Killing Thyme

by Leslie Budewitz

  “And you believed him?”

  “I did. I do. But my job is to not let it go. I strolled through the Market, saw her myself. Tasked the patrol officers, including your ex, with keeping an eye on her.”

  Tag knew?

  I swallowed that sharp surprise. “Not close enough, apparently, or she wouldn’t be dead. So let me get this straight. Through a combination of therapy and a chance sighting, Brian Strasburg claims a change of heart and you let him off the hook?” Washington opened the back door and set his briefcase on the floor behind the driver’s seat. “Maybe he stopped calling because he didn’t need you anymore. He’d found her. He could get revenge on his own.”

  The detective opened the driver’s door and took another sip of coffee. “And you wonder why I haven’t been sleeping.”

  “Wait.” I grabbed the edge of his door. “You went to the Market. You saw her. You bought a piece of her pottery, didn’t you, for the fingerprints?”

  His eyebrows rose. He slid into the car and reached for the door handle. “Detective Spencer is right. You have great instincts. But I wish you’d stay out of my case.”

  I let go of the door and stepped back, watching as he started the Camry and drove away.

  I can’t stay out of it. I’m too deep in it.

  * * *

  Ah, home. Shoes off, I headed for the kitchen. Punched on the oven, put the butcher’s gift in the fridge, and gave my ever-patient dog the bone. Changed my clothes and cued up my sit-stay-think-cook-pout playlist—Ani DiFranco, Emily Elbert, Madeleine Peyroux. And Brett Dennen, so I could dance while pouting. The oven beeped, and I popped in a pan of ziti with mushrooms and zucchini—a Ripe takeout special—and got out the big mixing bowl.

  The first batch of gingersnaps was ready to go in when the ziti finished baking. I poured a glass of Chianti, and put my feet up.

  As investigations go, this one was about as thick as cookie dough. Only two suspects had surfaced, and neither fully solved the mystery.

  What was I missing?

  Washington as much as admitted that Strasburg’s connection to the old case made him a suspect in the current one. He claimed an alibi, but killers always do, don’t they? I’d let Spencer and Tracy run that one down—they had those “resources.”

  If Callie were in town, I might be able to weasel a tidbit or two out of her. But over the phone or by text? No way. She would not disclose a boss’s private project unless she were convinced it was absolutely necessary to avoid an injustice. Even for an old boss.

  And while lawyers often rely on their assistants for research, I suspected that finding Peggy Manning would have been too important to delegate. The satisfaction would lie in the hunt, in knowing he was doing everything he could to track down everyone involved in his father’s murder. That old wound, that old grudge, might have driven him to his profession in the first place. Tag had briefly worked with a woman bent on pursuing the man she believed had killed her sister. Too focused on the one crime, too bereft to serve and protect anyone else, she’d been unable to crack the case. She’d left the force after a few years, destroyed by grief and failure.

  One more victim of the crime.

  I could not see the hard-driving, hard-edged, hard-nosed Brian Strasburg as anyone’s victim. But those hard shells, those tough crusts people put on can hide some awfully tender spots.

  “What do you think, boy?” I stroked Arf’s back. He needed a good commercial cleaning, and I made a mental note to call the groomer.

  Why had Bonnie-Peggy taken the bracelet, that summer night so long ago? An impulse grab, or a means to finance other protests?

  But this bracelet had not been sold. It had been stashed away and left behind.

  The intercom interrupted my musings.

  “Delivery, for Ms. Pepper Reece.”

  I buzzed Tag in and grabbed my phone. Sure enough, the first text I’d ignored had said he had a belated birthday gift from his mother. The second message said he’d swing by tonight.

  Be nice, Pepper.

  Minutes later, he set a large, bulky shape wrapped in a red-and-white checked picnic cloth on my dining room table. His mother’s decorating style runs Danish modern with a hint of Frank Lloyd Wright, where mine tends toward midcentury Middle America, but Phyllis has a talent for finding the right gift.

  “Happy Birthday. Sorry we’re late.” Arf padded over to join the fun, and Tag’s fingers went automatically to the terrier’s floppy ears. “Open it.”

  I untied the tablecloth to reveal a vintage picnic basket of woven maple. Inside the hinged lid, elastic bands held silverware, the plastic handles the same sunny yellow as the four plastic plates and cups stacked beside a red-and-yellow plaid thermos. The red-and-white gingham napkins looked new. The bottle of champagne was cold—Tag’s contribution.

  My thumb and forefinger pinched the skin of my throat, as if to loosen the emotions swelling there. “It’s perfect. Tell her it’s perfect. Dinner?”

  I poured him a glass of Chianti. We put salad and ziti on the picnic plates and climbed out the window.

  But the gift hadn’t wiped away all my irritation. “I hear you’ve been on spy duty.”

  “Well, that’s part of my job.” He speared a cherry tomato with his yellow-handled fork. “Got anything particular in mind?”

  “John Washington told me he asked you to keep an eye on Bonnie Clay.”

  “He wanted to know her routine, whether we saw anything unusual.”

  “Did he want you to find out whether she was in touch with me or Kristen?”

  “Wha-a-at?” His eyebrows dipped, and his mouth hung open. “No. Detectives ask us to do stuff all the time. They don’t bother telling us why. I didn’t even know you knew her.”

  “Me, neither. Not until—” The oven timer went off, and I pushed back my willow green bistro chair and squeezed past him. The pungent scent of my secret ingredient made my mouth water. I slid in the second tray, reset the timer, and stepped back outside.

  “Okay, so you brought your mother’s gift, and that was sweet, but you’re here about the murder, right?”

  “Pepper.” He reached over and grabbed my wrist. Not hard, but it was enough to stop me. To catch my attention.

  I wrested my hand free, but he’d scooted his chair close to mine, trapping me on my own veranda. No choice but to stay and face the music.

  At the moment the only music I could hear was an old Foreigner tune streaming out Glenn’s open window, drowning out every sound except the blood pulsing in my brain.

  “You want me to back off and leave the investigating to the professionals. Well, let me remind you, Mr. I-never-made-detective-and-it-still-pisses-me-off. I’m a pretty darned good investigator. I found two killers before Spencer and Tracy did, and uncovered a trail of identity theft and fraud that might never have surfaced if not for me. And before you go off on your rant about putting myself in danger, remember I managed to get myself out of danger just fine.” With a sprained ankle and a few scrapes, and help from a dog. I ignored my stiff knee and resisted the urge to rub my skinned elbow. “Besides, if they think my mother had anything to do with Bonnie’s death or what happened in 1985—”

  “Pepper.” He leaned forward. “I’m not telling you to stay out of this because I don’t trust you. I’m not—”

  “Everything okay out there, Pepperonella?” The music had stopped, and Glenn’s voice filled the silence, an innocent question warning anyone who might be threatening me.

  “All good, Glenn,” I called out. “Thanks.”

  When I turned back to Tag, his lips had curved down, and his sky blue eyes had lost their verve, but not their look of concern.

  “Pepper, this isn’t about being smart or strong or brave. You’re all those things, and nobody knows it better than I do. You watch out for people. You fight for people.” His breath had steadied. �
��I—”

  Ohhhmygod. I did not want to hear this. Arguing with Tag was no fun, but if the alternative was hearing him declare his love and devotion and guilt and regret one more time . . . “Tag, don’t—”

  He held up a hand. “But if you uncover something that incriminates someone you love, can you live with that? Can you—what’s that beeping?”

  “The oven!” I jumped up and wriggled past him, then hopped inside. How long had it been screaming at me while I’d been caught up in drama? I grabbed a pot holder and the oven door, and slid out the baking sheet. Miraculously, I detected no telltale odor of scorched sugar or burnt molasses.

  The cookies looked exactly as they should.

  Thank goodness something did.

  I grabbed a spatula and slid them onto a cooling rack. Wondered what Tag had meant about evidence incriminating someone I loved.

  My mother? Kristen?

  Ridiculous.

  Another buzz sounded. I glanced at the oven, frowning, sure I’d turned it off. A second buzz, short and irritated. “Who’s here now?” I said as Tag stepped through the window, our empty plates in hand.

  Though the intercom distorted the voice, I could tell Tag recognized it, too. I bit my lip and pushed the button to open the door.

  Who needs bad luck, when you have a mother?

  Twenty-five

  They say that timing’s everything,

  In stocks and crops and love.

  They say that it’s what matters most,

  When push comes right down to shove.

  —Don Beans, “Timing”

  “You couldn’t call?” I looked past my brother to my mother, who was now hugging Tag.

  “She didn’t give me time,” Carl said, matching my low, exasperated tone as he set my mother’s big black suitcase inside the door. “Besides, would you have answered?”

  “Point taken. Sorry. What’s this about?” I watched my mother step out the window to sniff the herbs and flowers. In the kitchen, Tag poured her a glass of wine.

  “Plumber called. He’s starting our job on Monday, so I need to pull the tub and toilet, patch the subfloor, and who knows what else.”

  “You know plumbers never start jobs on Monday. They start on Friday, so they can leave you all weekend with one toilet for the whole family. It’s required. It’s part of the building code.”

  “We’ve been waiting for months. If I put him off until Mom’s gone, Andrea will have my head on a platter. Mom said no woman should ever have to share her bathroom with her mother-in-law, and she’d come stay with you.”

  And she’d insist on sleeping on the futon, refusing to let me give up the bedroom. That, and the grandkids, were why she’d stayed with Carl in the first place.

  “No. Why’s she really here?” I recognize an ulterior motive when I smell one.

  “Beats me, Sis. I never can figure her out.” He sniffed. “Are those cookies?”

  “Gingersnaps,” I said, and he groaned. “I’ll put on coffee.”

  “Ooh, I’d love a cup,” Tag said.

  I clenched my teeth and pointed to the door.

  “Let him stay.” Mom set three red tomatoes on the counter. “Pick these as soon as they ripen, or they get mealy. Maybe he can help us solve our predicament.”

  “He’s a cop. And you’re a witness.” To what, I wasn’t sure. An invisible ice pick stabbed my jaw, and I winced. I reached for the coffeemaker.

  “Five minutes of meditation every morning, Pepper, and that jaw pain will never bother you again.”

  It’s a basic principle of conflict resolution that telling someone to relax or calm down only jacks up the tension. My mother’s words had the same effect. But before I could respond, Tag’s hand warmed the small of my back, and he set a full glass of wine in front of me.

  He knows me too well. “What you said outside,” I whispered. “About fighting for people. Thanks. And thanks for staying.”

  I lowered the volume on my mood music, and we sat in the living room. My mother asked after Tag’s parents and brothers. The rich aromas of the Costa Rican beans she’d brought almost tempted me away from the earthy, fruity wine, but not quite.

  “Tag,” she said, “tell me why those detectives think my friendship with Peggy Manning—or Bonnie Clay—has anything to do with her murder.”

  Arf lay on the floor next to Tag. He’d always said no to a dog, pleading shift work, but whenever he came by the shop or loft, it was clear that they’d bonded. “Actually, Lena, Pepper knows way more about all this than I do.”

  I shot him a dirty look, but he was picking a crumb off the upholstery and feeding it to my dog.

  “The police found the stolen bracelet this morning.” I described spotting Bonnie’s van while searching for a parking place. Tag’s eyes darted between my mother and me, and I thought I saw him struggle between being a cop or a member of the family. Divorce doesn’t always end relationships; sometimes it only complicates them.

  Carl leaned forward, arms folded, elbows on his knees, coffee and cookies forgotten. “What took them so long to find her van?”

  “Oh.” Realization struck, and I sat up. “I’d assumed she’d had to park that far away, like I did, but that late on a Friday night, all the businesses on her block would have been closed. The street should have been half empty. She hid the van on purpose, so whoever—whomever—she was afraid of wouldn’t find it.”

  “She was afraid someone would link her to the past, right?” Carl asked. “And kill her for it. But why?”

  Underneath her year-round tan, my mother had gone pale as any Pacific Northwesterner in winter.

  “Mom, the van was registered in New Mexico. In your name.”

  My brother doesn’t much resemble my mother, but at the moment, their faces were twin pictures of horror.

  The only sound in the room was Arf padding across the floor, returning to his bed and bone.

  “I—have never—been—to New Mexico. That is not my van.”

  “I know that, Mom, and I think the police do, too. It was clearly hers. What we don’t know yet is whether she’d been using your name for other purposes, or just for the vehicle registration.” After fortifying myself with a long sip of wine, I told them what I’d learned about the twice-stolen bracelet’s link to the incident in 1985. About the deaths of Walter Strasburg and Roger Russell. About the ten-year-old who’d watched his father die, and the detectives’ belief, because of the missing bracelet, that another person had been present.

  “That’s why you thought she was dead, isn’t it? That day in the Market, when we took the salt pigs and cellars back to the potter, and you recognized her. The police never mentioned that missing bracelet, so you didn’t know the police suspected she had survived.”

  After a long silence, my mother stood and went to the kitchen, returning with the wine bottle. She refilled our glasses and sat back in the corner of my couch, her bare feet tucked beneath her on the golden brown chenille.

  We’d waited thirty years. Another thirty seconds wouldn’t hurt.

  “After all this time,” she finally said. “She called herself Peggy Manning when she moved in, sophomore year. Three girls in a funky one-bedroom apartment on the Ave, an old yellow brick building. It’s still there.”

  University Way, always called “the Ave.”

  “I can’t honestly remember—and believe me, I’ve asked myself—whether she said she was a student or we made that assumption. You wouldn’t guess, seeing her now, but all the men in our crowd were crazy about her. Not your father—we met later. She had a waifish appeal, thin and blond. Like Twiggy, the model. Not to mention those eyes.”

  I could picture that Peggy in the photo from the pantry opening fifteen years later, still attractive, though no longer young and fresh. Harder to see her in the Bonnie I’d met last week.

  “She k
ept them all at a distance,” my mother continued. “Except Roger and Terry.”

  “Terry we know.” Carl plucked two cookies off the plate, his diet temporarily free from Andrea’s scrutiny. “Seriously good cookies, Sis. But who was Roger? You mentioned him the other night, but I can’t place him.”

  “Roger Russell. Short, dark haired, bearded. Intense. Adjunct faculty at U Dub, in the poli-sci department,” I said, courtesy of the brief dossier Ben had sent this afternoon, and which I’d barely had time to skim.

  “That’s right.” My mother sounded surprised at what I knew. “He was a serious rabble-rouser, constantly challenging the administration. He led the campaign to divest the university from military spending and other investments. Of course, he wasn’t alone, and some of the older faculty joined in, but he became the public face of dissent.”

  Ben had dug up a history of the antiwar movement in Seattle, written by an ex–journalism student. Roger Russell was all over it. “He was older than the rest of you.”

  “A few years.” My mother sipped her wine. “Peggy never got any phone calls or mail. She had no friends outside the movement. One night, she took a shower and left her bag in the living room. A hobo bag made from upholstery samples, all the rage, and I rummaged through it. I suppose I shouldn’t have, but she was so darned secretive. She had three driver’s licenses, in three different names.”

  “So the name changes were a pattern,” I said.

  “Was she an informer? Hoover and the FBI claimed they had spies in the SDL and Weather Underground all over the country,” Tag said.

  “SDL?” Carl asked at the same time as I said, “What do you know about that?”