Killing Thyme (8 page)

I swallowed hard. It's never easy to watch grief, especially a grief whose edges and contours you don't understand.

And then the door flew open, and my mother and I rushed to wipe all sugary traces off the kids' faces and clothing to protect ourselves from their mother's wrath.

Ah, life. In all its messy glory.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,

“To talk of many things:

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—

Of cabbages—and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot—

And whether pigs have wings.”

—Lewis Carroll, “The Walrus and the Carpenter”

“These vegan hot dogs aren't actually all that bad.”

My mother saved me the trouble of giving Ben a deadly look. I have no problem with a vegan diet. Or with vegetarians, pescetarians, flexitarians, or I'll-eat-anything-atarians.

I have a problem with trying to disguise one food as another. A carrot–soy–oat flour stick will never be a kosher dog, no matter how good the mustard, pickles, and sauerkraut on top.

“We all have so much more energy since we started eating right.” My sister-in-law began stacking plates, and the kids and Carl exchanged not-so-guilty smirks. They are a close family, and Carl adores Andrea, who is not as wicked as I make her out to be. Just a touch self-righteous.

But a mini doughnut or two never hurt anybody.

“Grandma, I'm sorry your friend died.” My nephew wrapped his arms around my mother. She squeezed him back, then he sank to the ground next to me and draped an arm over Arf. Carl's house, on Queen Anne Hill, is a variation of the classic Seattle Box, smaller and newer than Kristen's. They're on the remodel-as-you-go plan, meaning projects get done when they have the money and Carl has the time. At the moment, new bathroom fixtures crowded the second-floor hall, waiting for the plumber to give them the go-ahead on ripping out the kids-and-guest bath.

Carl pushed his chair back from the patio table—not easy to do on slate pavers—and stretched his long legs. My mother says he's named for Carl Bernstein, while my father insists he's named for Carl Yastrzemski, the famed Red Sox left-fielder. In truth, the firstborn male Reece has been given some version of Charles for generations, a tradition even my sister-in-law could not change.

“I don't remember her,” he said. “Did she live in Grace House? What was I, eight or nine when we moved?”

My niece stuck her head out the back door and called to her brother to come help get dessert ready. Boy and dog groaned as the boy stood, then shuffled inside.

My mother plucked a tiny leaf out of her wineglass. “You were nine and Pepper twelve. Peggy never lived at the house. That crowd thought owning houses too establishment. They hopped around, living in places other people owned.”

“Did we camp at a farm with some of them once?” A wisp of memory teased me.

“On Orcas Island, yes. They were caretaking for an older couple one summer. Peggy, Roger, Terry—I don't remember who else. They stayed in the guest room a few times, after Debate Night.”

Debate Night had been adults-only conversations about
politics and economics and who knows what else. We kids had been sent to the basement for Video Night, so rare in our TV-free household that it seemed like a treat, not banishment. Kristen liked to sneak up the stairs and sit on the top step, behind the door, to listen, but I was usually more interested in the movie. Some things hadn't changed.

“Roger.” I squinted, trying to remember.

“So why'd she leave?” Ben asked.

Mom waved a hand vaguely. “Who knows? Seattle's always drawn people searching for the pot of gold, and when it isn't here, they drift away.”

“What drew you to the Emerald City?” Carl asked Ben.

“I came for the job.” The fabric and metal chair squeaked as Ben leaned back. “It was time to leave Austin.”

“You mentioned jobs in Phoenix and Sacramento,” my mother said. “And you were born in Chicago, though you need to find out the time of day so I can run your chart.”

His full lips curved. “Itchy feet.”

We were opposites that way. Was that the reason I'd been holding back on our relationship?

“Seattle's a great city. Love the culture. But it isn't necessarily the easiest place to make friends.” He winked at me. “Some exceptions apply.”

Carl fetched two beers from the cooler that serves as the fridge in what Andrea calls their outdoor kitchen, a lovely stone structure with empty spaces where the appliances should be, and handed one to Ben. “Ah, the Seattle Freeze. We're all so nice and polite. Newcomers feel like they've finally come home, until they try to break through that friendly veneer and get to know us. Bam! Frozen out. Local legend, anyway. I hope you haven't actually experienced that, because we need our newcomers. We need your passion and ideas and energy.”

Not for nothing was Carl on the city payroll.

But his comments did make me wonder: Was I freezing Ben out?

“Your father always said he came here because of Bobby Sherman,” my mother said. “After he got back from Vietnam, he saw
Here Come the Brides
on TV and thought, wow, the skies really are blue and the grass really is green. And the girls are pretty cute, too.”

They all laughed, but I wasn't going to let my mother change the subject so easily. “Mom, don't you want to reach out to Peggy's family? To Roger—he was her boyfriend, right? You're the one who always makes the calls, sends the condolence notes.”

“Let the police take care of it, Pepper.” My mother reached for the wine bottle. “Everyone I knew is long gone.”

There was something odd about her reply, or maybe it was the way her hand shook as she refilled her glass.

“Mom, Peggy was your friend. Years ago, yes, but now she's dead. Murdered. It's not like you to ignore that.” To let a death go unobserved, a life go uncelebrated, even when the threads of connection had worn thin, as some inevitably do.

“We are having a perfectly lovely evening, Pepper. Why do you insist on ruining it by dredging up the past?”

Because you knew her. Because you were shocked to see her, then went back and got into a shouting match. Because you warned someone about her, and you won't tell me what's going on.

I opened my mouth, then closed it as the harmonies played in my mind's ear. Yoga, meditation, astrology, Feldenkrais, communal child rearing, Montessori schools—you name a trend from the 1970s, it swirled through our lives, first at Grace House and later in our own home. But all through that vortex of experimentation and exploration, there had been one constant: my mother's love of medieval songs and chants. When she was in the kitchen, or cleaning,
or driving our old VW van, she'd pop in a tape and crank up the volume.

To this day, whenever I am stressed by choices, whenever I sense that people I love aren't being quite honest, whenever I feel tugged in a direction I do not want to go, those haunting sounds fill my senses.

There had been a second theme in our lives, best stated by a bumper sticker on that old van:
PRAY FOR PEACE, AND WORK FOR JUSTICE
.

The back door opened, and my nephew walked slowly down the steps, bearing a heavy plate. All I could see were three candles, unlit. Cake? Gluten-free, sugar-free, and taste-free, unless the kids had used “Grandma's here so let's celebrate Aunt Pepper's birthday two weeks late” to badger Andrea into relenting.

I shut my mouth and closed my eyes, letting my hand drop to my dog's soft head. Why was I acting so snarky, petty, and grumbly?

Because I was about to do the thing I had sworn all day that I wouldn't do.

I was going to find a way to work for justice, for Bonnie Pretty Pots.

*   *   *

What would Brother Cadfael do?
I wondered, as Arf and I hopped out of the Mustang Sunday morning outside Chinook's, at Fishermen's Terminal. As last night's family gathering wound down, Ben had seen the fire catch hold in my eyes, and he'd wanted to talk, to figure out how we were going to investigate.

Not wanting to give him the cold shoulder, but not feeling warm and cuddly, either, I'd pleaded exhaustion after a too-full day. Mostly, I needed to let my own thoughts heat up and simmer a bit.

So I'd gone home alone and buried myself in my book. I'd been devouring medieval mysteries ever since finding a box of Brother Cadfael books and videos my mother had left in my storage locker.

Now it was time to pack up my troubles and be social. Laurel had snared a dockside table overlooking Salmon Bay, part of the waterway system that links saltwater Puget Sound to the city's inland freshwater lakes, Washington and Union.

After a good hug, I smoothed my skirt—made by a Market vendor from upcycled T-shirts—and sat, feet happy in my pink shoes. Arf accepted the ritual petting, then laid next to my chair, muzzle facing out. Who knew when a sucker—make that a pet lover—might stroll by? Or another comely poodle?

“Glad I beat Mom here. The oddest thing, last night—” I paused, leaning back to let the server pour coffee.

Hurriedly, I filled Laurel in on last night's revelations. “They were friends way back when. Kitchen-table activists, saving the world one hungry kid at a time.” Another household motto. “Now, Bonnie-Peggy shows up, after decades away, who knows where, and my mother goes all crazy-furtive. Then Bonnie turns up dead.” My voice broke, and I reached for my water glass.

“You don't think—”

“I don't know what to think.” But I knew what Laurel was thinking: that at best, my mother knew things she wasn't telling me, and at worst—well, I wasn't going to go there. I wasn't going to imagine my mother a murder suspect.

But Spencer and Tracy wouldn't be so hesitant. What had she told them, while I was off soothing the savage breast of Bridezilla?

“There you girls are!”

Did I imagine her hug a little more ferocious than usual, her eyes warning me to stay away from certain sore subjects?

“What a spectacular day! Laurel, so good to see you.”
The server appeared at my mother's elbow. My mother reached out a hand. “Tell me, where do you source your coffee?” What followed was a Q&A on the beans, their origin, and the roasting technique that lasted a full three minutes—I timed it—before my mother flashed the woman a smile and allowed her to pour.

“Ahhh.” She inhaled deeply. “The coffee. The food. My family. How I have missed this city.”

She dithered between the oysters fried with bacon and served with spinach and eggs, or the salmon Benedict, served not on any old English muffin but on a potato pancake. Call it Northwest weird. Call it yummy.

Our orders in, my mother adjusted the ruffled neckline of her pale green tank and began the quiz session. Either she was nervous, or this was not her first cup of coffee. Or both.

“Laurel, tell me all about the restaurant and your boat. And Gabe's college plans.”

“He's beyond excited. The local Notre Dame club is hosting a welcome picnic this afternoon. I confess, it's hard to watch how eager he is to leave Seattle.”

“That's a good sign,” I said. “He's ready to explore the world. Then if he comes back, you'll know it's his choice.”

“Heck, I didn't leave Seattle until I turned sixty,” my mother said. “Never considered leaving for college. If I had, I wouldn't have met your father.”

“Seattle must have been so exciting back then,” Laurel said. “What, 1970? The antiwar protests. Feminism. The environmental movement.”

“We accomplished a lot,” my mother said. “For a bunch of hippies.”

I wanted to ask about Peggy. I wanted to ask where all the energy and ideas came from, and what causes mattered now, what we could do to improve the city we'd inherited. But what I wanted most was breakfast. Vegan hot dogs wear
off, even when they're followed by double-decker chocolate cake and decidedly non-vegan vanilla bean ice cream.

“Perfect timing,” I told the server as she slid before me a photogenic salmon cake alongside eggs with hollandaise and adorable baby red potatoes. Mom had chosen the salmon Benedict and Laurel the oysters.

“I was just a kid,” Laurel said, breaking the silence that accompanied our first happy bites, “but I remember hearing about the march from the U-Dub to downtown that shut down I-5. Were you part of that?”

“May 6, 1970,” my mother said. “It started as part of the student strikes sweeping the country. Tensions had been building, but when Nixon sent the troops into Cambodia, that blew the lid off. Five thousand people—mostly students, but also faculty and residents—marched down the Ave to the freeway.” The Ave, aka University Way, the heart of the U District. “The rest of that week was chaos. Finally, the mayor closed the express lanes, and fifteen thousand people marched downtown. He welcomed us at City Hall.”

“That's when you met Dad, right?”

“Some protesters didn't want the vets to participate. Called them Baby Killers and worse.” A shadow crossed her face.

What could be worse than that?

“The freeway was backed up for miles. Drivers honking and screaming, protestors yelling back.” Her brown eyes grew distant, remembering. “This big farm truck kept inching forward, until finally the driver decided to teach us a lesson. He barreled ahead, right into the crowd. Out of nowhere, this tall guy in army fatigues grabbed me and pulled me out of the way.”