Meet you at Ripe, Carl replied. I could kill for a bowl of tomato-basil soup. One of Laurel’s classics.
Deal, I said, then clicked off the phone and tossed it aside.
Finally, cars began to inch forward. Twenty minutes later, at the corner of Third and Madison, I saw the remains of the problem: A black Suburban had crashed into the side of a Metro bus, clad in the purple and gold of the University of Washington. A tow truck was hitching up the SUV, and a giant tow idled on Third, waiting to remove the disabled bus. Police officers directed traffic. The bike patrol, with their ability to respond quickly, were sometimes called upon, but I didn’t see Tag. What had caused the SUV to lose control coming down the hill, I could not imagine. Thank God only three ambulances had been needed.
Trouble can hit you when you least expect it.
Arf and I made it back to the shop in time to count the till while Cayenne swept and Matt emptied the samovar. Business had been good for a rainy Monday in October. My concerns aside, we could weather the ebb and flow. No pun intended.
Assuming this glitch with Edgar and his custom blend didn’t blow up on me. I crossed my fingers and made for home. The door of my building was firmly latched this time, thank goodness.
Nate had texted to say he had dinner in hand. One of the advantages of dating a man in his forties is that he’s used to planning his own meals, even if it’s takeout. One of the advantages of being a woman in my forties is that I consider takeout pizza on the couch with a great guy to be a romantic dinner for two. Plus the World Series was on TV. What could be better?
Seeing the Mariners make the Series. Next year.
Next year. I tried not to think that far ahead in our relationship. But with the talk of houses and condos and apartments swirling around me, not to mention Glenn and his Nate expanding and my parents planning a return, I had living space on the brain. Though this space did seem to work rather well. By the time Nate went back to Alaska in the spring, we’d know.
We’d know if the loft worked for the two of us. But more importantly, we’d know if we worked.
Patience, Pep. Patience.
In between bites and at-bats, we talked about our days. I filled him in on Maddie. Kristen had talked to Tim, who said they were beginning to see signs of responsiveness—a twitch of a hand, movement behind the closed eyelids—but they still didn’t know when she’d come around.
“The grapevine’s buzzing—I’ve gotten oodles of texts and emails from our old classmates. I keep saying, ‘I know Maddie. It will take more than a bullet to the brain to stop her.’ But I still can’t believe this has happened.” My eyes watered, and my jaw tightened, my lips pressing together.
Nate took my hand. “I’m sorry I’ve never met her. Not that we don’t both have friends the other hasn’t met yet.”
Thinking of Maddie plunged me into a tangle of emotions I didn’t want to deal with right now. As if her success made me a failure because she had everything a woman was supposed to have, and I didn’t. Which wasn’t a fair assessment of my life and I knew it. Cadfael, my patron saint of investigation, would visit the Abbey chapel and contemplate his unworthy thoughts, confess if he needed to, and move on, taking solace in his balms and tinctures and the good his herbs did in the world.
Me, I changed the subject, telling Nate about Edgar and the copycat spice blend.
“Can he do that? The other chef, I mean.”
“Sure. You can’t copyright a list of ingredients. That’s why McDonald’s keeps its secret sauce secret and Kentucky Fried locks its recipe in a vault. Or at least, they say they do. Could be a ruse, to make us think it’s something special.”
“So you could make your own version of Old Bay and change the name and become a millionaire?”
“Just because it’s legal doesn’t make it smart.”
“Like intentional walks,” Nate said, his eyes back on the ball game. “I hate when the pitcher intentionally walks the hitter.”
We put our feet on the packing crate that serves as my coffee table and he slipped an arm around my shoulder.
“We’re heading out at the crack of dawn,” he said when the game broke for the seventh inning stretch, “so I need to go back to the boat tonight. I hate to leave you. But I’ll be home Friday or Saturday, depending on the catch.”
“It’s what you do,” I said. “You go out on boats and catch fish. That’s part of the deal.”
Home. Had he meant the loft, or his slip at Fisherman’s Terminal? Or just Seattle?
“Besides, I won’t be alone,” I continued. “I’ve got Arf.”
“And the FBI might be watching you. Although you didn’t sound sure he’s FBI.”
I hadn’t seen Agent Greer or Smoking Man all day. Kristen hadn’t mentioned seeing anyone. And Laurel had texted the all clear when she left the deli midafternoon.
“Honestly, I think I was overreacting, because I was upset about Maddie. If the guy we saw at the hospital is the same guy Laurel saw Friday, then he’s FBI and we should feel better.”
“Wouldn’t that Agent Green have given you a heads-up?”
“Greer.” I swung my feet up on the couch, cradling my knees, and met his gaze. “Good point. If the two shootings are connected, and they need to guard Maddie, it makes sense to guard Laurel, too. But why not tell her?”
“Unless they suspect her.”
“Doubtful. Dozens of people saw her at the soccer tournament in Vancouver the night Patrick was killed. And Thursday when Maddie was shot, Laurel never left the deli. Besides, Maddie didn’t own the building back when Pat was protesting the project. Laurel barely knew her—saw her at the public meetings, but that was it.”
The commercial break ended and the game resumed. As a Seattle native, I’m an American League fan. Nate claims to favor the Nationals, but I’ve caught him urging my guys to throw a strike or make a double play. Either he’s been playing opposites to get my goat, or my tastes were rubbing off on him.
This was our last evening together this week, and I tried to squelch all thoughts of crime and investigation. But as the center fielder raced to the wall to rob the lead-off hitter of a home run that would have tied the game, my mind was racing, too.
The women in the salon had been skeptical of Maddie’s promises, but I hadn’t heard them describe anything Maddie herself had done to warrant their distrust. Still, the salon owner wasn’t convinced.
No, it had to be that the previous would-be developer, this Byrd, had poisoned the well.
Lindy Harmon said Maddie had been trying to buy the corner grocery for ages, but she hadn’t mentioned the rest of the block. Though Frank Thomas trusted Maddie, the women in the salon had asked a good question: Why buy the other buildings, if all she wanted to do was redevelop the one lot? To protect the block from the kind of development the neighbors despised? An insurance policy, of sorts. A very expensive one.
I might need to talk with Lindy’s husband, or track down other Neighbors United stalwarts.
The game ended, the National League team the winner. But the Series is best of seven, so I wasn’t worried. About baseball, anyway.
I hooked up the dog’s leash and the three of us walked a few blocks before we returned to the parking garage beneath the building, where Nate had stashed the old pickup he bought when he came back from Alaska.
“Stay safe,” he said as he took me in his arms.
“Always,” I said. “You know I never do anything to put myself in danger. Or anyone else.”
“Liar.” But he was smiling as he leaned in for a long, sweet kiss.
Fourteen
The best murder weapon would be a Tupperware lid, because no one would ever be able to find it.
—Anonymous, on the web
“IT’S ONLY A FEW DAYS,” I TOLD ARE AS WE TRUDGED UP THE stairs from the basement, past the rental unit. “We’ll be fine on our own.” We’d been fine long before Nate Sew
ard came on the scene. But my furry friend’s footsteps lacked their usual bounce, and I suspected mine did, too.
“That you, Pepperoni?” Glenn called out from above. As we neared the landing, I saw him in his doorway, my soup container in hand.
“Just sending my Nate off to the San Juans for a few days. Fish feed when he gets back.”
“My Nate is glad that he doesn’t need to worry about me wasting away. Not with you two so close.”
“Glenn, how do you track the ownership history of a building? Or who applied for permits to do—I don’t know. Stuff. To the building.”
He swept his arm over the threshold, inviting us in. Tonight’s musical selection was Bob Marley. “Red or white?”
“Yes,” I replied. The remodel plans still lay on the dining room table. They drew me like a magnet. “This is going to be so great.”
“Big mess when we get started.” He set a bowl of water on the kitchen floor for Arf, then handed me a glass.
I took a sip. “Mmm. Love Washington cab.”
He nodded and pointed at his desk, computer screen glowing. “I’ve spent so much time visualizing the new space that sometimes I forget we don’t have it yet. Sit. What are you after?”
A few minutes later, he’d shown me how to access the city’s public records system for parcel data, including details about the property, present use, and current taxpayer, a.k.a. the owner. Additional screens showed the appraised value, and the date and price of the most recent sale. I pulled Frank Thomas’s card out of my coat pocket. “Try it with this address.”
“You try,” Glenn said, and I did. Sure enough, Petrosian Properties, LLC had purchased the building occupied by Frank Thomas Insurance not quite three years ago. “You want to find out who that is, you’ll have to go to the state’s business entity search page— those aren’t our records.”
“No, I know the Petrosians. Where would I find applications for building permits?”
“No one-stop shop, I’m afraid. How far back do you want to go?”
I didn’t know, but it turned out the process would not be easy. I’d have to search for each building in Maddie’s block by address, then track back in time, sale by sale. Records from the last thirty years or so were online, but before that, it was all micro-film. Unless I wanted to pay for a title search, which I did not.
“But Maddie Petrosian would have, wouldn’t she, as part of her purchases?”
Glenn faced me. “She’s the woman who was shot in Montlake last week, isn’t she? What are you up to, Pepper?”
“I’ve known Maddie practically forever,” I said. “I want to know what happened.” I did not want Glenn to think I was taking advantage of our friendship to get info on a police investigation, or a proposed development. Nor could I risk dragging him into anything that might create a conflict for him. I stood and clapped my hand against my thigh to signal the dog that it was time to go. “Thanks for the education. And the wine.”
“Pooh,” I said when the dog and I were home. I’d forgotten to ask Glenn if he’d had a chance to check on the rental downstairs. But I didn’t want to give him an opportunity to lecture me about messing in police business. We’d figure out the rental thing another time.
I gave Arf a chew bone, which reminded me that tomorrow, I needed to solve the mess with Edgar. Checked my phone, and smiled at Nate’s sweet “home safe” text. The Thalassa was his home. He’d lived aboard it a good chunk of the year for ages. But he was coming to see the loft as home, too. At least, I thought he was.
In the bedroom, I undressed and glanced at the tansu. My plans to buy it last summer for Nate to use had been stymied, but then, it had arrived as an unexpected thank you gift. He loved it as much as I did. A stack of books sat on top and I was about to move them when I stopped myself. They were his, and they could stay where he’d put them. Like his shoes on the closet floor next to mine, or his toothbrush and razor in the bathroom. I felt his absence when I saw his things. One more sign, I hoped, that the relationship was right.
But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t require care and attention.
The book on my nightstand, The Satapur Moonstone by Sujata Massey, sent me its siren call. My friend Seetha had given me it and the first in the series, The Widows of Malabar Hill, knowing how much I loved historical mysteries and how curious I was about India, particularly Bombay, where her mother had grown up.
Later. I had a different historical mystery to work on now.
Back in the living room, in my jammies, I sent Laurel a “checking on you” text. I didn’t expect a reply—she keeps baker’s hours. But a minute later came two words: Doing okay.
Under the circumstances, “okay” was good enough.
I fired up my iPad to see what the newspaper said about Maddie—Madeleine—Petrosian. Nothing more about the shooting since the weekend update identifying her as the victim. A couple of archived articles referenced the proposed development in Montlake and the community meetings. But none gave any details or mentioned a prior developer or competing plans.
“She’s got to have a website,” I said out loud. These days, every retail shop and service provider needs a website. Even doctors and lawyers. They’re the first thing we check when we want to do business with someone and if we don’t find one, we’re a tad suspicious.
Petrosian Properties, LLC’s website was attractive but basic. The homepage showed the building where she kept her office, a well kept redbrick on Nineteenth Avenue East, with the phone numbers and email addresses for the reception desk and property manager. A second page listed currently available spaces and invited interested persons to contact the property manager. Only a handful of offices and one retail space were listed, no apartments, and nothing in the buildings on Twenty-Fourth. There was no mention of the corner grocery project, not even a “Watch this page for future announcements!”
Google also linked me to the secretary of state’s business entity site, where I was assured that all the company’s papers were filed and its fees paid. I crossed my arms, thinking. The Spice Shop’s website is crucial to our business, allowing customers across the U.S. and Canada to place orders any time of day. It’s got tons of pictures and detailed descriptions of every spice and blend we carry, recipes, and the scoop on our boxed sets and Spice of the Month club. Plus hours, location, and contact info, and a map.
But—and this was the distinction—my business depends on the public. Hers didn’t. The efficient, no-nonsense site told me that Maddie felt comfortable with her business as it was. She wasn’t boasting about growth potential or investment opportunities, trying to make the company sound bigger and better. So why expand now? Why commit so much time and money to the new acquisitions and the corner grocery?
Maddie didn’t do anything without a good reason. What was it?
Though Byrd isn’t a common name, Google couldn’t help me without more information. I paired it with Montlake, construction, and development. Nothing. Byrd’s Nest produced only a couple of mentions in a real estate blog, but the links to further information were dead.
I backtracked to the business entity registry where I’d found Petrosian Properties, LLC. No Byrd’s Nest, with a Y. I tried the regular spelling.
“What?” I said, so loudly that Arf stopped chewing and raised his head. Bird’s Nest, LLC, with an I, had been registered a few months ago. The official representative was Jessica Somers, a name I had never heard, with an address in a Seattle suburb. It was a cute name; no wonder someone else had chosen it.
Next target: Neighbors United. Whoever was responsible for updating the website was behind on the task—the last event listed was a potluck at the community center three months ago. Barry Harmon, husband of the dog lover I’d met today, was board chair; I didn’t recognize any other names.
Back to flipping through screens. I looked at each of the available commercial rentals on Maddie’s website and half a dozen articles refere
ncing the company. A pattern emerged. Maddie focused on projects much like the current one, rescuing buildings with a past and an uncertain future. Some projects involved a single building; others an entire block of two- and three-story structures, with storefronts on street level and offices above. They were scattered across the city.
Frank Thomas and the stylist had underscored the challenges in keeping buildings like these rented and maintained. But I knew, from my connection to the block in Beacon Hill where my new painter friend, Jamie Ackerman, and my former employee, Tory Finch, now lived, that it could be done. The right mix of tenants, the right attention to the needs of the neighborhood, and the right owner could make these classics profitable.
Figures Maddie would have the right touch.
The Solace of Bay Leaves Page 12
