The Solace of Bay Leaves

by Leslie Budewitz

  “Like you said,” Navarro replied. “Appearances. Many of those are colistings with other agents, or proposals for projects that aren’t anywhere near shovel-ready. Some will never materialize. She kept her license while he was raking it in, but didn’t work much. Now that the burden of earning an income is on her, she’s had to rebuild relationships with developers, create new ones, yada yada. It takes years.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Tracy said drily. “You were a real estate agent before you became a special agent.”

  Navarro rolled his eyes. I decided I liked him.

  “So, in a nutshell,” Armstrong said, “Ellingson believes his wife killed Halloran, because he heard Halloran cry for help and spotted him out back. He called 911”—he paused to check the report—“at five after six, several minutes after he first started hearing something, and roughly half an hour after he saw her leave the Halloran house. And he knew she had motive.”

  “That’s consistent with the physical evidence indicating he was shot in the mudroom, near the back of the house,” Greer said.

  “But didn’t you tell Laurel—Mrs. Halloran—that there was very little evidence of an intruder in the house itself?” I asked Tracy. “If Deanna shot Pat in the mudroom, and then left by the front door, wouldn’t she have left some kind of trail?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Laurel cleaned the house Thursday, knowing she was leaving town for the weekend the next morning. Your crew found Maddie’s lipstick on the bathroom floor after the murder. What if,” I said, “it was Maddie that Bruce Ellingson saw, not Deanna? They’re about the same height, and they both have short dark hair. He only caught a glimpse, through the hedge. It would have been easy to mistake them. She could have driven straight to the ferry and made it.”

  “You’re not saying your friend shot Halloran,” Tracy said. “Or that she’s in cahoots with the killer.”

  “No. No, I don’t have any idea who shot Pat,” I said. “Ellingson didn’t hear the shot, and he didn’t see anyone lurking around. But say Maddie went out the front door. Sometime in the next twenty to thirty minutes, the killer shows up at the back door. Heck, maybe he was watching, waiting for Maddie to leave. That would explain why Pat was shot in the mudroom and crawled out the back.”

  “Why would Ms. Petrosian have been there?” Greer asked. “Even if they were they having an affair, that wouldn’t explain why she became a target three years later. Mrs. Halloran’s alibis are solid, for both crimes.”

  “I think Maddie went to Pat for help.” I explained my theory of the plan to buy up the properties, one by one. “Then, when she owned the rest of the block, or most of it, she’d approach Barut with a proposal to buy the corner lot, using a business name similar to the one Jake Byrd and Deanna Ellingson were using. The corner property was her target all along.”

  “Why was she so hot on that corner lot?” Navarro asked. “If she wanted to run a convenience store, there must be tons of properties available.”

  “And why the ruse with the business name?” Armstrong said. He leaned toward me, resting his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t wearing socks with his boat shoes, and his jeans rode up a few inches, giving me a glimpse of the orca tattooed on his ankle. “From what you’ve said about her, doesn’t sound like her style.”

  “It isn’t,” I said. “And any old convenience store wouldn’t do. What Maddie wants is to recreate what her family lost. The first business they built in this country, on that very spot. The business and property they lost because of Jake Byrd’s grandfather’s recklessness.”

  I dug the album out of my tote and showed them what I’d found: the pictures, the cards, the notes. On the whiteboard on the wall behind us, Armstrong drew a large-scale version of the Gregorian family tree, filling in the names Maddie hadn’t added to hers: Elizabeth “Lizzie” married Byrd? followed by a descendant line to Jacob “Jake.” Then he drew dotted cousin lines between Lizzie and David, Jake and Maddie.

  The detectives and special agents sat around the table, littered with coffee cups and notepads, studying the wall. Tracy reached for the album and flipped back to the photo of the grocery and truck. “Gregorian and Son,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know how Haig Gregorian lost the family grocery,” I said. “According to Tim, it was vaguely criminal. Miriam, Maddie’s mom, may know more.”

  “If all that’s true, I get why she wanted the building back,” Greer said. “But it was Byrd’s legacy, too. Didn’t he have just as much right to buy it? She sabotaged his dreams to pursue her own.”

  I had to admit, that bothered me. Was it only in my imagination that Maddie was both successful and perfectly ethical, a woman who took over a business built by men in a field dominated by men, reclaiming rundown buildings and revitalizing neighborhoods without smearing her lipstick? Had I put her on a pedestal unfairly, exposing her to criticism—and worse—for falling off it?

  “Why didn’t any of this come out three years ago?” Tracy asked. But I knew the answer: Only Maddie could have told them. And she hadn’t.

  “For fear of jeopardizing the plan,” I said. “Which tells us she never imagined it had led to Pat’s murder.”

  “Look at it from her point of view,” Armstrong said. “Byrd had no intention of recreating what the family lost. Just the opposite. He meant to poke a great big finger in Maddie Petrosian’s eye.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Can’t you bring him in for questioning? If the great-grandparents cut his branch of the family off and the Byrd’s Nest condos were his revenge, he must have hated Maddie. He had motive up the wazoo.”

  “And an alibi,” Tracy said. “Unless we can break that—and I’m not laying odds, after all this time—we can’t tie him to Halloran’s murder. In the meantime, we can’t risk giving him reason to think we’re targeting him. So you”—Tracy gave me the official police officer glare—“say nothing to no one.”

  I nodded solemnly. Tracy instructed Armstrong to assemble a team to bring in Bruce and Deanna for questioning.

  Navarro had not spoken for several minutes. He sat at the end of the table, one arm across his torso, tapping his chin with the fingers of his other hand. “Byrd had motive for both crimes. I’m not convinced that his alibi for the first is all that solid—he bought a ticket to the five o’clock matinee, but that doesn’t mean he went in. Or stayed.”

  “What movie?” I asked.

  “Lady Bird,” Armstrong replied. “And when we talked to him, he knew all about it. But we don’t have anything that puts him at the scene of the second crime, either.”

  “Yes, we do,” I said. I looked at Tracy. “I started to tell you this on the phone last night, but you had questions and I forgot. Cody Ellingson works for me—he started this week. His story’s been coming out in bits and pieces the last few days. His parents have been fighting for ages, mostly over money, blaming each other for putting them in a tight spot. On the bus yesterday, we ran into the barista who saw the guy in the alley. The guy who might have been the shooter.” I stood, pacing in the narrow space between chairs and wall, trying to get it all straight in my mind. “You talked with him—you know he couldn’t identify the guy. He’d know Ellingson, though, wouldn’t he? Bruce and Deanna are regulars at the coffee shop.”

  “Depends how good a look he got,” Armstrong said. “But the kid’s afraid the guy in the alley was his dad.” I nodded.

  “Going after Ms. Petrosian because he thought his wife had killed Halloran and he was cleaning up after her,” Greer said.

  “But Ellingson would have known that killing Maddie Petrosian wouldn’t put the original project back on track, because her company owned the property,” Navarro pointed out. “If Ellingson took a shot at Petrosian, it was purely out of revenge.”

  “But the barista could easily have seen someone else,” I pointed out. “The real killer.”

  “Bring in the whole family,” Tracy ordered. “Sep
arate cars.”

  And that was my cue to leave.

  I NEEDED to get back to work. But solving the problem of Edgar’s spice blend was also work. I called an Uber for a ride to the rival chef’s joint. Early for lunch, but it was Saturday, the first clear blue day in a week. A few neighborhood types might drift in for crab cakes and a mimosa and call it brunch.

  Early also meant I caught the black-coated chef before he was elbow-deep in kitchen chaos.

  “Pepper Reece,” I said. “I own Seattle Spice. Hoping we can chat.”

  “You’re wasting your time. I’ve got an excellent supplier for all my herbs and spices.”

  “I’m sure you do. I’m not here to sell you spice. I’m here to see if we can solve a problem.”

  Not the response he’d expected. He gestured to a small table near the kitchen and the hostess brought us mineral water. I explained that the spice blend he was using on his crab cakes, among other dishes, bore a remarkable resemblance to Edgar’s proprietary blend.

  He looked like he wanted to spit in my Pellegrino.

  “I created that blend myself. I don’t need to steal from other chefs. And if this Eduardo or whatever his name is, is so insecure that he goes around accusing people he doesn’t even know, highly respected chefs with years of experience, he won’t last long.”

  “Mmm. Mm-hmm,” I said, or something like that. “I don’t know whether you sent your girlfriend hunting for Edgar’s secret stash, or whether bringing you a sample was her idea. Doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s theft.”

  Heat flared off him, like a grease fire on a flaming stove.

  “Here’s what we can do.” I reached into my tote and brought out two small tins, each bearing the Seattle Spice Shop label with our saltshaker logo. I’d labeled them “Sample—Proprietary” followed by #1 and #2. “You stop using the stolen blend or any variation. I will persuade Edgar not to file a complaint for theft against the bartender, your girlfriend. In exchange, I’ve created two blends specifically for you. You may attempt to recreate them yourself, or order them from me at an excellent introductory price.” I slid a quote sheet across the table.

  He ignored the quote and grabbed the first tin. Pried off the lid and gave me a dark look before giving a tentative sniff, then a deeper one. Stuck a finger in the mix, touched it to his tongue, and gave me another quick glance. Repeated the process with the second tin. Folded his arms and leaned back in his seat.

  “And needless to say,” though I said it anyway. “Edgar is no longer in need of your girlfriend’s bartending skills.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Once you get a spice in your home, you have it forever. Women never throw out spices. The Egyptians were buried with their spices. I know which one I’m taking with me when I go.

  — Erma Bombeck

  THE BUS FOR DOWNTOWN WAS JUST LOADING AS I LEFT the restaurant so I hopped on for the long, slow ride. I checked my messages and found one from Glenn saying he’d made contact with the owner of the rental unit. He was thinking of selling; if I wanted to convert two units into one, as Glenn was doing, this was the time to make an offer. Let me think about it, I replied, then sent Edgar a text, saying problem solved. Finally, I let Sandra know I was on my way.

  We rolled down Madison. On the side of an old brick building, a faded red-and-white Coca-Cola sign, in that familiar script, peeked over the top of an ancient green cigar ad. We passed Seattle University and reached the hospital district.

  Wait. At the ATM, head bent, tucking bills in his wallet, was that him? Smoking Man, in his navy rain jacket. The rest of us Seattleites had left ours home. If he wanted to look like every other man, he’d picked the wrong day.

  I’d never seen his face up close. An image of the thin file Maddie’s assistant had held in her lap flashed into my mind’s eye. Flyers for the Byrd’s Nest, some with photos. I’d recognized Deanna Ellingson. The other had been Jake Byrd.

  It had to be him.

  I popped up and waited by the back door, gripping the metal pole. When the doors opened, I jumped off, looking around wildly.

  What was Byrd doing here? And where had he gone?

  There, striding east on Ninth. Toward Harborview. I waited at the light, giving him a good head start, and pulled out my phone.

  Tracy had said earlier that Byrd’s alibi couldn’t be proved or disproved. Since the alibi was a ticket to a movie, that made sense. Especially if the theater had closed, the staff scattered. Even a team of investigators armed with databases and search warrants might have trouble getting access to security cameras, if there were any, and employee records, then tracking down former employees who might or might not have seen one random moviegoer. And if they had, what would that prove? As Navarro noted, you could easily buy a ticket and slip away. Who would know?

  But I had another approach in mind. I might not be able to break Byrd’s alibi, but I could put a good dent in it.

  There were no movie theaters left on Capitol Hill, not since the Broadway became a Rite-Aid and the Harvard Exit drew its curtains for the last time. But the corner grocery was an easy shot from the University District, over the Montlake Bridge. The Varsity, the Neptune, the Seven Gables.

  And one more, west of I-5, on Forty-Fifth Street.

  I punched buttons on my phone and silently urged Kristen to pick up. She did and I stepped out of the flow of traffic, keeping my eye on Byrd.

  “Do you remember when we saw Lady Bird, in the theater?”

  “Saoirse Ronan and Laurie Metcalf. It made me terrified of the girls becoming teenagers. I loved it.”

  “Remind me,” I said, and she did, summarizing it in my ear as I trailed after Byrd.

  “That was at the Guild, right?” Not one of our usual haunts, but one I remembered fondly, with its bright pink stucco, Deco curves, and classic two-sided marquee.

  “Yeah. On Forty-Fifth. Last movie we saw there before it closed, with no notice. That’s why we started Flick Chicks a couple months later, remember? Too many theaters were closing, and streaming was filling the gaps.”

  “Perfect. Thanks. Gotta run. Love you.” I clicked off and sped toward the hospital.

  One other attractive feature about the Guild was that it was easy to sneak in a side door and watch the movie without buying a ticket. I think we only did it once. We—Maddie had been with us, along with a couple of other girls—were terrified that we’d get caught and they’d throw us in jail. Or worse, call our parents.

  If you could sneak in, someone else could sneak out.

  In retail and in real life, it’s never okay to lie. Pretending you didn’t hear when a customer says nobody needs all these fancy salts is good business. Pasting a calm expression on your face when you’re strolling past a suspected killer, piece of cake.

  Well, I may be puffing on that. But when I saw Byrd in his rain jacket standing twenty-five feet from the hospital door with a cigarette in hand, I tossed him a casual smile and walked on by. Stopped and retraced my steps back to where he stood, next to one of those trash cans encased in concrete, an ash tray on top.

  “Hey, I know you, don’t I? You’re Maddie’s cousin Jake, right? Oh, gosh. You must be so relieved that she’s finely coming around.”

  A whirl of panic and confusion crossed his face.

  “Oh, my bad. After all that’s happened, how could you remember one more name? It’s Pepper Reece.” What had Ramon the security guard said? They had to be careful of people trying to worm their way in to see patients in the ICU. Old friends. That would be me. Distant cousins. That would be Jake.

  “I hear you two are in business together,” I said as he took another puff. “That’s great. Must be so satisfying, to picture a building then bring it to life. Like giant Legos.”

  “You make it sound simple. I worked construction a long time.”

  “Around here? Oh, silly question. Of course you’re from here. You’re a Petrosian.” />
  “No, the connection goes back another generation. My grandfather was a Gregorian. His sister, Rose, married Petrosian. They were Maddie’s grandparents.”

  As I well knew. Rose had lived with Maddie’s family in her later years. She made the loveliest soft molasses cookies, with sugar sprinkled on top. But she died when we were in the third grade.

  “I grew up in Oakland,” Byrd said. “Finally made it to Seattle a few years ago.”