Killing Thyme (22 page)

“White SUV,” Tracy said, taking the ticket. “That narrows it down.”

“It actually might,” Spencer said. “The vehicle Mr. Adams saw hit the street sign was a white SUV. I'll see if CSU can get a paint sample.” She picked up her cell and stepped to the corner of the room.

I wondered what Hannah drove.

“So many threads here,” Tracy said, “I hardly know where to start. You do weave a tangled web, Ms. Reece.”

My mother had insisted we bring a box of baby cinnamon
rolls. I pushed them closer to him. A combination peace offering and sabotage for his diet.

“Start by explaining how you tracked down the elusive Hannah Hart,” Spencer said.

“Used the artists' grapevine.” The cinnamon and sugar scent got to me, and I took a napkin and a roll from the box. “You remember my former employee Tory Finch. She has a friend who has a friend who knew—but Hannah blew us off.”

Their faces told me they hadn't been able to catch up with her, either.

“In this business,” Detective Washington said, his tone level, his gaze locked on my mother, “you learn fast that when people avoid you, it usually means they have something to hide.”

“We told you everything we knew—the detectives on the case, I mean. It was long before any of you were on the force,” my mother said.

“Not true, ma'am,” Washington said. “I was a young patrol officer. I responded to the scene at the Strasburg home, and I assisted the detectives with their inquiries.”

“It was a tragedy. And I have always regretted”—she took my hand and squeezed it, then focused on the big detective—“that we were not able to prevent it. That's the real reason the Grace House community fell apart. We did not know what Roger and Peggy were planning. We thought she'd been killed in the explosion. We—” She broke off, her cheekbones damp.

She told them what she'd told us last night, how the rest of the group had been kept in the dark. How angry they'd been at their friends for the murderous betrayal, for killing in the name of justice. “By that point, Roger and Peggy were on the periphery. He still worked in the Pantry, and she worked in the day care, but they rarely came to community dinners or meetings. I don't remember where they lived—”

“In a basement apartment in Ballard,” Washington said.

“—or what other jobs they held. We broke up the household—Ellen and Greg, and Chuck and I—not because
of any disagreement between the four of us, but because we realized it had become a lie. We started with good intentions, and I think we truly did share the same values and philosophy. But over time, we grew apart. We lost focus. Too many people came and went, working on a pet project for a few months, but never committing. We weren't a community anymore.”

“Ms. Manning never contacted you? None of you ever suspected she'd survived?” Washington pressed harder.

“I can only speak for Chuck—my husband—and me. We had no idea. But I don't believe the others knew, either.”

“And yet, apparently, she snuck back into the house and hid the bracelet,” Tracy said. “Before she took off for parts unknown.”

Mom's chair squeaked as she rocked, her lips tight. “I never had any reason to tell anyone this until last night, when I told my children.” She told them about the driver's licenses and the explosives, the anger and suspicion. It was a long story, and an emotional one, but she powered through, determined to end the lies and the secrets.

You could have heard a pin drop.

She gripped the arms of her chair and sat up straight. “What else did she do in my name? Who else did she harm?”

So much for trusting the Universe.

Detective Washington set his coffee on the table and broke the silence. “If you truly didn't know she'd survived, then you have no reason to feel guilty for anything she did.”

My mother leaned forward. “Do not mistake my anger for guilt, Detective. I am no guiltier than anyone in this room. We were betrayed. We built a community based on trust, on good works, on radical hospitality, and we were betrayed. There has never been a day in my life since June of 1985 that I have not grieved for the Strasburgs, and for all of us, for what we lost. But I have never felt guilty.”

I had never heard such steel in her voice.
Go, Mom.

From her seat at the end of the table, Detective Spencer
spoke. “You won't be surprised to know that Peggy Manning was also a pseudonym. And we confirmed your suspicion—she never did officially enroll at the University. The lab ran the prints from the vase Detective Washington bought.” She pointed at a vase, ten inches high, sitting in the middle of the table, in its plastic evidence bag. The same pale green as the porcelain piece I'd seen at her stall in the Market, the same simple flute shape as the one on Sharon Stinson's desk. “And we took more prints, from her apartment, the studio, and the van. Unfortunately, as you know, prints can't give us a name unless they're already in the system.”

“Meaning—?” My mother drew out the word, sentence unfinished.

“Meaning,” I said, “that we might never know who she really was.”

“We do have a couple of leads, from the FBI,” Spencer continued. “The most promising is an heiress from Connecticut who went missing in 1968. She'd been involved in the antiwar movement, with a group best known for a series of bombings. After an accidental explosion that killed two of their members, the group splintered. One faction continued setting bombs but focused on property damage. They even sent out warnings, to limit the risk of injury.”

My mother's mouth fell open, her posture rigid. “So it was Peggy who took the explosives. Not Roger.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, the gaps between her words filled with pain. “Detectives, you have to believe—we never had any idea that she knew the first thing about explosives.”

Washington broke the silence. “The explosion was so loud, it rocked houses on the other side of the lake. It flattened two-thirds of the Strasburg house, took out half the house to the north, and knocked down the garage on the south side.”

And yet, a woman and two young boys had survived. Miracles do happen.

Beside me, my mother breathed in large gulps of air.

“Some people”—Spencer opened a folder—“are too extreme for the extremists.” She laid a photograph from the FBI files in front of us.

Déjà vu all over again. Beside me, at the sight of young Peggy—or whoever she was—my mother breathed in sharply.

“Whoever she was,” Tracy said, “that bracelet pretty much proves her involvement in the Strasburg murder. What puzzles me is why take it, then stash it in the house?”

My mother shook her head, baffled. “No idea.”

“One of the quirks of the community,” I said, “was a fervid antimaterialism. As if the older our couch and the more secondhand clothing we wore, the better. Style was too—I don't know, middle class. Sorry, Mom.”

She smiled wryly, no humor in it. “The simple life, gone too far. It sounds so judgmental now.”

“And it backfired. Five kids in the house, and we're all chronic collectors and remodelers. Oh. You said she was an heiress.” I reached for the vase, the plastic crinkling as I turned it over to point to the double diamonds on the bottom. “Jewelry, wasn't it?”

Spencer nodded.

I remembered my first thought when I saw her work and read her name. I remembered my mother's comment that Peggy always seemed to want one thing and choose another. “She wanted a simpler beauty. Her name betrays her. Bonnie Clay. Pretty Pots.”

A wave of sadness rippled through me, to think that her true name and fate might never be known.

Who were you, Bonnie Pretty Pots? Why did you always need to leave?

And why did you come back to us?

You owe it to us all to get on with what you're good at.

—W. H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood,
The Ascent of F6: A Tragedy in Two Acts

“Pepper, slow down.”

Hard to do with a full head of steam. And I was steamed. Ticked. Mad as a wet hen. Pick your metaphor, it fit.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Secrets, Mom. I am so sick of secrets. I've done little but deal with all this the last twenty-four hours, and I can't hold it in anymore.”

“So much about parenting is a judgment call. You do your best, and then you wonder, and worry.”

“Don't play the parent card, Mom. That was a long time ago. You never thought, in all those years, that maybe you should tell us? It changed our lives, too.” Even though we didn't know all the details or remember all the players. It's emotional memory—you remember that something went wrong, that you were hurt, and if you don't know why, you try to work out the reason. As often as not, you're wrong.

“It never came up, until last night.”

“It came up last week.”

We were standing on one of the patches of purple glass
prism lights that dot the sidewalks near Pioneer Square, skylights for the basements that had been street level before the regrade after the Great Fire of 1889. We were standing on the sidewalk barking at each other.

“Pepper, I'm sorry. This whole thing is a mess that won't go away. I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner, and I'm sorry I disappointed you. I need to be alone for a while. Go back to your shop and do what you do well.”

Ah, but what was that?

I watched her walk away, feeling lower than a toadstool's back end, to quote my grandfather Reece. I hated arguing with my mother even more than I hated behaving badly in public. More than I hated being kept in the dark.

Her small figure got smaller in the distance. I understood she hadn't wanted to think about the past. It was a troubling time. She wasn't proud of it. Who among us doesn't have a moment—or several—like that?

I aimed north, hugging myself as I walked. The problem—the reason I was having trouble forgiving both myself and her—was that when facts are doled out piecemeal, one at a time, you form an impression, and in two shakes, you have to change it. Like putting together a puzzle of a cat, then getting a piece that convinces you it's a dog. Or an umbrella.

It seemed probable that Bonnie—Peggy, or whatever her name was—had gathered the explosives and hidden them in the garage. But while my mother was adamant that they had been disposed of—legally, she insisted—it was obvious that Bonnie had kept another stash. A small one, but big enough to do serious damage.

Big enough, my mother had believed all these years, to have killed her.

“You thought they were fireworks?” I'd said, in the detectives' conference room. “And then, you think your friend is killed in an explosion and you never make the connection?”

“We had no reason,” she insisted. “It was months earlier.
There were ancient sparklers and smoke bombs and all kinds of fireworks, from when they were legal. Why would we have thought Bonnie had a private stash? Or kept it at Grace House, where she never lived?”

And, in fact, Bonnie had not been killed. Now she was dead, and we didn't know why. Finding out mattered more than my childish pout over truth withheld. Although that mattered, too—because it forced me to rethink who I was, and where I'd come from.

But then, that's how we figure out who we are, and where we're going.

*   *   *

The shop was buzzing.

Actually, it was the phone in my pocket. Lesson learned, I pulled it out and read Tory's text:
Call me X2
.

Meaning call me on the double, or that she had two things to tell me?

A low moan came from behind the front counter. I circled around and crouched to pet my sweet dog. “Sorry, buddy. Some places, you can't go.” Police headquarters chief among them.

Then why would you want to go there?
his soft brown eyes said.

Good question.

Cayenne had only worked here two months, but the place felt empty without her. It was not empty, thank goodness. Sandra and Reed worked behind the counter, he taking orders and ringing them up, she weighing and bagging. Matt had the day off, and Kristen worked the floor, answering questions, making suggestions. She appeared to be back in full form, if a little less sparkly than usual, and tossed me a tired but friendly smile. “We'll talk,” I mouthed, and she nodded.

In my office, I tossed my tote under the desk and dug out
my phone. It doesn't do any good to read texts when they come in if you ignore them.

Tory's message begged for voice-to-voice contact.

“Jade ran into a friend at the art supply,” Tory told me. “He said Hannah is house-sitting near Seward Park. Water views and room to paint. What's not to love?”

“So why'd she blow us off? What's she afraid of?”

“Don't know. That's your job, Ms. Detective. Speaking of detectives, Spencer came by and quizzed me this morning, when I was out on the sidewalk painting. Can you believe, she bought one of my abstract oils? From the Spice Shop series.”

“She's got good taste.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Anyway, she wanted to know everything I knew about Hannah Hart, which wouldn't fill a saltshaker. But that was before Jade texted, so I didn't know where Hannah was then. I should call and tell her, shouldn't I?”

“'Fraid so. But I wouldn't mind if you got tied up for a while.”

A pregnant pause. “Well, it is tourist season. The gallery's busy, and I'm here alone today.”

But before I took my dog and went prowling around Seward Park, I had another stop to make.

No fancy art cars out front this time, and no baby ballerinas. The noon rush had ended, and I parked in front of the bakery. Across the street, Mr. Adams's house stood silent behind the yew hedge. Arf and I climbed the broken steps. (“He won't let us fix them,” Cayenne had told me at the hospital, “so no one will think he has anything to steal. Funny thing is, he doesn't.”)

It all looked so
normal
.

Arf and I walked through a gate in the weathered wooden fence closed by a simple finger latch. The backyard was a haven. On one side of the steps, fragrant tea roses hid the house's foundation. On the other side grew hydrangeas, their
flowers giant blue puffballs. Along the back fence, blackberry blossoms promised jam. A strawberry bed nearly drew me off course.

The light over the door still burned, a clear glass fixture accented by copper bands. The line between vintage and dated can be subjective, but I put the fixture on the far side of desirable. Still, it cast enough light for Mr. Adams to tee off on his attacker.

Torn leaves and petunia blossoms lay on the back steps, surrounded by dark brown potting soil and shards from a deep red ceramic planter. The glass in the lower half of the back door had been spidered by the impact of the old man's skull as he went down.

I dropped Arf's leash and scooped up the remains with my bare hands, depositing the dirt in another planter and the broken bits in the trash bin near the back gate. The gray plastic hose reel had tipped over, probably in the tussle. I righted it, then hosed off the steps and watered the other planters and the vegetables.

The old man had lived. No reason his sweet corn should die while he recovered.

I rewound the hose. As I maneuvered the rig into place, a glint caught my eye. I bent down to pick it up, snatching my fingers back just in time.

“Sit,” I told Arf. “Stay.” I closed the gate and hustled across the street to the bakery, where I begged a clean, clear plastic bag. Back in the yard, I used the bag as a glove and picked up the brass round, about the size of a quarter, attached to a scrap of striped ribbon.

I sat on the concrete stoop and peered through the clear plastic. Curved letters beneath a figure and a pair of crossed swords read
FOR SERVICE IN IRAQ
. Dirt obscured the other side.

Not stolen from the shrine inside—too new. Had the
attacker lost this? How else could it have landed here, in this small, well-tended space?

Mr. Adams had been attacked because Bonnie's killer believed he'd seen something. The murder was connected to the bracelet theft.

Who was connected to all three crimes, who might have lost this memento?

We left the way we'd come. Arf kept his thoughts to himself, as usual, but mine were a mix of sadness that Mr. Adams's sweet oasis had been violated and determination that it not be in vain.

Revenge may be sweet, but violence is always in vain.

*   *   *

“He just left,” the counter girl told me. Today's musical selection had a Latin beat. “He's catering a bridal shower luncheon over by Lake Washington. He should be back by three. Unless he kills the bride and gets arrested.” She blanched, then flushed. “I shouldn't joke like that.”

“No problem. Hey, I've got some finishing salt he wanted—for this job, I think. I need to catch him.”

“Hang on.” She zipped to the kitchen window, consulted the schedule, and gave me the address. Not a sign of good retail training, but I wasn't going to complain.

“One more thing,” I said. “Hannah been by lately?”

“Practically every day. Good thing he's out—last time she came in, he threatened to call the cops on her.”

“Whoa! She's not getting the message.”

“Some people can't let go, you know?”

“I guess. Thanks again. Hey, Sharon.” I held the door, and Terry Stinson's wife stepped in, tugging at the tight, sleeveless dress that showed off her workouts, a smudge of dirt near the hem. After seeing a picture of the young Bonnie-Peggy-whoever, I was struck again by their
resemblance, and wondered if Terry had been attracted to Sharon in part because she reminded him of his lost love.

“Uh, Pepper. Hi.” She ran her fingers along her jaw, wiping off a bit of dirt. “Thought I'd grab a cup of coffee while my daughter's in class. Join me, if you'd like.”

A polite invitation she didn't mean. “Thanks, but I gotta run. Another time?”

A few minutes later, Arf and I were zipping down Lake Washington Boulevard. The same shrubs dotted these lawns as in Mr. Adams's neighborhood—hydrangeas, syringa, and roses—but the lots were bigger, the cars newer, everything shinier. The address I'd been given had sounded familiar, but I could have sworn I didn't know anyone living down here. Too rich for my crowd.

Josh's van stood, doors open, in the driveway of a gray-brown shingle-style home from the early twentieth century, his white-clad assistant unloading trays of party fare. I parked the Mustang on the tree-lined street and trotted down the hill. Josh emerged from the side door of the home, in his usual white T-shirt and blue bandanna. Today's cotton pants looked like a cleanup rag from a paintball party. If the manicured lawns and scissored hedges were any indication of the bride's taste, he'd be changing clothes before serving lunch.

“Hey, Josh,” I called.

He tossed his clipboard aside, a wry half smile on his face. “I don't know who's worse, the brides or their mothers.”

“Hazard of the business, I'm learning. Sorry to interrupt, but I knew you'd want to know. Mr. Adams is going to be okay.” I gave him the nickel version. “His granddaughter works for me, so we're practically family.”

“Thank God.” He cast his eyes toward the cloudless sky. Farther down the hill, a stone patio jutted out behind the house, and a carpet-like lawn sloped to the lake. I gathered
this was an outdoor affair. “Lou's old-school. Happy to see retail back in the neighborhood, but not too sure about this wedding theme bit.”

“His family's not convinced the neighborhood is safe.”

“After the murder, and now this—” Josh shook his head. “I don't blame them. But shit—sorry, bad stuff happens in any part of the city.”

As the Strasburg incident demonstrated.

“Hate to bring up a sore subject, but any chance you've heard from Hannah lately?”

“No, thank God. Maybe she finally gets it. Life's crazy enough without turning yourself upside down and inside out on purpose.”

“Amen to that. I'll let you get back to work.”

“Most days, I say work is my sanity, but this woman is driving me nuts.” He gestured toward the house, then slid a tray out of the van and lifted one corner of the plastic covering. “Care for a cream puff?”

The chocolate-covered morsel was halfway to my mouth when the side door flew open and banged shut. A tall blonde shrink-wrapped in black spandex shorts and a violet halter stomped toward the van, and I knew why the address had looked familiar.

“You are not giving the help my food,” she shrieked.

I raised a hand to Josh and slunk away before she could recognize me, leaving him to deal with Bridezilla.