“Bygone days,” the man I’d heard earlier said. “Lively block, back then.”
I turned to see a man of about fifty, wriggling the knot of his tie into place beneath a broad, friendly face. He finished the job and held out his hand. “Frank Thomas. How can I help you?”
The son, not the father I’d met as a teenager. “Pepper Reece. Chuck and Lena’s daughter. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in, or bringing the dog in out of the drizzle.”
“No, no, he’s fine. I thought you looked familiar. How are the folks?”
“Good.” What few financial matters my parents couldn’t handle long-distance they’d entrusted to my brother, Carl, who does, after all, make a living in finance. But I remembered the Thomases, one of the few black families in the neighborhood. “They’re still in Costa Rica, loving it, but they’re thinking of moving back part of the year. I was passing by and thought I’d drop in, let you know they’ll be calling.” I’d have to remember to tell my mother I’d promised she’d call.
“My pleasure. They renting or buying?”
“Haven’t decided yet. You know my mother—when she sees the right place, she’ll snap it up. She was curious about the condos—or are they apartments?—going in next door, but now, with the shooting . . .”
Frank Thomas’s heavy eyelids closed briefly, his jaw tight. A woman had been shot on the other side of these walls, and Sheetrock isn’t much of an insurance policy. Pun, if it is one, not intended.
“Such a tragedy,” he said. “For Maddie and her family. We’re all praying for her.”
“She and I went to school together. She’s a fighter. I’m sure the police will catch whoever did this.”
“That’s right—you’re married to a police officer, aren’t you?”
I gave him a half-smile of acknowledgment. No need to set the record straight.
“Her project would have been a huge boost to the neighborhood,” Thomas continued. “Heaven knows, we need it. The upkeep on old buildings like this one is a major hassle. I didn’t wanta be saddled with it. Not to mention juggling renters and all their complaints.”
“Big job.”
“First priority is for her to recover. Then I hope we can all get to work alongside her, bringing this block back to what it ought to be.”
I liked his spirit.
“When your parents settle on a place, tell them to call me,” he said. “I’ll get them fixed up.”
I assured him I would and plucked his card out of a holder on the reception desk.
But before I did any more sleuthing, I had to pee. I tied the dog up outside the coffee shop and went in. In the corner, two men played a silent game of chess, while a young mother read at another table, her baby asleep in a carrier perched on a chair next to her. It’s bad manners to use the restroom without ordering something, and besides, the moment I smelled the coffee, I was suddenly desperate.
“Nonfat double latte, and what scones do you have?”
“We’re down to cranberry orange,” the barista told me. “Monday mornings are always busy.”
“Cranberry orange, then,” I replied. While he ground beans and pulled levers, I slipped into the restroom. On my way back, I noticed the rear door was open and peered out. The cobblestone alley had been closed to vehicles and reclaimed into outdoor space. In warm weather, the café tables and chairs would be full, the space made cozy by the brick walls and the box planters filled with shrubs and flowers. From here, I could see the rear door of the old grocery, at the opposite end of the block.
Back inside, a bulletin board in the hallway caught my attention. It held a flyer for the library’s used book sale, another for a school event, and a host of business cards, including that of the neighborhood real estate agent.
I carried my afternoon snack to a comfy brown leather chair by the window and waved at my dog. The coffee was terrific but the scone was bland. A simple dash of cinnamon or cloves would brighten the flavors. Though I had no samples with me, I asked the barista if the owners were in. Turned out I’d just missed them.
“Quiet in here,” I said. “Peaceful.”
“Monday afternoons are always slow,” he replied, and began wiping the counter.
“I hope the shooting doesn’t scare people away.”
His head jerked up, eyes wide, and he tightened his grip on the towel. “She used to come in every Saturday with her husband and kids. They were so nice.”
Saying that I knew her, though true, would intrude on his feelings, and I didn’t want to do that. “Paper says she’s expected to recover fully. I’m sure she’ll be sitting in here sipping dark roast and nibbling a scone before you know it.” I put an extra dollar in the tip jar and left, keenly aware that the repercussions of tragedy ripple far and wide.
Two buildings stood between the coffeehouse and insurance agency. A pair of street-front businesses occupied one. A note on the acupuncturist’s door said the clinic was closed for vacation, and the designer was closed on Mondays. Inside, a limed oak table was set with turquoise Fiestaware; I’d have to come back.
To my surprise, the salon next door was open. SHEAR DESIGN, the sign read.
I stuck my nose in. “Mind if I bring the dog in for a minute? It’s about to pour.”
The stylist, a leopard-print shop coat over her black leggings, her feet in leopard-print flats, broke off her conversation with the client in her chair. “Oh, come in, come in. Just don’t tell the Board of Cosmetology. What’s his name?”
“Arf.” That was the name he came with and I couldn’t change it, even if half the people thought I’d said Art and the other half Barf. Besides, it suits him.
“Cute hair,” the stylist said, pointing her scissors at me, not the dog.
I love my short dark spikes, though I have been accused of cutting my hair with kindergarten scissors and sticking my finger in a socket. “Thanks.” I sank onto the wicker love seat, the jungle print cushion poofing up around me. The salon was small, two chairs and a nail station, plus a massager pedicure chair, though only the one stylist was working at the moment. Pop music played in the background. I suspected Deanna Ellingson would favor a swankier salon, but dated decor doesn’t signal poor service any more than an on-trend look guarantees a good cut.
“Friend of mine’s a dog groomer,” the stylist said. She fluffed the highlights on the side of her customer’s head. “Got one of those mobile grooming vans. She comes to you.”
“Handy,” I said. Detective Tracy says it’s okay to fib in the search of truth. “This must be the salon my friend Maddie told me about. Cute place.”
“Maddie,” the stylist said, scissors pausing midair inches from her customer’s ear. “Maddie Petrosian?”
“Yes. Can you believe what happened?”
“I didn’t know anything had happened until the ambulance pulled up out front.”
“Her husband says she’s holding her own. Knowing her”—I shook my head and blew out a breath—“it will take more than a bullet to slow her down.”
The stylist and customer exchanged a glance in the mirror. I had to speak carefully if I wanted to learn anything useful.
“The new building should be good for business, right?” I said, taking a cue from Frank Thomas’s upbeat attitude. “People popping in for milk will see your shop, give you a call. The people in the apartments upstairs will be thrilled to have a salon close by.”
“Hmmph,” the stylist said, squinting at her customer’s roots. “We’ll touch those up next week when you come in for your manicure.”
“With all the plans and rumors over the years, who knows what will actually go in,” the customer said. “Now she comes along and promises an old-style neighborhood grocery with a modern wine and cheese shop. Sounds great, but I’m not holding my breath.”
She’d unwittingly touched on my own confusion. “So somebody else proposed something else? Before Maddie got involve
d, I mean.”
“I went to a couple of meetings,” the customer said. “I didn’t trust that Burns or Burke, whatever his name was. He acted like we should be grateful that he was here to save the neighborhood. I mean, we all knew something would happen to the property—the old guy wasn’t going to live forever, and that lot has to be worth a bundle. But we could never get the straight scoop. My impression, he meant to tear down the whole block and put up fancy condos. He and that pushy real estate agent.”
“His name was Byrd,” the stylist said. “With a Y. And he called the project Byrd’s Nest. With a Y.”
“That’s right. He had all these fancy drawings, but they were ugly as sin.”
“What meetings?” I asked.
“Oh, Neighbors United. They asked him to make a presentation, up at the community center. So we would know what was going on. Then they claimed his proposal violated city standards, and wasn’t in keeping with the neighborhood. They were right, but developers do what they want, no matter what we think.” She looked in the mirror and touched the side of her head. “A little shorter, maybe?”
“That went on for ages,” the stylist said. “A couple of years. Then all of a sudden this summer, he was out of the picture and your friend had bought the corner grocery. Her proposal looks nice. It looks great.” Snip, snip, snip.
“But can we trust her, either?” the customer said. “I mean, she says she just wants to put up a new building on the corner, so why buy the whole block?”
Whoa. This was news to me. It must have cost a pretty penny.
“Right?” the stylist said, nodding at the mirror. “I admit, this place needs work, but the rent’s been fair. She promised to upgrade all the wiring and stuff when she remodels upstairs—her electrician’s already crawled over every inch—but she also said she had no intention of raising our rent. If you believe that . . . Except the coffee place. I heard they wouldn’t sell.” She put her scissors down and twisted the lid off a jar of product. A sweet, gooey smell filled the air.
“Well, why would they?” the customer replied. “That building’s been in their family for ages. But I will say this. Once Maddie took over, tensions eased. When she held a community meeting, she listened. Made a point of saying she lives here, too, and intended to address our concerns. Even the NU people seemed happier.”
“I still don’t believe her about not raising the rent,” the stylist said.
I understood her skepticism, but from a developer’s perspective, it made sense. If Maddie needed to rent out the upper floors to help pay for the building, she’d need to bring them into the twenty-first century, and she couldn’t do that without upgrading the entire structure. By holding rents steady, at least for a while, she could mollify the existing tenants and keep the street level space occupied.
“Maddie just bought the corner grocery this summer, right? When did she buy this building?”
“A year ago,” the stylist said. “Same time as she bought the one next door. I think she’d already bought the insurance agency and the apartment building, a year or two before.”
That was what I wanted to know. When Patrick Halloran was killed, Maddie did not own the corner grocery, the property at the heart of the neighborhood dispute. She’d bought all these buildings after his death, and finally acquired the corner lot.
“If she hasn’t raised the rents yet,” I pointed out, “sounds like a promise kept.”
“True,” the stylist admitted.
Time for me to go. I stood. One more question, though I thought I knew the answer. “Who was the real estate agent? The one you thought was so pushy?”
“Oh, what was her name?” the customer said, again looking at the stylist via the mirror. “It’s plastered all over the neighborhood.”
Deanna Ellingson.
Thirteen
According to a 2018 study, Seattle drivers spend fifty-five hours a year stuck in traffic.
WE DON’T ANY OF US FIT IN THE BOXES PEOPLE BUILD FOR us, do we? Not me, and not Maddie.
Maddie ran her business from a small second-floor office in a commercial block not unlike the one I’d been prowling. But asking questions had taken time I didn’t have, so there was no chance of stopping by today. And I wanted to get back to the shop before closing, though that might mean springing for a spot in the Market garage. My plan was to zip over to Madison, then shoot straight down the hill and over the freeway into downtown.
But I’d forgotten to tell the traffic gods.
Cars were backed up on Madison for blocks. My best guess was a wreck at the I-5 on-ramp. I slipped the Saab into park, cracked a window, and turned off the engine—the gas gauge had been stuck for years, and the last thing I wanted was to run out of gas in a traffic jam. I sent the Universe a silent prayer that no one was seriously injured, and reached for my phone. It’s technically illegal in Seattle to even look at a mobile device when you’re behind the wheel, but I’d challenge any cop who dared ticket me when the motor wasn’t running.
Who to cyber-spy on first? My old friend, or the real estate agent whose plans she’d scuttled? Both Bruce and Deanna Ellingson had seemed perfectly pleasant in our brief exchange at the coffeehouse Sunday morning, but my view of him had already shifted.
Gad. Had that only been yesterday? So much had happened in the last few days. I once complained to an elderly friend that time seemed to go faster as I got older. She’d laid a wrinkled hand on my arm, trained her glacier-blue eyes on me, and said “Oh, honey. It just gets worse.”
At the moment, though, time was standing still. More accurately, the cars were. That sometimes seems like the same thing, in our addicted-to-motion society.
Deanna, Google told me, worked out of the Capitol Hill office of a big real estate outfit. Though the legal assistants and secretaries at my old firm had scattered to all variety of work after the firm’s dramatic demise, and I managed to keep tabs on most of them, I didn’t recall any landing there. I found her page, tilting my phone for a better angle. Recent and true-to-life, the photo showed a lively woman in her mid-50s with a healthy glow and a perfect haircut. I’d seen the same picture on her business card and the flyer for Laurel’s old house.
Looking that perky all the time had to be exhausting.
The website touted her decades of experience in commercial and residential property, single and multi-family. Unusual to handle both, I thought, but then a website is supposed to brag a bit. I read on. The bio listed training and certifications that sounded impressive, but what did I know? No mention of the Byrd’s Nest or the mysterious Mr. Byrd. With a Y.
Traffic hadn’t budged. In my rear view, I saw a vehicle attempting to wriggle out of the backup and turn around, but as tightly packed as the cars were on the narrow street, it would be nearly impossible. Besides, there wasn’t anywhere to go—a city of hills, water, and bridges, bisected by an interstate, didn’t offer many alternatives.
I turned back to my phone and scrolled through Deanna’s listings. Tons of condos. Seattle had gone a little condo crazy, not that I could complain, since my loft is one. A handful of listings for houses, all in her neighborhood.
How much longer? “Hang in there, buddy,” I told Arf, then called the shop.
“Don’t worry,” Cayenne said when I told her I was stuck in traffic. “If you’re not here by close, I’ll wait.”
“If I’m not back by close, I’ll die of boredom and a burst bladder. Go ahead and lock up at the usual time. I’ll deal with the cash register.”
Bladder talk made me shift in my seat. What was a bond broker doing home on a Monday afternoon? Surely he wasn’t running his business from the spare bedroom.
A bond broker. I barely knew what that was, but I was on close personal terms with a man who knew the field inside out. I texted my brother and asked him to meet me for lunch tomorrow.
A siren pierced the air, coming toward us. Around me, engines turned on, anxiety an
d relief spewing from tail pipes. “Take it easy, people. It’s gonna be a while.”
An ambulance came into view, then turned toward Harbor-view. Two more crested the hill behind it. Whatever happened, it had indeed been serious.
The Solace of Bay Leaves Page 11
