The Solace of Bay Leaves Read online

  “Questions?” I asked.

  Sure enough, the first question was the one we get most often. “How long should you keep spices?” a woman in a stylish black raincoat asked.

  “A year is a good general rule,” I said. “Whole spices last longer than ground, so a grinder is a good investment. Make sure you store your spices in tightly closed containers, out of the light and heat. Taste them occasionally. If you’re not sure, replace it. Don’t try to make up for the age of a spice by using more—some flavors may be fine, but others may go off. If it’s worth using, it’s worth using fresh.”

  “Those grape, cheese, and prosciutto skewers are fabulous,” another woman said, her accent screaming Texas. “What did you use to marinate that mozzarella?”

  “Olive oil and our Italian herb blend,” I said. “We also used it in the stuffed mushrooms. You’ve got recipes for everything we served today in your gift bags, along with a discount coupon for our Spice of the Month Club, and a special treat—a bag of our Glazed Spiced Nuts.”

  “I never thought of putting herbs in shortbread,” the woman in the black raincoat said. “You’re setting my imagination spinning.”

  “Mission accomplished,” I replied. “Thank you for coming in. The staff will help you any way we can. And remember, it really is okay to play with your food.”

  They laughed and dispersed, perusing our displays, flipping through books, and eyeing spice and tea accessories. Sandra offered shopping baskets.

  I bent over to pick up a dropped napkin, a custom design featuring our shop logo.

  A pair of black bike shoes strode into view, attached to a very fine pair of legs clad in black riding tights. I straightened and found myself staring at Officer Thomas Alan “Tag” Buhner of the Seattle Police Department’s bicycle patrol.

  I felt my pleasant retail expression wobble as I watched the man I’d once loved take off his helmet and fix his gaze on me. “I heard.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. “Come sit. Tea?”

  He looked down at the tiny rivulets forming on the floor from his cleated shoes.

  “Don’t worry about it. Days like this, we have to mop the floor every couple of hours anyway.” I poured two cups of spice tea. Sandra was packing up the leftovers from the food tour and offered Tag the cookie tray. He took two gingersnaps, and we slid into the nook, facing each other.

  He bit into the cookie. “If you’d made these when we were married . . .”

  “Don’t, Tag. Not even as a joke.” He meant the black pepper, my signature ingredient—we can’t call it a secret since we hand out copies of the recipe by the hundreds. But figuring out years earlier what it does to a gingersnap would not have saved our marriage.

  “Sorry,” he said, and reached for his tea.

  It’s inevitable that Tag and I run into each other frequently. Downtown, including the Market, had been his beat for years, long before I bought the loft on Western, a few blocks away, and later, the shop. But if he thought I’d invaded his territory, he’d never let on. Actually, I think he likes the chance to keep an eye on me.

  He sipped and watched, with that maddening expression that mixes focus and indifference. Nonattachment, as my yoga teacher would say, if I managed to make it to class. With Nate back on land, I didn’t want to leave home that early. Told myself I was stretching parts yoga didn’t reach.

  “So, what’s the working theory on how Maddie Petrosian’s shooting is related to Pat Halloran’s murder? And why now?”

  “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You know that.” He took another bite and spoke with his mouth full. “But the link could give us a break. Everybody’s fired up.”

  “But in the meantime? Is Laurel in danger?” Oh. Was I? Was that why Meg Greer had been watching me?

  And why Tag just happened to stop by?

  “Hey, do you know this Special Agent Meg Greer? What makes them so special anyway?”

  “Met her, but that’s all. Transferred here last summer from somewhere back east. She’ll bring a fresh perspective, which is good,” he said. “The term ‘Special Agent’ dates to the early twentieth century, when the automobile changed the nature of crime. The FBI needed authority to make arrests across state lines, but Congress and the states were afraid of a power grab. So ‘special’ actually means ‘limited.’ The FBI’s jurisdiction is limited to federal crimes, even when they cross state lines.”

  Tag is more than a pretty face.

  “Don’t tell anyone I told you,” he said, “but she might be running a Mr. Big operation.”

  “A what?”

  “A sting, sort of. They set up a fake crime ring and lure the suspect to join the fun. Then, after he’s hooked, they tell him the head guy will only trust him if he tells them about similar crimes he’s participated in in the past. Like a job interview, where you brag on your past accomplishments. Makes them feel all big and important.” He balled up the used napkin and made a free throw into the trash basket. “Hence the name, Mr. Big.”

  I had never heard of such a thing. “Ohhh. Who’s the target?”

  “That, I don’t know. I don’t officially know anything.”

  The retort was tempting, but I bit my tongue.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “Just wanted to touch base.” He slid toward the edge of the bench, then turned to face me, gloves in one hand, the other flat on the table. “Pepper, we’ve got a second chance to get this guy, whoever he is, and we’re going to get him.

  Or her.”

  I breathed in and breathed out.

  “Trust Mike Tracy,” Tag urged.

  Not long ago, that would have been the last thing Tag told me. But he and Tracy had cleared the air between them. Like Tracy, Tag saw Pat Halloran’s murder as an attack on the brotherhood, and sisterhood, of crime-fighters.

  The door opened and a gaggle of chatty tourists surged in.

  What possessed me, I couldn’t say, but when we stood, I kissed his cheek. “Stay safe,” I whispered.

  “You, too,” he said. Then he plucked another cookie from the tray and was gone.

  After the whirlwind, I surveyed the leftovers. Not enough for staff lunch, my Saturday treat, so I called the piroshky place and made an order. Traded my black clogs and apron for my rain gear, then bundled Arf into his slicker and hooked up his leash.

  We wound our way through the crowds to Victor Steinbrueck Park, named for the architect credited with saving the Market from urban removal in 1971. Arf pooped and I scooped. Ordinarily, we pause at the wrought iron railing, designed by Steinbrueck himself, to enjoy the westerly view of Puget Sound and the Olympics. No point today—it was all mist and mush.

  We turned back, the lure of hot dough filled with seasoned meat and veggies lighting a fire in my belly. When we reached the original Starbucks, I glanced inside. No matter what the weather, the place is always packed with coffee pilgrims.

  And who should I see sitting at the counter inside the front window, nursing a white paper cup with the familiar green-and-white logo, but Special Agent Meg Greer.

  Five

  One man’s smelly Polish market is another man’s fragrant reminder of home.

  — Emily Badger, “In Praise of Smelly Places”

  ARF CAME TO ME A YEAR AGO THROUGH A MARKET RESIDENT named Sam, who’d acquired him under circumstances that I never fully understood. When a series of unfortunate events made clear that Sam would be better off returning to his family in Memphis, I agreed to take the dog. Where he’d gotten his training was part of the mystery, but Arf had a way of knowing what I wanted him to do before I did.

  Now, he came to heel without instruction, poised to move on or turn, depending on my signal.

  Problem was, I hadn’t a clue.

  Had Greer seen me through the steam clouding the window or the clusters of people crowding the narrow sidewalk? She might have spotted me ten minutes earlier, when we first walked
by. Why was she in the Market this morning? The FBI office is way down on Third Avenue. She could have found a cup of coffee a lot closer, and without getting wet.

  I’d thought, this morning when Nate dropped me off, that she was watching me. But there was no reason for that, was there?

  Paranoia is not usually one of my vices.

  Don’t be silly, Pep. She’s new in town and taking the day to explore the city.

  Right. She’s got a day off the day after new evidence surfaces in a major case the field office she’s just joined has been unable to solve for three years.

  No. Special Agent Meg Greer was in the Market on this soggy Saturday for a reason. A reason other than enjoying a taste of Seattle’s famous coffee. Since she had no reason to watch me, she had to be watching someone else. Or meeting someone. Did it have to do with the special operation Tag had mentioned?

  That had to be it.

  I left the cover of the coffee line, Arf at my side, and glanced at the window. Saw Greer and let a pleasant expression of recognition cross my face. Waved and kept going, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  At the piroshky bakery, I held the door for a woman on her way out, the hot, yeasty aroma kicking my salivary glands into gear. The sweet treats were tempting—their poppy seed cinnamon rolls are simply fab, and when doughnuts die and go to heaven, they hope to come back as cream cheese vatrushka topped with marionberries.

  If you still want one later... The stalling tactic usually works. Besides, we had half a tray of cookies back at the shop, although Tag had put a dent in them.

  I’d ordered a mix of the classics—potato and cheese, beef and onion—and modern variations with spinach and chicken curry. They were boxed up and ready to go, and Arf and I were back on the street in no time.

  I couldn’t help myself. I had to know who Greer was meeting. I detoured back to Starbucks and in my most casual spy manner, glanced inside. She was gone.

  No sign of her on the street, either. Didn’t matter. If she wanted to find me, she knew where to look. I opened the box and slipped out an egg and spinach piroshky, eating as I walked. It might not be traditional, but it hit the spot.

  The Spice Shop was jammed. I should have guessed the threat of rain wouldn’t slow people down. My first week on the job, two years ago, a near-cyclone hit. Though it rained heavily, we were spared the flooding and power outages the forecasters had predicted, and most Seattleites went about their business, damp but undeterred.

  “To your bed,” I told Arf and he wove between the humans to his hideout. I delivered the box of piroshky to the nook, ditched my coat, and grabbed my apron.

  “The recipe calls for Turkish bay, absolutely do not use California bay,” a customer asked me. “What’s the difference? Why the dire warning?”

  “Cookbook drama,” I replied. “California bay, laurus australas, is more intense. Save it for dishes that cook quickly. For a soup or a stew, you want Turkish bay, laurus nobilis. It gives stock that rich, warm flavor. Our bouquet garni uses crushed Turkish bay for just that reason.”

  “Laurus nobilis,” she said. “Sounds so regal.”

  I opened two jars and showed her the leaves. “Same color and basic shape, but the California leaves are longer and narrower. I’d offer a sample, but dried bay has about as much flavor as the inside of a cereal box. It needs the heat of cooking to release its potential.”

  “Sold,” she said. “I trust you.”

  Behind the counter, I weighed and bagged the bay leaves. The customer added a tin of bouquet garni and several other blends to her shopping basket. Inches away, Arf snored softly, one back foot twitching, as if he were running in his dreams.

  “That’s a lot of cayenne,” I said when the next customer gave me her order.

  “I mix it into honey and warm water every morning,” she replied. “Keeps my blood pressure down.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. We stay away from medical advice, since none of us has any formal training, but we happily sell cayenne, turmeric, and garlic to customers with medicinal purposes in mind.

  Late afternoon, a lull hit. I settled into the nook with the last of the piroshky, and wondered if Kristen and Eric had succeeded in storming the hospital’s gates. I slid my phone out of my apron pocket and sent Kristen a text asking about Maddie. Other questions ricocheted around my brain. Who found her? Who called the police? The Montlake business district is only a block long; surely people would be worried; surely they’d be talking. No matter what their opinion on the redevelopment Maddie proposed, they had to be worried. When anything happens in the Market, we all rally around each other.

  My phone buzzed with Kristen’s reply. ICU. Family only.

  I thumbed back. Would they tell you anything? Did you see Tim?

  Dot dot dot, as she read and answered. Saw Tim for a minute. No visitors. Still in a coma but he’s optimistic.

  Though Kristen and I had spoken nearly every day of our lives—forty-three years and counting—we also had our own circles of friends. She was a lot closer to Maddie than I was—they lived in the same neighborhood, and their kids’ activities intersected. Both she and Maddie lived a more financially comfortable life than I’d ever known. Not that Kristen’s parents hadn’t been deeply committed to the peace and justice community in which she and I were raised—they’d made the grand home Kristen’s mother had inherited its center for years. My parents had come to the communal life from the working class, and if my brother and I had strayed from our hippie roots, they did at least show.

  But in this rare moment of late-afternoon quiet, the shock of everything I’d learned in the last twenty-four hours had me disoriented. Mentally dizzy. I knew, from life with Tag and my own recent encounters with crime, that tragedy doesn’t always happen to “other people.”

  Sometimes it happens to people we know and love. People we employ or work with. People we may not see every day but who are part of our lives. I’d been raised to believe we’re obligated to help those around us when they’re in trouble.

  And this was big trouble.

  Thank God, I replied. Keep me posted. Pat had been shot in his home, Maddie in a vacant building she owned. One in the evening; the other in the morning. Seattle averages less than twenty homicides a year, making it one of the safer big cities. But shootings occur for other reasons, too. Over the years, the police had investigated numerous incidents for a possible tie to Pat’s murder and found nothing.

  Both cases were initially described as an interrupted burglary, but I thought that was just cop talk. Nothing had been taken from the Hallorans’ house. And what would a burglar have hoped to find in the corner grocery that had sold its last Slim Jim and quart of milk ages ago?

  Tracy had said the task force was taking another look at everyone they’d questioned in Pat’s case, reconsidering every lead. They were scouring his case files again, searching for someone carrying a grudge. I’d been on the receiving end of several interrogations over the years. It’s no fun.

  Though he’d mentioned another canvass, I wasn’t sure Tracy would pay enough attention to the neighbors’ concerns, especially the owners of the nearby businesses. He’d ask who they’d seen and what they’d heard, sure, but would he ask what worried them? What they feared and what kept them up at night? What their customers were saying. How business had been affected. What they knew that might shed light on the connection between Maddie and Pat. Questions like that were my forte.

  I hesitated to call Tim. He needed to focus on Maddie and the kids. Who else could I talk to?

  Almost time to close. First, though, I wanted to check on Laurel.

  “Aimee and Seetha are here,” she said when I asked how she was. “We took a long walk and now I’m cooking.”

  Flick Chicks pals. Good company and good eaters. They’d keep Laurel occupied.

  “Perfect. If I know them, they brought lots of wine.”

 
“They did. I’ll need extra coffee tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Sunday. “We’re still on then? You choose.”

  She named the place, and while I wondered about the wisdom of returning to the old neighborhood, I kept my mouth shut. For the moment.

  I clicked off the line and locked the doors, then joined Matt and Sandra behind the counter. He was cleaning out the samovar and she was restocking spice bags.

  “The food tour could not have gone better,” I said. “Thanks for all your work.”

  “I loved doing it. And Cayenne’s cookies—my goodness, that girl can bake. Paul’s picking me up,” Sandra said, referring to her husband, whom she calls Mr. Right to distinguish him from his predecessor, Mr. What Was I Thinking. “We’re going to the Pink Door for a drink and dinner. Join us?”