“Excuse me,” a female voice called. “Do you live here? Do you know where I can find Laurel Halloran?”
In the bluish light from the lamp skewered to a post on the mailbox rack, each box a different color, I saw a trim woman in a dark, hip-length jacket, jeans, and low-heeled boots striding toward us. She held a black umbrella.
Nothing about her screamed “FBI,” but I knew.
“This way,” I said, grabbing the rail alongside the short flight of steps to the dock where Laurel’s houseboat was moored. Technically, it’s a floating home, since it isn’t actually seaworthy, but no one calls them that. Damp wood can be slippery and one misstep can lead to disaster.
Four sets of footsteps followed me, introductions deferred. Normally, when I duck beneath the willow’s graceful branches, my tensions melt away, as if the tree guards an invisible gate through which stress cannot pass. That’s why Laurel moved here after her husband’s murder three years ago. She’d sold their beloved Mont-lake home, and she and Gabe, then fifteen, had set about settling into a new neighborhood. Still close to his school and friends, but a world apart from worry.
Not tonight.
Across the lake, lights glowed along the shore. Headlights whizzed by on Westlake Avenue, winking off and on as they passed the narrow gaps between buildings. More lights clustered at the north end of the lake where sailing yachts and working ships waited for repairs. On the hill above them—Seattle is a city of water and hills—the industrial figures of Gasworks Park stood watch.
Laurel’s sapphire blue door faced an empty slip. Instead of a boat, she keeps a pair of yellow kayaks, now lashed to the side of the house. Friends with boats, or neighbors with seafaring visitors, are free to tie up any time. Colorful planters flank the door, including an oak half barrel holding a bay tree. Herbs and edible flowers fill smaller pots, befitting a chef who runs a deli and catering company. The rain had washed away most of the fish and diesel odor that clings to the lakefront, and I caught a whiff of bay and mint.
I took a deep breath, knocked, and walked in. “Laurel, we’re here. And we’ve brought company,” I called. Despite my accidental involvement in several crimes over the past year, I had never before encountered an FBI agent in the course of his or professional pursuits. Nor had I met one in my long career working HR for a big law firm, before I bought the spice shop, or in my thirteen-year marriage to a cop.
“Special Agent Meg Greer,” the woman said to me after umbrellas had been leaned in the corner, coats and jackets shed, and we’d all shaken like the damp dogs we’d become. Her green eyes assessed me as she held out her hand, her reddish curls frizzy from the moist air.
“Pepper Reece,” I replied. My Pied Piper routine must have signaled me leader of the pack. Or maybe it was the long “thank God you’re here” hug from Laurel. Introductions were made. Detective Tracy had not met Nate or Greer.
“Is there a reason you thought you needed to call a lawyer?” the detective asked Laurel, tilting his head at Eric.
Laurel wrapped her arms around herself, gripping her elbows. “I called my two best friends,” she said. “Kristen just happens to be married to one of the most highly respected attorneys in the city.”
“And the other comes with a man who can pour coffee,” Nate said. “Smells done. I’ll bring it out.” I watched with gratitude as my fisherman, tall, dark, handsome, and efficient, disappeared into the tiny galley.
“Looks like we broke up a double date,” Tracy said, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. He’s a short man with medium brown skin whose ever-present camel hair sport coat strains across his stomach when it’s buttoned. Though we’d met a few times at police department functions when I was married, our first professional contact had come just over a year ago when a man died on the doorstep of Seattle Spice, the shop I run in Pike Place Market. Tracy and his then partner had caught the case and quickly focused on one of my employees. Thanks to my intervention, and a bit of four-footed luck, justice had been done.
I sank onto the soft butterscotch leather couch and Laurel perched beside me, clutching a framed photo of smiling, sandy-haired Patrick Halloran. “Detective, as much as I enjoy seeing you,” I said, “we’re cold and wet and hungry, and we walked out of Jazz Alley before the music even started. What’s this about?”
Tracy and Special Agent Greer sat in matching chairs opposite us. On TV, FBI agents all wear suits or tactical gear, but I suppose in real life, they try to blend in. And Greer could easily have been off duty when summoned to join the party, relaxing in her black jeans and black turtleneck. Just add the gun now holstered at her hip and go.
Tracy cleared his throat. Patrick Halloran’s murder was officially an active investigation, and he called Laurel every few months to touch base and reassure her that the murder was still on their minds. But with no new leads, the search had come to a dead end.
Dead end. I cringed at the term. Honestly, before I found myself repeatedly dragged into murder investigations, I had no idea how many death- and crime-related phrases we use every day.
“As
