Is this what we’ve come to, I wondered, that immigrants feel obliged to explain their status to a virtual stranger?
“She’s a delight,” I told her mother. “Bring her down for spice tea and to pet the dog. You’re both welcome, anytime.”
Outside, I stopped at the produce stall, then found a nice flank steak at the butcher. Back in my shop, I greeted my dog and staff, and dealt with a few office matters before closing. The giant sunflowers I’d bought last weekend were looking bedraggled, and I tossed them in the compost bin, reminding myself to pick up a fresh bouquet in the morning. We wouldn’t have too many more chances.
Then I took my dog and my full shopping bag home. I sliced the beef and marinated it with soy sauce and chili-garlic paste, adding a good glug of sesame oil from each bottle. Made the noodles. Popped the cork on an Oregon pinot noir, and let the first sip roll down the back of my throat, fruity and earthy, the perfect taste for the season.
I turned on the pregame show, volume low, so I wouldn’t miss the first pitch. My grandfather Reece had nicknamed me for his favorite ballplayer, the fiery St. Louis Cardinal Pepper Martin. He’d given me the love of baseball, too, and though he’d been gone many years, I enjoy thinking of him when I watch a game.
Much the way soccer united Gabe and Pat Halloran, despite Pat’s death. I suspected the corner grocery had the same effect for Maddie’s father, David Petrosian, reminding him of the grandfather who’d stood so proudly with his produce and his delivery truck. Maddie’s determination to honor the family legacy made sense, when I thought of it that way.
I plopped on the couch, the dog at my feet, and texted Nate about the day. Home Saturday, he answered. Can’t wait! I replied.
I was still smiling at the phone when it rang. No name or number, but I had a feeling.
“You didn’t leave me a message,” Detective Tracy said.
“You’re a detective. I knew you’d figure out who called.”
“But the question is why.”
I told him what I’d learned at Maddie’s office, and my theory about her buying up the other properties in order to finance the purchase of the corner property. I could hear him making notes. So much for getting my dinner ready before the first pitch—the lineups were being announced.
“We copied the hard drive of their computer system,” he said. “Going over it bit by bit. You learned a lot more from that receptionist than we did.”
Take cookies. “She’s upset, but she wants to help. And you didn’t have the album. I presume you’re looking at Jake Byrd.”
Tracy grunted. “Again. He and the alibi I can’t prove or disprove, despite half the force crawling all over it.”
Which crime was he talking about? Didn’t matter, I supposed. Not my circus.
“Even so, I don’t know what Byrd would have to do with Patrick Halloran’s death,” I said. “Maddie had tried to buy the property, but lost out to Byrd, so no reason for Pat or Neighbors United to be worried about her. She didn’t start buying up the block until after Pat died. That’s the only link between them. That, and a love of soccer.”
“What?” Tracy said sharply. The home team was taking the field. I talked fast.
“Her husband, Tim Peterson, works for the Sounders. Gabe Halloran played soccer in high school and now plays for Notre Dame. Pat played as a kid and coached Gabe until high school.” But it was too faint a connection to mean a thing.
We hung up just as the pitcher went into his windup.
Strike one.
Broccoli beef cooks fast, and by the time we got to the second inning, scoreless, I had a plate of the fragrant combo paired with a healthy dose of deliciously seasoned noodles. Baseball, good food and wine, and a soft rain falling outside. My sweetie on his way home, my dog happy with a bone.
All should have been well with the world, but it was not. Maddie had a long road to recovery. A neighborhood was anxious. A killer was on the loose. And Laurel was bearing a burden I could hardly fathom.
No, all was not right. But I was going to do everything I could to change that.
Tomorrow.
Twenty-Four
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying.
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
— Robert Herrick, “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time”
THE RAIN HAD STOPPED BY THE TIME ARF AND I LEFT THE loft Friday morning. We took the Market elevator from Western to the main level and headed for the flower stalls. The season was changing—had changed—and while I could not hold on to the past, I could enjoy a few more days of bright scented color. The opening bell hadn’t rung yet, and the Hmong flower ladies were still filling buckets with water and counting out stems.
“Sunflowers,” I said, thinking of the front counter. “And dahlias. Oh, gosh. That one.” I pointed to a bouquet of pinks and yellows, whites and apricots, and a deep red stunner.
“I wanted that one,” a baritone broke in. Jamie, a bakery bag in hand. “I swear, between the lattes and the pastries, I’m going to be fat as that pig by spring.” She gestured toward Rachel, the bronze Market mascot and piggy bank, standing guard near the entrance.
“There
