Killing Thyme

by Leslie Budewitz

Ben had sent his regrets to my texted dinner invitation. Still on the trail of infrastructure funding, traipsing down to Portland to interview an expert on regional planning. After that, I’d called my mother—with some trepidation, as my efforts to question her had sent her hackles, whatever they are, into overdrive, and she was sure to spot this as an excuse to continue probing. But she’d gone to a summer solstice celebration.

  My conversation with Josh still had me puzzled. Women scorned—and men, too, for that matter—will resort to all kinds of chicanery, but there had to be more he wasn’t telling me. Unless she was a whack job.

  He doesn’t owe you the whole truth, Pepper. We’re obligated, one human to another, not to kill or steal or lie.

  There’s a lot of room in between.

  But when someone you both know dies, and you call a friend for help, doesn’t that create a sort of bond?

  Cool it, Pepper. Not everyone feels your weird sense of loyalty.

  As Arf and I climbed the steps to the loft, I decided it was not a night to eat alone. And taste-testing is easier with a buddy. I knocked on my neighbor’s door.

  “Care to join me?” I raised my two bulging tote bags. Downtown living is great exercise. “Red meat, red wine.”

  “And I have red hair,” Glenn said. “Beats reading the monthly statistical analysis from the police department. Or updates on the tunnel project.” The glamorous life of a city councilman.

  In the loft, Glenn chose a bottle and found a corkscrew, entertaining me with city nitty-gritty while I unpacked the groceries and considered flavors. When I bought the Spice Shop, I’d retrofitted one long shelf on the kitchen wall for spice jars. My collection had since grown to three shelves, as collections do.

  “Continually amazes me,” Glenn said, “how stupid some crooks are. You hear about the doofus who sat in his truck drinking beer and selling rock cocaine in front of City Hall Park?”

  I pulled spices from shelves, measured, and mixed, jotting down proportions.

  “Thing is,” he went on, “catching the idiots takes resources that would be better put to use on other crimes. Dang, this is good. Try it.”

  He slid a glass toward me, a tasting pour. I sipped. “Vinny knows his Pinot.”

  “Not that every crime isn’t serious, but you know what I mean.” He topped off my glass.

  I did. I climbed out the window to fire up the grill. Back in the kitchen, I julienned jicama and a red pepper and dumped them into a wide mahogany bowl, piled high with sturdy greens. Found a jar of my wasabi salad dressing in the fridge. Unwrapped two beautiful filets.

  “Here’s the plan. I’ve made four combos, ingredients known only to me. I’m cutting each steak in half, and we’ll split them.” I massaged a different blend lightly onto each piece, then speared them with numbered metal flags Sandra’s Mr. Right had fashioned for this very purpose.

  We carried our wine outside, and I put the steaks on the grill, telling him about the murder on Beacon Hill. He’s a great listener—a precious quality in a politician—and he took off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

  “Thank you, Pepper. It’s important to hear about the lives behind the statistics. I gripe and grouse, but you know I have complete confidence in our officers. The new chief—she’s turned things around.”

  “Tag thinks so, too.” I’d seen her in the Market and around town, a sharp-eyed woman with a pleasant Irish face who wore pearls and dress blues equally well.

  “But how are you, Pepperoni? This can’t be easy.”

  My eyes watered, and not from the smoking grill. I grit my teeth to quiet my quivering chin. It didn’t work. Kindness has that effect.

  Glenn slid an arm around my shoulder, careful of the hot spatula in my hand.

  Minutes later, we sat at my inside table with salad, wine, a baguette, a plate full of numbered steaks, and notepads and pens. We inspected, sniffed, tasted, pondered, and talked. Used words like bite, bright, pungent, peppery, sweet, sharp, acrid, bitter, coffee-tinged, dark. Balance and nose. Punch and heat, edge and mmm . . .

  “You know,” Glenn said, leaning back in the pink wrought iron chair and raising his glass, “this is the first time I’ve enjoyed dinner since Nate’s been gone.”

  This neighborly thing goes both ways.

  After he left, I compiled our notes and snuck Arf the last bite of steak. Although it isn’t sneaking if no one else is watching. I poured the unused rubs into clean, numbered jars so any willing soul on staff could try their hand. Grilling, pan frying, slow cooking, and using different cuts of meat all give different results. Spice making is a collaborative process. I hoped we could add a midsummer bonus to our lineup.

  “Ooh,” I told Arf. “What about a rotation, like brewers with their seasonal ales? Or managers with their pitchers?” I pumped my fist.

  My dog ignored me.

  Though Glenn had drunk his share, I’d gone easy on the wine, to keep my palate clear. After Arf and I took our evening stroll along the waterfront, I poured another glass and tuned in to the Mariners’ road game. Like my father and grandfather, I’d rather listen to a game on the radio than watch it on TV. The radio announcers give you more details—more color, as it’s called, to paint the pictures you can’t see. Plus you don’t have to stare at the screen to follow the game.

  And that brought me back to murder. Killers and other crooks don’t stop while you try to catch them. They zig and zag, responding to your moves, covering up their tracks and trails.

  What was happening while I wasn’t watching?

  Like two teams on the field, two competing possibilities were at play: Was Bonnie’s killer someone from the past, or the present?

  So far, I’d focused on time gone by. Bonnie had not made many new friends, but no one in the Market seemed to harbor any ill will toward her.

  That led me to her neighbors at home. Had Hannah seriously believed she could move back into the building? Why? Carrying a torch for Josh? Easier to worm your way into someone’s graces if you’re close by. Or maybe she was a little crazy. Not thinking things through. I didn’t buy into the impulsive artist stereotype—my experience with Tory, Fabiola—our graphic designer, and many of the Market folk proved that artists can plan ahead. Creating a business isn’t all that different from creating an art piece; it’s just a different medium.

  But plans are notorious for changing; it’s their worst feature.

  Where had Hannah gone? As the jeweler had said, it’s not easy for an artist to find good working space. Maybe she’d been so desperate to get her studio back that she’d have risked the wrath of Josh. If she got rid of Bonnie . . .

  But even she had to understand that when the lease expired, she’d be SOL. She’d have bought herself weeks or months, at best.

  What if the argument wasn’t over getting the place back? What if Hannah had stored things in the studio and needed access Bonnie hadn’t wanted to give her?

  A sharp crack of ball on bat caught my ear. Line drive to left field, no throw. One out, one in, runners at the corners. The Ms had tied the game, top of the seventh. I crouched by Arf’s bed to rub his ears, then rooted in the kitchen for the Turkish delight I’d brought home over the weekend.

  “Mmm. Pistachio. Peppers and pistachio are classic. What about adding a dash of cocoa?” I made a note. Sandra says no combination is ever too weird to give a second thought, although some don’t warrant a third. The ones you think are brilliant may flop, but the ones you dismiss might make a million bucks.

  A woman can dream.

  I poured more wine, sat on the couch, and waited for the next pitch. Curve, strike one. I licked powdered sugar off my fingers. Low, ball one. The announcer’s words created a picture of the two teams concentrating, players and coaches fidgeting in the dugout, fans rising, rubbing their arms.

  Full count.

  If Tory’s contact
s didn’t pan out soon, I’d have to try another tack to find the slippery Ms. Hart.

  “Swing and a miss. He strikes out.” I groaned, and the crowd in a faraway stadium cheered. Time for the seventh-inning stretch and the singing of “God Bless America,” to be followed by the crowd belting out “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

  Traditions are great, but sometimes they keep us from seeing other possibilities.

  What was I not seeing?

  My mother’s scrapbook still lay on my packing crate coffee table. I studied the single photo of Terry and Bonnie—Peggy, back then—and the line outside the cathedral door. The paper had yellowed, the black-and-white photo had faded, but the way he looked at her . . .

  At his office this morning, it had been clear that her death touched him deeply. They’d been close. They’d all been close.

  Bonnie had been involved with Roger, I was all but certain. Where had that left Terry?

  And then Roger died . . .

  Thirty years ago. Why did the memory hold such power to trigger present grief, to open old wounds of loss and betrayal?

  “Why,” I asked my dog, “does every question beget more questions?”

  He ignored me, no doubt thinking, “Humans.”

  The Mariners’ ace reliever sent the other team down one, two, three, and we moved to the top of the eighth.

  My thoughts turned to Kristen’s missing bracelet. The police wondered if someone had seen the party and snuck in, hoping to be overlooked amid the hubbub. On the other hand, a party meant more witnesses, more people to spot someone who shouldn’t have been there.

  As Glenn had said, most criminals are not too bright.

  Kristen’s list of partygoers was in my tote. I got up and dug it out.

  No one missing. No brainstorms; no connections I hadn’t seen. Her family and mine. Her neighbors. Spice Shop staff and folks from Eric’s firm. Friends from the dozens of walks of life we all travel. From the Grace House past, Bonnie, Terry and his family, and a few other couples and solos—men and women I hadn’t seen in years but who’d been delighted to see my mother. And vice versa—no obvious tensions.

  The burglary detectives had probably contacted most of them by now, with Spencer and Tracy keeping a close eye on the investigation. I could not imagine anyone from that community a thief.

  Two out, two on. The batter laid down a bunt, and the runner on third tagged and scored. “Dang it.” The Mariners returned for the top of the ninth, and a buzzing snagged my ear. I fished my phone out of my tote—I never remember to tuck it carefully in a side pocket—and read Tory’s text: A mutual friend will reach out.

  Would Hannah talk to me, a friend—more like an acquaintance—of Bonnie’s? Depended, I supposed, on whether the police had already found her and left her feeling under suspicion. Approaching her through the artists’ web was good. Less threatening.

  The radio relayed a low rumble from afar. Top of the ninth, a one-run game.

  Ball one. Ball two. I sat up. Strike one. “Take your pitch,” I told the batter. “You got this.”

  The batter took his time, stepping out of the box, stepping back in, working his way to a full count. My shoulders tensed. I quieted my breath, hands in loose fists, arms ready to cheer.

  My brain kept firing possibilities at me. I had to find Hannah. Because only two people were known to have had recent tensions with Bonnie, and the other was my mother.

  I was fishing. Sometimes, like the fisherman I’d met on Sunday, who talked of ghost nets and traps, you catch more than you expect.

  And sometimes, as the roar from the radio made clear, you strike out.

  Seventeen

  Time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me.

  —Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, “Time Waits for No One”

  “Which one did Glenn pick?” Sandra asked the next morning when I set out the jars of steak rubs.

  “Not telling. You think he’s got better taste than I do.”

  “Well, he’s married to Nate, and you’re not.”

  I rolled my eyes. Then, a hand on her arm, I plunged in. “My mother told me about Paul. I’m so sorry.” This wasn’t the time to say, And I’m sorry you felt you could tell everyone but me . . . “The test results?”

  Her whole body breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. They came back good. But they can’t figure out what’s causing the pain, so he’s going back in later this week. I need Thursday afternoon off.”

  When life hands you trouble, it never checks first to see if this is a good time. “Sure. Take all the time you need.”

  “Just keep me busy, to take my mind off all the scary possibilities.”

  “Then you’re in luck. Besides the cocoa rubs, we’re launching Project Hibiscus.” I filled her in. “Cayenne’s raring to go. Anything’s game—a rub for beef and pork, a drink mix, sorbet. Salad dressing. Focus on local produce and fresh herbs. We’ll make recipe cards for customers and vendors.”

  “You got it, boss,” she said, and I hoped the prospect of experimentation would keep her mind off her fears for Mr. Right.

  Fat chance.

  A few minutes before we opened, my jeweler friend rattled the front door, her photographer neighbor behind her. I let them in, their anxious faces giving my hands the shakes.

  “Has something happened?”

  “No.” The jeweler’s pale yellow ’76 T-bird earrings swayed. “The detectives interviewed us again, but nobody’s telling us anything. We were hoping you know what’s going on.”

  “Wish I did,” I said as Sandra handed them each a cup of tea. Hot or cold, it does soothe the nerves. “But I doubt they think Bonnie’s murder has anything to do with the Market.”

  “How can you be sure?” the photographer said. “The pasta seller saw you take off with the Market Master and that detective. Tracy. I always want to call him Dick, but it’s Mike, right?”

  “Or Michael, though plenty of people do call him dick and not with a capital D.” I shivered, remembering what we’d found in the locker. “This may sound weird, but did Bonnie ever say anything about me?”

  The photographer’s brow furrowed. “No.”

  “Now that you mention it,” the jeweler said slowly, “you came through one time, the way you do. She was next to me that day, and I was going to introduce you, but she got all busy unpacking stuff and didn’t hear me. You left, and I glanced over, and she was standing there, watching you, a big clay platter clutched to her chest.”

  Like the one that killed her.

  “What were you worried about, Peggy?” I said, as if to her spirit. “Why were you afraid of me?”

  “Peggy?” the jeweler asked.

  “Bonnie’s real name,” I said. “Or at least, the name she used when my mother knew her, when I was a kid.”

  They made faces of surprise but quickly recovered to pepper me with questions. When they left a few minutes later, they seemed relieved.

  Business buzzed along steadily all morning. When Cayenne’s customer asked sourcing questions, I stepped in, to the customer’s amusement.

  “I can’t believe you’re named Pepper and Cayenne.” She handed me her platinum American Express card.

  Cayenne ran a bag of Aleppo pepper through the sealer. “Nobody ever thinks this is my real name that I was born with, but it is. My grandparents came from New Iberia, Louisiana, and my granddaddy worked in the Tabasco plant. They moved up here when he got a job at Boeing, when my mom was little, and they all missed the smell.”

  Everyone within earshot laughed. “The moment you introduced yourself,” I said, “I knew you were destined to work here. Whether your parents named you, or you chose it.” I handed the customer her shopping bags, each stuffed, and thanked her. Reed held the front door.

  “Why do you suppose Peggy changed her name to Bonnie?” Cayenne said.

 
; “I changed my last name when I married Mr. Wrong, and it bugged me to pieces,” Sandra said. “I don’t know how you could change your first name. Your name is your identity.”

  I reshelved the pepper and paprika, careful of alphabetical order. “This has been my name since I was three. It feels like my real name, like who I am.”

  “What’s on your driver’s license?” she demanded.

  “That’s for me to know and you to forget about.”

  “You were a little kid when you got your nickname. That’s how you think of yourself. How everybody thinks of you.” The last pot of thyme had gotten scraggly, and Kristen tucked it behind the counter, out of sight. “Even if your parents wouldn’t let you change it legally.”

  So long ago, I’d nearly forgotten about that argument. The summer we turned twelve. Nineteen eighty-five.

  “Well, what is it?” Sandra said, gaze darting between us.

  “You tell her,” Kristen warned, “and you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “A girl needs her secrets, don’t you think?” I picked up a shaker-top jar that had strayed from its shelf, and closed the subject. But I knew we hadn’t heard the last of Sandra’s curiosity.

  After lunch, I packed up my samples and my lecture notes, put on my lucky pink shoes, and headed for my weekly gig teaching the food service students about spicery. I was eager to talk marjoram, not murder, basil, not bracelets. To do my small part to help the students reach their dreams.

  Flavor as public service.

  I set my samples on the tasting table at the front of the classroom and, for the next hour, talked flavor, storage, blends, and extractions. I doled out bits of history: how ancient traders spun tales of mythical birds building nests of cinnamon on impossible-to-reach mountains, to keep their sources secret and prices high. The desire for spice stoked the Age of Exploration, sparking wars and colonial strife. In medieval times, herbal healers were highly valued—I invoked the sainted name of Brother Cadfael—only to have that knowledge decimated by centuries of European witch hunts. Students tasted, compared, opined. I passed out sticks of cinnamon and cassia, and we discussed the evocative power of spice and the relationship of scent to memory.