Killing Thyme (16 page)

My focus wasn't the fading zinnias. I didn't need to check the vase to know its origins, but I lifted it up and peered at the bottom anyway. The same mark I'd seen on the salt pig that now graced my kitchen counter.

On the rare Movie Nights when my father inflicted a western on us, I'd usually fallen asleep. But I'd seen enough John Wayne movies to read a brand. And this was a double diamond.

“She always worked with her hands, so it shouldn't have surprised any of us that she took up pottery for a living.”
Terry leaned against the doorway, arms folded, wearing khakis and a blue button-down. Without the boost of spirit the Uncle Sam outfit gave, he looked older. Tired.

“You knew she was back, didn't you? My mother called you last week from outside the Pink Door, anxious to warn you. But you weren't worried.”

“Peggy—
Bonnie
—was no threat to me. Nor I to her. I think she finally understood that.”

“Why would you be threats to each other? Tell me, Terry. It may be why she died.”

He lowered his gaze, shaking his head—in a gesture of refusal, or lack of understanding? “The loss gives me great pain. She had so much to give.”

Was an answer hidden in his reply? He'd always seemed like a straightforward guy. But nothing about any of this was straightforward. “Why did she come back to Seattle, after all these years?”

“I think she was tired of running.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. As if pointing out the obvious. But I didn't quite see.

“From what?”

The door opened a few inches, and I half turned, expecting to see Sharon. Expecting her to glower and demand to know why I was keeping her husband from his work. It began to swing shut, and a thirtyish man in a wheelchair rolled partway in, left arm extended. He pushed the door a second time, his skin too dark for me to make out the tattoo rippling over his bare forearm. Behind him, on foot, came another man, dark blond, a military tattoo of some kind on his arm, wearing an olive green T-shirt and the same style of loose camo pants as the man in the wheelchair.

“Good to see you, gentlemen,” Terry said.

“Your wife in?” the second man said. “We were hoping—”

“She left to run an errand, then pick up the girls from dance class. Go on in,” he told the first man.

The client rolled past us, toward Terry's office. The other man's hooded gaze shot between us, and I wasn't sure whether he was going to throw a punch or sit on the faded floral love seat.

Terry shifted his piercing blue eyes to me, answering the question I'd almost forgotten I'd asked. “From herself.”

It is impossible to determine both position and momentum at the same time.

—Heisenberg's uncertainty principle

“Three pink elephants, three brown owls, three teddy bears, and three Scottie dogs.” The closest shape to an Airedale in the cookie case. “And one ferry boat—I'll eat that now.”

In my determination to reach Detective Spencer first thing this morning, I'd skipped the sacred ritual of treats for the weekly staff meeting. My bad. But a midday snack would heal the wound.

While the woman behind the counter bagged my cookies, I checked my messages. A text from the shop, telling me a potential customer in south Seattle had called. Ben replying to a text I'd sent this morning, saying the trip to Portland had gone well, but he had more research to do in Olympia and wasn't sure when he'd be back. He missed me and was sorry he hadn't had time to follow up on Roger Russell.

And one from Tory saying Hannah Hart would meet her at the gallery at eleven this morning and could I come.

Ten minutes ago.
Dang
.

On my way
, I texted back. With a bite and a promise, I tucked my cookie in the bag and trotted the few blocks to Pioneer Square.

When I rounded the corner onto Occidental, I slowed to a walk.
Remember your goals
. The point was to find out how Bonnie fit into the whole Hannah-Josh drama, without scaring Hannah off.
Probe gently
.

Outside the gallery stood a treelike sculpture made of found metal objects, a relative of
The Guardian
, which Tory and her stepmother had bought for my shop. Odd bits of metal danced and sang in the soft breeze.

The door stood open. I walked in, expecting to recognize Hannah from Mr. Adams's description.

But there was no one to recognize. The redbrick walls showed their paintings and fiber art to no one. Clay masks stared vacantly. Blown glass chandeliers hung from the high tin ceiling, shining light in empty corners.

“He-LOH-oh-h! Tory?” I peered around the cases displaying jewelry and other small objets d'art—glass boxes, carved stone totems, beads, porcelain netsuke.

No sign of her. No sign of anyone.

What was stranger, no sound. The gallery usually rang with chatter and musical inspiration. Tory and her pals were among the coolest, weirdest, most creative, most
alive
people I knew. And seldom quiet.

But where were they?

Where was Hannah Hart?

The cookie taste in my mouth turned sour, and I swallowed as I picked my way through the space, craning my neck to peer behind the pillars. I crept by the stage—filled with the electronic gear and drum kit of the Zak Davis Band, all eerily silent—and entered the narrow hall that ran to the open back door. A gust blew in, and dried leaves swirled around my feet, dust stinging my nostrils. A red straw, the kind that come in carryout lattes, skittered to a stop at my feet.

I held my breath, willing my heart to beat more quietly. Took another step, my back foot poised, head angled, listening. Listening.

“Tory?”

The silence was killing me. Had my calls, my questions put her in danger?

Then, outside, a door slammed, followed by a clapping sound, an “all finished” swipe of one palm against the other. My heart jumped. Voices neared, female, still indistinct. Footfalls echoed.

On the long wall were three paneled doors with dented brass doorknobs. I grabbed the first. No go. Grabbed the next, twisted, yanked. The door opened, and I fell inside.

But the door would not close.

By the thin light creeping in, I saw that I'd stuffed myself into a closet crammed full of cleaning supplies. I held my breath. Turned the knob again—slowly this time—and pulled the door toward me.

No luck. It wasn't quiet, and it wouldn't close. I flattened myself against the wall as best I could while straddling a shop vac.

In the hall, the voices grew louder. “This door keeps popping open.”

My chest wanted to explode.

“Yeah. I keep meaning to ask Zak to look at it—I can't tell if the problem is the lock or the hinges. And when your rent's a dollar a month, you hate to call the landlord.”

The voice.
The tension flooded out of me, and I collapsed against a mop—judging by the shape poking my back and the stringy things brushing my neck.

“What was that?” In the hallway, Tory spoke sharply, on alert.

“It's me.” I lifted one leg over the vacuum and shoved my way out. Blinked against the sunlight streaming in the back door. “Where were you?”

Tory glanced at the closet, then burst into laughter. The woman beside her was not Hannah.

“Sorry,” Tory said, wiping her cheek with a knuckle. “I was out back, helping Jade load up for a show.”

“What if Hannah came and went while you were messing around outside? What if—?” My temperature rose as anger and irritation flared through me. Just as quickly, it plummeted. My knees buckled, and I collapsed against the wall.

“Pepper, chill. I was outside three minutes max. If she isn't here by now, she's blowing us off.”

“This is serious, Tory.”

“Hey, I get it. Remember? I've been through this. I get what you're doing and why it matters. Oh.” She jerked her head backward in surprise. “You thought—you were afraid—Pepper, I'm fine. We're all fine.”

That pissed-off, post-adrenaline jittery mash of nervous energy pulsed through me. “I know you do. I know you are. I'm sorry.” I ran both hands through my hair, wondering where I had left my tote. Tory hugged me, then introduced Jade, who made the clay masks and Japanese stoneware.

“We used to show in the same gallery,” Jade said, “so when Tory asked me about Hannah, I tracked her down. I guess she can't go back to her studio yet—because of the murder. 'Course, she's not sure she wants to—”

Tory shivered visibly, and I remembered how we had all felt last fall, knowing what had happened outside the Spice Shop.

So the artist network didn't know that Hannah had moved out. Been kicked out. But if she'd killed Bonnie to get the space back—and get back at Josh—would she care that a woman had died there?

Only a psychopath wouldn't be bothered by reminders of violence, even by their own hand.

“Tory suggested we offer her work space in the basement. She said she'd come look, but then . . .” Jade extended her hands, palms up, in a “who knows?” gesture.

“I texted her,” Tory said. “Don't worry, Pepper—I'm sure she's fine. You know artists. We get caught up in our work, and all of a sudden we've lost half a day and don't have a clue.”

I was embarrassed to admit I hadn't worried about Hannah's safety. Who would be after her?

Bonnie's killer, that's who.
If Hannah knew something . . .

“I heard she's unpredictable,” I said. “That she's—”

“Off her rocker?” Jade laughed. “You talked to Josh. They're both great, but too intense. They blow up, get back together, then blow up again. They'd be better off if they could just walk away, but—well, you can't ever tell what's going on in other people's relationships, can you?”

And sometimes, not even your own.

What was I doing here? I should be in my shop selling spice, not gallivanting around the city, asking questions. And certainly not shutting myself in closets at the slightest unexpected sound.

But for reasons I hadn't yet fully grasped, Bonnie Clay's murder affected my family and other people I love. And that mattered way more than marjoram.

“Sounds like this time, he really meant it, but she wasn't convinced,” I said. “Tory, tell me you have lunch stashed somewhere and I'll forgive you for scaring the parsley out of me.”

“I can do that, but let me talk to this customer,” Tory replied, nodding toward a woman who'd just walked in.

Before Jade left, I asked if she'd known Bonnie Clay.

“Sorry, no. There's so many potters in Seattle. And I've never sold in the Market. That's a lot of work.”

“Bonnie seemed like she'd rather hang out alone than make small talk with customers all day.”

“A lot of artists feel that way. Me, I spend so much time with the clay that it's nice to get out among real humans now and then.”

At the law firm, we'd brought in a consultant who ran Myers-Briggs tests on the lawyers and staff. Easy to tell the introverts from the extroverts, the thinkers from the feelers. There ought to be a category for ambiverts—people like Jade who draw energy from both solo activities and social interaction, at different times and in different ways. It's too easy to put people in narrow categories that don't fit.

Jade jangled her car keys. “Great to meet you. If I hear from Hannah, I'll call you.”

I wished her well, then headed up front. Bonnie had been part of a group years ago, then walked away and made herself into a loner. I was convinced the Strasburg incident had been the trigger.

But it wasn't the whole story. And that showed how much I know about people.

Then I remembered the newspaper article in her locker. Had she chosen to sell her work in the Market because it was the best place to make a living?

Or to keep an eye on me?

I watched the gallery while Tory dashed into the tiny communal kitchen—the third of the doors I'd seen in the back hall—to rustle up lunch. And music.

“Zappa Plays Zappa,” Tory said. “I turned it off so I could hear customers when I went outside. Don't know how I missed you. Sorry we scared you.”

We settled onto two bar stools behind the sales counter and tucked into turkey-and-provolone on croissants. “Thish ish prrfct,” I said through a mouthful. “Investigating makes me hypoglycemic.”

A few minutes later, after Tory had sold a woman a blue picture agate necklace and lunch had me feeling like myself again, I told her about the sublease. “Why would Hannah want the space back? To mess with Josh?”

Tory held up a hand, signaling me to wait while she
swallowed. “Might be as simple as not finding another place. Not everyone wants to rent to artists. We spill paint, use turpentine, keep crazy hours.”

Maybe that was why Bonnie had jumped at Hannah's rental offer. I didn't know where she'd been all these years, but according to my friends in the Market, she'd been on the move.

Tory continued. “We're going to have to move soon, too—our building sold, and they're going to replace it with some micro apartment garbage.”

“What? I love your place. So much character—all those old tiles and moldings.” Tory and Zak rented the lower unit of a four-plex on Capitol Hill, a century old and suffering from age, neglect, and the rise in property values. A deadly triad. Tory painted in the attic, and their metal sculptor neighbor worked her welded magic in the decrepit garage out back. “What about Keyra?”

“This co-op thing's worked out so well that we're all hoping to find a place together. I've got some insurance money from my dad. Owning a building will give Zak and me some security.” Her golden brown eyes turned serious. “Artists always fear being one step away from failure. Can you support yourself without a day job? If you get a day job, can you make time to make art? Are you're giving in, giving up—wasting time you should be painting?

“And then, if people like your work”—she gestured toward her own paintings, a bloom of color against the faded redbrick—“are you a success, or have you sold out?”

I tilted my head, squinting.

“My gallery mates are all great.” She sipped her iced tea, the Spice Shop blend. “But the art-for-art's-sake crowd thinks if you consistently create work that regular people buy, you must be sacrificing an essential element of your artistic soul for popularity.”

“Sounds like jealousy to me. Or a head game.”

She let out a wry laugh. “Artists. Head cases, all of us.”

“Nah. Just human.”

“Anyway, I get why Hannah might have freaked out. Short on money, short on options. Maybe Bonnie freaked out back. Maybe they argued and fought.”

I drained my tea. “That would explain the lack of forced entry. But there was no sign of a struggle. And why confront her late on a Friday night?”

A trio of women came in, reminding me that this was a working gallery and that I had a business of my own to tend. Tory promised to call if Hannah showed up, but I wasn't betting on her appearance.

A block away, Yesler Way, the original Skid Road, separates the first platted claims in Seattle from the streets to the north, which other pioneers laid out to follow the shoreline. I stepped into the street.

Shouts pierced the air, and a hand jerked me back. Tires squealed. I landed on the curb, on my butt and elbow.

“What were you doing?” a man asked. I scrambled to my feet, my right knee already complaining. “You stepped right in front of that car.”