Killing Thyme (4 page)

“Oh, in the basement of Wedding Row. Isn't that near your studio, Bonnie? I saw the address on your card. Love those old brick buildings.”

Bonnie's gaze flicked toward Terry, then Sharon, and she took a step back.

“Time for a drink.” Kristen looped an arm through mine and led me to the bar. The scent of thyme, newly planted between the pavers, perfumed the air. I glanced over my shoulder at Bonnie, standing on the edge of the circle that had gathered around Terry and his family. He the social butterfly, she the observant artist.

Across the yard, my mother had cornered Ben at a table for two. Other mothers might quiz their daughters' dates about jobs and family, assessing security and suitability for marriage. My mother would be asking when and where he was born, looking to the stars for signs of trust and trouble. Or she might ask his Myers-Briggs personality type, or his number on the Enneagram.

I had no fear. Ben was sweet and solid, and I was less concerned about his intentions than figuring out my own. And he was laughing, a good sign.

But as long as my mother was focused on Ben, I'd have no chance to suss out the tensions between her and Bonnie.

Kristen handed me a glass of tequila-thyme lemonade.

“Oh my. Can I get this in an IV? And the yard—wow.”

We sipped our drinks. Tiny white lights sparkled in the trees, and a double strand wound its way up the thick trunk of the monkey puzzle tree. Finds from what Kristen likes to call our antiquing trips dotted the yard. Most days, it was charitable to call our excursions junking. But we had hit the mother lode a few months ago in Anacortes, including a washtub that now held bottled water and pop on ice, and a raft of Japanese glass floats we'd scattered in her flower beds. The real treasure had been a replacement samovar for the shop. With Arf along, the Mustang had already been overfull. We'd had to send Eric, Kristen's husband, and the girls up to fetch the stuff in a borrowed truck.

Across the yard, Bonnie sat on the stone wall.

“What is up with Mom and Bonnie?” I asked Kristen.

Beside me, Kristen breathed in sharply. “Remember the old saying, Pepper. Don't ask a question unless you're prepared for the answer.”

And with that, she marched off to greet a new arrival.

I chalked her reaction up to nervous tension, and grabbed a plate. A few minutes later, I joined Laurel and Seetha, seated near the rose garden. “Good job,” I told Laurel, my mouth full. “Love the black bean pasta salad. And I can't believe you put my cucumber cantaloupe salad on skewers.”

“Old catering trick,” she said. “Serve as much fork-free food as possible.”

“I'd like to share your lemon thyme cookie recipe at the shop.”

Beside her, Seetha's face lit up. “You two should write a cookbook. Recipes from Ripe and the Seattle Spice Shop.”

Before I could ask when she imagined we would find the time, Cayenne bubbled up in front of us, her hair gathered in a magnificent red-and-black lobster roll. “House tour. Wanta come?”

I'd seen it through every phase of the remodel. I'd helped pick paint colors. I'd even stumbled across the stone lions that now guard the front door, in a weed-infested lot behind a secondhand shop where Kristen had refused to venture in her white linen pants. And she didn't need any more of us clomping around the house than absolutely necessary. “You go. You'll love it.”

Ben sat beside me, and we watched my mother take Kristen's arm and move inside. To my surprise, Bonnie and Sharon brought up the rear.

I scanned him, tip to toe. “No visible grill marks.”

He grinned. “Your mother is lovely. Smart, funny—a lot like you. She's very proud of what you've done with the shop. Although she did ask me my intentions.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I intended to drink another beer.”

We mingled and chatted. I wrapped a few cookies in a napkin, for later. The summer solstice was approaching rapidly, and sunset was hours away, but a few shadows had begun to appear. Kristen's oldest pranced around the yard in a tank top and shimmery skirt, lighting candle lanterns on the tables. Give her wings and she could have been a garden fairy.

Tour over, a group of women appeared in the open French doors.

“Lovely, simply lovely,” my mother gushed to Kristen. “Who knew this old Seattle Box had so much potential? Your mother would be so pleased. So sorry your father isn't here for the party.”

“Oh, you know him. Happier on a boat than anywhere else, since Mom died. The house is kind of a memory magnet.”

“Next time, I want to see the theater in the basement,” Cayenne said. In her heeled sandals, she stood about a foot taller than Bonnie née Peggy. I was about to tell Bonnie we needed to head out—Friday night isn't Friday night when you work retail—when she spoke.

“You kids had a playroom downstairs, and there was a guest room.”

“And a cold cellar,” I said. “We locked Carl in there once.”

“I don't think anyone ever cleaned out the storerooms. All those little pack rat nooks and cubbies.” Kristen shuddered.

“Hey, did you show Mom the bracelet?” I said.

“I took it off—too heavy. Another time.”

An old neighbor approached, and it was a good fifteen minutes before I could drag myself away to find Ben.

“We'd better go. The Market will be crazy-busy tomorrow.”

But no sign of Bonnie. Sharon stood alone near the
monkey puzzle tree, its weird, wiry green branches eerily human in the fading light. A flush covered her cheeks, and if she'd been gripping her champagne flute any harder, it would have cracked in her hand.

“So nice to see you again, Sharon,” I said, and she jumped, snapping her head toward me.

“Pepper. Sorry. Daydreaming.”

Nightmaring, from the looks of it.

“Great kids you've got there.”

Her chin rose, and she drew her shoulders back, worry turning to pride. “They're everything to us. Oh, Terry. There you are.”

I followed her gaze. A stone path alongside the house led to a gate, open under a rounded arch. Terry ducked under the arch, his long face weary, and held out his hand to his wife.

“I meant to tell you, Sharon,” I said, “those are gorgeous earrings. Your husband's gift?”

“She's the kind of woman a man gives jewelry to,” he said, sounding tired but tender.

“That's because you're the kind of man who gives a woman jewelry,” she replied, her shoulders softening.

We found our passenger sitting on the front steps, arms clasped around her bent knees, her faded blue-and-white paisley skirt spread around her. Bonnie rose quickly, shoving her hands in her pockets, ready to make a getaway.

And I found myself trying to recall that old line—Shakespeare, or was it Faulkner? “The past is never dead. It isn't even past.”

It was just my imagination, runnin' away with me.

—Norman J. Whitfield and Barrett Strong, “Just My Imagination”

“Haven't seen her,” the jeweler who repurposes guitar strings and bits of painted car skin told me.

I'd have scratched my head if my hands hadn't been full of coffee, croissants, and Arf's leash. When we'd left the party last night, Bonnie had been all too ready to get home and get a good night's sleep before a busy summer Saturday in the Market.

The doll maker, the satchel seller, and the bookbinder who creates stunning leather-bound journals all agreed: Bonnie Clay had missed the mandatory roll call, and now, minutes after the opening bell, had still not shown.

“You work weekdays to be sure of a table on Saturday.” The T-shirt designer (
THERE'S NO NOOKIE LIKE CHINOOKIE
) frowned. “Nobody skips Saturday.”

Don't let last night's under-the-surface tension spill into today.
If I'd learned anything working here, it was that life in the Market is as unpredictable as the Szechuan peppercorn supply.

On the drive back to the Market where she'd left her big blue van, Ben and I had insisted Bonnie sit up front, and I'd watched from the back as she stared, wordlessly, out the window. All evening, I'd kept an eye—and ear—out for another confrontation with my mother, but the two women had barely exchanged a word.

Back on my side of the street, a customer juggled her shopping bag and sample teacup to hold the door for me, and I thanked her. The shop smelled like a pizzeria. Sounds charming, but the scents of basil, thyme, and oregano were left over from a bag of Italian blend that broke yesterday afternoon.

Spice happens.

Sandra hustled out of the back room, tying her apron strings as she walked, and I gave her the latte and croissant I'd intended for Bonnie. She said nothing about being late, and the set of her jaw said “don't ask.” So I didn't.

Midmorning, I stood on the sidewalk and scanned the artists' stalls across Pike Place, but the shoppers and sightseers blocked my view. I stepped into the street and wound my way north, past the delivery vans and trucks. Daystall locations are never guaranteed, so I stretched and peered the full length of the North Arcade.

Still no sign of her. The pricks of curiosity sharpened into worry. If Bonnie's encounter with the old crowd had thrown her off, I wanted to know. And undo the damage.

Back inside, I found her card and called her number. Voice mail.

Made another call, fingers crossed that I was fretting over nothing.

“Now that you mention it, I didn't see her this morning. She usually stops in before she heads to the Market on Saturday. But weekends are crazy here.” Josh Gibson had run the takeout for the Italian grocer in the Market until leaving last winter to start his own place down on Beacon Hill. “I'll run down and check.”

He called back five minutes later, when I was helping a customer choose a salt grinder. “You were right, Pepper.” His voice wobbled. “911 is on the way.”

*   *   *

The row of 1930s redbrick storefronts had become a destination, nicknamed “Wedding Row.” I'd met all the shopkeepers at a spring bridal fair. A florist anchored one end. One dress shop catered to the bride and bridesmaids, a second to mothers and men. Two sisters offered wedding planning, stationery, and funky gifts. And on the north, Josh's bakery–deli–catering company kept them all well-fed. Apartments occupied the second floor, and artists' studios and the ballet school filled out the basement.

I saw the police car angled across the road from a block away and circled around to approach from the other direction. Left Arf in the car and dashed across the street. (And no, convertibles aren't the safest places for dogs, but he loves it, and I always make him lie down on the backseat while I'm driving.)

In the wedding planner's front window, a display of picnic-themed gifts with an old mint green Dr Pepper cooler in the center caught my eye. I'd wanted one for ages, but it seemed beyond trivial now.

The street address I'd seen on Bonnie's card was etched in gold on a half-round window above a glass door next to Beacon Hill Bakery. But I didn't need the numbers to know this was the place. A shiny red Medic One ambulance idled in front of the building entrance, its back doors open. Maybe there was hope . . .

I stepped around the police barricade, then through the bakery door.

Inside, the hiss of the espresso machine greeted me. Half a dozen tween girls in practice leotards and stretchy shorts, their hair in ballerina buns, sipped rainbow-colored frappés
and bubble teas as they chatted. Young couples tended strollers, and the barista and counter clerk spun around each other as smoothly as tango dancers. Alt-rock ebbed and flowed.

Other than a few nervous peeks out the window and the occasional loud bleep from a police radio, the Saturday routine went on.

“Oh, I'm sorry. No more truffles,” the woman behind the counter explained to a woman staring hungrily at the pastry case. “Our chocolatier quit.”

A pass-through divided the front of the house from the kitchen. In the bakery's prior incarnation, heavy white plates piled high with Reubens or BLTs had sat on its counter until white-clad waitresses grabbed them, three and four at a time.

His customary blue bandanna wrapped around his head, Josh stood at a stainless steel table, piping the final curlicues on a small round cake. Two larger layers sat close by. He straightened and noticed my approach.

“Pepper. My God, can you believe it?”

“I can't believe you can ice a fancy cake at a time like this.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the project on the lazy Susan. “We're catering a wedding this afternoon.”

Yikes.
“I'll get out of your way, but tell me quick, what happened? And where?”

“The building door was locked—I have a key—but the door to her studio was open. It's the big one on the north end, down below. I called her name—” He rubbed his left eye and drew his fingers down his cheek. “I thought maybe she'd run upstairs to her apartment, but then—then I heard a noise. I went in. She was lying on the floor. Someone smashed—”

“Hey, Josh.” A young man poked his head around the corner of a tall rolling rack. “Where's the salad dressing for the job?”

“It's in—oh, I'll get it.” Josh turned back to me, wiping
a hand on his zebra-striped pants. “Thank God you called, Pepper. I don't know what happened or who did this, but if she lives, it's because of you.”

I didn't trust my throat to let me speak. He disappeared into the recesses of the kitchen. I walked out past the babies and ballerinas and the long row of bakery cases. For once, the cookies and cupcakes didn't tempt me.

Outside, I searched the street for Bonnie's van. No sign of it, but she might have parked farther down the block. Another group of dance students had gathered on the corner. One familiar profile—Terry and Sharon's older daughter?

My breath deep and shaky, I sent the Universe a silent message to let Bonnie live. There was no one to ask how she was. The ambulance idled, the EMTs still inside. The only cop in sight was leaning against his cruiser, arms crossed, radiating “don't come anywhere near me” signals as he surveyed the scene.

But I'm not much for standing around, and I didn't see any reason why I couldn't slip down the hill and take a peek. The police hadn't blocked it off. And if I was quick about it, Officer Don't You Dare wouldn't notice.

I rounded the corner of the building and made my way through the urban bramble, glad I'd worn climbers today. Despite their thick rubber soles, I slipped on a damp rock and landed on my bottom, scraping the back of my hand on the brick wall as I reached out to break my fall.

“Whose bright idea was this?” I muttered, staggering to my feet.

Tall windows faced west, ideal for artists. One window had been cracked open, but the hillside sloped away, and I wasn't tall enough to peer inside. I spotted an old tire in the brambles and yanked it free. Rolled it up the incline. Shoved it against the brick wall, where it rocked, then settled into place. Stepped on it and peered in, hands cupped around my eyes.

In the dim light, shadows took shape: shelves of unfired
pots, rows of creamy clay pieces. Two large worktables. In the far corner, a kiln.

I made out a potter's wheel. A stool, lying on its side. And then, two uniformed medics, crouching, shoulders and upper backs visible. I craned my neck for a better view.

No luck.

One medic stood. Fragments of their exchange drifted through the open window. “. . . ME,” the standing medic said. “. . . pack the gear,” the other replied, and his partner stepped to the door, speaking into his radio.

My hand flew to my mouth. “Bonnie,” I heard myself say. On the floor lay Bonnie-Peggy Pretty Pots, in her blue paisley skirt, her long gray-blond hair splayed out, amid fragments of a thick clay platter and a dark red liquid I knew wasn't glaze.

*   *   *

When I finally scrabbled my way to the top of the hill and brushed the dirt and broken weeds off my black pants, one EMT chatted with an officer while the other closed the ambulance doors. The red lights were off now, the urgency gone.

I stood on the sidewalk, stunned.

A white van backed into view, maneuvering its way around the ambulance,
BEACON HILL
BAKERY AND CATERING
painted on its side. An apron-clad woman emerged from the bakery, pushing a cart filled with trays of macarons, éclairs, and mini sandwiches.

From out of nowhere, a deep voice accosted me. “What do you think you're doing, interfering with a crime scene?”