“Maddie, it’s me. Pepper.”
Her eyes remained closed, but she gripped my hand.
“Between Kristen and me, we’ve heard from half the girls in our class,” I said. “We’re all rooting for you. And I see they all sent flowers.”
Her mouth twitched, an attempt at a smile. I handed her the big sippy cup.
“Maddie, I know this is hard, but you’ve never let hard things stop you. Tim said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Soccer,” she said.
That sent my brain scrambling. What had Kristen said? “The kids are back at practice and doing great. Only a few more weeks in the season. Next spring, you’ll be out there cheering louder than ever.”
“He—stayed. The building . . .”
I scooted my chair forward, angling so she could see me better. “Are you trying to tell me who you saw in the building? When you were shot?”
“No,” she said firmly. “Pat.”
That didn’t make any sense at all. Pat had been dead for three years. She hadn’t seen him in the building.
“What? You saw who shot Pat?”
“No. No.”
I heard a soft rap on the doorframe. Tim walked in, a Starbucks cup in hand. We exchanged air-kisses and chitchat about the kids, careful to include Maddie rather than talk as if she weren’t there, though she didn’t say anything. She stretched an arm toward the photo albums, now stacked on the deep windowsill, and Tim handed her one absently. She pushed it away and pointed again.
“Grandma,” she said.
“You want your grandmother’s photo album?” I asked, and she nodded. Tim was closer, so he picked it up.
A nurse walked in. “Time for your pills.”
“Time for me to go,” I said, and leaned in to kiss Maddie’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a day or two.”
Maddie grabbed my hand. “Tell Laurel—the building worked. Tell her.”
“I will,” I said, though what she meant, I had no idea.
Twenty-Five
A scent can reduce us to tears in a moment.
— Philippa Stanton, Conscious Creativity
“SORRY,” Tim said as he walked down the hall with me. “She was talking in full sentences earlier today. It comes and goes.”
“No need to apologize. I can only imagine what you’re all going through.” We pushed through the ICU doors and stopped. The guard stand was empty now. “One thing that’s puzzled me, though, is why the Seattle police had a guard on her earlier but not now. They haven’t made an arrest, so what’s changed?”
“What? No, they haven’t been guarding her. Police have been in and out—two detectives, short black guy, kinda grumpy, and a tall thin white guy. And the liaison officer.”
“Tracy’s the grump. Armstrong’s his partner. What about the FBI? Agent Meg Greer, midthirties, always wears black. She might have a male partner. White guy, about your size. Don’t know his age.”
“Greer, I’ve seen, once. Early on. No partner. My impression is she’s focused on a suspect they’d targeted for Halloran’s murder.”
“A guy connected to a Chinese import–export firm?”
“Yeah. But I can’t see what that might have to do with Maddie. I don’t think they do, either.”
“Maddie’s family owned that corner lot once, didn’t they? Decades ago? Why did they sell?”
“They didn’t sell it. Some uncle or great-uncle lost it in a bad financial deal, something vaguely criminal. I don’t know the details. It kinda tore the family apart.”
What had Miriam Petrosian said about her husband’s uncle? That he’d been the boy in the photograph of the delivery truck. She’d said his name. Unusual, Armenian, but what was it?
“Just now, Maddie mentioned Pat. He was active in the group that opposed Jake Byrd’s development, right? And she went to a few meetings. Is that how she knew him?”
“She knew him before that, from soccer. Pat helped coach the younger kids, including Max.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Pat had coached Maddie and Tim’s son. “What about Bruce Ellingson? His son Cody played on the same high school team as Gabe Halloran.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells. I should get back.”
“Yeah, yeah.” We air-kissed and Tim left, the ICU doors swooshing shut behind him.
So Maddie would have known Pat from the kids’ soccer team, which explained why she’d said “soccer.” But why say “building”? And why mention him at all?
I glanced at the empty guard stand, then pushed my way back into the ICU. Tim was standing at the nurses’ station, talking with the nurse who’d given Maddie her medication. I touched Tim’s arm and led him a few feet away.
“Tim, does Maddie know she was shot with the same gun as Pat?”
He ran a hand over what was left of his hair. “It’s hard to say what she knows and doesn’t. We’ve tried not to talk about the incident in front of her, but she could have heard us out in the hall.”
So why was she talking about Pat? Even scrambled, Maddie’s brain had to have its reasons. Laurel’s suspicion of an affair was the last thing I wanted to bring up now, but it loomed large.
A strangled gulp caught my attention. Tim had gone wild-eyed and pale, his hand in a fist at his mouth.
“What if I lose her? She’s everything, Pepper. I mean, someday something will happen, I know, but not now. Not for decades. We have kids, plans.”
I led him to a chair a few feet away and the nurse brought him a cup of water. “It’s okay,” I said, though it wasn’t, and sat next to him, my hand on his arm. “Is Miriam staying with you, or at her own place? Is there someone I can call? Your parents . . .”
“My mother’s been ill. My dad can’t leave her. My sister’s flying up from L.A. this weekend to help with the kids.” He swallowed back tears. “The team’s been great, giving me time off, sending takeout. A couple of the players came up to visit, though the docs wouldn’t let them in to see her. You can bet if they were Seahawks instead of Sounders, the doors would have flown open.” He smiled, but without any humor.
I stayed a few more minutes, until Tim had collected himself. “Call me anytime, for any reason. You need anything . . .”
Only then did I notice he was still clutching the photograph album Maddie had pointed to just before we left her room. “Could I borrow that album? I’ll bring it back my next visit, I promise.”
He handed it over without a word, then turned and strode back to his wife.
I’D MISSED lunch, so I hopped off the bus not far from the scene of last week’s crash and headed for Ripe. The aroma of tomato-basil soup nearly knocked me off my feet. Lunch rush was long over, so Laurel sat with me for a quick chat.
“I think Cody is going to work out fine,” I said between bites, “but man, tough spot for a kid. He’s pretty angry.”
“They—Bruce—pushed him too hard. On everything, soccer most of all. He was a decent high school player, but not college level.”
One more reason to resent the Hallorans? For an ambitious couple like the Ellingsons, in a bad stretch largely of their own making, the model family next door must have been a constant reminder of their troubles.
Except that no couple, no family is perfect. Part of being an adult is recognizing that. Too often, I failed to remember that about Maddie.
“Tell me about your interview with Detective Tracy.”
“He read me the riot act, understandably. As for charges, he can’t say that knowing about the lipstick tube three years ago would have solved the crime, especially now, when it’s clear that Maddie did not shoot Pat.”
“Laurel, what if they weren’t having an affair? What if— what if Maddie went to your house to see Pat about something else?” Was that what she’d been talking about Wednesday, when I thought she was trying to tell me why she went to the old grocery the day she was shot?
“Li
ke what? What would have been important enough for him to skip a soccer tournament? He never skipped a game.”
“What if she was consulting him about the development project?”
“That’s crazy. He wasn’t a real estate lawyer.”
“No, but he was deeply committed to making sure that project was something the community could live with. What if he was helping her figure out a way to derail Jake Byrd? He did have a lot of experience dealing with financial transactions.” I found the list of Maddie’s purchases in my tote and laid it on the table, tapping it with a finger. “She started buying up properties in that block not long after Pat died. Eventually, she bought the corner lot, using an LLC with a name almost identical to Byrd’s business name. Her secretary says this is the only time Maddie ever did that. Why? And where did she get the idea?”
“What has gotten into you, Pepper? Suggesting my husband used his knowledge of the law to help Maddie Petrosian perpetrate a fraud.”
“Not a fraud. It was all perfectly legal, and perfectly reasonable. Look. Isn’t that the kind of methodical planning and creative thinking Pat was known for? Wouldn’t you rather believe he was helping her stop Jake Byrd from ruining the neighborhood than believe he was having an affair?”
“But why not tell me?”
The pain in her voice cut my heart. “Maybe Maddie asked him to keep it secret until she could put the plan in place. If it got out, it might not have worked.” I hoped we could ask her soon.
“Jake Byrd and Deanna Ellingson,” she said. “You don’t think they killed him?”
I sat back. “I don’t know. Byrd has some kind of alibi—Tracy won’t say what.”
After a long moment, she raised her eyes to mine. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. You’re trying to help my family and that means more to me than I can ever say. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Call Seetha for a massage. Bake cookies for the neighbors. Binge-watch Buffy.”
That got a smile. We’ve all got a vampire or two to slay.
I WALKED back to the Market on First, past the Art Museum and the old Lusty Lady building, once home to an infamous adult film and peepshow club. Known for marquee witticisms, when it closed, the final message read “Thanx for the Mammaries.” The pink sign now lives on in the Museum of History and Industry.
Had Pat really worked with Maddie to forge a plan to save the block? Who else would know, who could tell me? Jess, her secretary, didn’t seem privy to that kind of detail. Maybe Tim. And what was the point of the Bird’s Nest deception? Had it been entirely to convince old, ill Emby—Mehmet Barut—to go ahead with the sale despite his prejudices?
No matter. It had worked. The genius of the plan had been to quietly buy up the block to protect it, and improve her chances of acquiring the plum parcel.
If this was true, Maddie had risked a lot to put her plan in place. The original building was an important piece of her family history, but why was reclaiming it worth putting everything she, her father, and her grandfather had built on the line?
What was she trying to prove?
The first person I saw when I walked in the shop was one of the last people I’d expected to see.
“Tariq. What brings you here?”
The young cook stopped pacing. “’Bout time you showed up. I got five minutes before I have to run for the bus. I can’t be late for prep.”
Lateness, if I recalled correctly, had been a problem when he worked for Alex Howard. Maybe he was finally maturing.
We sat in the nook and Tariq placed a small plastic bag on the table between us. I felt like a rogue drug dealer.
“Where did you get this?”
“Filched it when Chef wasn’t looking. It’s his version, not Edgar’s.”
“But how did he get it? Chef, I mean.”
Tariq’s dark eyes flashed. He swiped the screen on his phone and held out a photo for me to see.
“How do I know that woman?” I asked. “She looks familiar.”
“Bartender at my current gig. Fills in at Edgar’s place. And guess, what, she’s Chef’s boo.”
“Seriously? How did she get into Edgar’s stash? He keeps it in his private office. And how did you figure it out?”
“Heard her bragging to Chef. She pranced into Edgar’s office to plead for more hours, then pretended she’d lost an earring and snuck back in to find it while Edgar was tied up during service.”
The bag held a reddish-brown mixture dotted with seeds and crystal specks. So much trouble over an innocent blend of sea salts, peppers, and herbs. And the secret ingredient I could never divulge. Such is the history of spice.
“You’re a prince, Tariq. And I’ll make sure Edgar knows it. Now scoot—I don’t want to make you late.”
He stood, hitched up his pants, and sashayed over to the side door, then stopped and blew me a kiss.
“I can’t even,” Sandra said, hands on her hips, staring after him.
I reached for my notebook, a stack of small square plates, and a jar filled with tiny tasting spoons. “Sit.” She did and Cayenne joined us. The copycat version looked like the real thing, but how did it taste? We each dipped a spoon in the mixture, sniffed, touched it to our tongues, scribbled notes, compared. Sandra and I had the advantage of having worked with Edgar on the formula; we knew what should have been there. And we both knew right away what was missing.
“It’s so close,” Sandra said. “But that one thing makes so much difference.”
“We split, what—three or four dishes?” I said and she nodded. “They were all like that. Close, but not quite.”
Cayenne leaned across the table, reading our notes upside down. “Ohmygosh. And this chef guy tasted Edgar’s blend, but he didn’t detect that?”
“We went through a dozen versions before we came up with exactly what Edgar had in mind,” Sandra said. “You tweak, tweak, and finally, you toss in a pinch of thyme, you switch one salt for another, and voilà!”
I sat back, arms folded. “So now what do I do?”
“Now nothing,” Sandra said. “Leave him to his own devices. He’ll succeed or fail based on the food and service.” “That won’t solve my problem with Edgar.” “How about this?” Cayenne laid out a plan so perfect I instantly wanted to hug her.
There is nothing like the right woman for the job.
Twenty-Six
Tell me what you eat and I shall tell you what you are.
—Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin,
French politician and gastronome
THE DOOR TO MY BUILDING WAS FIRMLY LATCHED WHEN ARF and I reached it. In a day this crazy, that counted as a big relief.
Leftovers for dinner. Fine with me—Nate would be home tomorrow, and I needed to clean, not spend the evening cooking. Not that he cared, but I did. Happily, spiffing a place this small doesn’t take long. Airedales don’t shed much, thank goodness.
I finished my whirlwind cleaning spree before the first pitch. The National League team led two games to one, but I was sure my guys could turn things around, now that they were back in their home park with a W in their column. Leftover noodles, reheated broccoli beef, and a light red wine in a clean house.
It was a good life.
During a commercial break, I picked up Maddie’s album. Inside the cover was a name, in thick, old-fashioned script: Tamar Gregorian. Below that, in a different hand, another name: Rose Gregorian Petrosian, Maddie’s grandmother and, I guessed, Tamar’s daughter. The early pages showed a young woman, dark hair brushing the collar of her white blouse and dark jacket. At her somber expression, the phrase “fresh off the boat” leapt into mind. More photos of the young woman followed, then one of her smiling, next to a handsome, slender man, both in dark suits. I slipped it out and turned it over. “Jacob and Tamar,” it read. “March 4, 1924.” A courthouse photo of the happy day.
After that came photos of the couple with a
small boy. Haig, the mysterious uncle? The back confirmed it. A baby girl followed— Rose.
I flipped forward, one eye on the game. Stopped at a wedding picture, a young man in an Army uniform, dark hair shining, and a woman in a white gown, blond wisps escaping the veil pushed off her face. Next to him stood a stern couple I recognized as Jacob and Tamar. Beside the bride stood her parents, both fair-haired and looking pleased. I slipped it out. “Haig and Elizabeth,” it read, in the same script as Rose’s signature on the flyleaf.
The Solace of Bay Leaves Page 22
