Killing Thyme (6 page)

And the blood.

I shivered in the warm sunlight.

“The pain was awful. I couldn't keep anything down.” The medical saga continued.

Across the street, Spencer stepped off the curb and headed our way. I would let her and Tracy puzzle out the access issue. Not my problem.

“Arf and I have kept you long enough,” I said. “Thanks for the visit, and I hope you and your doctor get that problem straightened out.”

“Well, Pepper, learn anything I ought to know?” Spencer held out a hand in a “stay right there” gesture, then extended her badge to my elderly friend and introduced herself. “Mr.—?”

“Adams. Louis Adams, Senior.”

Mr. Adams had mentioned a daughter, not a son.

“You see anything out of the ordinary in the last day or so? Say, since about nine o'clock last night?”

“Just a fancy car tearing away. Driver went up on the curb, hit that post. That's when I looked out.”

Spencer and I glanced across the street. Sure enough, a metal pole for a parking sign tilted at an angle the city street crew hadn't planned.

Spencer teased out more answers. The car had been newish and white. Boxy. “Friday night. One of those—what d'you call 'em? S—SUVs. What kinda sense it makes to drive a car that big in the city, I can never figure.” The driver had been alone. Hair, age, gender, race? Mr. Adams couldn't say.

Ben drove a big SUV, newish, white, and boxy. So did Carl. I'd seen half a dozen of them last night on Kristen's block alone.

Spencer made notes, walking Mr. Adams through his sketchy memory. “And you're not sure what time?”

“No, ma'am. Late, like I said. I don't sleep too good these days. My daughter got me one of them DVRs for Christmas so I can watch my shows anytime. My granddaughter programmed it for me. Real smart, that girl.”

“An unintended consequence of the DVR and streaming—we can't use the TV schedule to figure out when events occurred.” She handed him her card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

Arf hopped back in the car, and I followed Spencer across the street, a little dazed. The caffeine and sugar had worn off.

“Pepper.” Spencer spoke sharply, breaking my reverie. “Why don't I get a uniform to give you a ride home?”

“Are you kidding? I know it's not a bad neighborhood, despite Mr. Adams's gang theory, but if anything happened to that car, my father would kill me.”

“I can call Officer Buhner and ask him to drive it home for you.”

“Oh, good garlic, no. If—
when
Tag hears about this, he will become a serious pest.” We stood on the sidewalk outside the bakery. “I'm fine. I just need to get back to work.”

She dropped her chin and peered at me. “If you insist. Now, what's Mr. Adams's gang theory?”

I explained. To my surprise, Spencer didn't immediately dismiss the idea. “I'll check with the burglary unit and gang squad. But any burglar worth his salt knows high-dollar retail goods don't necessarily mean large amounts of cash on hand.”

“And bridal gowns aren't cash purchases. Very little in the wedding industry is,” I said. “Unless somebody imagined a potter would have a chunk of change on hand after a busy day in the Market. Did you see any signs of a break-in?”

“Detective, you want a last look before we move the body?” the medical examiner called out.

“Be right there,” she replied, then to me, “You sure you're okay?”

I could drive safely, but that wasn't what she meant. I nodded.

Before leaving, I climbed partway down the hillside, more careful of my footing than I'd been an hour ago, and studied the wall. Outdoor murals had sprouted all over the city in recent years, a marriage of graffiti and public art. One day last summer, I'd stood outside the production facility in SoDo where we pack our tea and spice blends, watching an artist use ladders and a lift and crates full of spray cans to create a school of fantastical fish. Daunting scale, but then, artists make careers of what daunts the rest of us.

Like the best murals, this one appeared to burst from the wall, the layers of paint and shadow giving it such depth that you almost wanted to reach out and pluck a flower. The
colors weren't quite realistic—a hint of fluorescence, a touch of shimmer—but that made them all the more intriguing.

On the lower right corner, at a hard-to-read angle, was the signature. I whipped out my phone, zoomed in, held it above my head, and clicked. Peered at the tiny screen. HART. As in Hannah Hart? Or H Art, Hannah's Art?

I snapped a few more shots, then tucked the phone away and headed for car and dog. Plenty of time later to Google the name—I know not to phone and drive.

Not that it was my problem, anyway. The police had this well in hand. They'd see that Bonnie got justice.

And I had an urge to be back among the living and breathing, the hustling and bustling. Back in the Market, selling sugar and spice and everything nice.

That may not be what little girls are truly made of, but it's a comforting thought, now and then.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, then Europe is the less.

—John Donne,
Meditation XVII

Arf and I trotted up Western to the Market Hillclimb, trudged up the stairs, and made our way to the pizza window. I fed him a chunk of sausage, then browsed the newsstand, checking out the headlines and photos on the foodie magazines. (Eyes only until my hands were clean.) Arf trained his attention on a recently trimmed black poodle whose owner was flipping through the postcard rack.

“Mind your manners, dog.” I had to admit, she was rather fetching. For a poodle.

First thing, call Kristen
, I reminded myself as we hustled down Pike Place. The Market was at its midday busiest, a mélange of browsers and serious shoppers.

My shop was a madhouse. I sent Arf to his bed behind the counter, tossed my bag in after him, and helped Reed with a customer restocking the kitchen of her summer home on Bainbridge Island. Matt had his hands full, assisting a customer planning an Italian feast for twelve, and Cayenne
was on the phone, the customer grilling her, from the sounds of it, on everything from Jamaican allspice to Israeli za'atar. I scooped out four ounces of sweet marjoram—the last item on the customer's list—and asked Reed, under my breath, “Where's Sandra?”

“Back room. Meltdown. The new columnist for
Northwest Cuisine
is waiting in the nook. I gave her tea and cookies. You didn't answer your phone.”

“What? She's here? On a Saturday?” I set the marjoram jar on the restocking cart, marched over to the nook, and held out a slightly grubby hand—no apron to wipe it on. “Pepper Reece. So nice of you to stop in.”

A full-figured woman of about fifty, wearing a lime green twin set and a beaded necklace of black jet, gave me a once-over. A spiral-top notebook lay open on the butcher-block work surface next to her untouched tea, and she'd jotted half a page of notes in compact script.

“Nancy Adolfo. Apparently your staff forgot to mention our appointment. But I'm enjoying watching the place hum.”

If she'd wanted to catch us at our crazy-busiest, she'd timed it right. “I promise, in two minutes, you'll have my full attention.”

Adolfo smiled, revealing tiny, shiny, sharp white teeth. I headed for the back room and the squeaky door that kept it more secure than any alarm.

“Sandra? What's up?”

My assistant manager swiveled the desk chair back and forth, arms crossed, chin lowered. I could almost see steam coming out of her ears.

“She lies. Whatever she told you through those perfect veneered teeth is a lie.”

I unfolded the wooden chair we keep behind the door and sat, knee to knee. Reached out and stopped the chair. “Sit still and tell me what happened.”

“A woman called earlier this week and demanded to
know what days you work. Refused to let me help her or say what she wanted, but she made me hinky.” Sandra huffed. “Now she shows up pretending she had an appointment and that I screwed up. She wants to catch you off guard and see how you respond.”

Adolfo had joined the regional food scene a few months ago, reporting on Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, B.C., and the Northwest wine and orchard country. She'd quickly developed a reputation as a wolf in sheep's clothing. Her beat was specialty food retailers—wine tasting rooms, butchers, ethnic grocers. Spice merchants. I understood not making an appointment—if you want to evaluate customer service, product freshness, and retail readiness, best not give your marks time to clean up their act.

And she treated the producers and retailers like marks, taking aim and firing away. Her reviews ran the gamut from gnarly to nasty. There'd been talk of a boycott of sorts, modeled on one in another city where restaurants refused to give a harsh critic a dinner bill, forcing him to accept a freebie, an ethical no-no, or publicly demand a check, airing dirty linen in front of diners. How to make a similar standoff work in businesses that sell products and offer free samples, no one could figure out, so the effort had fizzled. I'd never worried about her showing up here—our spice tea may not be everyone's cuppa, but our reputation is solid. Reviews matter, but word of mouth matters more.

But a woman who would lie to me about my own employees bore watching.

The phone on the desk lit up, and the ringer made the tiny office feel like the inside of a bell. Despite the chaos out front, I left it for the staff.

I took a deep breath and placed my hands on Sandra's knees. “I know you're feeling off-center, and I don't blame you for wanting to smash in her teeth. But I need you at your best. Stick to the customers, and leave her to me.”

She forced out another irritated breath, her dark eyes flashing. We'd talk later about what was really bothering her.

“All right then,” I said. “Let's get spicy.” She attempted to smile, mostly failing. I grabbed an apron, put on my pleasant HR expression, and charged out to brave the invader.

“Need a refill? Black assam and spices, our custom blend.” I poured myself a refreshing cup. Funny how caffeine can hype you up or soothe you down, in the right dose.

The critic raised her head, her poofy red hair encased in hair spray, but said nothing. She had positioned herself in the booth so she had a full view of the shop—usually my spot. I slid in across from her.

“Charming shop,” she said. I'd heard that sniffiness before. If you prefer your charm superficial and super-sanitized, then don't come to an urban outdoor market that's been in continuous operation for well over a century. I ignored the patronizing tone.

“A detail or two from you, if you don't mind, then I'll let you get back to business.” She oozed smarmy sweetness, and I reminded myself to keep my cool. “Just spell my name right” might have worked for P. T. Barnum, but us lesser mortals prefer our publicity to include a few kind words.

For the next ten minutes, she quizzed me about the shop's history and how I acquired it. “And you had no experience in retail or the culinary arts? None at all?”

Her incredulity gave me a chance to practice patience. “You can learn a lot by hard work and observation. Plus a top-notch staff. My customers and employees have taught me the business, and I keep up by reading, cooking, and eating.”

Sandra walked by, carefully ignoring us. From behind the front counter, Cayenne shot me a wide-eyed look, biting her lower lip.

Finally, Adolfo closed her notebook and slipped her pen
into her purse. One of those sleek Waterman pens I'd learned to recognize from a particularly status-conscious lawyer at the old firm, and a Dooney and Bourke leather handbag. Wide-legged white palazzo pants, back in style. I'd seen a similar pair in the window at Nordstrom. If this spice gig didn't work out, maybe I could take up reviewing.

“May I offer you a bag of our spice tea? On the house,” I said as she slid awkwardly out of the booth.

“What I would take”—she paused to get her footing—“is a sampling of your summer blends.”

For summer, we featured a fiery grilling rub, a classic Italian blend, and our Herbes de Provence, a perennial favorite. I'd found a new source of culinary lavender to give the mixture the faintest hint of romance. I tucked the three tins in a small bag and handed it to her. “So glad you came by.”

Her gaze traveled slowly from my wiry, weird hair to my black T-shirt, pants, and apron, and my black shoes muddied by the morning's adventure. “I'll admit, you've redeemed yourself nicely.”

With that, she swished out, leaving other customers staring at her ample backside. Leaving me not knowing whether we'd garner a favorable review or a skewering worthy of our barbecue blend.

“What country does she think she's queen of?” Sandra said.

Cayenne bustled over. “Kristen called twice. She said it's urgent.”

Oh, cardamom
. The news had gotten to her before I had.

Matt was chatting with a customer keen on Middle Eastern food. I beckoned to the others, who gathered around me. “Sad news. Bonnie Clay was killed last night, in her studio on Beacon Hill.”

“Oh, good Lord.” Sandra clapped her hand to her chest.

The natural deep blush on Cayenne's high cheekbones faded, and she brought her hands together in front of her
mouth. Reed slipped an arm around her. “I grew up on Beacon Hill.”

“Spencer and Tracy are on the case. Don't be surprised if they come in later.”

“What do we tell them?” Cayenne's voice quivered, but a flicker in her eyes betrayed a touch of excitement at being on the periphery of an investigation. She'd heard stories of past murders that had touched the Spice Shop; that had touched me and sucked me in.

“Everything you know,” I said. “As honestly as you can.”

“What are you going to do?” Reed said.

“Nothing. I barely knew the woman.” Or did I? “It's hard to focus on herbs and customers after a shock, but—”

“But she's dead!” Cayenne said, and a customer snapped her head to look at us.

“Honor her by keeping the world turning.” That's what my law firm bosses told us when the planes crashed into the towers on 9/11. If you let evil stop you, they said, then evil wins. They were right.

I could not let my mother hear the news of Bonnie-Peggy's death—
call it murder, Pepper, 'cause you know that's what it is
—from the radio or TV. Of course, they wouldn't release the name yet anyway, until the family could be notified.

How had Kristen heard? I'd told Spencer and Tracy about the party, but I was surprised they'd gotten hold of her so soon.

Back in my office, I tried my mother again. Still no answer. I strived for a message that balanced urgency with detachment and achieved neither. After fits and starts, I blurted out, “Mom, call me. The moment you can.”

Next, Kristen, on a family outing. No answer. I sent a text.
I can't believe it, either. What's going on???

Ben
. His name popped into my head as if from outer space. I'd told Spencer we'd taken Bonnie to the party and
dropped her off afterward. And then I hadn't given him another thought.

Which meant either I'm a terrible girlfriend, or . . .

No other viable excuses came to mind. If you don't think to tell the guy you've been dating that the woman you introduced him to last night—a woman who'd sat in his car—was dead, well, that would probably top
Cosmo
's list of Ten Ways to Know He's Not For You.

Right above not needing his comfort.

I sighed. This was not the time to analyze my emotions, or lack of them.

But then, he might already know about the body. He worked the food and fun beat on the local weekly, but all the reporters savored a good, juicy crime story, and he followed the Seattle Police Department on Twitter for breaking news. He also took his turn in the rotation, calling law enforcement PR types for updates and attending official briefings.

Texting was made for moments like these.
Bonnie Clay found dead
, my thumbs spelled out.
Expect to hear from Spencer and Tracy
.

Too callous. I pushed the “clear” button and retyped.
Sorry to tell you, Bonnie Clay's been found dead. Call me.
I pressed “send.”

I reached for the computer to check out Hannah Hart, then stopped myself. It was only curiosity, anyway. What couldn't—
shouldn't
—wait was telling Bonnie's friends and neighbors in the daystalls.

I took a deep breath, closed the office door, and told Sandra I was taking a stroll. I was a little embarrassed that I hadn't thought of calling Ben sooner. There was nothing wrong with him. But—and this was the crux of the matter—there was nothing
right
about
us
. And stringing along Mr. Good Enough For Now wasn't fair.

Pike Place never fails to amaze and amuse me. The
sidewalks were nearly impassible around the take-out joints—the piroshky maker, the Greek guy, the cheesecake bakers. The line for the original Starbucks—started in the Market in 1971—stretched all the way up the block. The coffee wasn't any better there than in any other location, or in any other espresso shop, but we humans relish our landmarks, and it's a big one.

Ten minutes later, I'd spoken to half a dozen vendors at the long craft tables, and word had begun to spread. Their cheeks were pale, and more than one hand trembled after hearing the news, as it held out a silver pendant for closer inspection or returned a credit card after a purchase. The Market artists are fiercely independent, yet deeply connected. We all feel a camaraderie with those who share our commitments, who make similar choices. Especially the choices that other people in our lives don't understand.

Like making art and selling it, practically on the street, practically outside, in a city where rain is more common than shine. Even with the occasional help of a sales assistant, it's a tad bit crazy.