Killing Thyme (23 page)

I may not have learned much, but at least I'd scored a cream puff.

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.

She'd scored an unexpected spot in the Market when a daystall opened up. It wasn't strictly first come, first served—management considered product mix, uniqueness, and quality.

The stars had aligned.

Bonnie's reluctance to go to Kristen's party had not been an act. She'd wanted very much to get into the old house—I'd misread the expression in her eyes as we'd climbed the broad steps. What she hadn't wanted was to be seen. To reconnect with any of us.

We were not her community anymore.

Life isn't a movie, Pepper.
The story line doesn't have to make sense. And there may not be a happy ending—or justice.

A squirrel dashed across the trail, and Arf halted, hope drooling from the corner of his mouth as he peered through the dense underbrush on the hillside.

“Sorry, boy. He's too quick for you.” We moved on, picking up the pace. The cobwebs in my brain and legs needed a good long stretch.

The kayakers had become specks in the distance. A seagull swooped low over the shoreline.

High atop a madrone, a bald eagle surveyed his kingdom. He ignored us, neither fish nor fowl. I drank in the warm sun, the fragrance of cedar and damp earth.
Oh, heaven.

I'd hoped, when I first learned about Bonnie's role in the tragedy, that she'd come back to face it. To make amends. But if the need to atone had driven her back to the Emerald City, she would have declared her presence. At the very least, made an effort to contact my mother or Kristen, or even Brian Strasburg.

No. She'd had another plan.

Arf veered off the path, and I followed him a few feet uphill, where he squatted beside a wild rhododendron. Plastic bag in hand, I scooped the poop and took a step back to the trail.

Where a small, lithe redhead marched rapidly toward us. She slowed, then stopped to pet my dog.

“What a little gentleman,” she said. “Airedales always look so courtly.”

“I imagine if you walk this trail often enough, you'd see every breed of dog in the world.” I let the leash go slack, but kept the loop in my hand.

“I wouldn't know yet,” she said. “But it seems like a great park.”

“New in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah. I'm an artist. A friend's parents lent me their guest apartment, above their garage, where I can live and paint.”

Arf's hackles might not be up, but mine were. Could this really be Hannah Hart? Yes, there are plenty of small redheads in the world, but walking in the park midday barely a block from where the police surrounded her borrowed refuge?

Naturally, my phone was in my tote, locked in the trunk of the Mustang. I couldn't call the police.

How would Cadfael handle this? He would never dissemble; he would never be dishonest about his intentions. But he wouldn't volunteer them.

“That's rough,” I said. “You know, I think you know a couple of friends of mine. Jade and Tory. They're part of an art gallery and co-op downtown. They said you were looking for space. I'm Pepper, and this is Arf.”

For a moment, I couldn't tell whether she was going to run or stay. “I was supposed to meet them, to look at their studio space. But I've been so scared lately. I blew them off.”

Careful, Pepper. Don't spook her.
“Why were you scared?”

She sat on a flat gray rock and flexed her foot. “I did something I shouldn't have done, and I think my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—reported me to the police.”

“Wow. What happened?” I perched on a darker rock a foot or two away, summoning the listening skills honed in HR. A pair of joggers trundled by.

“I don't know what Jade told you. I met him when he bought the building where I rented. Gorgeous space. The studio has huge windows and tall ceilings, with an apartment upstairs. It has a pedestal sink and a claw-foot tub.” Her wistful tone sounded genuine.

“Sounds perfect for an artist.” Even Cadfael wasn't beyond guiding someone who wanted to talk.

“Our relationship got pretty crazy, and he threw me out. I didn't think he meant it.” Her voice broke, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “But I was wrong.”

“I don't understand. What would that have to do with the police?”

“I tried to help him out, by finding a new tenant. A potter.” She stuck a finger inside her shoe and rubbed a spot below her ankle. “But that just made him mad. Then I tried
to get her to leave, so he wouldn't be so mad, but she didn't want to move again.”

A very different story from the one Josh told. The old medieval chants started playing. Every story has two sides. Sometimes more.

“But then Bonnie—the new tenant—got killed,” Hannah continued. “I feel terrible, like I'm responsible for her being in harm's way. But relieved, too, that it wasn't me.”

“I heard about that. It's awful. Do you know what happened?”

“No. But I keep wondering about this guy I saw.” She paused. “I probably shouldn't be saying anything. I don't have any idea who he was.”

When someone says they aren't sure they should say anything, and you desperately hope they will, keep your mouth shut.

“I dropped in one afternoon—I moved out so fast, I left some boxes behind,” she continued, “and this guy was coming out of the studio. I'd seen him once before, having coffee upstairs. He was telling Bonnie not to worry, that no one would care what had happened all those years ago.”

I stayed silent, though questions were pounding in my head.

“She said she wanted them to care, that it was time to confess to what they'd done. For the children. His face got all twisted, and he started to cry. Then she saw me, and I told her I needed to get a box I'd left, so she let me in and I didn't hear the rest.”