“And bridal gowns aren’t cash purchases. Very little in the wedding industry is,” I said. “Unless somebody imagined a potter would have a chunk of change on hand after a busy day in the Market. Did you see any signs of a break-in?”
“Detective, you want a last look before we move the body?” the medical examiner called out.
“Be right there,” she replied, then to me, “You sure you’re okay?”
I could drive safely, but that wasn’t what she meant. I nodded.
Before leaving, I climbed partway down the hillside, more careful of my footing than I’d been an hour ago, and studied the wall. Outdoor murals had sprouted all over the city in recent years, a marriage of graffiti and public art. One day last summer, I’d stood outside the production facility in SoDo where we pack our tea and spice blends, watching an artist use ladders and a lift and crates full of spray cans to create a school of fantastical fish. Daunting scale, but then, artists make careers of what daunts the rest of us.
Like the best murals, this one appeared to burst from the wall, the layers of paint and shadow giving it such depth that you almost wanted to reach out and pluck a flower. The colors weren’t quite realistic—a hint of fluorescence, a touch of shimmer—but that made them all the more intriguing.
On the lower right corner, at a hard-to-read angle, was the signature. I whipped out my phone, zoomed in, held it above my head, and clicked. Peered at the tiny screen. HART. As in Hannah Hart? Or H Art, Hannah’s Art?
I snapped a few more shots, then tucked the phone away and headed for car and dog. Plenty of time later to Google the name—I know not to phone and drive.
Not that it was my problem, anyway. The police had this well in hand. They’d see that Bonnie got justice.
And I had an urge to be back among the living and breathing, the hustling and bustling. Back in the Market, selling sugar and spice and everything nice.
That may not be what little girls are truly made of, but it’s a comforting thought, now and then.
Six
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, then Europe is the less.
—John Donne, Meditation XVII
Arf and I trotted up Western to the Market Hillclimb, trudged up the stairs, and made our way to the pizza window. I fed him a chunk of sausage, then browsed the newsstand, checking out the headlines and photos on the foodie magazines. (Eyes only until my hands were clean.) Arf trained his attention on a recently trimmed black poodle whose owner was flipping through the postcard rack.
“Mind your manners, dog.” I had to admit, she was rather fetching. For a poodle.
First thing, call Kristen, I reminded myself as we hustled down Pike Place. The Market was at its midday busiest, a mélange of browsers and serious shoppers.
My shop was a madhouse. I sent Arf to his bed behind the counter, tossed my bag in after him, and helped Reed with a customer restocking the kitchen of her summer home on Bainbridge Island. Matt had his hands full, assisting a customer planning an Italian feast for twelve, and Cayenne was on the phone, the customer grilling her, from the sounds of it, on everything from Jamaican allspice to Israeli za’atar. I scooped out four ounces of sweet marjoram—the last item on the customer’s list—and asked Reed, under my breath, “Where’s Sandra?”
“Back room. Meltdown. The new columnist for Northwest Cuisine is waiting in the nook. I gave her tea and cookies. You didn’t answer your phone.”
“What? She’s here? On a Saturday?” I set the marjoram jar on the restocking cart, marched over to the nook, and held out a slightly grubby hand—no apron to wipe it on. “Pepper Reece. So nice of you to stop in.”
A full-figured woman of about fifty, wearing a lime green twin set and a beaded necklace of black jet, gave me a once-over. A spiral-top notebook lay open on the butcher-block work surface next to her untouched tea, and she’d jotted half a page of notes in compact script.
“Nancy Adolfo. Apparently your staff forgot to mention our appointment. But I’m enjoying watching the place hum.”
If she’d wanted to catch us at our crazy-busiest, she’d timed it right. “I promise, in two minutes, you’ll have my full attention.”
Adolfo smiled, revealing tiny, shiny, sharp white teeth. I headed for the back room and the squeaky door that kept it more secure than any alarm.
“Sandra? What’s up?”
My assistant manager swiveled the desk chair back and forth, arms crossed, chin lowered. I could almost see steam coming out of her ears.
“She lies. Whatever she told you through those perfect veneered teeth is a lie.”
I unfolded the wooden chair we keep behind the door and sat, knee to knee. Reached out and stopped the chair. “Sit still and tell me what happened.”
“A woman called earlier this week and demanded to know what days you work. Refused to let me help her or say what she wanted, but she made me hinky.” Sandra huffed. “Now she shows up pretending she had an appointment and that I screwed up. She wants to catch you off guard and see how you respond.”
Adolfo had joined the regional food scene a few months ago, reporting on Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, B.C., and the Northwest wine and orchard country. She’d quickly developed a reputation as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her beat was specialty food retailers—wine tasting rooms, butchers, ethnic grocers. Spice merchants. I understood not making an appointment—if you want to evaluate customer service, product freshness, and retail readiness, best not give your marks time to clean up their act.
And she treated the producers and retailers like marks, taking aim and firing away. Her reviews ran the gamut from gnarly to nasty. There’d been talk of a boycott of sorts, modeled on one in another city where restaurants refused to give a harsh critic a dinner bill, forcing him to accept a freebie, an ethical no-no, or publicly demand a check, airing dirty linen in front of diners. How to make a similar standoff work in businesses that sell products and offer free samples, no one could figure out, so the effort had fizzled. I’d never worried about her showing up here—our spice tea may not be everyone’s cuppa, but our reputation is solid. Reviews matter, but word of mouth matters more.
But a woman who would lie to me about my own employees bore watching.
The phone on the desk lit up, and the ringer made the tiny office feel like the inside of a bell. Despite the chaos out front, I left it for the staff.
I took a deep breath and placed my hands on Sandra’s knees. “I know you’re feeling off-center, and I don’t blame you for wanting to smash in her teeth. But I need you at your best. Stick to the customers, and leave her to me.”
She forced out another irritated breath, her dark eyes flashing. We’d talk later about what was really bothering her.
“All right then,” I said. “Let’s get spicy.” She attempted to smile, mostly failing. I grabbed an apron, put on my pleasant HR expression, and charged out to brave the invader.
“Need a refill? Black assam and spices, our custom blend.” I poured myself a refreshing cup. Funny how caffeine can hype you up or soothe you down, in the right dose.
The critic raised her head, her poofy red hair encased in hair spray, but said nothing. She had positioned herself in the booth so she had a full view of the shop—usually my spot. I slid in across from her.
“Charming shop,” she said. I’d heard that sniffiness before. If you prefer your charm superficial and super-sanitized, then don’t come to an urban outdoor market that’s been in continuous operation for well over a century. I ignored the patronizing tone.
“A detail or two from you, if you don’t mind, then I’ll let you get back to business.” She oozed smarmy sweetness, and I reminded myself to keep my cool. “Just spell my name right” might have worked for P. T. Barnum, but us lesser mortals prefer our publicity to include a few kind words.
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For the next ten minutes, she quizzed me about the shop’s history and how I acquired it. “And you had no experience in retail or the culinary arts? None at all?”
Her incredulity gave me a chance to practice patience. “You can learn a lot by hard work and observation. Plus a top-notch staff. My customers and employees have taught me the business, and I keep up by reading, cooking, and eating.”
Sandra walked by, carefully ignoring us. From behind the front counter, Cayenne shot me a wide-eyed look, biting her lower lip.
Finally, Adolfo closed her notebook and slipped her pen into her purse. One of those sleek Waterman pens I’d learned to recognize from a particularly status-conscious lawyer at the old firm, and a Dooney and Bourke leather handbag. Wide-legged white palazzo pants, back in style. I’d seen a similar pair in the window at Nordstrom. If this spice gig didn’t work out, maybe I could take up reviewing.
“May I offer you a bag of our spice tea? On the house,” I said as she slid awkwardly out of the booth.
“What I would take”—she paused to get her footing—“is a sampling of your summer blends.”
For summer, we featured a fiery grilling rub, a classic Italian blend, and our Herbes de Provence, a perennial favorite. I’d found a new source of culinary lavender to give the mixture the faintest hint of romance. I tucked the three tins in a small bag and handed it to her. “So glad you came by.”
Her gaze traveled slowly from my wiry, weird hair to my black T-shirt, pants, and apron, and my black shoes muddied by the morning’s adventure. “I’ll admit, you’ve redeemed yourself nicely.”
With that, she swished out, leaving other customers staring at her ample backside. Leaving me not knowing whether we’d garner a favorable review or a skewering worthy of our barbecue blend.
“What country does she think she’s queen of?” Sandra said.
Cayenne bustled over. “Kristen called twice. She said it’s urgent.”
Oh, cardamom. The news had gotten to her before I had.
Matt was chatting with a customer keen on Middle Eastern food. I beckoned to the others, who gathered around me. “Sad news. Bonnie Clay was killed last night, in her studio on Beacon Hill.”
“Oh, good Lord.” Sandra clapped her hand to her chest.
The natural deep blush on Cayenne’s high cheekbones faded, and she brought her hands together in front of her mouth. Reed slipped an arm around her. “I grew up on Beacon Hill.”
“Spencer and Tracy are on the case. Don’t be surprised if they come in later.”
“What do we tell them?” Cayenne’s voice quivered, but a flicker in her eyes betrayed a touch of excitement at being on the periphery of an investigation. She’d heard stories of past murders that had touched the Spice Shop; that had touched me and sucked me in.
“Everything you know,” I said. “As honestly as you can.”
“What are you going to do?” Reed said.
“Nothing. I barely knew the woman.” Or did I? “It’s hard to focus on herbs and customers after a shock, but—”
“But she’s dead!” Cayenne said, and a customer snapped her head to look at us.
“Honor her by keeping the world turning.” That’s what my law firm bosses told us when the planes crashed into the towers on 9/11. If you let evil stop you, they said, then evil wins. They were right.
I could not let my mother hear the news of Bonnie-Peggy’s death—call it murder, Pepper, ’cause you know that’s what it is—from the radio or TV. Of course, they wouldn’t release the name yet anyway, until the family could be notified.
How had Kristen heard? I’d told Spencer and Tracy about the party, but I was surprised they’d gotten hold of her so soon.
Back in my office, I tried my mother again. Still no answer. I strived for a message that balanced urgency with detachment and achieved neither. After fits and starts, I blurted out, “Mom, call me. The moment you can.”
Next, Kristen, on a family outing. No answer. I sent a text. I can’t believe it, either. What’s going on???
Ben. His name popped into my head as if from outer space. I’d told Spencer we’d taken Bonnie to the party and dropped her off afterward. And then I hadn’t given him another thought.
Which meant either I’m a terrible girlfriend, or . . .
No other viable excuses came to mind. If you don’t think to tell the guy you’ve been dating that the woman you introduced him to last night—a woman who’d sat in his car—was dead, well, that would probably top Cosmo’s list of Ten Ways to Know He’s Not For You.
Right above not needing his comfort.
I sighed. This was not the time to analyze my emotions, or lack of them.
But then, he might already know about the body. He worked the food and fun beat on the local weekly, but all the reporters savored a good, juicy crime story, and he followed the Seattle Police Department on Twitter for breaking news. He also took his turn in the rotation, calling law enforcement PR types for updates and attending official briefings.
Texting was made for moments like these. Bonnie Clay found dead, my thumbs spelled out. Expect to hear from Spencer and Tracy.
Too callous. I pushed the “clear” button and retyped. Sorry to tell you, Bonnie Clay’s been found dead. Call me. I pressed “send.”
I reached for the computer to check out Hannah Hart, then stopped myself. It was only curiosity, anyway. What couldn’t—shouldn’t—wait was telling Bonnie’s friends and neighbors in the daystalls.
I took a deep breath, closed the office door, and told Sandra I was taking a stroll. I was a little embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of calling Ben sooner. There was nothing wrong with him. But—and this was the crux of the matter—there was nothing right about us. And stringing along Mr. Good Enough For Now wasn’t fair.
Pike Place never fails to amaze and amuse me. The sidewalks were nearly impassible around the take-out joints—the piroshky maker, the Greek guy, the cheesecake bakers. The line for the original Starbucks—started in the Market in 1971—stretched all the way up the block. The coffee wasn’t any better there than in any other location, or in any other espresso shop, but we humans relish our landmarks, and it’s a big one.
Ten minutes later, I’d spoken to half a dozen vendors at the long craft tables, and word had begun to spread. Their cheeks were pale, and more than one hand trembled after hearing the news, as it held out a silver pendant for closer inspection or returned a credit card after a purchase. The Market artists are fiercely independent, yet deeply connected. We all feel a camaraderie with those who share our commitments, who make similar choices. Especially the choices that other people in our lives don’t understand.
Like making art and selling it, practically on the street, practically outside, in a city where rain is more common than shine. Even with the occasional help of a sales assistant, it’s a tad bit crazy.
Like buying a spice shop with zero experience. With nothing but guts and a small-business loan.
The kind of craziness that keeps a woman up late at night and gets her going early in the morning. The kind of craziness I hope everyone finds, at least once in their lives.
“I dreamed of owls last night.” The fused glass artist folded her arms over her heart and bowed her head. “Told myself it didn’t mean anything, but I knew better.”
The soap maker squeezed into her neighbor’s space and folded her into an embrace.
“Bonnie hadn’t been here long,” the Rasta-haired photographer in the next booth said, “but she did good work. She’d have done well.”
“She mention any problems, any worries?” I’d vowed to not investigate. But in a brief moment between surges of the crowd, when I had the vendors’ attention, I couldn’t help myself.
“Not to me.” The soap maker slipped back to her own stall where a customer fingered heart-shaped goat’s milk soaps.
Wednesday, I didn’t say, and, That was my mother.
The jewelry maker beckoned me over. I’d given her the five-gallon bucket full of rusty hardware my builder and I filled during the loft build-out. The necklace she made of tiny locks and keys is one of my favorites. “She was worried that she might have to move. She had a sublet, and the woman was making noises about wanting the place back.”
Hannah? Bonnie hadn’t mentioned that to me. But then, she hadn’t said much last night. “What did she say?”
The jeweler’s expression grew distant, one small hand fingering her chin. “She said she felt like she’d been on the move for thirty years. I said, you need a place of your own. We’re not like people who work regular jobs. We can’t just pick up all this”—she swept a hand over her display of earrings, bracelets, pendants, key fobs, and more—“and our materials and equipment and move on a whim.”
I pictured the shelves of greenware, the boxes of clay, the wheel, the kiln.
“You have to protect your art and your space, I told her,” the jeweler went on. “But she said—how did she put it? She said that was a trap. You put down roots and you get stuck, and before you know it, your creative spirit dies.”
Ah, humans. We don’t always make the best choices, despite thinking we know what we need. On the other hand, the Universe doesn’t always offer us the best options. In recent years, Seattle rents had rocketed higher than the Space Needle.
“Those are cut from the passenger door of a 1957 Hudson.” She spoke to a woman holding a pair of robin’s egg blue earrings in a teardrop shape. Or maybe it was a raindrop. “Original paint.”
The jeweler turned back to me, her voice low. “You are going to investigate, aren’t you?” The customer held an earring to her face and consulted a mirror hanging on the pillar between stalls. I glanced at her reflection and saw her watching me, as if wondering what kind of fascinating mess she’d wandered into.
Killing Thyme Page 6
