The Solace of Bay Leaves Read online

  “Can’t beat this view,” I said, and gazed out the windows at the lights along the waterfront. I’d never have been able to afford this view had it been here when I bought the loft.

  He nudged me toward the bedroom. “I had a slightly different view in mind.”

  I definitely approved.

  Ten

  In northern India, a floating wholesale market operates every morning on Dal Lake in Srinigar, where men paddling low wooden boats buy and sell produce for small shops, restaurants, and hotels.

  MONDAY DAWNED, DRV FOR THE MOMENT. NATE HEADED out on a parts run, so the boat would be ready for his trip in search of the wily coho. I was glad Aaron had agreed to join him. No job is perfectly safe, a lesson I’d learned as a police officer’s wife. But commercial fishing involves dangers that would reduce most of us land-lubbers to puddles of salty tears.

  I tried not to dwell on that as Arf and I climbed the Market steps. No gym membership needed when you live and work downtown. The rain and Maddie’s shooting had combined to create a mental murk that called for strong medicine, so I bypassed my usual morning stop and headed for Three Girls Bakery, whose sign proclaims it a “luncheonette.” The oldest continuously operating business in the Market, it was also the first business in the city licensed to a woman, back in 1912. No fancy cappuccino or decaf caramel macchiato here—drip coffee reigns. The mere scent of the stuff fired up my appetite, so I ordered a breakfast sandwich and perched on a stool at the back counter to sip my cuppa joe while I waited.

  “Speak of the devil,” Misty, the head baker, called. Her long braid swayed as she reached into a glass jar for a house-baked dog treat. I broke the treat in two and gave Arf half. “We were just talking about you. Over the weekend, a customer asked about you—did we know you, where did you work?”

  My eyes narrowed and my spine tensed. Special Agent Greer, or her mysterious partner? “Male or female?”

  “Lemme check.” She returned with a woman who handed me my breakfast in a white paper bag. I repeated my questions.

  “Well, yes,” she said. “I don’t mean to be a smart-ass, but I couldn’t tell, which is why I remember. Slender, about your height, streaked blond hair. Female, I assumed. But when she spoke, her voice sounded male.”

  Who that could be, I had no idea.

  “She headed for the craft stalls,” the woman continued. “A new artist, maybe? You’ll know her when you see her. And hear her.”

  Right now, the daily tenants were busy unloading, not the best time to interrupt. Later.

  Besides, the last time I’d gone hunting an artist new to the Market, I’d inadvertently kicked over a hornet’s nest of secrets that rocked several families, including Kristen’s and mine. I’d learned my lesson: Inquire with care.

  A young man in a white T-shirt and olive cargo pants came in through the back, toting an empty plastic crate. Misty greeted him, then turned to me.

  “Hey, you still thinking of hiring someone to help with deliveries? Cody here is looking for extra hours after he finishes the morning bread run for us.”

  “Not sure. Maybe,” I said. “Yes. Come down and talk to me. Tomorrow afternoon?” He agreed and the dog and I headed out.

  The shop was dark but for the lamp with the red silk shade glowing in the far corner, sitting on an antique Chinese armoire an elderly neighbor had left me years ago. We use it to display our signature tea and tea accessories. A glass-fronted cabinet below the front counter holds my collection of antique nutmeg grinders, rusty metal spice tins, and canning jars cloudy with age, the handwriting on their red-and-white labels faded and spidery.

  The place had history. And, I hoped, a long and successful future.

  I turned on the lights and started the morning routine, pausing now and then to sip my coffee. Delish as a double mocha is, and as much as I enjoy a cup of cold brew or a pour-over made with the swankiest new equipment, a good old-fashioned cup of strong black drip does wonders when brain fog rolls in.

  Kristen swept in a few minutes before ten, unwrapping the layers of scarves that made her look a mummy dressed for a fashion show. She disappeared into the back room and reappeared moments later, tugging her apron over her blond head.

  “We had Tim and Maddie’s kids most of the weekend. Her mom should be at their house by the time they get home from school.”

  “How are they doing? Any update on Maddie?”

  “Still unconscious. The doctors say that’s not bad—it’s the best way for the brain to heal.” She finished tying her apron strings. “The kids—well, kids are resilient, but it’s hard to tell. Especially with Max—I am no good at reading teenage boys.”

  “Is sending them back to school so soon a good idea?”

  “They wanted to go,” she replied.

  “My mom was killed on a Thursday,” Matt said, “and I went back to school on Monday. It was the best thing I could have done. A few people knew and they said sorry and all that, but then it was time for class and I could act like everything was normal.”

  Kristen and I stared at him. Finally, I spoke. “Matt, we had no idea. I’m so sorry. How old were you?”

  “Fourteen. It was a car wreck. My dad was driving. He kinda never got over it—his injuries or the guilt. He died when I was twenty-one. Reed and I got the delivery crates loaded and the route mapped out yesterday during a lull.” He pointed at the hand truck, parked by the front counter.

  I took his change of subject as a cue and got back to the business of business. I couldn’t blame myself for not knowing Matt’s family history. In his five months at the shop, he had proven himself very private.

  And even those of us who have been spared the obvious tragedies carry burdens others can’t see. Every family has its trials and tribulations—a volatile marriage, financial struggles, health problems. Every adult has her failures and regrets.

  Though apparently I had assumed that rule didn’t apply to Maddie Petrosian.

  After opening, Matt and I headed out, me leading the way, he pulling the cart. The Market is home to a year-round farmers’ market, bakeries, meat and fish markets, produce stands, and specialty food stores. Not to mention more than two hundred craftspeople renting daystalls, an equal number of owner-operated shops and services, and four hundred-plus residents—all in nine acres.

  And nearly a hundred sit-down restaurants, from the creperie and the chowder joint to bistros with white tablecloths. So it made good business sense to nurture commercial accounts close to home. I’d worked hard, learning individual chefs’ tastes and needs, devising custom blends, and offering free samples, good prices, and good terms, including reliable delivery. The butcher in the Sanitary Market unexpectedly runs out of fennel for his custom sausage blend or a prep cook drops an open jar of oregano—call me. The spicy shrimp special proves too popular and you’re desperate for red pepper? Leave me a late-night voice mail and I’ll have a fresh supply on your doorstep before you’ve finished your first cup of coffee.

  But we were having trouble keeping up with our own success.

  “What would you think about a part-timer to help with deliveries?” I asked as we boosted the hand truck over the threshold of the Soames-Dunn Building and across the tile floor to the oyster bar.

  “Great idea. I’m proof that you don’t need to be a spice wiz to bring back orders.” He flashed me a grin.

  The Persian café, two Greek spots, the Falafel King, the chowder joint, and three restaurants with an Italian flair—we hit them all and everything in between. We were welcomed and thanked in half a dozen languages. The Market is a polyglot world.

  “Matt.” I laid my hand on his arm after we left our last stop. “I had no idea you’d lost your parents so young.”

  “No reason you’d know,” he said. “It’s just one of those things.”

  Before I could tell him he was a fine young man and they’d be proud of him, or utter some other embarrassing pl
atitude, he’d turned and headed for the shop, the hand truck clattering behind him.

  My search for the artist who’d been searching for me didn’t take long. “Jamie Ackerman—Coloring the World” read the banner above a stall in the North Arcade bursting with vibrant acrylics. The artist was equally colorful—long hair streaked with shades of pink and orange, eyelids striped in pink, orange, and lime green. A puffy purple jacket hung open, revealing a bright floral T-shirt and narrow black pants.

  “Pepper Reece,” I said, extending my hand across the table.

  “Pepper!” As the woman at the bakery had said, the voice was at odds with the appearance. In my years in HR, I’d worked with a handful of transgender people and while those incongruities are initially jarring, they’re simply based on expectations. And expectations can get us into all kinds of trouble. Despite the baritone, Jamie Ackerman’s manner was the bounce and bubble of a Valley Girl. If that phrase isn’t dating me.

  “I live in the same building as Tory Finch, and when I got accepted in the Market, she said I had to meet you. She said you know everyone and everything going on down here. But it’s been cra-a-azy getting set up and figuring everything out, so I asked about you at the bakery. A spice shop! You’re a real-life spice girl!”

  “I am.” I get called “spice girl” half a dozen times a day, or more, and it never gets old. I surveyed the paintings, a kaleidoscope of color and playful images. The most eye-catching was a portrait of a woman—the artist?—with boldly colored hair piled in spirals on top of her head, swirls of color on her cheeks. A tiny bird perched on the woman’s shoulder, whispering into her ear. “Your work is delightful.”

  Tory had worked at the Spice Shop when I bought the place and inadvertently triggered my first murder investigation. When it wrapped up, she left to pursue her true passion, painting. A few months ago, I’d helped her find space in a terrific old building on Beacon Hill with apartments upstairs and studios below. As a bonus, the owner runs a dynamite bakery and deli on street level, and a mix of thriving retail shops fills the other storefronts.

  The kind of space I imagined the block on Twenty-Fourth could be.

  “I had no idea Seattle was so beautiful—or so expensive. Finding a space where I can live and work has been heaven. Painter-girls need lots of room.” Jamie swept a hand dramatically over the canvases.

  Painter-girl. The cue that ended any doubt about whether Jamie identified as male or female. HR trainers suggest modeling gender-accepting behavior when you meet someone new. “My name is Pepper and I use the pronouns she and her,” you say, inviting the other person to do the same, and I get the point, but it doesn’t fall trippingly off the tongue. Making space for natural revelation is more my style.

  “And now I’m here!” Jamie crowed, the gold ring in her nostril catching the light.

  “Pop over and meet my crew when you have a chance.” A shopper reached for a painting of a path leading into the woods, a fantasy world of color, light, and happiness. It drew me, too. You just knew you would like the person who created it. Jamie Ackerman had found the perfect palette and subject matter for her personality.

  By the time I got back to the shop, my tummy was rumbling as loud as the delivery trucks on the cobblestones. Between customers, I finally managed to finish my breakfast. Then I checked the stock to see if we could fill the orders Matt and I had received on our rounds.

  I was crossing the shop floor, a jar of marjoram in my arms, when I glanced out the front door and saw two wheels spin by. Moments later, a second bike sped in and out of view. Bike patrol on a mission. Though I hoped Tag could tell me more about the investigation, I didn’t mind putting it off. Had he talked to Officer Clark since Sunday? Did he know I’d embarrassed myself by fleeing at the sight of her in the hospital? Though I didn’t honestly know if she’d seen me, or known who I was. Either way, a can of worms better left unopened.

  Because worms have a way of crawling into unexpected places and catching you by surprise.

  And when it comes to Tag, I am no better at keeping my lips zipped than at keeping my emotions off my face. That’s the lingering effect of umpteen years together and thirteen years married. It’s not always bad. It’s good that we’re still friends.

  But my curiosity about the meter maid turned cop might not be so good.

  Behind the counter, I started on the spice orders. As I spooned out marjoram and weighed bay leaves, I considered what we knew so far about Maddie’s shooting and its possible link to Pat Halloran.

  Not much more than a tablespoon or two, to use a cooking metaphor.

  What would Cadfael do? Keep an eye open and when the time was right, talk to young Sheriff Hugh Beringar.

  The shop’s landline rang and Matt answered. He cupped a hand over the receiver and held it out to me. “Edgar, from Speziato.”

  One of our best customers, creator of the very popular baked paprika cheese. I handed Matt the bag and an invoice. “Thanks. Run this up to the chowder shop, please.” I took the phone. “Edgar! Great to hear from you. Arf misses you.” What Arf missed were the bones the chef saves for him.

  “You know I think worlds of you, Pepper,” the Salvadoran chef who runs a terrific Italian kitchen said. “But when you made my special spice blend, you said it was mine. Nobody else’s.”

  “And so it is.”

  “Then how come another chef is using my spices?” “What? No! Edgar, that’s impossible.”

  Cayenne had come behind the counter to ring up a sale and gave me a worried look, her nearly black eyes wide. If we mix a blend for a commercial customer, whether it’s our creation or theirs, we hold that recipe in confidence. We don’t sell it in the shop and we certainly don’t share it.

  It’s a promise we make, and I keep my promises.

  “Look at his menu. The description, it is the same.”

  That couldn’t be. “Edgar, let me go to my office. Hang on.”

  I handed the phone to Cayenne and sped to the back room, closed the door, and grabbed the other receiver. The computer was on, thank goodness. “Okay, I’m back. Who is it?”

  I heard the click of Cayenne hanging up. Edgar told me the name of the other restaurant. “We have never done business with them,” I said, and cradled the receiver between neck and shoulder while typing in the name. “Not in the two years I’ve owned the shop. I’ve never even met the chef.” I’d heard the name, though, in Madison Park. I’d thought about calling on him but hadn’t gotten around to it.

  I found the website and started scrolling. “I’m looking at the menu. At the crab cakes. Ohmygosh.” The entry was virtually lifted from Edgar’s menu, down to the description of the flavors, though no individual spices were listed. “How did you find out?”

  “Customer told me she had crab cakes at his place but mine was better. ‘Yes,’ I say, ’because of my own special spices.’ ‘No,’ she say, ‘spice the same. You use better fish.’ When she leaves, I look up his menu and see the same as mine. But those are my spices.”

  You can’t copyright a spice blend, like you can’t copyright the list of ingredients in a recipe. After all, you need certain things to make brownies or a cake. But it’s entirely possible for more than one chef or spice merchant to come up with the same combo, independently. I created my Italian herb blend from scratch, to give my customers a flavor profile that would please nose and tongue, but it isn’t much different from others on shelves around the country.

  “Edgar, that blend is yours. You came to us with an idea, and we worked to find exactly the right combination until you were satisfied.” Trial and error. So. Much. Trial and error. “We have not given the recipe or the finished product to anyone.” No need to mention the small jar in my kitchen. No need to muddy roiling waters.

  “Then one of your staff . . .”

  Impossible. Only Sandra and I have access to the Blend Book, safely stashed in our commercial kitchen. The electronic
version is password-protected. I’d planned to bring Cayenne into the mixing and blending side of the business, but put that off until her health stabilized.

  But defending my staff would sound like I was blaming his. “It could be completely innocent, Edgar. Maybe your rival had a bite of Speziato’s crab cakes—”

  “Never. Never has he been in here.”

  “Or someone described them to him. Heck, maybe he spotted them on your menu and was inspired to make his own blend.”

  “No,” Edgar barked. “He is not that good.”

  “I’ll figure this out, Edgar, I promise. But you have to understand that we can’t stop him from using the same ingredients you use. All we can do is talk to him.” Would that be true if he had stolen the recipe, not just managed to recreate it? I wasn’t sure.