Killing Thyme

by Leslie Budewitz

  No. I know how my mother thinks. She saved this one for a reason. The date—in her handwriting—said June 15, 1985. The day before Kristen’s birthday, almost two weeks after mine. Birthday memories run together, unless something special or out of the ordinary occurs. My sixth stands out because Grandpa Reece visited, and my sixteenth, because he died that morning. My twenty-first was a blur, my thirtieth a lovely day with Tag on Whidbey Island. My fortieth a vision of hell, as I’d ranted and raved against him, unable to imagine his betrayal—or that I would ever get over it.

  My twelfth, and Kristen’s, came up blank.

  How on earth could Roger—or anyone—have imagined doing such a hateful thing, in the name of justice?

  A tiny spot in the center of my heart burned.

  If Peggy and Roger had been a couple, how had all that affected her? If she meant what she’d told her neighbor in the daystalls—that she’d been on the move for thirty years—had she left because of grief?

  I laid the flat of my hand against my chest, the cool touch oddly calming. “The question is whether the past has any connection to her death.”

  Arf opened one eye, then let it drift shut. He’s used to me talking to myself.

  But there were more questions. Brian Strasburg was a man of sharp edges, who had the skills to trace a person. Did he hold a grudge? Had he found Peggy Manning, aka Bonnie Clay, and taken vengeance?

  And what was I going to tell my mother?

  Twelve

  Unlike sights or sounds, researchers say, odors are processed through the brain’s limbic system, also the center of emotions—which might explain why scents often trigger memories with emotional overtones.

  Nothing like the free-wheeling, fast-moving, get-going-or-get-out-of-the-way pace of Monday morning in the Market to get the juices flowing.

  Not to mention a triple shot latte and a cherry turnover.

  I locked myself into the shop and breathed in the sweet scent of refuge.

  Now that Matt and Cayenne were mostly trained, we’d resumed a semi-normal schedule. Sandra took both Sunday and Monday off. I worked six days a week, but that’s the nature of retail, especially in high season. By fall, I hoped to score a day midweek for myself.

  But not yet. Arf and I surveyed the place, and I plugged in the LED sign mounted in the front window—our saltshaker logo, sprinkling salt on the waves. Then it was time for the Monday morning paperwork. No shortage of paperwork in HR, but little of it had involved money and none of it actual cash handling. Most days, Sandra or I tally up after closing, but with neither of us working Sundays, that had become a Monday task. So I dirtied my fingers thumbing bills and sorting coins, ran the sales figures and credit cards, and counted myself lucky that the totals were only off by fourteen cents.

  Then it was time to open the doors for my staff, brew tea, and welcome the hordes.

  Not hordes, on a Monday, but a girl can hope. And even Monday traffic picks up in June.

  “Boss.” Using Sandra’s nickname for me, Cayenne cast a long-lashed look toward the front door. Tag, in full bike cop uniform, the tight shorts showing off his long, lean legs, an older woman at his elbow. He pointed uphill, then down Pike Place, giving directions.

  I took a deep breath and stepped outside.

  “Good morning, Officer Buhner. What brings you by?” His stops had become less frequent the last month or two.

  “Hey.” His tone was light, but he kept his sunglasses on and offered none of the usual flirty platitudes that both flatter and annoy me. “Just checking on you. Market vendor gets murdered, you’ll get involved. Though why you would divorce a police officer then turn amateur cop beats me.”

  My spine stiffened. For a man who does not fish, Tag does a bang-up job of baiting me. Keep calm and carry on.

  “She was a friend of the family. You don’t honestly expect me to walk away from that.”

  Three years ago, I had walked away from him. We had worked our way back to being friends, and for a short time, I thought we might give it another go. He’d made his interest more than clear, and then, the flame died, leaving me confused.

  That happens more often with men than I care to admit.

  “That was uncalled for. I’m sorry.” I touched his arm in apology. “Tag, I know how to find old files in civil cases, but what about records of criminal investigations?”

  “Depends. Were charges filed, was there a conviction?” He described the process of submitting a public disclosure request, online or in person. “What do you want to find?”

  I grimaced. “Not exactly sure. What if the case is old? Thirty years.”

  He took off his glasses and fixed me with a steady glare. The new SPD uniform shirts are a deep navy, unlike the medium blue street officers wore for years, and his shirt no longer matched his eyes. The eyes burning into me right now.

  “Be careful, Pepper. Don’t let that new boyfriend of yours drag you into investigating so he can get a story.” He threw a leg over his bike and sped off, weaving through the obstacles, somehow staying upright despite all the hazards.

  I stared after him. He’d turned off the automatic flirtation switch. Still protective, but not the way he’d been in the past. Still interfering.

  He’d echoed my mother’s comment about investigating with Ben. But I wasn’t worried. Ben had assured me he wouldn’t go to print without my agreement, and now he was off chasing another story.

  Was Tag involved with someone else? Did I care?

  I let out a long, ragged breath. Life gets tricky sometimes.

  * * *

  The circles under Kristen’s eyes were the color of her stolen sapphires.

  To my eyes, she lacked her usual sparkle, but no one else seemed to notice as she went about her routine, tending to the books and the tea accessories.

  “The extra bamboo strainers should fit in the lower half of the apothecary,” I told her. “Behind the baskets of Spice Shop kitchen towels.”

  “I know where they go.” She swished past me, her scrunchie sliding off her blond ponytail. I grabbed it before it hit the floor and held it out. She snatched it without a word.

  Oh-kay. There’s nothing like your first time as a crime victim.

  “Boss, what about these?” Cayenne stood in front of the display of Bonnie’s salt pigs and cellars.

  “Oh, good garlic. I have no idea what to do.” Decisions, decisions. “I’ll take them to the Market office. Let them decide what to do with her stuff.”

  “Those new replica English tea canisters will fit in the space.”

  “Good thinking.” I wrapped up the pottery and clicked Arf’s leash onto his collar, and we made our way to the Market office, on Lower Post Alley in the Economy Building. Spitting distance from the grossly infamous Gum Wall, ranked as one of the germiest tourist attractions in the world, right after the Blarney Stone.

  Alas, the Market Master was making his rounds, and decisions on Bonnie’s belongings were up to him. Where we might find him was anyone’s guess.

  “To the park, then?” I asked my four-footed companion. With typical agreeableness—or it may have been the magic word “park”—he turned in the right direction, and off we went.

  We kept to the streets—easier than weaving through the crowds on the sidewalk. I kept an eye out for the Market Master, a tall, gangly man with a too-long face.

  There he stood, next to the fresh pasta stall, head cocked, listening.

  I tugged on the leash, and we changed course, stepping into the narrow passage between two long rows of stalls. The pasta seller pointed up the Arcade, then down the ramp. Curious as the mythical cat but wanting to observe some degree of tact, I paused to inspect the flavored oils.

  “Call me if you think of anything else,” another man told the vendor. “Well, if it isn’t the official market snoop.”

  I met the taunting-
yet-teasing gaze of Detective Michael Tracy.

  “Hello, Detective. I need a word with the Market Master, if you don’t mind.” I held up the bag of pigs and pots. “Bonnie Clay left a few display pieces in the shop, and I’m wondering what to do with them.”

  The Market Master’s thick lips twisted like an unbaked pretzel. “Bit of a problem for us. The emergency contact on her application turned out to be her landlord, who doesn’t have any more info on her than we do. I was hoping Detective Tracy would have better luck, but he tells me they haven’t located any next of kin yet.”

  “Can I leave them in her storage locker?” I asked. Most craftspeople keep one. “Until you find someone to take her stuff. You probably want it cleaned out fairly soon.”

  “That’s a fact. We’re going down to open it up right now. Come along if you want.”

  I wanted. “Sure. Did the pasta maker have any useful information?”

  Tracy snorted. “Saw her cart stuff back and forth every day and didn’t even know her name. Your ‘Market family’ isn’t so close after all. Other than a handful of the artists, I doubt anyone exchanged more than a few sentences with her.”

  “She was new,” the Market Master said quickly. “She hadn’t had time to become well acquainted yet. Our people work too hard for chitchat.”

  “How long—had—she been—here?” Tracy’s words came in spurts as we scurried to keep up with our long-legged guide.

  “Two, three months. I’d have to check the file to be sure.”

  That caught me off guard. I hadn’t seen her until last Wednesday, though I try to walk through the Arcade at least once a week, to visit and see what’s new. The vendors and the merchants have an important relationship. If a customer asks an artist where a spice shop is, I want the answer to be: “Well, there’s a couple, but I shop at Seattle Spice, right across the street.” And nearly every day, we field questions about where to find the best meat, the freshest flowers, fun jewelry, and great baby gifts.

  Plus, I like the artists. Their energy is infectious.

  So either I’d walked the aisles on Bonnie’s days away, or she’d kept a low profile.

  The Market Master used his key to call for the elevator. The ancient cogs and pulleys creaked into action, and we began the descent. No point asking Tracy if he had any leads—any suspects, a working theory. No point seeing him roll his eyes at my audacity.

  Besides, Tracy appeared to be lost in his own thoughts.

  The elevator stopped, then gave a sudden jerk, and my guts rose and dropped. Arf was unfazed.

  I’d never been to the lockers, deep in the Market’s belly. The Market Master halted at a space four feet wide and six feet deep, a two-by-four frame covered with chicken wire. He opened the lock, stepped inside, and rustled around, then strode off, tool in hand, his jingling keys beckoning us forward.

  I felt a bit like Gretel plunging deep into the dark forest, but with no Hansel to hold my hand, and no bread crumbs to lead me back out.

  He stopped in front of another stall. Bonnie’s business card was stapled to the wood frame. “This is it. Never had any security issues, but we tell folks not to leave anything valuable down here.”

  Tracy took a few photographs, then gestured to go ahead. I saw now why bolt cutters have long handles. Even a man as strong as the Market Master had to lean into them.

  The metal snapped and the lock fell apart. Gloved, Tracy slid it out of the hasp and opened the wood-frame door. I watched closely as he opened box after box of pottery—bowls, cups, plates, crocks, all in the style, colors, and glazes I’d seen in her booth.

  I exhaled slowly, my hand on my heart. There would be no more of her work.

  “Business supplies.” Tracy riffled one gloved hand through a plastic container full of brown paper bags and boxes of business cards, and another filled with tissue paper and bubble wrap. He popped a third lid.

  “What’s this?” He held up a copy of a tabloid-sized newspaper, folded to show, in living color, a photo of my shop. And me.

  Thirteen

  It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others.

  —M. F. K. Fisher, American food writer and essayist, in The Gastronomical Me

  “You said you hadn’t been in touch with her before last week. You want to correct that statement?”

  I stared at the newspaper in Tracy’s hand. Nothing Bonnie had said, in the Market or at the party, suggested she’d known she was working across the street from the daughter of an old friend before we swung by her table last week.

  And yet, she’d held on to a two-month-old newspaper . . .

  It’s creepy-weird to realize someone’s been watching you from the shadows.

  “Nothing to correct,” I said.

  “Hrmmph.” Tracy could say more in a few consonants than most people with an entire dictionary.

  He was saying he didn’t trust me or my mother. At the moment, I didn’t blame him. I held out my hand. “May I? To refresh my memory?”

  Tracy pulled a second set of thin gloves out of his pocket. I slipped them on, then took the paper and sidestepped to the nearest light—a dim bulb that looked as old as Edison himself. I’d read the article when it came out, and allowed Kristen to hang a framed copy above the tea cart for customers to see. But the details had grown vague.

  I searched for the detail that had been bugging me. My mother’s surprise at seeing Bonnie-Peggy had been genuine—she’d thought Peggy was dead, though why remained a mystery. Obviously they had not been in touch. So how had Bonnie known that my parents had left the country?

  Yes. Because Ben had reported that I was a Seattle native, raised on Capitol Hill by parents deeply involved in the community, who now lived in Central America.

  Bonnie had gotten the country wrong, but if I’d read her response right, she’d been more than happy to believe my mother safely away in another hemisphere.

  Why?

  The forces that had drawn her back to Seattle had overcome the impulses that drove her away.

  “Care to tell me what’s going through that mind of yours?” Tracy slipped the newspaper into an evidence bag.

  “We about done here? I’ve got a schedule to keep.” The Market Master had reappeared, another lock in his hand. “I’ll put one of our locks on this cage for now. Detective, the sooner you get these things outta here, the better. Space is tight.”

  I held up my bag. “What about these?”

  “Better you keep them,” Tracy said. “Until we make a more thorough search and inventory. Wouldn’t want to find your fingerprints on a bowl in her stash and not be sure why.”

  They returned the boxes to the locker, Tracy promising to do his best without actually promising to take charge of Bonnie’s personal items. I wondered what would happen to that lovely pottery. To her life’s work—at least, in recent years.

  And to her memory.

  * * *

  So that’s how a miner feels, emerging from underground. Arf and I blinked against the sunlight.

  “Okay, buddy,” I told him. “I haven’t forgotten.” We trotted up Pike Place to the park and did our thing, including a stop at the railing for the human to take in the view, and let the motes of sunshine mingle with the salt air on her face.

  Part of my skin care routine.

  If the dog minds, he never says a word. I appreciate a male who doesn’t feel obliged to take charge.

  Back at the shop, I took Cayenne aside. “How did you meet Bonnie?”

  “In the Arcade. Her pottery was gorgeous. I thought it would be perfect for us.”

  “Did she know the shop, or me?”

  “Everybody knows you, Pepper.” Her head tilted slightly, and her voice wavered, as if she worried about displeasing me. “I wa
nted to connect with the merchants and vendors, like you do.”

  I touched her forearm. “You are a great ambassador for the shop, Cayenne. Thank you.”

  Of course Bonnie had known who I was. She’d already seen the newspaper story. Had she come to the Market on purpose, to keep an eye on me? Or had she’d joined the arts and crafts crew first, then discovered my presence? How had she felt about our proximity?

  Had it worried her, like it worried my mother?

  Reassured, Cayenne flashed me the smile that won over customers, and turned to offer tea to a fleet of incoming tourists.

  I sensed eyes on me. Kristen, across the shop. I longed to tell her what Ben and I had uncovered last night, and that a woman we barely knew had a newspaper article on me tucked away, and ask what she thought.

  But for reasons I couldn’t articulate, not even to myself, I wasn’t quite ready.

  In the modern world, there are a million ways to reach out and touch someone. Sometimes a phone call is best; other times, a text or an e-mail.

  Certain moments call for face-to-face.

  “Hey, I’m late making the bank run,” I told my staff. “Keep an eye on the pooch, would you, please?”

  I left the Market and made the deposit. We were doing well, slightly ahead of my projections, even after the expense of the gift registry. Although if I had to send too many more apology gifts to brides we hadn’t actually wronged, our profit margin would get mighty slim.

  Then I followed my nose.

  At Third and Cherry, I passed the white terra-cotta Arctic Club building, long one of my favorites, now repurposed as a hotel. Who wouldn’t love a building adorned with walrus heads? (They’re terra-cotta, too; no actual walrii were harmed in its construction.)

  My target lay in the next block. Inside, I checked the directory on the lobby wall, then took the elevator—as old, or older, than the one in the Market, but more elegant and less spooky. Got out on the third floor. Took a deep breath. Found the right oak door, the name stenciled on the frosted glass. Turned the brass knob, the hinges creaking as I walked in.