But in this rare moment of late-afternoon quiet, the shock of everything I’d learned in the last twenty-four hours had me disoriented. Mentally dizzy. I knew, from life with Tag and my own recent encounters with crime, that tragedy doesn’t always happen to “other people.”
Sometimes it happens to people we know and love. People we employ or work with. People we may not see every day but who are part of our lives. I’d been raised to believe we’re obligated to help those around us when they’re in trouble.
And this was big trouble.
Thank God, I replied. Keep me posted. Pat had been shot in his home, Maddie in a vacant building she owned. One in the evening; the other in the morning. Seattle averages less than twenty homicides a year, making it one of the safer big cities. But shootings occur for other reasons, too. Over the years, the police had investigated numerous incidents for a possible tie to Pat’s murder and found nothing.
Both cases were initially described as an interrupted burglary, but I thought that was just cop talk. Nothing had been taken from the Hallorans’ house. And what would a burglar have hoped to find in the corner grocery that had sold its last Slim Jim and quart of milk ages ago?
Tracy had said the task force was taking another look at everyone they’d questioned in Pat’s case, reconsidering every lead. They were scouring his case files again, searching for someone carrying a grudge. I’d been on the receiving end of several interrogations over the years. It’s no fun.
Though he’d mentioned another canvass, I wasn’t sure Tracy would pay enough attention to the neighbors’ concerns, especially the owners of the nearby businesses. He’d ask who they’d seen and what they’d heard, sure, but would he ask what worried them? What they feared and what kept them up at night? What their customers were saying. How business had been affected. What they knew that might shed light on the connection between Maddie and Pat. Questions like that were my forte.
I hesitated to call Tim. He needed to focus on Maddie and the kids. Who else could I talk to?
Almost time to close. First, though, I wanted to check on Laurel.
“Aimee and Seetha are here,” she said when I asked how she was. “We took a long walk and now I’m cooking.”
Flick Chicks pals. Good company and good eaters. They’d keep Laurel occupied.
“Perfect. If I know them, they brought lots of wine.”
“They did. I’ll need extra coffee tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Sunday. “We’re still on then? You choose.”
She named the place, and while I wondered about the wisdom of returning to the old neighborhood, I kept my mouth shut. For the moment.
I clicked off the line and locked the doors, then joined Matt and Sandra behind the counter. He was cleaning out the samovar and she was restocking spice bags.
“The food tour could not have gone better,” I said. “Thanks for all your work.”
“I loved doing it. And Cayenne’s cookies—my goodness, that girl can bake. Paul’s picking me up,” Sandra said, referring to her husband, whom she calls Mr. Right to distinguish him from his predecessor, Mr. What Was I Thinking. “We’re going to the Pink Door for a drink and dinner. Join us?”
“I’m going, too,” Matt said. “I’ve never been there.”
I would have loved to see his reaction to the place, although I doubted they’d stay late enough for the cabaret show or the aerialists’ performance. But not tonight. “It’s tempting, but I am otherwise engaged.”
Sandra gave me a wicked grin. “‘Lord, lead me not into temptation. I can find it myself.’ That kind of temptation?”
I felt the heat rise up my neck and cheeks and she laughed. “Good to see you happy, boss. You and Nate are perfect together.”
“Let’s send some of those leftovers home with Matt,” I called as she headed toward the back of the shop.
“Already on it,” she called.
Matt lived up north, not far from Sandra, and they often rode the same bus. If he had a girlfriend or nearby family, he’d never mentioned them in my hearing.
“Thanks,” he said, sounding surprised. He set the samovar’s insert upside down to drain, wiped his hands, and turned to me. “Pepper, can I ask? What’s going on with Cayenne? Is she okay?”
The question I’d been dreading. It had been Matt’s impatience with Cayenne’s clumsiness last summer that led her to tell me she’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. She’d asked me to keep it to myself for now, and I’d agreed. She was still able to do the major functions of the job, which was what the law counted. And she did a great job, which counted to me.
I bit my lower lip, then exhaled. “All I can say is that I appreciate how you’ve all been willing to shuffle the schedule to accommodate her. But you don’t need to worry.”
“Ahh, I was right,” he said in a knowing voice. “Pregnant. That’s awesome.” Grinning, he pulled the wheeled bucket out from under the industrial sink and began filling it. While he mopped, I ran the till and counted the change. Cayenne’s medical condition was her business
