She’d scored an unexpected spot in the Market when a daystall opened up. It wasn’t strictly first come, first served—management considered product mix, uniqueness, and quality.
The stars had aligned.
Bonnie’s reluctance to go to Kristen’s party had not been an act. She’d wanted very much to get into the old house—I’d misread the expression in her eyes as we’d climbed the broad steps. What she hadn’t wanted was to be seen. To reconnect with any of us.
We were not her community anymore.
Life isn’t a movie, Pepper. The story line doesn’t have to make sense. And there may not be a happy ending—or justice.
A squirrel dashed across the trail, and Arf halted, hope drooling from the corner of his mouth as he peered through the dense underbrush on the hillside.
“Sorry, boy. He’s too quick for you.” We moved on, picking up the pace. The cobwebs in my brain and legs needed a good long stretch.
The kayakers had become specks in the distance. A seagull swooped low over the shoreline.
High atop a madrone, a bald eagle surveyed his kingdom. He ignored us, neither fish nor fowl. I drank in the warm sun, the fragrance of cedar and damp earth. Oh, heaven.
I’d hoped, when I first learned about Bonnie’s role in the tragedy, that she’d come back to face it. To make amends. But if the need to atone had driven her back to the Emerald City, she would have declared her presence. At the very least, made an effort to contact my mother or Kristen, or even Brian Strasburg.
No. She’d had another plan.
Arf veered off the path, and I followed him a few feet uphill, where he squatted beside a wild rhododendron. Plastic bag in hand, I scooped the poop and took a step back to the trail.
Where a small, lithe redhead marched rapidly toward us. She slowed, then stopped to pet my dog.
“What a little gentleman,” she said. “Airedales always look so courtly.”
“I imagine if you walk this trail often enough, you’d see every breed of dog in the world.” I let the leash go slack, but kept the loop in my hand.
“I wouldn’t know yet,” she said. “But it seems like a great park.”
“New in the neighborhood?”
“Yeah. I’m an artist. A friend’s parents lent me their guest apartment, above their garage, where I can live and paint.”
Arf’s hackles might not be up, but mine were. Could this really be Hannah Hart? Yes, there are plenty of small redheads in the world, but walking in the park midday barely a block from where the police surrounded her borrowed refuge?
Naturally, my phone was in my tote, locked in the trunk of the Mustang. I couldn’t call the police.
How would Cadfael handle this? He would never dissemble; he would never be dishonest about his intentions. But he wouldn’t volunteer them.
“That’s rough,” I said. “You know, I think you know a couple of friends of mine. Jade and Tory. They’re part of an art gallery and co-op downtown. They said you were looking for space. I’m Pepper, and this is Arf.”
For a moment, I couldn’t tell whether she was going to run or stay. “I was supposed to meet them, to look at their studio space. But I’ve been so scared lately. I blew them off.”
Careful, Pepper. Don’t spook her. “Why were you scared?”
She sat on a flat gray rock and flexed her foot. “I did something I shouldn’t have done, and I think my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—reported me to the police.”
“Wow. What happened?” I perched on a darker rock a foot or two away, summoning the listening skills honed in HR. A pair of joggers trundled by.
“I don’t know what Jade told you. I met him when he bought the building where I rented. Gorgeous space. The studio has huge windows and tall ceilings, with an apartment upstairs. It has a pedestal sink and a claw-foot tub.” Her wistful tone sounded genuine.
“Sounds perfect for an artist.” Even Cadfael wasn’t beyond guiding someone who wanted to talk.
“Our relationship got pretty crazy, and he threw me out. I didn’t think he meant it.” Her voice broke, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “But I was wrong.”
“I don’t understand. What would that have to do with the police?”
“I tried to help him out, by finding a new tenant. A potter.” She stuck a finger inside her shoe and rubbed a spot below her ankle. “But that just made him mad. Then I tried to get her to leave, so he wouldn’t be so mad, but she didn’t want to move again.”
A very different story from the one Josh told. The old medieval chants started playing. Every story has two sides. Sometimes more.
“But then Bonnie—the new tenant—got killed,” Hannah continued. “I feel terrible, like I’m responsible for her being in harm’s way. But relieved, too, that it wasn’t me.”
“I heard about that. It’s awful. Do you know what happened?”
“No. But I keep wondering about this guy I saw.” She paused. “I probably shouldn’t be saying anything. I don’t have any idea who he was.”
When someone says they aren’t sure they should say anything, and you desperately hope they will, keep your mouth shut.
“I dropped in one afternoon—I moved out so fast, I left some boxes behind,” she continued, “and this guy was coming out of the studio. I’d seen him once before, having coffee upstairs. He was telling Bonnie not to worry, that no one would care what had happened all those years ago.”
I stayed silent, though questions were pounding in my head.
“She said she wanted them to care, that it was time to confess to what they’d done. For the children. His face got all twisted, and he started to cry. Then she saw me, and I told her I needed to get a box I’d left, so she let me in and I didn’t hear the rest.”
“Wow.” Arf lay down at my feet, and I silently promised him an extra-juicy bone tonight. “What do you think was going on?”
“I saw him again a few minutes later on my way out. His wife was giving him heck. I’d seen her before, too—she’s one of the dance moms. A real witch.” Hannah extended her leg and flexed the foot. “My impression? Bonnie’s his ex-wife, and he left her for the younger wife, the dance mom. You know how some men keep picking women who look alike? I don’t see women doing that, do you?”
I pictured Tag and the men I’d dated in the last couple of years. “Now that you mention it, no.”
“And Bonnie was back in town, and she wanted to tell their kids the truth about the new wife, and he didn’t want her to.”
“Makes sense,” I said, and it did, though her story was completely off target. We’re that way, we humans, standing on our heads to figure out the most logical explanation for something we don’t understand, and convincing ourselves we’re right.
When the real explanation is staring us in the face and we can’t see it, until it clicks. But how I was going to prove what had just fallen into place, I didn’t know.
“Hey, I’m sorry I gotta run. It’s been really great to meet you, Hannah.” I pushed myself up off the rock. “I don’t know what happened to this Bonnie. But I am absolutely sure you have nothing to feel guilty about.”
I wished I could say the same of myself.
Twenty-nine
I am a rock,
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.
—Paul Simon, “I Am a Rock”
Problem was, I had no proof. But I had a plan, and I had allies.
I also had a deep heartache. The downside of community, as my mother had learned so long ago, is that you sometimes discover truths you’d rather not know.
Matt had once worked in a wine shop, so I sent him up to Vinny’s for the afternoon, promising a bottle of his choice, up to fifty dollars, as a bonus. I hoped Vinny wouldn’t hate me too much tomorrow to give me the employee discount.
&n
bsp; The rest of us gathered in the Spice Shop. Kristen pulled up the collar of Vinny’s navy blue Windbreaker and tugged the khaki hat down low. If he hunched, kept his back to the street, and leaned hard on that three-iron, a parent parked half a block away, waiting for a kid, might be fooled.
Cayenne was the key. I coached her carefully. “Park out front. Double-park if you have to. This only works if the driver of the white SUV with the front-end scraped from hitting the street sign sees you. When you help Vinny out of the car, keep your arm around him, so no one sees his face. Hustle him up the stairs and in the front door. Get him settled in the chair by the front window. Don’t turn the light on—we need the shadows.”
“Right. Then I’ll come out,” Cayenne said. “I’ll stand by the car as long as I can, making sure I’m seen.”
“I can’t decide whether this is brilliant or crazy,” Kristen said. “Vinny, watch where you swing that thing.”
We were hoping to pass a short, fiftyish white man off as a short black man well past eighty. I’d briefly considered recruiting Detective Tracy, the only black man anywhere near the right size who knew anything about the case. Then I’d come to my senses. Sort of.
Laurel would think I’d gone off my rocker. Tag would be furious that I’d done something so stupid—and roped other people into it.
It was stupid, in a certain light. But not too stupid to work.
Though I was sure of the killer’s identity, I had no proof to take to Spencer and Tracy. This was the only way to get it. I had accidentally led the killer to Bonnie, and to Mr. Adams. Bonnie might not have felt the need to atone for her sins, but I did.
And Vinny could defend himself. Plus, when the action happened, Cayenne, Kristen, and I would be hiding in the kitchen, cell phones and other weapons at the ready.
“And if you have even an inkling that something is going wrong, call the police,” I told Vinny and Cayenne.
Mr. Adams himself was safely resting in his hospital room. If he ever found out what we’d done, I had to think he’d get a kick out of it.
And I was fairly sure Cadfael had set a trap or two, but at the moment, I couldn’t remember in which tale.
The plan was for Vinny and Cayenne to drive to Beacon Hill and make the drop-off, as if Mr. Adams were returning home. I’d checked the dance studio schedule online, hoping I had this worked out right.
Then I got back to selling spice, trying not to think about the ruse and all that could go wrong.
During a lull, I flipped through the hibiscus recipes Cayenne had put together. They would need a thorough testing—no serious cook hasn’t tried a recipe from a magazine, or even a cookbook, and wondered whether anyone ever actually attempted to make it. Any recipe that walks out of this shop with our logo on it has to be foolproof.
She was proving herself a great addition to the staff, aside from her willingness to help with the investigation. High hopes. I had high hopes.
“Stop watching the clock every two minutes,” Kristen said. “They’ll be fine.”
I busied myself making another sample batch of the cocoa steak rub. It was nearly ready for production.
The door clanged opened, and my mother walked in, fresh from the school assembly. I composed my expression, sure she’d figured out I was up to something.
Instead, she took my face in her hands. “Pepper, I owe you an apology.”
“I think I owe you one, too.” When you’re a kid, you think your parents have life all worked out. Then you become an adult and realize they were doing their best, struggling like you are. The trick is to shift your perspective, so you understand them through the eyes of an adult, not of a child. And sometimes that means reevaluating what you think you know about yourself.
“No. You were right. As soon as Peggy interjected herself into your life and Kristen’s, I should have told you two everything I knew. I wanted to pretend it was all in the past.”
“Even though you think about it every day?”
“Amazing how we fool ourselves, isn’t it?” Her voice rose and fell as she studied me, and I had the sense, not for the first time in the last week, that I was looking in a mirror that showed me myself in twenty years.
I could live with that.
My pocket buzzed. I pulled out the phone. Kristen held up both hands, fingers crossed.
Mission accomplished, Cayenne’s text read. On my way home. Till 2nite!
I let out a whoop. My mother’s eyebrows rose.
“Trust me, Mom. You don’t want to know.”
* * *
The sun sets late this time of year, so there was no question of sneaking in under the cover of darkness. Instead, we parked two streets over and ambled down the alley as if we had every good reason to be there.
“It’s a working garden,” Cayenne said to Kristen as she opened her grandfather’s alley gate. “Not the fairytale paradise your backyard is.”
“It’s delightful.” Kristen gazed at the fruit trees, the berry patches, the vegetable beds. “He takes care of all this himself?”
“We help. He says gardening keeps him young.”
“Then I’m taking lessons from him.”
We went in the back door. I left it unlocked, the porch light off.
“You bring me dinner?” Vinny called. “I’m sitting here starving.”
“In the kitchen,” I replied. “Don’t forget to bend over and walk with the cane.”
The kitchen window looked over the sink to the backyard. The four of us ate at Mr. Adams’s table, well out of sight, then we sent Vinny back to the living room, lace curtains drawn, a single lamp lit, the TV broadcasting its blue glare.
Cayenne scrounged up a battered deck of cards, and she and Kristen played gin rummy. I was too nervous—plus it’s a game for two.
This had to work.
At quarter to ten, I heard a sound and held out my hand. Nothing.
Kristen picked up her cards and opened her mouth to speak. Another sound stopped her—a metallic clang, followed by a creak.
“The gate latch,” Cayenne mouthed. We picked up our makeshift weapons and I made sure my phone was at the ready.
If I was right, our intruder had long ago sworn off guns and explosives. Lost physical strength, too, to time and regret. We could handle this.
Through the open window, we heard a scraping—footsteps on concrete. Then, the crunch of steps on the broken gravel we’d hauled in from the alley and spread at the base of the stoop. A long silence. We exchanged looks, and over my thumping heartbeat, I half hoped we were wrong.
We were not wrong. The screen door hinges squeaked. The main door latch clicked open. If you shove your way through a balky door, it may be silent, but if you push it too slowly, too carefully, it may squeal.
This one did.
“That you, Cayenne?” Vinny called in his best old-man imitation. “I’m coming.”
The end of the three-iron’s handle made a soft thump on the thin living room carpet, growing louder when he reached the vinyl floor in the back hall. In the kitchen, Cayenne stood on one side of the door, ready to flick on the light as soon as we knew we had our man. I stood at the other, prepared to pounce.
“Say, you’re not my granddaughter. Who are you?”
“You shut up, old man,” the muffled voice said. “You shut up about what you saw that night.”
“Saw what night?”
“That night the potter was killed. You told the police you saw me. Then you told that snoopy spice witch who won’t give up.”
And I wasn’t giving up now.
“Didn’t see nothing but a car. A white SUV. That what you mean?”
“And the license plate. The police were looking at my license plate,” the voice said, rising in panic.
“You fool. I’m eighty-five. I can’t read a license plate unless it’s six inch
es from my nose. Now you get outta here before I make you regret it.” Vinny’s feet scuffled on the floor, and he barked the prearranged code word. “Go on. Scat!”
Cayenne threw on the lights, and I jumped into the hallway. Grabbed the intruder and pushed. Strong arms pushed me back, but Vinny went for the low head butt and slammed the figure into the wall, then aimed his three-iron at the knees.
“Owrrwww,” the intruder yelled, dropping a small garden trowel and sliding to the floor.
I kicked the trowel aside. Kristen slammed a bowl over the intruder’s head. Josh’s roasted veggie salad slid over the intruder’s head and chest, and filled the air with rosemary and thyme.
This person was way too short. I reached over and yanked the black ski mask off.
Revealing not the bearded figure I had expected, but his wife. The once-fierce blond dance mom now a whimpering puddle of veggies and vinaigrette: Sharon Stinson.
* * *
Half an hour later, the suspect whisked away by uniformed officers of the South Precinct, Detective Michael Tracy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you didn’t tell us who you suspected why?”
“You wouldn’t have believed me if I’d said Terry Stinson was the killer,” I said from my post by the kitchen sink. My three pals and Tracy were sitting at Mr. Adams’s table. Spencer leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, her expression one of peeved amusement. I’d helped myself to a bottle of beer from the fridge. The detectives had declined, though Tracy looked longingly at the plate of gingersnaps.
“No,” he admitted. “And besides, you were wrong.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or relieved that our attacker—Bonnie’s killer—was Sharon. She’d been a blubbering wreck by the time we unmasked her, but I’d gotten her to admit this much: She’d been terrified that Bonnie would expose Terry’s involvement in an old trouble, destroying the family that meant so much to them both.
“His involvement in what?” I’d needed her to say it. Vinny had wrapped his belt around her waist, cinching her into a kitchen chair, and Kristen and Cayenne used extension cords to tie her hands and feet.
Killing Thyme Page 24
