Killing Thyme (25 page)

“You found it first,” she said. “You're as snoopy as that old man. He stood in the bakery and defamed an honorable
veteran, calling him a gang member and would-be thief, when he was only a vet trying to drum up odd jobs.” She shot Vinny a dirty look, not seeming to realize he was a ringer. A live one, but a ringer nonetheless. “He saw everything. I had to stop him.”

I'd wondered how Bonnie's killer knew Mr. Adams had seen him—or her. But it was my fault. I'd said so, in Terry's office, in front of Sharon.

“I'd been wondering how Terry knew Bonnie was back before the party last Friday night. If she meant to confess, she wouldn't have called him first, after all these years. Seattle's a big city; you don't just run into people. But sometimes you do. He saw her, when he was picking up your kids. They talked. She gave him the vase that sits on your desk.”

“But why'd you have to kill her?” Vinny said. “That doesn't make sense.”

“I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for that stupid bracelet,” she said, slumping down as far as Vinny's belt allowed.

“You knew she meant to give it back to the Strasburg family,” I said. “But how did you know she took it? Did you see her, on the house tour?”

“What? No. Bonnie didn't take the bracelet.” She wriggled her shoulders, her hands tied behind the chair back. “Terry did. He stole it for her thirty years ago, and he stole it for her again. I saw him slip it in his pocket, but I didn't say a word. When he went off to find her, I knew.”

She's the kind of woman a man gives jewelry to
, he'd said when I complimented his wife's diamonds. The diamond earrings she wore every time I'd seen her, even now.
That's because you're the kind of man who gives a woman jewelry
, she'd replied. I'd misinterpreted Bonnie's squirm as a remnant of that old antimaterialism.

After all these years, he'd still wanted her to have that diamond and sapphire bracelet. He'd never understood that she'd honestly meant to leave all that behind.

The flashing police lights had reflected off the front window and the TV screen at that moment, and Cayenne had let the officers in. Spencer and Tracy had been minutes behind.

“And she talked her way into Bonnie's studio that night,” I told them now. “They fought. Sharon grabbed a platter—she works out, she's strong—”

“You're telling me,” Vinny said, rubbing a sore spot on his arm.

“I can't believe you did that,” Tracy said.

I slid the plate of cookies closer and touched his arm, the medieval harmonies playing in my head, not in warning but in celestial revelry. “Sometimes, Detective, you have to trust the Universe. And have a cookie.”

The Tao that can be told is not the true Tao.

The name that can be named is not the true name.

—Lao Tsu,
Tao Te Ching

“We've confirmed with the police in New Haven and her one surviving sibling. Bonnie-Peggy is the missing jewelry heir.” Detectives Washington and Spencer met me at the shop Friday morning. Tracy, they said, was running down a few last details. They'd taken Terry Stinson into custody last night. The girls were with relatives.

Between them, Sharon and Terry had done the very thing they'd intended to prevent: In attempting to silence Bonnie and protect their family, they'd torn their family apart.

“So all the names we knew were false. I wonder which one felt most real to her.” I hadn't started brewing our tea yet, but the detectives had brought me coffee. And cinnamon rolls.

When I'd returned to the loft last night and confessed the whole crazy incident to my mother, she'd gotten right to the heart, and I shared her observation now. “Ultimately, Bonnie did honor her commitment to the community. She came back, to confess her part in the murder and explosion,
and make up for the past. When she told Terry they had to tell the children the truth, she meant Walter Strasburg's children.” And Kristen and me, as the representatives of our families.

Sharon acknowledged that she'd wanted to go after my mother, but Terry had been certain that Lena never knew his part in the deadly fiasco. He'd wanted to persuade Bonnie-Peggy that he was a true revolutionary. Instead two men were dead, and he'd lost her. He'd rebuilt his life, but her plans to confess threatened to destroy it all. She was destroying him—again.

“We're meeting with Brian Strasburg and his brother later this morning,” Washington said. He looked mighty comfortable in my nook. “We can finally give them back that bracelet.”

The irony was, Bonnie hadn't actually been there. She'd known the plan. She hadn't told the other community members, knowing they'd oppose it and go to the police. Terry insisted Roger had taken the explosives months earlier, without Bonnie's knowledge, that she'd had a change of heart about violence. She'd seen Roger and Terry off and waited for them to return.

But only one of them did. And when it wasn't the right one, she took off.

I knew how the rest of the community felt, their anger and sense of betrayal. But I could only imagine hers.

I had suspected Brian Strasburg because the son of a dead man makes a great suspect—especially a man with a volatile personality, the means and ability to conduct a private search, and a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Rainier. When I thought Bonnie had participated in the attack at his childhood home, I'd assumed he'd seen her eyes and burned the image into his heart. Learning that Roger's accomplice had been Terry, not Bonnie-Peggy, destroyed that theory. But Brian had seen Bonnie in the Market and
undergone a transformation. Had Washington revealed her name, to Brian or to his now-deceased mother? Had he tracked her down, following the same path as Ben and I had? Had he seen Bonnie-Peggy's eyes on a casual encounter, while she and Roger cased his neighborhood?

Perhaps I'd ask him one day. Or maybe not. It didn't matter.

Noticing eyes—my own personal superpower—was not always an asset, it seemed.

“While you were setting your trap, we were finishing the inventory of her locker in the Market, and her studio and apartment,” Spencer said. “Besides the newspaper story on your shop, she had a stack of clippings on the Strasburg brothers—Brian's new law firm, his brother's tech company. Even their mother's obituary. She was planning to make contact.”

I cradled my coffee, seeking warmth it couldn't give. “But my mother's arrival and the party invitation lured her back into the community too soon, before she could work out her plan. Why now, after all these years?”

“Stinson told us she'd gotten tired of living under a cloud. She was nearly seventy, and she didn't feel she could go back to Connecticut. Her family had disowned her ages ago. Seattle was her chosen home.”

“It could have worked,” I said. In getting justice for her, we'd also gotten a late, strange sort of justice for the Strasburg family. “Seattle, and the Market, are pretty forgiving places. What's going to happen to all that pottery, and her kiln?”

“I talked to the sister this morning,” Spencer said. “She's in shock, but she thinks she'll want to donate the equipment and supplies. You might have some suggestions.”

The community art studio at Seward Park. Continuing the legacy.

“Oh, hey, one more thing,” I said. “How did Sharon Stinson
know you were checking her license plate?” Turned out Sharon had tried to run me over, on the spur of the moment, when she saw me crossing the street in Pioneer Square. But the witness had only gotten two letters and a number, one wrong, so the police had not been able to trace the car.

“Complete coincidence,” Spencer said. “Their office isn't far from the police station, and a uniformed officer spotted her vehicle, parked in a ‘no parking' zone. She saw him and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

Washington finished his cinnamon roll and licked his sugared fingers. “She was already on edge, believing the woman her husband had loved thirty years ago had the power to destroy everything that mattered to her.”

“And yet, he cared as deeply as she did about protecting their family.”

“He's ill, you know. Lung trouble of some kind. That's no excuse, of course. When it comes to love and passion, you never know what people will get up to,” the big detective said.

Isn't that the truth?

*   *   *

The hibiscus arrived sooner than I'd expected—you drop a ton of money, sometimes the seller upgrades the shipping as a bonus—and I took a bag down to Mary Jean. Josh had already called her about selling truffles and bars at Beacon Hill Bakery, and no walls could contain her excitement.

“Boss, you gotta see this.” I'd barely set foot back in the shop when Sandra pulled a rolled-up magazine out of her apron pocket and laid it in my hand.

Northwest Cuisine
. I'd forgotten today was publication day. My breath stopped momentarily. Sandra kept her face somber, but the twinkle in her eye gave the secret away.

Nancy Adolfo's review took up two pages, coupled with scrumptious photos. Her comments were begrudgingly good, starting with “a diamond in the rough.” “The staff is
knowledgeable, if prickly”—referring to Sandra, no doubt. Adolfo pronounced our blends “surprisingly tasty,” another backhanded endorsement, and termed our packaging “a look that's both vintage and up-to-date, evoking the Market's special place in Seattle's past and present.”

Exactly the image I'd hoped to convey.

“Your reviewer found the Spice Shop's Herbes de Provence beautifully captured both the tang and the romance of that region,” I read out loud. “And the Backyard Rub will add the right mix of flavor and heat to your summer grilling, whether you've got two feet of deck or half an acre in the suburbs.”

“Where do they come up with this stuff?” I said, then explained to the customer who gave me a quizzical look. “A review of our shop. We're thrilled, but food writers do sometimes wax a bit too poetic.”

She laughed and took a magazine from the stack piled next to the cash register.

“She tested our recipes, too,” Reed said. “Raves about the potato-broccoli frittata and the salty oat cookies.”

The frittata had been my creation, the cookies Laurel's—both customer faves.

“She nixed the parchment-baked salmon, though,” Sandra added. “She thinks cilantro should be treated like a weed and eradicated.”

“Oh, I don't care for it, either,” the customer said as Reed returned her credit card. “Tastes like soap.”

“You're not alone. About fifteen percent of people can't eat the stuff. It may have to do with your sense of smell or your ability to tolerate bitter tastes.” I handed her a copy of our popular salmon recipe. “Substitute parsley for the cilantro in the pumpkin seed pesto. You'll love it, and there's no cleanup, which is nice with fish.”

She studied the recipe. “All I need is salmon, and I can make this tonight. Thank you.”

I love my job.

A few minutes before noon, I snuck into the nook for a little experimentation. I ground a cup of hibiscus flowers and strained them into a bowl. Added small crystals of sea salt. My goal was a well-rounded blend, not a salt bomb.

“Mmm. Try this,” I told Sandra.

A look of bliss crossed her cherubic face. “What about a little black pepper?”

“Good idea.” I added a few twists of my favorite black pepper, a Tellicherry from India that we import by the ton, almost literally. “How did Paul's tests go?”

“Turns out, it's a blown disk. He's going to get acupuncture from Reed's dad.”

She'd said she hates women who bawl at work, but that apparently doesn't matter when the news is good. Or when the boss cries with you. We sat in the nook, my arms around her, not caring who saw us. Or if they thought we were crying because the peppers were too hot.

“Give me a hand,” I said, when the tears had stopped. Together, we created a new display featuring Bonnie's salt pigs and cellars. They weren't for sale, but they deserved to be seen.

She nudged me with her elbow. “Man at the door for you.”

I girded myself for the sight of a certain tall, handsome police officer. Instead, it was a certain man of the streets, wearing the familiar blue jersey. I stepped outside.

“Miz Pepper, I wanted you to know I'm all signed up. Ready to go. Changing course.”

The kitchen training program. “Hot Dog, that makes me so happy.”

“Me, too. But you know, I had to give 'em my real name. Even if that baseball player is the famous one.” He yanked the football jersey over his head to reveal a baseball jersey, then twisted his shoulders to let me read his back. “Reynolds.”

“Seriously? You've got the same name as the best-known
ex-Mariner?” I threw my arm around his shoulder in a side hug. “Harold, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

*   *   *

Midday, my mother arrived, bearing lunch for the entire staff from the Italian deli. “Your father called this morning, after you left for work. They're in harbor for the day, picking up supplies.”

I picked up half a grilled turkey sandwich. “You tell him everything?”

She nodded. “He's furious with you. And proud of you. We both are.”

I swallowed, not sure if this was the time to ask, but pushing on anyway. “Mom, are you two moving back to Seattle?”

She exhaled. “I don't understand anything Peggy—I still can't think of her as Bonnie—did. But I do understand that longing for home. It's primal. We're thinking six months here, six months there. Costa Rica is an adventure, and your father loves it. But home can be kind of an adventure, too, can't it?”

We laughed so hard I nearly fell out of the nook.

I sobered up in a hurry when the door opened and a tall blonde marched in, a brunette trailing behind her.

“We're here to pick up my spice rack,” Bridezilla announced.

“Ah-h-h,” Sandra said. “We may have a problem. It was—”

“Nope. Got it.” I slid out of the nook and darted behind the front counter. Arf, on his bed, opened one eye, then closed it and returned to his nap. I lifted a large, light-weight box onto the counter and slid out a chrome spice rack, complete with forty metal-topped glass jars.

“It was this shop?” the brunette said, her high-pitched voice rising. “You said you were registered at that other one.” She poked a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing.

“No,” Bridezilla said. “It was
this
one.
This
is the best spice shop in town.”

My staff and I managed to contain ourselves long enough for Sandra to gift wrap the box—no matter that the bride knew what was in it—and for the two women to leave, the maid of honor bearing the precious package.

Sandra held one arm around her stomach, holding it in, the other hand to her mouth. “I was sure we didn't get the rack. When she walked in, I wanted to disappear.”

“I saw it on the back-order list,” I said, “so I started calling our competitors to find one. That's when I discovered she'd sent her maid of honor here by mistake. She'd registered at two shops, and made herself a pest at both. The owner of the other shop sold me the rack at cost.”

Sandra gaped, eyes wide. “You are brilliant.”

I glanced down at my pink shoes. “And lucky.”

*   *   *

I did not feel so lucky that evening. Ben had called late afternoon and asked if he could come up for a drink. Even though my mother was out, inviting him to my place didn't feel right.

He'd already claimed a booth, and drunk half a beer, when I got to the blues club, a couple of blocks from the loft on Alaskan Way. The live show hadn't started yet, but I swayed to the recorded rhythm of a seriously rockin' guitarist.