Big enough, my mother had believed all these years, to have killed her.
“You thought they were fireworks?” I’d said, in the detectives’ conference room. “And then, you think your friend is killed in an explosion and you never make the connection?”
“We had no reason,” she insisted. “It was months earlier. There were ancient sparklers and smoke bombs and all kinds of fireworks, from when they were legal. Why would we have thought Bonnie had a private stash? Or kept it at Grace House, where she never lived?”
And, in fact, Bonnie had not been killed. Now she was dead, and we didn’t know why. Finding out mattered more than my childish pout over truth withheld. Although that mattered, too—because it forced me to rethink who I was, and where I’d come from.
But then, that’s how we figure out who we are, and where we’re going.
* * *
The shop was buzzing.
Actually, it was the phone in my pocket. Lesson learned, I pulled it out and read Tory’s text: Call me X2.
Meaning call me on the double, or that she had two things to tell me?
A low moan came from behind the front counter. I circled around and crouched to pet my sweet dog. “Sorry, buddy. Some places, you can’t go.” Police headquarters chief among them.
Then why would you want to go there? his soft brown eyes said.
Good question.
Cayenne had only worked here two months, but the place felt empty without her. It was not empty, thank goodness. Sandra and Reed worked behind the counter, he taking orders and ringing them up, she weighing and bagging. Matt had the day off, and Kristen worked the floor, answering questions, making suggestions. She appeared to be back in full form, if a little less sparkly than usual, and tossed me a tired but friendly smile. “We’ll talk,” I mouthed, and she nodded.
In my office, I tossed my tote under the desk and dug out my phone. It doesn’t do any good to read texts when they come in if you ignore them.
Tory’s message begged for voice-to-voice contact.
“Jade ran into a friend at the art supply,” Tory told me. “He said Hannah is house-sitting near Seward Park. Water views and room to paint. What’s not to love?”
“So why’d she blow us off? What’s she afraid of?”
“Don’t know. That’s your job, Ms. Detective. Speaking of detectives, Spencer came by and quizzed me this morning, when I was out on the sidewalk painting. Can you believe, she bought one of my abstract oils? From the Spice Shop series.”
“She’s got good taste.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Anyway, she wanted to know everything I knew about Hannah Hart, which wouldn’t fill a saltshaker. But that was before Jade texted, so I didn’t know where Hannah was then. I should call and tell her, shouldn’t I?”
“’Fraid so. But I wouldn’t mind if you got tied up for a while.”
A pregnant pause. “Well, it is tourist season. The gallery’s busy, and I’m here alone today.”
But before I took my dog and went prowling around Seward Park, I had another stop to make.
No fancy art cars out front this time, and no baby ballerinas. The noon rush had ended, and I parked in front of the bakery. Across the street, Mr. Adams’s house stood silent behind the yew hedge. Arf and I climbed the broken steps. (“He won’t let us fix them,” Cayenne had told me at the hospital, “so no one will think he has anything to steal. Funny thing is, he doesn’t.”)
It all looked so normal.
Arf and I walked through a gate in the weathered wooden fence closed by a simple finger latch. The backyard was a haven. On one side of the steps, fragrant tea roses hid the house’s foundation. On the other side grew hydrangeas, their flowers giant blue puffballs. Along the back fence, blackberry blossoms promised jam. A strawberry bed nearly drew me off course.
The light over the door still burned, a clear glass fixture accented by copper bands. The line between vintage and dated can be subjective, but I put the fixture on the far side of desirable. Still, it cast enough light for Mr. Adams to tee off on his attacker.
Torn leaves and petunia blossoms lay on the back steps, surrounded by dark brown potting soil and shards from a deep red ceramic planter. The glass in the lower half of the back door had been spidered by the impact of the old man’s skull as he went down.
I dropped Arf’s leash and scooped up the remains with my bare hands, depositing the dirt in another planter and the broken bits in the trash bin near the back gate. The gray plastic hose reel had tipped over, probably in the tussle. I righted it, then hosed off the steps and watered the other planters and the vegetables.
The old man had lived. No reason his sweet corn should die while he recovered.
I rewound the hose. As I maneuvered the rig into place, a glint caught my eye. I bent down to pick it up, snatching my fingers back just in time.
“Sit,” I told Arf. “Stay.” I closed the gate and hustled across the street to the bakery, where I begged a clean, clear plastic bag. Back in the yard, I used the bag as a glove and picked up the brass round, about the size of a quarter, attached to a scrap of striped ribbon.
I sat on the concrete stoop and peered through the clear plastic. Curved letters beneath a figure and a pair of crossed swords read FOR SERVICE IN IRAQ. Dirt obscured the other side.
Not stolen from the shrine inside—too new. Had the attacker lost this? How else could it have landed here, in this small, well-tended space?
Mr. Adams had been attacked because Bonnie’s killer believed he’d seen something. The murder was connected to the bracelet theft.
Who was connected to all three crimes, who might have lost this memento?
We left the way we’d come. Arf kept his thoughts to himself, as usual, but mine were a mix of sadness that Mr. Adams’s sweet oasis had been violated and determination that it not be in vain.
Revenge may be sweet, but violence is always in vain.
* * *
“He just left,” the counter girl told me. Today’s musical selection had a Latin beat. “He’s catering a bridal shower luncheon over by Lake Washington. He should be back by three. Unless he kills the bride and gets arrested.” She blanched, then flushed. “I shouldn’t joke like that.”
“No problem. Hey, I’ve got some finishing salt he wanted—for this job, I think. I need to catch him.”
“Hang on.” She zipped to the kitchen window, consulted the schedule, and gave me the address. Not a sign of good retail training, but I wasn’t going to complain.
“One more thing,” I said. “Hannah been by lately?”
“Practically every day. Good thing he’s out—last time she came in, he threatened to call the cops on her.”
“Whoa! She’s not getting the message.”
“Some people can’t let go, you know?”
“I guess. Thanks again. Hey, Sharon.” I held the door, and Terry Stinson’s wife stepped in, tugging at the tight, sleeveless dress that showed off her workouts, a smudge of dirt near the hem. After seeing a picture of the young Bonnie-Peggy-whoever, I was struck again by their resemblance, and wondered if Terry had been attracted to Sharon in part because she reminded him of his lost love.
“Uh, Pepper. Hi.” She ran her fingers along her jaw, wiping off a bit of dirt. “Thought I’d grab a cup of coffee while my daughter’s in class. Join me, if you’d like.”
A polite invitation she didn’t mean. “Thanks, but I gotta run. Another time?”
A few minutes later, Arf and I were zipping down Lake Washington Boulevard. The same shrubs dotted these lawns as in Mr. Adams’s neighborhood—hydrangeas, syringa, and roses—but the lots were bigger, the cars newer, everything shinier. The address I’d been given had sounded familiar, but I could have sworn I didn’t know anyone living down here. Too rich for my crowd.
Josh’s van stood, doors open, in the driveway of a gr
ay-brown shingle-style home from the early twentieth century, his white-clad assistant unloading trays of party fare. I parked the Mustang on the tree-lined street and trotted down the hill. Josh emerged from the side door of the home, in his usual white T-shirt and blue bandanna. Today’s cotton pants looked like a cleanup rag from a paintball party. If the manicured lawns and scissored hedges were any indication of the bride’s taste, he’d be changing clothes before serving lunch.
“Hey, Josh,” I called.
He tossed his clipboard aside, a wry half smile on his face. “I don’t know who’s worse, the brides or their mothers.”
“Hazard of the business, I’m learning. Sorry to interrupt, but I knew you’d want to know. Mr. Adams is going to be okay.” I gave him the nickel version. “His granddaughter works for me, so we’re practically family.”
“Thank God.” He cast his eyes toward the cloudless sky. Farther down the hill, a stone patio jutted out behind the house, and a carpet-like lawn sloped to the lake. I gathered this was an outdoor affair. “Lou’s old-school. Happy to see retail back in the neighborhood, but not too sure about this wedding theme bit.”
“His family’s not convinced the neighborhood is safe.”
“After the murder, and now this—” Josh shook his head. “I don’t blame them. But shit—sorry, bad stuff happens in any part of the city.”
As the Strasburg incident demonstrated.
“Hate to bring up a sore subject, but any chance you’ve heard from Hannah lately?”
“No, thank God. Maybe she finally gets it. Life’s crazy enough without turning yourself upside down and inside out on purpose.”
“Amen to that. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Most days, I say work is my sanity, but this woman is driving me nuts.” He gestured toward the house, then slid a tray out of the van and lifted one corner of the plastic covering. “Care for a cream puff?”
The chocolate-covered morsel was halfway to my mouth when the side door flew open and banged shut. A tall blonde shrink-wrapped in black spandex shorts and a violet halter stomped toward the van, and I knew why the address had looked familiar.
“You are not giving the help my food,” she shrieked.
I raised a hand to Josh and slunk away before she could recognize me, leaving him to deal with Bridezilla.
I may not have learned much, but at least I’d scored a cream puff.
Twenty-eight
At night, what you see is a city, because all you see is lights. By day, it doesn’t look like a city at all. The trees out-number the houses. And that’s completely typical of Seattle. You can’t quite tell: is it a city, is it a suburb, is the forest growing back?
—Jonathan Raban quoted in “In Seattle with Jonathan Raban” in The Guardian
The Mustang is your basic elderly but well-loved sports car. No frills and no electronic gadgets. But who needs GPS when you’ve got a dog as your copilot and a phone that talks to you?
Still not sure whether I was an insightful, intrepid investigator or too stupid to live, I searched for the address Tory had given me, somewhere in the tangle of streets carved into the hillside a century ago, by developers determined to create as many lake view lots as possible and line their pockets with the cash.
I was convinced that Hannah Hart knew something I needed to know.
Bonnie—and the late, unlamented Roger—had destroyed our community.
The killer had deprived us of the chance to find out why.
And inspired by the terrier in the backseat, I had no intention of giving up until I figured it out.
A dark sedan streaked past me. Had I been daydream dawdling like the worst bad driver?
Then a blue SPD patrol car roared by. Two more approached from the opposite direction. I pulled to the curb and took the Mustang out of gear, watching the police cars converge on a sage green two-story, half a block away, a white SUV in the driveway.
The one that had nearly hit me the other day? Maybe. I hadn’t seen car or driver up close. At the time, I’d blamed the incident on myself. But with all that I’d learned since, it looked like I’d been wrong.
More vehicles arrived. A bevy of uniforms jumped out and circled the house.
I glanced at the numbers on the nearest mailbox, then found a Google Earth view of my destination.
That was the one. Tory had waited, as promised, to alert Detective Spencer, who had called out the cavalry. I sucked in my breath and stayed put. I’d gone from investigator to observer in nothing flat.
Spencer and Tracy emerged from the sedan, each encased in bulky, official vests. The longer it takes to track a witness down, the more evasive the witness looks, and the higher the level of preparedness climbs. They approached the front door and knocked.
Why were they not pounding on the door?
Like so much of police work, this seemed to be a case of hurry up and wait. I switched off the engine and watched from my point of safety as the cops conferred, used their phones, conferred again, knocked again. Nothing happened.
Fifteen minutes later, we were all still waiting. My dog had to pee. So did I. I was about to back into the nearest driveway and head out the way I’d come when Spencer strode purposefully toward me.
“So, did Ms. Finch call you before or after she called me? Not that it matters. Helping us find Hannah does not give you permission to spy on a possible killer.”
“So you think she could be the killer? But why? She’s a spurned lover who just wanted to cause trouble.”
Spencer’s gaze met mine. “Sounds like reason enough to me.”
Sitting here ruminating, too focused on the bracelet and my own family’s role in this mess, I’d nearly talked myself out of thinking Hannah Hart a killer.
“We’ve put up barricades at both ends of the block. If she’s holed up in there, we’ll wait her out. I’ll radio the officers to let you leave. Go home.”
I put the Mustang in gear and wound through the idling patrol cars, then past the barricade. But I did not go home. After all the craziness, Arf and I deserved a walk in Seward Park, a forested peninsula jutting into Lake Washington.
At the bottom of the hill, I turned into the park’s circular entrance, bright with early-summer blooms.
“C’mon, boy.” Arf didn’t have to be asked twice. He dashed over to the bushes and did his thing, then we found a restroom where I could do the same.
We strolled north on the main trail, past the old brick bathhouse, now a community art studio. This wasn’t my part of the city, and I hadn’t been down here since the torii, a ceremonial Japanese wooden gate, had been restored in time for cherry blossom season.
It felt good to move. Stretch my legs. Get the lead out, my dog trotting beside me.
Living where I do, it can be easy to forget that there are wild pockets in the heart of urbanity. That foxes and blue herons, bald eagles and itty bitty ferrets thrive a stone’s throw from paved streets and parking lots.
We passed the swimming beach, and I unhooked Arf’s leash. He leaped into the water. Two minutes later, he was back, showering me with droplets and that amazing terrier smile. I sometimes wonder if it’s fair to keep a dog his size in an apartment, but I’d be lost without him.
And I like to think he’s happy. Sure seems that way.
Back on the trail, we trotted onward. No doubt the police knew more about Hannah than I did. Let them decide whether she was merely a person of interest, or a murder suspect.
Regardless, I imagined that was why Bonnie had not wanted to take a piece as valuable as the Strasburg bracelet—a piece that linked her to a killing—into her studio or the apartment. Not after knowing that a woman with a grudge and a key might come at her anytime.
The past week had been hell on my friends and family. We’d been confronted with secrets and shame and dark corners in our lives. We’d been forced
to reconsider relationships we’d never questioned, even our very identities.
A squirrel darted across the trail, and Arf tugged on the leash.
Beyond the tip of the peninsula, a handful of sailboats chased the wind. We followed the trail south, Mount Rainier’s white slopes sparkling in the distance. On the water, a pair of red kayaks bobbed, the boaters’ oars dipping in and out of the waves like a pair of birds used to flocking together.
In the classic movie Gaslight, Charles Boyer marries Ingrid Bergman so she will lead him to a hidden cache of jewels that had belonged to her murdered aunt. Jewels he had killed the aunt, years earlier, to find. The theory that the killer had counted on Bonnie to lead her—or him—to the bracelet raised other questions. Brian Strasburg suspected that Bonnie had a connection to his father’s murder. Did he know—or suspect—that she had taken the bracelet? Had he been tracking her for that reason?
I wondered what the police had found when they dug into Strasburg’s alibi. But even if it fell apart, I had no evidence putting him anywhere near Wedding Row on Friday night. And why on earth would Bonnie have buzzed him into the building, or opened her apartment to him?
Hannah, on the other hand, had a key. But she could only have known about Bonnie’s search for the bracelet if Bonnie had told her.
And that made no sense.
But if Bonnie had come back to Seattle to get the jewels, why had she made no move? Track down Kristen, drop by the house to say hi, reconnect, blah blah blah.
A bicyclist whizzed around us, and it hit me. Pepper, you’re an idiot. Ben’s article had quoted both Sandra, my “estimable second-in-command,” and Kristen, whom he’d termed my “loyal childhood pal.”
Bonnie hadn’t been watching me. She’d been watching Kristen.
What a boon, to find me on the front page of the paper and discover that my childhood friend was still by my side.
Killing Thyme Page 23