The Solace of Bay Leaves

by Leslie Budewitz

  “We tried that. No luck, on her or Huang.”

  Maybe they were watching Maddie to see if Huang or someone he worked with tried to make contact. To figure out the connection. Smoking Man must be part of their detail.

  “Can I keep these? They look so familiar—it may come to me later.”

  Greer opened her mouth and I was sure she intended to say no, they didn’t need an amateur’s interference, but Tracy raised a hand and she said nothing.

  “Be careful, Pepper. Don’t go searching for them. Just let us know if you see them. Or let the bike officers know.”

  In other words, I was their inside gal in the Market.

  I slipped the photos into my tote.

  “You must have other suspects,” Laurel said, turning to Greer. “From Pat’s cases.”

  The agent nodded. “We’re scouring those files. Retracing our footsteps, taking a closer look at everyone we looked at three years ago.” She hadn’t been part of that “we,” but cops and queens like the royal pronoun.

  “We’re reconsidering the burglary theory,” Armstrong added, “and checking into Ms. Petrosian’s business interests for any possible overlap. And of course, working on tracing that gun. We’re putting everything we have into this.”

  I believed him. Up until last Friday evening, I’d have likened the chances of finding anything amiss in Maddie Petrosian’s business interests to those of the proverbial snowball. But I was seeing some of the people in my life a little differently now.

  “Overlap,” Laurel said. “You mean the community activists, the people who fought the original development.”

  “Right,” Tracy said. “Your old friends and neighbors.”

  “Pat was concerned, naturally,” Laurel said. “He knew how to talk the right language, about setbacks and quiet zones and all that stuff. His point was that the proposal was not in keeping with the neighborhood. Others were pretty hot, calling it an abomination. Californication. Pat could speak more reasonably.”

  Eventually the reasonable side had won out. Any possibility that the conflict led to Pat’s murder would have been investigated at the time. And it couldn’t be connected to Maddie’s shooting— she hadn’t owned the corner grocery then. Though I did wonder whether his death had prompted her to step up her efforts to buy the property.

  At least one neighbor hadn’t opposed the plans at all. A neighbor who’d lost a ton of potential business when the project downscaled from high-end condos to low-end retail and rentals. But before I could ask about Deanna Ellingson, Laurel rose.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work. Thank you for the update.”

  Greer stood but Tracy remained seated, his eyes on me. “Something else on your mind, Ms. Reece?”

  Infuriating as it was, I had to admit that the man was awfully perceptive.

  I wanted to ask why they had a guard on Maddie. Was she truly in such danger that the hospital security guards, not to mention the maze of hallways and doors, could not protect her? But if they were guarding her, then the answer was yes. And raising the question would only prompt Detective Tracy to make a wise crack about my encounter with Officer Clark on Sunday.

  I kept my mouth shut.

  Some questions are better left unasked.

  Sixteen

  When you are walking, do not throw your arms and legs about carelessly, but keep your elbows well in, or you might knock a ghost over.

  —Arnaud Gélis, 14th-century armarié or “messenger of souls” quoted by Robert Moss, The Dreamer’s Book of the Dead

  AFTER THE QUICKEST OF GOODBYES TO SEATTLE’S FINEST and a “see you tonight” to Laurel, I zipped out of the deli and through the lobby of the office tower. No sign of Smoking Man. Relieved from duty while Special Agent Greer had Laurel in her sights?

  I glanced at my pink Kate Spade watch. Holy cardamom.

  This part of downtown slopes steeply to the waterfront, and the larger buildings have entrances at two levels. I rode a trio of escalators down to Third Avenue and stepped outside. The skies were gray, the air cool, but no rain. For the moment, anyway.

  My head was spinning. The walk would do me good.

  If the cops were taking a closer look at everyone connected to Pat’s death, viewing them in a new light after Maddie’s shooting, I had no doubt that included Bruce Ellingson and everyone connected to the investigation about his firm.

  What a tangle. Pat had helped investigate Ellingson, who had not been charged or sent to prison, but had apparently lost his business and his professional license. I’d heard enough talk among the lawyers I’d worked with to know that risk struck terror in their hearts. Losing the license meant losing the career they’d trained for, worked for, sacrificed so much for. And with that came a loss of income, reputation, and identity. If you weren’t a lawyer anymore, who were you?

  No wonder Ellingson continued to call himself a broker.

  A twenty-something sped past me on one of those battery-powered skateboards with the fat single wheel in the middle, a white Chihuahua poking out of his backpack. Ah, Seattle. Still quirky after all these years.

  Both the Ellingsons had reason to blame Patrick Halloran for their misfortunes. But resentment was one thing, murder another.

  Was I judging people unfairly? Making the easy assumptions? There were oodles of instances of unlikely criminals, the killer next door, right here in Seattle. Ted Bundy, the handsome UDub law student with his suits and neatly trimmed hair. The factory worker and religious zealot who turned out to be the Green River Killer.

  But Bruce Ellingson?

  I knew nothing about Joe Huang, but he and his cronies—it was a fun word—might be the better suspects. Though I could see no link to Maddie.

  If I remembered the news coverage of Pat’s murder correctly, he was the first Assistant U.S. Attorney believed to have been murdered as a result of his professional activities. Obviously, then, AUSAs were not common targets. But investigators thought at least two of Pat’s cases could be linked to his murder. So much for the idea that so-called white-collar crime—financial crimes and fraud cases—isn’t violent. Crime gets its hands dirty, no matter what color shirt it wears.

  And I thought again of the nature of coincidence. Ellingson next door. Huang’s comings and goings.

  I tightened my grip on the bag looped over my shoulder, hunching as I picked up the pace. As if that would make me less visible, less vulnerable.

  Going after Pat Halloran would not have stopped an investigation—dozens more prosecutors could pick up the case. If they thought one of their own had been targeted to stop them from doing their job, they’d double down.

  Organized crime is a fact of life worldwide. Not surprising that it might rear its ugly head in the import–export business.

  But clearly Joe Huang’s employer had not unleashed a crime wave against American law enforcement. If the crime was personal, then the Ellingsons were good candidates.

  At First and Pike, I crossed the all-way intersection, as the woman in the photo had done. I waved at the florist on the corner. Just past Left Bank Books, I took a hard right down one of the Market’s many corridors, hoping the back door of the Asian grocery would be open. It wasn’t. I slowed in front of the creamery, contemplating a snack. Not that I was hungry; it was a habit. I’d reached the cheese shop with its tempting display cases when I heard a door and turned. The old lady edged into view, propping open the door of the Asian grocery with one shoulder. She wore a print blouse and black pants, and the black cotton shoes with white bottoms that I’d seen on display out front. She spoke in Chinese to someone I couldn’t see. Then a girl emerged, maybe four or five, in a purple jacket. The woman let the door clang shut and grabbed the child’s hand, tugging her down the hall past me.

  It’s not unusual to see children in the Market, shopping with their families or taking in the sights. The Market runs a preschool, and I love seeing the line
of little ones, holding hands, as their teachers take them on a walk or a field trip. Was this girl the old woman’s granddaughter? Was she the child in the photo Agent Greer had given me? And where were they going?

  All questions that would have to wait. I made a left past the cheese shop, waved to Misty at Three Girls, and came out on Pike Place. Moments later, I reached my shop. Stashed my tote and grabbed the dog leash. My staff are perfectly willing to tend to Arf when I’m away, but it isn’t fair to leave him alone with them too long or too often.

  “Good boy, good boy.”

  On our stroll toward the park, I wondered about Joe Huang and what he might have done. Whether Agent Greer and her partner would return to the Market, watching for him.

  A few drops of rain hit my face. In my haste, I’d skipped the dog’s raincoat. “Short trip, buddy. I’ll make it up to you, promise.” As soon as he finished his business, we turned around. Back in the shop, Arf trotted to his cushion. I tied my apron strings and returned to the shop floor in time to hear Matt ask a customer how he could help her.

  “Oh, I don’t cook,” she said.

  I paused, wondering how he would handle her response. It was not an uncommon one.

  He smiled. Though one arm is covered in tattoos, he has a sweet, boy-next-door smile. “You eat, don’t you? We’ve got some terrific herbed salts. Here—try one.” He plucked a tester jar of our lavender-bay salt from a display, twisted off the lid, and handed it to her.

  She eyed him warily, as if unsure what to do with it.

  “Give it a sniff,” he said. “Tell me what you notice. Then sprinkle a few grains in your palm and give it a taste.”

  I spotted a tea spill on the floor and stepped behind the counter for a rag.

  “He’s so good,” Cayenne said. “People say stupid stuff like that, I want to ask why they bothered to come in. I know, they’re with a friend. Or they wanted to get out of the rain.”

  “But you’re learning,” I said. My two new hires were teaching each other. Matt didn’t cook much when he started. I wasn’t sure he cooked much now, though he had talked about watching the famous Jacques Pépin video after hearing Cayenne discuss it with a customer, and teaching himself to make an omelet. “Sometimes, customers say the first thing that pops into their heads, to avoid being pressured into buying something. Laugh it off. Say ‘I’ll let you browse.’ Or offer them tea.”

  “And sometimes they’re poopheads,” Sandra said.

  Matt’s customer may have started as a poophead, but she ended up buying several jars of herbed salt, our best-selling pepper blend, and our spice tea. “Getting an early start on my Christmas shopping,” she said.

  “If I shopped that early, I wouldn’t remember what I bought for who,” Sandra said as she took the woman’s credit card. “Or where I stashed it in the house.”

  At three thirty, the front door opened and a young man entered. A few feet in, he stopped, scanning the shop.

  I’d completely forgotten that Misty’s deliveryman was coming in to interview. What was his name? Cory? No, Cody.

  “Cody,” I said, holding out my hand. “Good to see you. Been in before?”

  He hadn’t, though it turned out that he’d met both Matt and Sandra at the bakery. He’d swapped his white T-shirt for a white polo, and added a belt to the green cargo pants. I gave him the nickel tour—the place is so small that that’s all it takes. “You’ll be working closely with me and Matt. Let’s have a chat.” I poured us each a cup of spice tea and we sat in the nook.

  “This is great,” he said. “The shop, I mean. The tea, too.” He’d pushed the cup away and now drew it closer.

  “The spices are pretty strong,” I said. “You don’t have to like the tea to work here.”

  That brought a shaky smile. I hoped conversations with strangers didn’t always make him so nervous.

  “Misty said you needed a few extra hours,” I said.

  “I’m working at the bakery from six to ten most days. Then I grab whatever odd jobs I can—help people move, clean out their basements, dig gardens.”

  Not uncommon for young men, especially a Gen Z-er like Cody. “Are you in school?”

  “No. I went to Seattle U for two years.” He paused and I kept my tongue. Most people will keep talking, if you let them, and that’s when they tell you what you really want to know. It didn’t take Cody long, staring at the table as the words spilled out. “I—I played soccer in high school and my parents wanted me to get a scholarship, but I wasn’t good enough. Freshman year, I walked on, but didn’t make the team. We scraped together enough for sophomore year, but I decided not to go back. I—I don’t know what I want to do, and my parents were all stressed and yelling at me and each other. I just—I just want to earn enough to move out. I’ll go back to school eventually. I know it’s important. But not right now.”

  He was almost breathless, slowly raising his gaze to mine.

  “I can’t promise you more than a few hours a day, but it may work into something more.” Reed would graduate in the spring, and I didn’t know how long Kristen would stay. If we did expand the commercial facility, I’d need at least two employees there.

  “It’s a start,” he said. “Misty says you’re great, and she’ll give me a good reference.”

  “She already did.” We talked hours, pay, and a start date. “I’ve got a few forms for you to fill out. It’s a formality—you’re hired— but I need them for the personnel file.”

  He relaxed visibly. I slid him the forms and he scribbled while I got back to work. A few minutes later, he handed me the paperwork, then chatted briefly with Matt before leaving. I retreated to my office and began setting up a personnel file.

  I stared at the neatly printed name and address. Surely he’d said his full name when he came in. Had I not been listening?

  Poor kid. Maybe it was a sign from the Universe, as my mother would say. Maybe I could help Cody Ellingson at the same time as I helped myself.

  The shop buzzed the rest of the afternoon. When we closed, the computer balked at running the day’s sales. By the time I got the glitch resolved, I was running late. Arf and I sprinted down the Market steps to Western and up to the loft just long enough to grab the carrot soup, then down to the garage for the car. I was happy to see that the front door to the building was firmly latched.

  As the dog and I drove to Kristen’s Capitol Hill home—the house where my family lived until I was twelve—I wondered how to broach the topic of the Ellingsons with Laurel. We would all talk about the investigation, of course, but annoyed as I was that she’d withheld info from me, I didn’t want to confront her in front of our friends. More important to focus on friendship. And I hoped Kristen could give us a good update on Maddie.

  Not only was I realizing that Laurel wasn’t the open book she always claimed to be, but I was starting to think that Maddie Petrosian, the girl who turned everything she touched into gold, might be a little bit tarnished.

  And that murder and friendship might not be the best combination.

  Seventeen

  The whole of life is just like watching a film. Only it’s as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it all out yourself from the clues.

  —Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures

  ERIC AND MARIAH, THE YOUNGER OF THE TWO GIRLS, WERE walking down the front steps of the stately gray home when Arf and I arrived. Flick Chicks at their house meant a night out with dad.

  “Arf!” Mariah cried. She sank to her knees and threw her arms around my boy, who returned her affection by licking her face. “That tickles.”

  “Hey, Eric.” I set the box with my soup pot and containers on the bottom step and we exchanged a quick hug. “Where’s Savannah?”

  “We decided she could start wearing blush and mascara, so leaving the house takes an extra ten minutes while she t
riple-checks the mirror.”

  “Got time for a quick question?” He nodded, and I filled him in on Edgar’s complaint about the stolen spice blend. “I told him I didn’t think he had a claim for copyright violation, but what about theft? If the facts add up.”