The worn brown carpet and scuffed white walls marked this a low-budget operation. No one sat at the reception desk, but the stainless steel water bottle and vase full of zinnias said its occupant was away temporarily. Early lunch, maybe. My tummy rumbled with envy.
A man called from a back room. “Be right there!”
And before I could do more than pick up a brochure about the assistance available for vets struggling to obtain their full benefits, Uncle Sam himself strolled in.
“Pepper!” Terry Stinson called in his dry baritone. The red-and-white striped pants made him seem taller and thinner than he was. His white shirt lay open at the collar—no red bow tie today—and the rolled-up sleeves revealed lean, muscular white arms. “Come in, come in. What brings you here?”
“Sad news. You heard about Bonnie. Peggy, I mean. You were old friends—I wanted to check on you.”
His skin paled, matching the gray-white hair and goatee. He sank against the desk, his shoulders and spine curving forward, fist to his forehead as his eyes closed briefly.
“Your mother called me Saturday. Sharon and I are devastated.”
I perched on the love seat, a faded blue floral number that was never in good taste, even ages ago when it was new. Something sharp poked me. I shifted my weight, looked down, and pried a small medal out from between the cushions. I fastened the pin and set it on the dusty coffee table.
“You knew her way back when.”
He nodded, eyes lowered, unfocused. “Met her and your mom about the same time. Both smart, dedicated. Hot chicks.” He raised his head, and the left side of his mouth curved. “We were so serious back then. Change the world, get us out of Vietnam, blah blah blah.”
“The world is a better place because of what you did.”
The tendons in his thin neck pulsed. “I suppose so, but it never seems like enough.”
A natural reaction, in his line of work. “When did you last see her?”
He lifted his eyebrows in a playful gesture. “Why so many questions, little Pepper? Are you investigating? I read about you, you know.”
“Actually, that’s one of the odd things. The Market Master took me to Peggy’s storage locker to help him figure out what to do with her stuff, and she had a copy of the newspaper story about me and the shop. Seems strange. She’d been away thirty years, right? Why keep the article about me?”
“That’s easy. A kid she knew, making good.”
And yet, she had not reached out to me. She had not swung by to say, “Hey, remember me? Old friends. How’s your mother?”
“I suppose. But I have to wonder, why come back after all this time? And why did she leave in the first place?”
He pushed himself off the desk and stood upright. “Don’t know. It was all a long time ago.”
“Terry, was Roger Russell Bonnie’s boyfriend? Peggy’s, I mean?”
The good-hearted, old-friend facade slipped. He opened his mouth, as if trying to decide what to say. The door opened. He bounded forward and threw one arm around his wife, who held a paper bag that smelled of lunch.
“Hey, honey! You remember Pepper, don’t you?” He continued, more somber. “She stopped by to offer her condolences. About Peggy. Bonnie.”
Sharon pressed her lips together, her gaze shifting from her husband to me. The diamond studs in her ears glinted. “Terrible, isn’t it. After all she’d been through, to be killed in her own home. And with her own handiwork. I hope they catch the thug.”
Her expression seemed less than sincere. But then, she’d barely known the woman, a face from her husband’s distant past.
“I’m sure they will. The old man across the street saw the car.”
A cough wracked Terry’s thin shoulders. Sharon reached past him and grabbed the silver water bottle from the desk. He held up a hand, warding her off, but she remained vigilant, her upper body tense as if ready to battle whatever ailed her husband.
“You’re working here now, Sharon? Keeping him in line?”
Her chuckle bounced around the room’s blank walls, no carefully chosen art or objects warming it up. Kristen had said Sharon didn’t seem to care much about the house, though she’d gone along on the tour—no doubt out of curiosity, as the house and community had been part of her husband’s life long ago. She didn’t seem to care much about the office, either, the vase and flowers on the desk the only personal touch.
“As if anyone could. His assistant left to have a baby, so I’m filling in.” She wagged a finger at him. “And you’ve got clients scheduled all afternoon, so you’ve got just enough time to eat your lunch and look over their files.”
In other words, time for me to leave. I pushed myself up and kissed Terry’s cheek. Stretched a hand toward Sharon as I headed for the door, not quite touching.
The door creaked shut behind me, but I swear, I felt them watching me through the frosted glass.
* * *
Since I wasn’t far from SPD HQ, and my dog and shop were in good hands, I swung in to ask about old case files. One old case file—the Strasburg incident in the fateful year of 1985.
“Normally, you need to submit a request and we get back to you. But I’ve got a moment,” the records clerk said, “so I’ll see what we have.”
My heart beat more quickly than it should have as I watched her watch the screen, her brown coral-tipped fingers flying across the keyboard.
“That case was never closed.” Her forehead creased in concentration. My muscles tensed, and I feared what she might say next. A few more clicks, then her hand moved to open a drawer I couldn’t see. “The original detectives are both retired. That file is with our cold case detective now. We’re lucky to have one—with budget cuts, many departments don’t.”
Detective John Washington, the card she handed me read. In my years with Tag, I’d met a lot of cops, but some stood out. I pictured a tall man, at least fifteen years older than we were, with close-cropped black hair. He calls Laurel every few months to assure her that the murder of her husband, Patrick, is still on his mind, but his calls no longer give her much hope.
I thanked the clerk and walked down the hall. Nothing in The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating told me how to ask Detective Washington to fill me in on the Strasburg case. Because I used to work with the victim’s son, and my parents might have known the man who killed him, and I might have just met the killer’s ex-girlfriend, and everything changed after that, and I want to figure out why. That didn’t seem like it would fly.
Worse, my trumped-up explanation might make Detective Washington take a closer look at my family and our friends.
No, it couldn’t be possible—no one I knew could have had anything to do with the tragedy in 1985.
So why did it keep coming up, everywhere I turned? Roger Russell had been loosely connected to the Grace House community, as had Bonnie Clay. Or Peggy Manning. From the way my mother talked about them, I suspected that Roger and Peggy had been a couple.
But the way Terry Stinson had looked at her, and his reaction to Roger’s name, made me think it might have been more complicated than that.
My clerk informant had said Detective Washington had a rare private office where he spent his days poring over thick files and consoling distressed relatives. That’s part of any detective’s job, but for a cold case detective, the days often become years.
Not for the first time today, I felt like Sam Spade or Lew Archer—make that Samantha or Louise—my all-black retail outfit adding a touch of noir. All I lacked was the 1940s fedora.
“Oh pooh, Pepper. Go home.”
“What an excellent idea.” Detective Tracy appeared at my elbow, and I jumped, unaware that I’d spoken out loud.
I glanced at the number on the nearest office door, then at the card in my hand. He must have just left Washington’s office.
He put his
hand on my elbow, an odd, old-fashioned gesture that might have been chivalrous if we were Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. I wrenched away and shot him a spiky glare.
But it’s not a good idea to antagonize a detective—or to call attention to yourself in police HQ. Down, Pepper. I was careful not to speak out loud this time.
The occurrence of another murder had dissolved our temporary truce.
Or maybe I was a teensy bit worried about what I might uncover. Nothing in the Idiot’s Guide advised on how to dig up the past without tearing up your own roots.
But maybe I should have paid more attention to the section on how to make friends and influence police detectives.
He punched the elevator button. “After your marriage to an officer and your—shall we say, unfortunate experiences, you should understand murder isn’t a game. Don’t play detective, Pepper.”
The elevator door opened, and I stepped in. No. That’s your job.
Fourteen
Salt is born of the purest of parents: the sun and the sea.
—Pythagoras
Nothing gets me going like telling me not to do something.
I stomped down Fourth Avenue, swearing at Detective Tracy in my mind. How dare he send me running off like a dog with her tail between her legs.
Why he was so determined to keep me from talking with Detective Washington, I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. More than one way to skin a cat.
I shuddered. Tortured animal metaphors may be commonplace, but that they were creeping into my own thoughts was a serious sign of stress overload.
My stomach rumbled as I neared Ripe, at the base of the black tower dubbed “the box the Space Needle came in,” a nod to its origins as a bank. Brian Strasburg’s firm had taken over part of our old offices on the fortieth floor.
But no way was I going to confront a lawyer on an empty stomach.
A few minutes later, Laurel set a toasted tomato, basil, and goat cheese sandwich on a two-top in the corner and sat across from me. Between bites, I filled her in.
“So Bonnie knew who you were all along.” She took a swig of her lemon Pellegrino.
“And I didn’t have a clue,” I said through a mouthful of fabulous flavor. So much for being a natural investigator.
That had been Laurel’s phrase last fall, when she urged me to probe the death of a stranger at my shop’s front door. And experience in HR gives some insight into human behavior, and hones both perception and problem-solving skills.
But personnel problems don’t involve unearthing old crimes and sifting through clues that might tie them to the present.
I swallowed and reached for my own fizzy, fruity water. “I’m baffled—why keep her eye on me? And what is—was—the tension between her and my mother? I’m almost certain it goes back to those days in Grace House, if not before.”
“So focus on that.”
I leaned back in my chair, arms folded. “Kristen’s mom is dead. My mother won’t talk. Our dads are off battling wind and wave, not that mine would tell me what she won’t. Terry Stinson’s moved on. The others from that era—oh, Kristen’s working on a list of who came to the party.”
“Call them. See what they make of their old friend all these years later.”
“Bonnie seemed eager to come, but then she didn’t circulate much.”
“She looked scared to me. She sat on the stone wall by herself most of the evening.”
“Speaking of scared, I wanted to talk to Detective Washington about the Strasburg case, but Tracy literally steered me away.”
Laurel’s eyes took on a sheen of grief. She spoke, her tone uncharacteristically flat. “Detective Washington has brought justice and comfort to a lot of families.”
But not hers.
I finished my fizzy water and laid my napkin on the table. “Now that my stomach’s happier, I’m thinking more clearly. Better to talk to Callie first, find out about Brian Strasburg’s family before I confront him.” A law librarian and researcher in Strasburg’s firm, Callie Carter had given me invaluable help, both when we worked together and more recently.
“Good plan,” Laurel said, her thoughts obviously elsewhere.
Even quicker of wit and tongue than your average lawyer, Strasburg’s life and personality had been shaped, I was beginning to understand, by loss and anger.
We’d had a marginally decent relationship—improved by the passage of time—but if I was going to dig up his past, I didn’t want to get buried in the rubble.
Because, as I could see on Laurel’s face, cases might grow cold, but the pain never cools.
* * *
This elevator was swift and quiet. I rode up alone, texting Ben. Dig up any dirt on Roger Russell?
The door opened on the fortieth floor, and I stepped out, staring at the little screen. He texted back almost instantly. Stuck in Olympia. Don’t know when I’ll be free.
Rats. I dropped my phone in my bag and reached for the law office’s door. Before I could grab the handle, the door opened and out strode Brian Strasburg, a sleek black leather briefcase in one hand.
“Pepper! Haven’t seen you since spring.” He grabbed my hand and moved in for an air hug. “What brings you to the old haunt?”
“Oh, uh—I had an errand down the street, so I popped in to see Callie. You know how she loves to bake. We got a new cookbook I thought she’d like.”
“Oh, too bad. We just wrapped up a big trial over in Spokane. I got back Saturday. Her kid’s been at her mother’s in Chelan, so she’s spending a few days there. If you want to leave it . . .” He gestured with his thumb, back to the office.
“Thanks. I’ll wait till she’s back—more fun to give it to her myself.”
Ten seconds later, we were in the elevator, speeding down.
You can know someone for ages, then learn something new and see them in a whole different light. But he was still the man I’d known.
And there was no easy way to say, “Hey, after all this time, I finally found out what happened to your family. Is that why you’ve got the personality of a yo-yo on steroids?”
Saved when we stopped on the seventh floor. We stepped back automatically as the doors opened and a young woman entered.
“How’d the trial go?” I asked Strasburg.
“Got everything we asked for. Commercial property dispute. Callie was invaluable—I can’t tell you how many thousands of hours we spent researching. Hey, you ever want a real job again, you call me. We’d make room for you.”
The door opened. “Thanks. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
“That’s good. Not everyone can say that.”
He strode off, leaving me standing on the broad steps of the black box.
I flashed on an image of another famous box, snakes and secrets spilling out. The gods had told Pandora to keep it shut. Had Bonnie opened it, or was the guilty party my mother? Or me?
The gods always get their revenge.
* * *
Deep in my bag, my phone buzzed. Still on the move, I fished it out and read Kristen’s text. MJ waiting 4U. Save us!
The light changed, and I crossed Madison.
“Glad to see your ears didn’t fall off,” I whispered to Kristen a few minutes later in the shop. Behind the counter, Matt and Reed refilled tea canisters, trapped by Mary Jean.
“Does the woman never shut up?” She rolled her eyes.
“Not that I’ve noticed. You get a chance to make that guest list for the detectives?”
She drew a folded piece of paper out of her apron pocket. “I think I got everyone who came. You can double check.”
“Thanks. Hey, has Sandra talked to you about—”
“Pepper! Have you been out investigating? My class was fabulous. The students were so attentive. I told the director, I said, if you ever need a substitute again,
call me no matter how short the notice.”
I tucked the list into my bag and gave Kristen an “I’ve got this” look. Mary Jean the Chatty Chocolatier had grown on me, though I did wonder how she managed to stay alive, given her talent for talking without taking a breath. Me, I need oxygen. And chocolate, so I put up with her.
“I’ve got your cocoa.” She slid into the booth, opened three tins, and began to detail the origins, processing, pricing, and other merits of each variety. I sat across from her and reached for the tasting tray we use when creating blends—a canister of clean stainless steel tasting spoons and another for the used spoons, along with small bowls, notepads, and pens. While she gabbed, I tasted. (Mary Jean doesn’t require responses to her commentary, making it possible to keep working without annoying her.)
“This one’s a little darker, richer,” I said. “The middle one has a slight bitterness that will pair well with paprika and a little cayenne, a dash of thyme.” I’d been stockpiling ideas for a spicy cocoa rub. Maybe Ben and I could sample two or three tonight with steak, to make up for my SIL’s vegan barbecue.
Mary Jean stacked six smaller tins on the tabletop. “I brought extra samples, for Sandra and Cayenne. You’ve got hibiscus blossoms for me, right?”
Parsley poop. I’d plumb forgotten.
Think fast, Pepper. “Mary Jean, I am so sorry. We’ll get them on the next order.” When that would be, I didn’t know. And then, a moment of retail genius struck. “Hey, you know Josh, who used to run the deli at the Italian grocery? He’s got his own place now. He does a lot of catering, including weddings. And he just lost his chocolatier.”
She pinched the skin below her collarbone. “Everybody loves chocolate, but you can’t make a living one truffle at a time. I called dozens of wedding planners to offer party favors—gift bags for guests, in custom combinations or flavors, but they already had their suppliers. It’s mid-June. Wedding season’s half over.”
Killing Thyme Page 12
