The Solace of Bay Leaves

Known simply as “small lake” or “small water” to the Puget Sound Salish and other indigenous peoples, Lake Union earned its modern name at an 1854 Fourth of July picnic, when Seattle city father Thomas Mercer predicted it would someday link saltwater to fresh.

“PEPPER, I HAVE TO TELL YOU THIS. I HAVE TO TELL SOMEONE, and those detectives will think I’m crazy.” Laurel set a plate of toast and a jar of strawberry jam on her kitchen table.

I inched my coffee closer. It was my first cup of the day, and from Laurel’s tone, I suspected I was going to need every ounce. It’s common to crave intimacy after news of tragedy, and Nate and I had made a few waves of our own last night. I’d slept well, but not nearly long enough.

She sat across from us. “About ten days ago, I had a dream. A nightmare.” She threaded her fingers through the handle of her coffee mug. “By the time I saw Pat—in real life, I mean, when I saw his body in the morgue—he’d been gone for hours. That beautiful light that shone from his eyes—it was gone. It wasn’t my Pat anymore. But in the dream, I saw it all play out. I saw someone stand in our mudroom and lift a gun—a handgun, I don’t know guns—and take aim. I heard the shot, I saw the blood, saw him fall, and then . . . it all went black.”

“Could you see who it was? A man or a woman? How tall?” I felt Nate push his leg against mine, the signal unmistakable. He was right. She didn’t need me peppering her with questions she couldn’t answer.

“No. He was shot in the mudroom, though he managed to crawl outside—we had a little bitty back deck—and call for help. That’s where the neighbor found him.” She stared at her hands. “Then— then the next morning, Gabe called. He woke up screaming, scared his roommate half to death. He’d had the same nightmare. Except, in his dream, it wasn’t Pat being shot.”

Despite hot coffee and the warmth of the tiny kitchen, I felt a chill, afraid of what she would say next. And then she said it.

Outside, the rain pelted the windows. Nate took my hand. The cat’s tail swept my bare leg as she strode by, headed for her own breakfast.

“He said . . .” Laurel swallowed and continued. “He said it felt so real that he called just to hear my voice.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “It was like it was a warning. Why is this happening now, right as we’re coming up on the anniversary?”

“That’s why, don’t you think?” Nate asked. “Anniversaries can be pretty powerful. Dreams, too.”

I had never heard Nate mention any interest in dreams. So much we didn’t know about each other yet.

Though I don’t have children—by the time my ex decided he was ready, my biological clock had run down—I’ve got a healthy dose of what Kristen calls “Universal Mother Energy,” and I channeled it now to make sure Laurel ate. I scrambled eggs and between bites, she told us more about Pat. How the long battle his parents fought to get compensation for his father’s injuries led Pat to become a lawyer and his brother a doctor. How Pat had encouraged her to open her catering company, and later Ripe, serving fresh food fast in a city addicted to both. How they took the kayaks down to the wetlands on weekends, and how he coached Gabe’s youth soccer team, but managed to keep from becoming an obnoxious sports dad as Gabe moved up the ranks. How he never missed a game and happily ate takeout from Ripe for days on end.

“I think that’s why I’m so proud of Gabe, bouncing back after Pat’s death. He’s his father’s son, through and through.”

Laurel gave him a grateful smile. But I was stuck on an incongruent fact: The man who never missed a game had begged off the team trip claiming he had to work, and yet there was no evidence clearly tying his murder to his work. Maddie’s shooting with the same gun made that seem even less likely.

The same gun didn’t mean the same shooter. But the odds of a murder weapon showing up in someone else’s hands, who used it to shoot a woman the murder victim had known, only blocks away, in a building that had been the subject of a dispute . . .

THE Uber picked us up at the willow tree. The bus runs down East-lake, but no way was I going to hike up the hill and wait in the rain in high-heeled boots and a velvet dress, even with a borrowed coat.

“When’s the food tour coming through?” Nate asked once we were in the car. “Will they cancel with this rain? Although it looks like it’s tapering off.”

“Eleven-thirty, fingers crossed. We’re the appetizers before lunch. The Market’s pretty popular in the rain—so much of it is under cover. But you never know.”

“I suppose it makes tourists feel like they got a taste of the real Seattle,” he replied.

“They said it rained all the time up here,” our driver piped up. “I didn’t believe ’em.” He grinned at me through the rear-view mirror.

Then the light changed and he hit the gas. Traffic wasn’t heavy this early on a Saturday morning, but skirting through South Lake Union, home to Amazon, and winding down to Western, between the Market and the waterfront, navigating hills and one-way streets, required a driver’s attention. I was glad it was his job, not mine. He zipped past an old redbrick building, the upper story partially covered by ghost signs, those faded reminders of businesses long gone. Such a contrast to the sleek glass and metal structures nearby. Minutes later, we reached my building.

“Musta been a great night,” our driver said as Nate held the door for me, “from the way you two are dressed. Get some rest.” Had we been in last night’s clothes for any other reason, I’d have laughed along with him.

Inside, we reclaimed Arf from my neighbor. “He’s been walked and fed,” Glenn said with a wink. “Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

Arf is a courtly gentleman, an Airedale terrier about five years old. But when it comes to food and treats, he’ll lie with his big brown eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m on to his tricks. Thanks again.”

“I don’t suppose you can take the dog,” I said to Nate once we were in the loft. It’s classic industrial style, a mix of redbrick, old wood, and twelve-foot-high windows, and I adore it. “Today will be crazy, not to mention wet.”

“Wish I could, but I’ll be on the boat all day, working on the engine, if I’m going to go fishing next week.”

“Seems like you’re always working on something or other.” I hung Laurel’s coat on a hook by the door and sat to peel off my boots.

“Because something or other is always breaking. It’s like farming. You wanta grow wheat or apples, but you’ve got to be a mechanic, too.”

“And a philosopher.” I swatted him on his adorable backside and headed for the shower.

As the hot water warmed me, I thought about Laurel and Patrick. About the devastation untimely death leaves behind. I’d thought it was discovering a body on my doorstep thirteen months ago that set me to a life of crime, as my mother puts it. But maybe I’d started down that path earlier. Maybe it was the inevitable result of my childhood in a communal house that wore its motto, PRAY FOR PEACE AND WORK FOR JUSTICE, on the bumper sticker of the van used to pick up day-old doughnuts and bruised bananas and put them to good use in a free meal program. Of being hauled to this rally and that parade by parents who met during an antiwar protest, he a tall vet wearing his Army jacket, she the hippie chick he rescued from an oncoming truck.

Or maybe it was the example of Brother Cadfael, the crime-solving medieval monk in the books by Ellis Peters. A man whose very life blended work and prayer as easily as he blended tonics and teas for the community he served. He grew herbs, I sold spice. Though I was no monk, that was for sure.

I pulled on my shop uniform—stretchy black pants and a black T-shirt with our logo, a shaker spilling salt into the ocean. Nate took his turn in the shower, then I snapped Arf into his rain jacket, and the three of us descended to the parking garage and piled into my ancient Saab, Nate at the wheel.

“I know you love the Mustang,” Nate said, “but this is a better car for driving hills in the rain.” The dark blue 1967 Mustang was my father’s baby, handed over to me when my parents left for Costa Rica and now in dry dock for the winter.

A moment later, my dog and I stood on the corner, he in his yellow slicker, me in my red coat and red-plaid rain boots, looking across First Avenue at the entrance to Pike Place Market. My happy place.

Wondering why on earth Special Agent Meg Greer was standing on the opposite corner, staring at me.