extravaganza and regular doses of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Only nervous energy had kept me from gaining fifteen pounds.

Inside the apartment, I gave Arf fresh water, then started on an appetizer.

“So,” I asked my dog over the ka-thunking of the food processor. “Why would you sublet your studio and your apartment, then demand them back early?”

Plans change, heaven knows. I stepped through the window and snipped a handful of chives from the happy green jungle on my narrow deck.

How had Hannah's plans changed? More trouble with the boyfriend? A new job that didn't pan out?

The whir of the food processor matched the whir in my mind as I added herbs, seasoning, and oil.

Other reasons were possible, but romance and career cover most of life's disappointments and dilemmas.

But Hannah's change in direction had created problems for Bonnie. Deadly problems, or merely inconvenient ones?

The intercom sounded, and I buzzed Ben in. Put the bowl of cheese spread on a pressed tin tray, and laid out crackers and smoked salmon.

I kissed him and carried our appetizers to the round cedar picnic table, a gift from my former mother-in-law. She'd salvaged the table and one bench from a neighbor's trash after a windstorm, and I'd added mismatched chairs.

Ben set a bottle of rosé on the kitchen counter. “Crawling around in the past is dirty, messy business. Wine will make it easier.”

Just when I thought this guy wasn't right for me, he said something that made me relax and laugh. And that's always a good thing.

He sat on the cedar bench and fired up his trusty laptop while I opened the wine. “We'll start local. Seattle had two dailies back then, right?”

I handed him a glass and perched on the pink iron chair that looked like a refugee from an ice cream shop, disguised by a fluffy tropical print pillow. “Yes, but I don't know what we're hoping to find.”

“Neither do I. That's the fun part.”

I held out my hand, surprised to see my fingers tremble. “Ben, I'm not sure I want this to be a story for your paper. I mean, any murder is news. But this one involves my family. And Kristen's.” An invisible ice pick stabbed me in the jaw. I hadn't shared my fear that if Bonnie had been killed to protect a secret from the past, my mother might be in danger, too.

“No worries.” Eyes on the screen, he scrolled and clicked. “We investigate all kinds of stories that don't pan out.”

“What I'm saying is, we might uncover things I'm not willing to see in print.”

He took his hands off the keyboard and faced me. “Pepper, you called me because I'm a reporter. I'd like to think you also called because we're friends. Maybe not as close as I'd
hoped—I kinda sense that you're holding back—but I would never do anything that would hurt you or your family.”

He sensed . . .
My chin rose and my jaw clenched. “Even for a story?”

“Even for a story. I will not publish a word without your one hundred percent approval. And if my editor asks me, I'll tell her I didn't find anything that works for us. We're not general news—it's gotta speak to our audience in some way. If someone else finds the story I didn't, I'll take my lumps.”

Oh my. Was he honestly this generous? And this interested in my well-being?

I studied his open face. He didn't know all the details about Tag, or the hard-luck love stories that had dogged me (
sorry, Arf
) since my divorce. In my opinion, a new love doesn't need to know all the down-and-dirty of the past. It just gets in the way.

Maybe this push-and-pull, this uncertainty, this questioning was not a warning, but a natural phase in developing a stable relationship.

Truth was, I hadn't dated enough in recent years to know. Truth is, you never know—until you know.

I slid off the chair and onto the bench, and wrapped my arms around him. Kissed him lightly, then again, more deeply. Because you never know, until you risk the answer you aren't ready for.

Be careful what you wish for.

—Every grandmother's advice

“She was tight with your mom way back, right? Any chance their projects made the newspapers?”

“What would we learn from a photo op on the opening of a preschool or a yoga studio?”

“Reporter's credo: Follow every trail.” Ben spread cheesy goop on a cracker. “This stuff is fabulous.”

“You only love me for my cooking. Let's start dinner. I'm starving.” I swung my leg over the bench, feeling antsy.

The sun had begun to slide behind the Olympics, flinging fractured rays of colored light into the loft. Why the original builders had installed twelve-foot-tall windows on the fifth floor of a trackside warehouse, I had no idea, but on evenings like this, I was grateful.

“The light is the same color as the wine.” Ben twirled his glass and sat at the butcher-block counter dividing the kitchen and main living area. The only walls in the place surround the bed and bath, and the plank floors, high ceilings, and exposed beams and pipes give it classic loft style.
I'd played that up, adding mismatched furniture and bright and funky finds for a look I hope is both welcoming and intriguing.

“Vinny would spin some theory about how the French discovered that leaving the skin on the grapes until the wine reaches the same shade as the sunset over the Rhone Valley on the first day of summer creates the perfect blend of sweetness and acidity.” I tossed chopped romaine in a big wooden bowl and reached for the salami.

“Vinny believes in ghosts.”

“Don't you?” He knew my theories about had what happened in April, about the mysterious little lady who'd pointed me in the direction of a very bad man. “I feel like we're chasing ghosts. Make yourself useful and scrub this cucumber.”

Ben scrubbed while I mixed the dressing for my version of the Pink Door's Italian chopped salad, adding a generous pinch of Celtic sea salt from Bonnie's pig, a piece that had become even more special in the past hours.

My chest felt heavy, and I forced myself to take a deep breath.

We carried our dinner out to the veranda and the round bistro table.

“I always feel like I'm stepping through the looking glass,” Ben said. “Sliding down the rabbit hole. Choosing the red pill.”

“It's not that different out here from elsewhere in the city.”

“To continue mangling the movie metaphors, the Emerald City is on a completely different planet from where I grew up. Your family, the commune, the causes and projects—might as well be Mars.”

“It wasn't a commune.” I twisted a strip of salami around my fork. “Although we did have chickens, but the neighbors complained, so we ate them.”

He gestured with an open hand. “See? That's what I mean. You were hippies. We were—conventional.”

Conventional or not, it was lovely to relax on the veranda amid the herbs and flowers, in the rosé light, conversation weaving in and out of the various corners of our lives.

But I couldn't forget that a woman was dead, and I wanted answers.

Ben reached out a hand. “Pepper, can we talk? Seriously, about us.”

“Nineteen eighty-five. The year we moved.” The startled look on his face barely registered as I shoved my chair back and gathered plates. “Bonnie didn't live her life the way the rest of us do. The clues are not online.”

“So where are they?”

“With any luck, downstairs.”

Ten minutes later, we hauled a dusty wicker trunk out of the service elevator and into my loft. I began unloading the scrapbooks and photo albums my mother had boxed up before the move south. Andrea, bless her, had other plans for their basement than housing family archives, so they'd landed in my storage locker. I set aside two shoe boxes wrapped in newspaper comics. The books covered the picnic table.

Ben let out a low whistle. “I'd never have figured your mother for the sentimental type.”

“All mothers are sentimental. They just show it in different ways.” As a preschool teacher, my mother had been a big believer in projects involving round-tipped scissors and glue sticks. She'd loved those albums with self-adhesive pages covered in flimsy plastic. The stickum had loosened over time, and a Wonder Woman Valentine's card fluttered to the floor. I picked it up—the pencil scribble on the back had faded, but I made out the name of a boy in my second grade class—and started searching for the page it had come from.

A damp nose poked my leg. “Go back to bed, Arf.”
Flip, flip, flip
.

“I'll take him out,” Ben said.

“Oh, I'm sorry, boy,” I told the dog, embarrassed. “Thanks,” I told the man.

I refilled my wineglass and carried it and a thick black album, the binding embossed in gold, to the couch. When I moved out of the Greenwood bungalow Tag and I had bought from his elderly aunt, I'd taken my books and clothes, some kitchen collectibles, and a few treasured pieces of furniture. He'd been deeply hurt that I left our wedding album behind, but it, like so much else in the house, belonged to the past. To a time gone by—a time that had perhaps never really existed.

The things we save illustrate the choices we make. What matters to us.

My mother's collection included baby books, school record books, and the scrapbooks Carl and I had made, our childish handwriting as dated as the cards and photos. But this album had been hers.

I sipped and flipped. My parents' wedding photo, he in a dark suit, she in a yellow mini-dress, a matching ribbon in her long, straight hair.
So young.

A shot of my mother and Kristen's parents standing on the front porch of Grace House, each woman cradling a baby. Kristen's and my first joint appearance. My father must have been behind the camera, as usual.

Several pages later, I found a solo shot of him, blurry enough to make me think I'd taken it. He'd been a fun dad, but he always looked serious in photographs.

I turned the pages. More photos of the two families as they grew. Carl and me with our Hungarian grandparents, looking old and stodgy, though by the date printed on the photo, they hadn't been much more than fifty. My first day of school, and three years later, Carl's. The two of us with Grandpa Reece at a Cardinals game, Carl clutching his
glove. Over the years, he'd collected enough foul balls to fill a shelf in his office.

A newspaper clipping of opening day at Jimmy's Pantry. In one photo, a row of eager adults posed at the kitchen window, ready to serve the first meals. Another showed a long line of men, women, and children outside the Cathedral's side door, as Terry Stinson studied his watch and waited for the five o'clock dinner bell.

Terry, tall and thin, a grin on his homely face. Next to him stood a small woman, her hair long, straight, and blond.

The caption confirmed what her eyes told mine: Peggy Manning.

Other pages told of the free clinics the Grace House community had worked to establish in the Central District, with partner groups, including the local chapter of the Black Panthers; a grant to expand the Montessori school; and later, a national award for work with the HIV/AIDS foundation. An editorial about the Archbishop of Seattle's decision to withhold half his income tax to protest the country's nuclear deterrence policy, symbolized by weapons stockpiled in Puget Sound. For his pastoral leadership, the bishop had his wages garnished by the IRS and suffered through a years-long Vatican investigation.

I browsed pages of clippings and photos, rallies for this cause, that protest, this candidate.

But no more mention of Peggy.

Then, as the headlights whizzed by on the soon-to-be-demolished Viaduct, I came across a page I couldn't explain.

Holy coriander
.

In 1985, a man named Roger Russell was killed in a shoot-out in a wealthy neighborhood north of the university. Apparently the homeowner—Walter Strasburg, a computer whiz consulting with the government on code for its nuclear subs—had come home unexpectedly to find Russell destroying his
computers. Strasburg had dug a gun out of the bedroom closet. Russell had pulled one, too. An explosion created a cloud of debris and confusion, and the two men shot each other to death.

According, at least, to the sole eyewitness, Strasburg's ten-year-old son.

My hand flew to my mouth.

The door opened. “Honey, we're home!” Ben called, his tone light and teasing. Dog claws tapped across the floor, and Arf gave me the “time for treats” look.

I pointed to the laptop, unsure if I could speak. “I need you to find an obituary. Walter Strasburg. June 1985.” I spelled the name, then grabbed Arf's treat jar off the counter. The lid finally popped off, and a pawful of liver chews fell on the floor. I didn't bother to pick up the extras, instead stumbling past man and dog into the bathroom. I threw cold water on my face. Buried my damp face in my damp hands, pressed the heels into my eyes. Raised my face to the mirror, spread my fingers, and stared at my horrified self.

My mother had mentioned Roger last night, and he'd obviously been close to Peggy. Had he killed the man in some kind of protest? Why had she kept the clipping all these years?

After a few moments, my heartbeat slowed and I returned to the living room, a towel around my neck. Ben had settled on the couch, and I sat next to him, one leg tucked under me. Wordlessly, he handed me the laptop, then picked up the album lying on my packing crate coffee table, open to the clipping that had stunned me.

The obituary shed no light on Walter Strasburg's death. It described his childhood in Seattle and his passion for electronics, extolling his achievements as a computer genius of the type Seattle is famous for—bits and bytes of code that changed the world. He'd been a Little League coach, a budding philanthropist, a son, a husband, a father.

Survived
, it read,
by his wife, Elizabeth, and two sons, Brian and David
.

My mother's clipping had not named the young eyewitness.

But I knew Brian Strasburg. As the HR manager responsible for staff, I'd been the one to console legal assistants left in tears after his tirades. The one who'd counseled him on adopting milder manners, often ending up close to tears myself.

Ben studied me, questions on his face.

“Brian Strasburg was a lawyer at my old firm. Hard-nosed, difficult. Some of the staff loved him, others hated him.”

“Was he part of the downfall?” Ben scratched Arf behind the ears.

“Surprisingly, no. Two senior partners deliberately withheld information in a med mal case, and the court levied huge sanctions on the firm—half a million dollars. Then it came out that the IT director had embezzled two and a half million. Almost overnight, the firm dissolved, and the lawyers started teaming up. Strasburg offered me a job, but I'd already decided to buy the Spice Shop.”

“No regrets?”

“Not one.” I sipped my water. “He'd been married to another partner. They had a kid. She divorced him and left the firm, long before it blew up. I always thought she was too nice for him. Now I'm wondering whether it doesn't all trace back to Grace House. To 1985.”

“Pepper, you can't say—”

“Yes, I can. I don't remember Roger Russell, but my mother referred to Peggy and Roger, and she kept this clipping. It's gotta be the same guy. Maybe Roger went off the rails. Maybe no one knew what he had planned. But if they didn't know, then they failed him
and
themselves. Not to mention the Strasburgs. By not living up to their own code
of making the world a better, safer place through nonviolence and
community
.”

“I think you're being too hard on them. And on yourself.”

I sank onto the bench in front of the middle window, made of reclaimed wood found in the building. Below the seats, bookcases held my treasured volumes:
Anne of Green Gables
. The Little House books. Remnants of an innocent time.

“So what does this have to do with Peggy?” I mused.

“Why do you think it has anything to do with her? The article doesn't mention anyone but Russell.” Ben clicked off the laptop and slid it into its case. “I hate to leave you alone with all this running through your head, but it's getting late, and I've got to be in Olympia at eight o'clock. Fact-finding hearing on highway infrastructure.” He rolled his eyes.

“You? You're the food and fun guy.”

“Except when the government reporter goes on vacation and the editor drafts me. If I get a chance, I'll dig a little deeper into all this, but Pepper . . .”

I cupped his cheek and jaw in my hand. He'd wanted to talk about our relationship, and instead I'd stumbled deeper into a family crisis. “Thank you. All this work and you might not even get a story out of it.”

“I got a great dinner and an evening with a woman I'm very fond of. How about a kiss for dessert?”

Dessert. I'd left the Turkish delight in the kitchen. I kissed him. Seattle delight.