Killing Thyme (14 page)

I was fishing. Sometimes, like the fisherman I'd met on Sunday, who talked of ghost nets and traps, you catch more than you expect.

And sometimes, as the roar from the radio made clear, you strike out.

Time waits for no one, and it won't wait for me.

—Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, “Time Waits for No One”

“Which one did Glenn pick?” Sandra asked the next morning when I set out the jars of steak rubs.

“Not telling. You think he's got better taste than I do.”

“Well, he's married to Nate, and you're not.”

I rolled my eyes. Then, a hand on her arm, I plunged in. “My mother told me about Paul. I'm so sorry.” This wasn't the time to say,
And I'm sorry you felt you could tell everyone but me . . . “
The test results?”

Her whole body breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. They came back good. But they can't figure out what's causing the pain, so he's going back in later this week. I need Thursday afternoon off.”

When life hands you trouble, it never checks first to see if this is a good time. “Sure. Take all the time you need.”

“Just keep me busy, to take my mind off all the scary possibilities.”

“Then you're in luck. Besides the cocoa rubs, we're launching Project Hibiscus.” I filled her in. “Cayenne's raring to go.
Anything's game—a rub for beef and pork, a drink mix, sorbet. Salad dressing. Focus on local produce and fresh herbs. We'll make recipe cards for customers and vendors.”

“You got it, boss,” she said, and I hoped the prospect of experimentation would keep her mind off her fears for Mr. Right.

Fat chance.

A few minutes before we opened, my jeweler friend rattled the front door, her photographer neighbor behind her. I let them in, their anxious faces giving my hands the shakes.

“Has something happened?”

“No.” The jeweler's pale yellow '76 T-bird earrings swayed. “The detectives interviewed us again, but nobody's telling us anything. We were hoping you know what's going on.”

“Wish I did,” I said as Sandra handed them each a cup of tea. Hot or cold, it does soothe the nerves. “But I doubt they think Bonnie's murder has anything to do with the Market.”

“How can you be sure?” the photographer said. “The pasta seller saw you take off with the Market Master and that detective. Tracy. I always want to call him Dick, but it's Mike, right?”

“Or Michael, though plenty of people do call him dick and not with a capital D.” I shivered, remembering what we'd found in the locker. “This may sound weird, but did Bonnie ever say anything about me?”

The photographer's brow furrowed. “No.”

“Now that you mention it,” the jeweler said slowly, “you came through one time, the way you do. She was next to me that day, and I was going to introduce you, but she got all busy unpacking stuff and didn't hear me. You left, and I glanced over, and she was standing there, watching you, a big clay platter clutched to her chest.”

Like the one that killed her.

“What were you worried about, Peggy?” I said, as if to her spirit. “Why were you afraid of me?”

“Peggy?” the jeweler asked.

“Bonnie's real name,” I said. “Or at least, the name she used when my mother knew her, when I was a kid.”

They made faces of surprise but quickly recovered to pepper me with questions. When they left a few minutes later, they seemed relieved.

Business buzzed along steadily all morning. When Cayenne's customer asked sourcing questions, I stepped in, to the customer's amusement.

“I can't believe you're named Pepper and Cayenne.” She handed me her platinum American Express card.

Cayenne ran a bag of Aleppo pepper through the sealer. “Nobody ever thinks this is my real name that I was born with, but it is. My grandparents came from New Iberia, Louisiana, and my granddaddy worked in the Tabasco plant. They moved up here when he got a job at Boeing, when my mom was little, and they all missed the smell.”

Everyone within earshot laughed. “The moment you introduced yourself,” I said, “I knew you were destined to work here. Whether your parents named you, or you chose it.” I handed the customer her shopping bags, each stuffed, and thanked her. Reed held the front door.

“Why do you suppose Peggy changed her name to Bonnie?” Cayenne said.

“I changed my last name when I married Mr. Wrong, and it bugged me to pieces,” Sandra said. “I don't know how you could change your first name. Your name is your identity.”

I reshelved the pepper and paprika, careful of alphabetical order. “This has been my name since I was three. It feels like my real name, like who I am.”

“What's on your driver's license?” she demanded.

“That's for me to know and you to forget about.”

“You were a little kid when you got your nickname. That's how you think of yourself. How everybody thinks of you.” The last pot of thyme had gotten scraggly, and Kristen
tucked it behind the counter, out of sight. “Even if your parents wouldn't let you change it legally.”

So long ago, I'd nearly forgotten about that argument. The summer we turned twelve.
Nineteen eighty-five.

“Well, what is it?” Sandra said, gaze darting between us.

“You tell her,” Kristen warned, “and you'll never hear the end of it.”

“A girl needs her secrets, don't you think?” I picked up a shaker-top jar that had strayed from its shelf, and closed the subject. But I knew we hadn't heard the last of Sandra's curiosity.

After lunch, I packed up my samples and my lecture notes, put on my lucky pink shoes, and headed for my weekly gig teaching the food service students about spicery. I was eager to talk marjoram, not murder, basil, not bracelets. To do my small part to help the students reach their dreams.

Flavor as public service.

I set my samples on the tasting table at the front of the classroom and, for the next hour, talked flavor, storage, blends, and extractions. I doled out bits of history: how ancient traders spun tales of mythical birds building nests of cinnamon on impossible-to-reach mountains, to keep their sources secret and prices high. The desire for spice stoked the Age of Exploration, sparking wars and colonial strife. In medieval times, herbal healers were highly valued—I invoked the sainted name of Brother Cadfael—only to have that knowledge decimated by centuries of European witch hunts. Students tasted, compared, opined. I passed out sticks of cinnamon and cassia, and we discussed the evocative power of spice and the relationship of scent to memory.

“It's just salt.” A thirtyish man with a wispy blond goatee stared at my tasting table and the open jars of salt—crystal, flake, and granulated. Next to them sat bowls of peppers and bags of bay leaf, basil, and thyme. He waved a hand over the lot.

“You don't need to understand it all now,” I said. “Just be aware of the main characteristics and flavors so you can follow your chef's orders.”

“It's just SALT.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His arms began to swing, and his torso swayed. His face reddened as his movements picked up speed.

“Hey, man. Don't sweat it.” The calm words came from a black man in his fifties, whose questions had shown genuine interest and a fair amount of kitchen savvy. “Step by step, buddy, remember? We're all in this together.”

“It's JUST SALT.” The wispy man tore off his white jacket—students all wear standard kitchen clothing, a sign of their new path—and flung it at me. I caught the crumpled bundle before it landed on the samples. He glowered and charged out of the classroom.

My fingers shook as I scrolled down my notes, wondering where I'd left off.

“You were saying how some flavors balance and some compete,” the man who'd tried to calm the distraught student said. His gentle tone worked on me, too.

“That's right. Thank you. We talked about the five tastes: salty, sweet . . .” They joined in and repeated the rest: “bitter, sour, savory.”

And off we went, discussing how herbs and spices could be used to balance the tastes of various foods and how to combine them. Their classmate's departure had sharpened their focus, as if his meltdown exposed their vulnerability. I struggled with my own balance: give them enough info to pique their curiosity, but not enough to spin their heads. They deserved my full attention. It wasn't their fault that one of their classmates couldn't handle the pressure.

It was mine. I'd worried about sending the innocent Mary Jean into the lion's den, and I was the one who got bearded.

“You've been a great class. Now for a treat, combining the
spice lecture and the talk on chocolate.” I wound through the group, passing out salted dark chocolate–covered caramels. “Take a nibble. Taste how the sweet and bitter come together in the chocolate, how those flavors complement the caramel. Then, when you get that first hint of salt, notice what happens in your mouth.”

They grew quiet, faces thoughtful as they identified the flavors and textures. Some were naturals; others were just discovering good food; and yet others chose the program for its job opportunities. All good reasons. The rattle in my chest left by the earlier disruption had eased. I watched with nervous anticipation as the chocolate worked its magic, bringing all we'd talked about to one delicious moment.

“At this point, they all get a little overwhelmed,” my staff minder said after class ended, when he came in to help me pack my samples. “Happens in every group, though you can never predict which students will boil over.”

But I was supposed to be the HR whiz. The woman who could spot a problem before it ripened into crisis, who could salve a temper before it erupted.

Who could keep an employee—or a student, or a friend—from spur-of-the-moment rash actions that had long-running consequences. But I couldn't shake the impression that I'd blown it. Kristen and my mother were keeping their distance. Sandra had chosen to confide in others. And I had no idea how I felt about Ben, let alone how to talk with him about it.

So much for my communication skills, and my lucky pink shoes.

I dragged myself out, stopping by the office to thank the director for giving Mary Jean a go. And to check on another project. “I know him as Hot Dog. Black, fortyish, wiry. A former boxer with sweet manners.”

“I know the man you mean. He came to an information
meeting, but he didn't take an application. And he hasn't come back.”

My dejection must have shown. The director came out from behind her desk and put her hand on my shoulder.

“Pepper, it's a reality of this business. You can't help everyone. You can't solve everyone's problems.”

Cardamom
. I couldn't even solve my own.

Beyond lay Cadfael's herb garden, walled and silent, all its small, square beds already falling asleep, naked spears of mint left standing stiff as wire, cushions of thyme flattened to the ground, crouching to protect their remaining leaves, yet over all a faint surviving fragrance of the summer's spices.

—Ellis Peters,
The Raven in the Foregate

“Looking for something in particular?” I asked a woman staring at the wall of spices.

“Oh no. Just killing time.”

It's only an expression, but it's always irritated me. Time is not meant to be killed. It's meant to be savored. Relished. Celebrated. Because it's gone before you know it, like Bonnie Clay's time on this earth.

I struggled to keep my pleasant retail smile in place. I struggled to keep my inner turmoil from spilling out and flooding the shop, washing away hard-won camaraderie and goodwill.

To keep from feeling like a total muck-up.

“Let us know what we can help you find,” I said, before I said something I might regret.

I'd half expected Kristen to cancel Movie Night after the
theft. And the murder. And the widening chasm between us. But no. “See you at six thirty,” she said, and waved good-bye with the end of her scarf.

You don't have to go
, I told myself. You don't have to go back to that house, to sit in the elegant home theater that had replaced the dark, dank “rec room” carved out of the basement, between the laundry and a spare bedroom that made me shiver with cold and damp.

After the near-disaster at Changing Courses, order maintained largely by the steady hand of a student—for whom I predicted a successful career—I longed to go home and curl up on my couch. Under a blankie, despite the heat. I was trying to do too much, and doing none of it well.

Keep calm and carry on
, I told myself as the last employee waved good night.

And walk my dog. We wrapped up the closing routine, locked the door behind us, and took the long way home. Then I fetched the car. Drove up to Capitol Hill and squeezed into a parking spot a block from Kristen's house.

Because inviting as my couch might be, deep down there was nothing I would rather do on a Tuesday night than gather with my girlfriends to eat, chat, drink, and pretend to watch a movie.

Make that girlfriends plus one. Across the street, my mother climbed out of Carl's car.

“What's tonight's feature?” She slipped her arm through mine, and we picked our way down the sidewalk, the concrete heaved and cracked by tree roots. “Another of Kristen's romantic comedies?”

“I wouldn't be surprised if she makes us suffer through some artsy, broody film noir.” Last time she'd been in a mood, she'd picked a Ben Kingsley movie,
House of Sand and Fog
. Girl doesn't open her mail; everybody dies. She thought it brilliant and provocative. I'd had to cleanse my palate with
The Princess Bride
.

My mother groaned. “It's genetic. Her mother adored Ingmar Bergman. How can the Scandinavians create such bright fabrics and such depressing movies?”

“And now they're writing depressing mysteries. Jen at the Mystery Bookshop tried to get me to read a couple, but I couldn't finish 'em. If I wanted pages full of angst, I'd reread my teenage diaries.”

“Now you know why I love historicals. Life could be harsh, and people haven't changed a whole lot. But reality is easier to take when it's dressed in period clothing.” She raved about her latest finds.

We started up Kristen's brick walkway. I dragged my feet. “Mom, the other night, I found—”

“Great timing,” Laurel called.

Not exactly.
The moment vanished in the flurry of hugs and introductions.

I had one foot on the bottom step when Seetha grabbed my hand. “I was hoping she'd come,” she whispered. “I'm so excited to meet her.”

“I was hoping she wouldn't,” I whispered back. “So we could talk about her.”

“Kristen's done a wonderful job,” my mother said as the four of us headed inside. “A picture-perfect family haven. But the old place had its charms, didn't it, Pepper?”

“If it did, I've forgotten what they were.” Gleaming woodwork, Persian rugs, and an artful mix of abstract paintings, family photos, and grade school artwork will do that.

She made an exasperated sound and headed for the kitchen, lured by Kristen's welcoming call. I trailed behind, wondering if the walls knew the secrets that would solve Bonnie's murder.

And told myself,
No
. Firmly, emphatically,
No
. I was keeping my nose in my own business tonight.

I followed the others downstairs.

“
Casablanca
again?” Laurel pretended exasperation. The choice was a clue to Kristen's stress, the kind of movie we were allowed to watch as kids. Classic film is her comfort food, like popcorn to my neighbor Glenn, and mac and cheese to me.

“It cheers me up,” Kristen said. “After the theft, I need cheering up.”

“Theft?” Seetha said. Laurel shot me a questioning look. In all the other turmoil, I'd forgotten to mention the bracelet. Kristen filled them in.

Seetha's naturally red lips made an O. “One of your friends stole your heirloom? On the tour?”

“I'm still trying to figure out if it is an heirloom. I don't remember it. Do you, Lena?” Kristen said. Her blond ponytail swung, held by a silver butterfly clasp.

“The bracelet? No, I have no idea where it came from.”

“Round up the usual suspects.” An antique oak sideboard held a tray of champagne cocktails. I picked up a flute, a raspberry in the bottom, and ignored my mother's glare. One of the things I like about being a grown-up is playing the smart aleck whenever I want.

But even at forty-three, I can feel my mother's disapproval like a cold hand on my shoulder.

“Do the police have any suspects yet on the theft?” Seetha asked. “Or the murder?”

Kristen's eyes flicked toward me.

“You all keep telling me this is dangerous, leave it to the police, yada yada, then you want me to investigate, and pester me to tell you what I've found out.” I picked up a plate and spooned up a too-large serving of Laurel's black bean and pasta salad, redolent with herbs. Felt my mother's eyes on me. Felt all their eyes on me. Felt a sharp stabbing behind my jaw, right below my ear. I picked up my glass and plopped into one of the red leather chairs facing the screen. “Isn't it movie time?”

The champagne kicked in, and for the next hour and a half, we sang the songs and recited the best lines in a movie packed with great lines. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” we chimed, and I heard it as a comment on coincidence and fate.

“Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By,'” we said along with Ilsa.

And I thought about what we owe the past.

When the camera panned the crowd at Rick's singing “La Marseillaise,” the diamonds glinting in Rick's sometime-girlfriend Yvonne's ears reminded me of Kristen's missing bracelet.

Apparently they reminded her, too. She grabbed the remote and hit pause, and the movie screeched to a black-and-white halt.

She stood in front of me. “The bracelet is connected to Bonnie's murder. I'm sure of it.”

A chill passed through me, and not from the basement or the champagne. “How you can be sure? You don't know where it came from.”

“I'm sure it wasn't a family piece. I've pored over those albums, and I didn't spot it in a single photograph. If my grandmother had lost that bracelet, I'd have heard stories. And if my mother had inherited it, she wouldn't have lost it. She'd have sold it to pay our school tuition, or the orthodontist.”

“Okay.” I leaned forward and set my glass on the table. “But what makes you think the bracelet has anything to do with Bonnie?”

“I think Bonnie stole it and got killed for it.” At Kristin's words, my mother gasped.

“Why would she take it?” Laurel tucked a strand of her long gray-brown curls behind her ear. “She came to the party in a T-shirt and an old peasant skirt, wearing Birkenstocks.
She looked like the last person who cared about fancy jewelry.”

I got to my feet and started to circle the room. “You haven't seen her pottery. She loved beautiful things. Kristen may be right about a connection, but who would have known she took the bracelet? She was killed only a few hours later.” And there had been no sign of a struggle. Had Hannah gone to the studio to confront her about the lease, seen the bracelet, and taken it, with deadly consequences?

Or had Bonnie come home and found Hannah waiting?

None of that made any sense.

“You think the thief was someone who knew the house in the old days. Who stayed here sometimes.”

Kristen nodded.

“Someone who knew about that bracelet.” I glanced from her to my mother and back. “Did Bonnie—Peggy, whoever she is, or was—leave boxes stored in the basement?”

“No idea. No one had been in the storage room for decades.” Kristen described digging through box after box, most of them unmarked, all of them filthy. The clothing had gone to rag recycling, except for a few vintage pieces the girls had claimed, including a leather jacket that fit Mariah. Few other items had been salvageable.

My mother said nothing.

“The bracelet is the MacGuffin,” Laurel announced.

I turned to her, slowly, deliberately, annoyed by the non sequitur. “And what, pray tell, is that, and why does it matter now?”

“It's a plot device. It drives the story, but it also distracts the characters and the audience from what the story's actually about. I wouldn't have thought of it if we weren't watching Bogart.” She scooted forward in her seat, launching into lecture mode. “The classic example is
The
Maltese Falcon
. I learned about it when Gabe wrote a paper comparing
Hammett's book and Huston's film. The story isn't about the search for the Falcon. Just like this isn't about the bracelet.”

“Oh, right,” Seetha said. “They kill for the bird, because they think it's valuable. They want the prestige of owning it, or to sell it for megabucks. The bird is a symbol of their greed.”

And only Sam Spade could see it. Like maybe I was the only person who could weave all the threads together in a pattern that made sense. I waited for the telltale pain in my jaw, the pain that told me I was listening to others instead of myself.

It didn't come.

“What we don't know is what really drove Bonnie,” I said.

“Or her killer,” Laurel added.

Footsteps upstairs signaled the return of Eric and the girls. No one said a word about finishing the movie. We all knew how it ended, and the thrill was gone.

“It's still the same old story. A fight for love and glory . . .” I sang almost to myself, and I drained my champagne.

Outside on the sidewalk, my mother kissed my cheek, keys in hand. I reached out and touched her arm.

“Mom. I found the album. I saw the newspaper clipping from 1985, about the attack on Mr. Strasburg and Roger Russell's death. That's why we left this house, isn't it?”

She gave me a long look, her wide brown eyes studying the hazel ones I'd inherited from my father. She sagged against the giant maple in the parking strip, between the sidewalk and the street.

“Why didn't you tell us?”

“You were children.” Her head snapped up, and she spoke sharply. “We had an obligation to protect you from things you weren't old enough to understand. Things we barely understood.”

“We haven't been children for a long time.”

“Pepper, please. It's late and I'm tired.”

It was barely nine o'clock, and my mother is a night owl.

“Mom, I understand this is hard. Things you'd rather forget come roaring back, and you don't know why, and it hurts all over again. But tell me this much. What did Bonnie have to do with the Strasburg incident?”

Her lips tightened, and she stared into the past. “I wish I knew, Pepper. I wish I knew.”