The Solace of Bay Leaves Read online

  “Wait.” Greer held up a hand, her gaze darting from me to Kristen and back. “You knew both the first victim and the second?”

  I felt myself flush, as though I’d been accused of wrongdoing and the explanation, simple as it was, would only make things sound worse.

  “We went to school with Maddie, from kindergarten on,” I replied, then glanced at Nate, his face creased with confusion. “Kristen sees more of her than I do. I never knew Pat Halloran. He died before we became friends with Laurel.”

  “You knew Pat, though, didn’t you? From cases you’d had?” Kristen asked Eric, who nodded. She turned her attention back to Greer. “Maddie’s kids and our girls are close in age. They go to the same schools. We see Maddie and Tim, her husband, at soccer games and school events. And we’ve been to their place on Whidbey Island.”

  “As I recall,” Tracy said. “From when Mr. Halloran was killed.”

  Maddie Petrosian had been the Golden Girl in our class. Her great-grandparents survived the Armenian genocide and immigrated to Seattle, where they worked their tails off and amassed a fortune, mostly in real estate. Made sense for people driven from their homes to value land in their new country. Maddie and I both went to Seattle University after high school, but unlike me, she’d been a serious student. I dropped out after junior year, then stumbled into a career in HR at a prominent law firm, eventually finding my true calling in retail. Maddie, on the other hand, was magna cum everything. She went on to get an MBA, graduated first in her class, married the man who finished second, and took over the family business.

  She was everything I wasn’t. And impossible to dislike.

  “Her name’s in the file,” Tracy said to Greer. “In the interviews with the Neighbors United folks.”

  So Greer was new on the case. New in town, too?

  “As to why you didn’t know, we kept her name quiet at her husband’s request, until he could reach her mother,” Tracy continued. “She’s in Europe on some kind of tour, and he didn’t want her to hear the news from someone else. We released the name to the press this evening.”

  Next to me on the couch, Laurel was bouncing her knee up and down. I put out a hand and stilled it.

  “So does the same gun mean the same killer went after both my husband and Maddie Petrosian?” she asked. “Why? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  I had to agree. How could a shooting yesterday morning be connected to a murder three years ago?

  “That’s the obvious explanation,” Tracy replied. “But it’s early yet.”

  “The newspaper called it an interrupted burglary. Is that really what happened?” I asked. “That grocery’s been closed for ages. Oh, is that the one she bought to redevelop?”

  Tracy shot me a “you should know better” look. And I did. I’d been married to a cop. “Interrupted burglary” is code for when the police suspect attempted murder but don’t want to say so.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Laurel repeated. “Maddie’s a developer. Pat was a prosecutor who volunteered his spare time with a community group trying to protect the neighborhood against overzealous developers. They were on opposite sides. What could anyone hope to gain from shooting them both?” She looked from Tracy to Greer and back, but got no answer.

  Finally, Eric asked, “So what’s next?”

  “Crime scene evidence,” Tracy replied. “You wouldn’t believe the dust and junk in a vacant grocery. Canvass the neighborhood. Trace the gun. Ms. Petrosian’s shooting is a tragedy, and it is our immediate focus. But it’s also giving us new evidence on your husband’s case, Mrs. Halloran. We’ll be revisiting every lead. He was one of our own.”

  When one of their own was attacked, every law enforcement officer kicked into high gear to solve the crime. Maybe now, they could.

  “That’s where the FBI comes in,” Greer said. “We’re conducting a thorough investigation into a person of interest, and dedicating extensive resources into reevaluating other evidence in light of this recent incident. Working closely with the SPD, of course.”

  “That means the project’s on hold for now, right?” I said. “Who still wanted it stopped? Who didn’t accept the newest proposal?”

  “We’re looking into that,” Tracy said, “although it’s hard to see how that might circle back to Mr. Halloran.”

  If Pat’s killing was not related to his work as a prosecutor, but stemmed from his volunteer work or his personal life, then it wasn’t a federal case. But until that was disproved, the FBI would take the lead. Not because they were pushy or grabby, but because that was the law.

  And while Mike Tracy was grumpy and suffered fools not one whit, he would do whatever it took to solve this case.

  “We’ll keep you posted, Mrs. Halloran,” Greer said, standing to leave. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  She rose, as did Mike Tracy. He buttoned his jacket and glanced at Kristen and me. “Don’t suppose I can keep you two away from your old friends, now can I?”

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  He grunted—he grunts a lot—and gestured to the Special Agent. “After you.” Then he turned back and plucked a cookie off the tray.

  NATE closed the houseboat’s door behind the officers. I felt badly for him—he had no idea what was going on.

  But then, neither did the rest of us.

  Laurel sank back, eyes closed. She’s a striking woman, at five nine, a couple of inches taller than me, and at fifty-five, a dozen years older. We are hair opposites—mine is short, dark, and spiky, while hers is a cascade of gray-brown curls that falls well below her shoulders. But at the moment, I suspected my face mirrored the expression of sadness mingled with shock that hers bore.

  “We should leave you alone.”

  “No.” Her dark eyes flew open. “Oh. You missed dinner. And the music.”

  “We’re fine,” I said reflexively, but she’d already jumped up. Besides being a chef, she’s mother to a teenage boy, though he was safely away at college. Hungry people spur her into action.

  I picked up the framed photograph she’d clutched throughout our conversation with Tracy and Greer. Pat had been a nice-looking man with a friendly, open face. Not a head-turner, but a man you’d smile at on the street. His sandy-red hair was as curly as Laurel’s, and he had the hazel eyes, fair skin, and smattering of freckles that went with his Irish name.

  I set the photo on the table, picked up the coffee tray, and followed Laurel into the kitchen. It’s tiny but efficient, with a built-in dining booth, and within minutes, I’d poured us all glasses of pinot noir, and Laurel had served up mixed greens dressed with a basil vinaigrette and bowls of pasta with olive oil and garlic, sprinkled with parsley so fresh it was practically still growing. Eric had found Diane Schuur on his playlist and his phone serenaded us from the windowsill.

  Laurel slid in next to Kristen, a glass of wine in hand. “Maybe, finally, we’ll get answers.”

  After a few bites, my blood sugar stabilized and I could begin to think again. I set my fork down.

  “So was Maddie the target, or in the wrong place at the wrong time?” I mused.

  “I just sent Tim a text,” Kristen said to me. “When do you want to go to the hospital tomorrow? Coma means ICU, so we might not be able to see her, but we can at least talk with him in person.”

  “You’ll have to go without me,” I said. “I am swamped at the shop.”

  “I need to call Gabe,” Laurel said. “Friday nights are game nights. I don’t even know if they won.” Gabe was a freshman at Notre Dame, on a soccer scholarship.

  “Call him in the morning,” Kristen said. “Let him enjoy Friday night. Besides, you don’t know anything yet.”

  “Pat always said”—Laurel’s voice broke, then recovered. “He always insisted that we would not keep secrets from our son. When Pat was fifteen, his father was badly injured on the job. His mother didn’t tell the kids how hur
t he was, that for a while, they weren’t sure he’d live. They found out from an aunt. It made the ordeal even worse, and fueled a rabid hatred for secrets.”

  Fifteen. The same age Gabe had been when Pat died.

  “Did his dad recover?” Nate asked.

  “Mostly, but he never went back to work. Pat and his brother gave up sports and got jobs. He went to college and law school on academic scholarships, not the soccer scholarship he’d dreamed of.”

  Kristen and I exchanged glances. We knew too well the power of family secrets. Her parents and mine had shared one for decades, and when it came to light a few months ago, it had nearly destroyed our friendship.

  The exhaustion was beginning to show on Laurel’s face. I picked up plates and slid out of the booth, then beckoned to Nate. In the living room, voice low, I said “I want to stay with her overnight. Could you head home and take care of the dog?”

  Nate’s official residence, to the extent that he has one, is a gillnetter called the Thalassa, docked at Fisherman’s Terminal, but since his unexpected return from Alaska a few weeks ago, he’d spent most nights at my loft.

  “How ’bout I stay, too? I could call an Uber, but you know Eric will insist on running me back to your place, and I’d rather let them go straight home. I’ll call Glenn to take the dog.”

  I put my hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “How do you always know exactly what to do?”

  “YOU’RE going to get involved, aren’t you?” Nate said as he slid between the sheets in Gabe’s old room, on the houseboat’s upper level. As Laurel had predicted, we’d found Snowball, the stray dock cat who adopted Gabe when they moved in, fast asleep on his bed. She barely opened an eye when I scooped her up and put her on the desk chair, atop a blue-and-green Seattle Sounders seat cushion. Gabe worshipped the city’s pro soccer team.

  “I don’t know that there’s anything to get involved in. But I’ll do whatever Laurel needs. And Maddie.”

  “What happened? To Pat, I mean. All I’ve ever heard is that he was shot at home while Laurel and Gabe were away and the case has never been solved.”

  “That’s the gist of it.” I laid my shimmery blue velvet dress over the back of the chair. “Soccer team trip. Pat was supposed to go, but at the last minute, he needed to work so Laurel went instead. I never met him, but everybody says he was a great guy.”

  “Well, sure,” Nate said. “I wouldn’t expect Laurel to marry a schmuck.”

  “Why not? I did.” Although my ex hadn’t started out that way. Schmuckdom had crept up on him.

  Wisely, Nate ignored that. “They honestly never had a serious suspect? But they thought he was killed in the line of duty, or whatever it’s called? Because of his work, I mean.”

  “Not that I ever heard. And yes, killed because he was a federal prosecutor. Laurel’s never said much about the case, and I haven’t pressed her. My impression is they were focused on someone he’d been investigating who had a grudge against him. I knew they talked to Maddie, and to Kristen and Eric, but that’s it.”

  “Why talk to them? Because of this development you and Laurel mentioned?”

  “Yeah. On Twenty-Fourth, in Montlake, there’s a block of commercial buildings, though it’s pretty quiet these days. A developer had a plan to knock down the old corner grocery and put up one of those modern monstrosities. Pat was the spokesman for the neighborhood group that opposed it.”

  The corner grocery that my brother and I had biked to for ice cream bars on hot summer days had been empty for ages, and it needed more than updating—one of those gray 1960s boxes that had been ugly from Day One. Like every other vacant or underused corner in the city, it was a prime target for a modern mixed-use development. That’s the new buzz word in urban design—retail on the ground floor, offices or apartments upstairs. After living blocks from Pike Place Market the last few years and seeing how well mixed-use works downtown, I’m a fan, when it’s done right.

  “So it was Maddie’s project?”

  Laurel had found a Sounders T-shirt for me and I pulled it on. “Honestly, I never knew the details of her role—investor, property manager, or what. The police talked with her and the other developer, but they both had alibis. She and Tim were up on Whidbey with Eric and Kristen and the kids.”

  “Were the developers actually suspects?”

  “Not that I ever heard. Just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. Anyway, I guess the other developer backed out and nothing happened for a while. Years. But then Maddie got the project moving again and finalized plans for the corner just in the last few weeks. It’s way scaled back, from what I heard.” I knew most of this from Kristen. Maddie and I didn’t see each other often; she didn’t have much time to spend with friends.

  “So the neighbors got what they wanted, but Pat didn’t live to see the victory.”

  “It’s all so sad.” I climbed in beside him. Never in a million years would I tell a professional fisherman that sleeping on a boat makes me dizzy. Nate slipped an arm beneath my shoulders and pulled me close, and I let the wind and water have their way.

  Three

  Known simply as “small lake” or “small water” to the Puget Sound Salish and other indigenous peoples, Lake Union earned its modern name at an 1854 Fourth of July picnic, when Seattle city father Thomas Mercer predicted it would someday link saltwater to fresh.

  “PEPPER, I HAVE TO TELL YOU THIS. I HAVE TO TELL SOMEONE, and those detectives will think I’m crazy.” Laurel set a plate of toast and a jar of strawberry jam on her kitchen table.

  I inched my coffee closer. It was my first cup of the day, and from Laurel’s tone, I suspected I was going to need every ounce. It’s common to crave intimacy after news of tragedy, and Nate and I had made a few waves of our own last night. I’d slept well, but not nearly long enough.

  “If you want me to leave . . .” Nate said.

  “No, no. She’d tell you anyway.”

  “I would not—” I started to protest. “Yeah, I probably would.”

  She sat across from us. “About ten days ago, I had a dream. A nightmare.” She threaded her fingers through the handle of her coffee mug. “By the time I saw Pat—in real life, I mean, when I saw his body in the morgue—he’d been gone for hours. That beautiful light that shone from his eyes—it was gone. It wasn’t my Pat anymore. But in the dream, I saw it all play out. I saw someone stand in our mudroom and lift a gun—a handgun, I don’t know guns—and take aim. I heard the shot, I saw the blood, saw him fall, and then . . . it all went black.”

  “Could you see who it was? A man or a woman? How tall?” I felt Nate push his leg against mine, the signal unmistakable. He was right. She didn’t need me peppering her with questions she couldn’t answer.

  “No. He was shot in the mudroom, though he managed to crawl outside—we had a little bitty back deck—and call for help. That’s where the neighbor found him.” She stared at her hands. “Then— then the next morning, Gabe called. He woke up screaming, scared his roommate half to death. He’d had the same nightmare. Except, in his dream, it wasn’t Pat being shot.”

  Despite hot coffee and the warmth of the tiny kitchen, I felt a chill, afraid of what she would say next. And then she said it.

  “It was me.”

  Outside, the rain pelted the windows. Nate took my hand. The cat’s tail swept my bare leg as she strode by, headed for her own breakfast.

  “He said . . .” Laurel swallowed and continued. “He said it felt so real that he called just to hear my voice.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “It was like it was a warning. Why is this happening now, right as we’re coming up on the anniversary?”

  “That’s why, don’t you think?” Nate asked. “Anniversaries can be pretty powerful. Dreams, too.”

  I had never heard Nate mention any interest in dreams. So much we didn’t know about each other yet.

  Though I don’t have children�
�by the time my ex decided he was ready, my biological clock had run down—I’ve got a healthy dose of what Kristen calls “Universal Mother Energy,” and I channeled it now to make sure Laurel ate. I scrambled eggs and between bites, she told us more about Pat. How the long battle his parents fought to get compensation for his father’s injuries led Pat to become a lawyer and his brother a doctor. How Pat had encouraged her to open her catering company, and later Ripe, serving fresh food fast in a city addicted to both. How they took the kayaks down to the wetlands on weekends, and how he coached Gabe’s youth soccer team, but managed to keep from becoming an obnoxious sports dad as Gabe moved up the ranks. How he never missed a game and happily ate takeout from Ripe for days on end.

  “I think that’s why I’m so proud of Gabe, bouncing back after Pat’s death. He’s his father’s son, through and through.”