The Solace of Bay Leaves

Researchers believe that we choose what we eat and drink partly through sensory cues that draw on experience, such as our memory of enjoying the taste of an expensive wine, which prompts us to choose an expensive vintage the next time we scan a wine list.

WOULD THE NEIGHBORING BUSINESS OWNERS TALK TO ME? They had to be on pins and needles. First, all the rumors and struggles over the development, and now a shooting. No doubt some of them remembered Pat Halloran’s murder, as Lindy Harmon did, although I hadn’t heard anyone connect the two crimes yet. Whether they thought Maddie’s shooting random or targeted, and whether they approved of her plans or not, they had to be worried for their own safety and their businesses.

Though I had learned, to my astonishment, that crime is not necessarily bad for the bottom line.

We circled back to Twenty-Fourth, cars and busses whizzing by. I had no idea what kind of building the corner grocery had replaced, but it was hard to imagine that this had ever been an improvement. Will today’s hip new looks become classics, or dated eyesores like the boxy stucco grocery? But despite its appearance, it had been a central meeting spot, a hub that helped define the community.

It’s a fact of life and age that the places that hold our memories change without asking our permission.

Of course, the moment you turn out the lights and walk away, a building takes on a shabby air. As if it knows it’s been abandoned and plunges into depression, the sidewalk sprouting cracks and weeds overnight. And that breeds crime, if you buy the broken window theory.

The rest of the buildings on the block were a mix of styles, some the redbrick popular in the 1920s, another with a recessed doorway under a stately stone arch. It was the classic commercial district with a floor or two of apartments above the shops that once defined a neighborhood, before we all began hopping in our cars to work elsewhere. These days, it was a struggle to find the right mix that would serve nearby residents and remain viable. To its credit, the city made an effort to balance changing needs and keep the neighborhoods vibrant. But gentrification has its costs, and community can be one of them.

Though I knew, as the tenant of an aged building in the Market, that no amount of character beats reliable wiring.

The name on the first door we came to read FRANK THOMAS INSURANCE Serving Montlake Since 1977. I pushed it open and stepped inside, Arf at heel. An electronic chime announced our arrival, and the sounds of radio news drifted from a back room.

My dad had brought me here to see the agent when I got my drivers’ license, to teach me some of the costs of driving.

“Coming,” a male voice boomed. The radio clicked off. The front desk sat empty; it was lunch time.

I scanned the walls, hung with a series of black-and-white photos of the neighborhood. One shot, partially hidden by a silk ficus tree, caught my eye and I stepped closer. The corner lot, taken from across the street. Two men in dark suits and hats stood on the sidewalk in front of a two-story redbrick building, still under construction. A slight distance apart stood a third man, in dark pants, a white shirt, and suspenders. Their faces were impossible to see—too far away, the sun too bright in their eyes. The owners and their tenant? Two bankers and the owner? No way to tell. I could only imagine what they might think, knowing that their businesses and buildings were long gone, and about to be replaced again.

“Bygone days,” the man I’d heard earlier said. “Lively block, back then.”

I turned to see a man of about fifty, wriggling the knot of his tie into place beneath a broad, friendly face. He finished the job and held out his hand. “Frank Thomas. How can I help you?”

The son, not the father I’d met as a teenager. “Pepper Reece. Chuck and Lena’s daughter. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in, or bringing the dog in out of the drizzle.”

“Good.” What few financial matters my parents couldn’t handle long-distance they’d entrusted to my brother, Carl, who does, after all, make a living in finance. But I remembered the Thomases, one of the few black families in the neighborhood. “They’re still in Costa Rica, loving it, but they’re thinking of moving back part of the year. I was passing by and thought I’d drop in, let you know they’ll be calling.” I’d have to remember to tell my mother I’d promised she’d call.

“Haven’t decided yet. You know my mother—when she sees the right place, she’ll snap it up. She was curious about the condos—or are they apartments?—going in next door, but now, with the shooting . . .”

Frank Thomas’s heavy eyelids closed briefly, his jaw tight. A woman had been shot on the other side of these walls, and Sheetrock isn’t much of an insurance policy. Pun, if it is one, not intended.

“Such a tragedy,” he said. “For Maddie and her family. We’re all praying for her.”

“She and I went to school together. She’s a fighter. I’m sure the police will catch whoever did this.”

“Her project would have been a huge boost to the neighborhood,” Thomas continued. “Heaven knows, we need it. The upkeep on old buildings like this one is a major hassle. I didn’t wanta be saddled with it. Not to mention juggling renters and all their complaints.”

“First priority is for her to recover. Then I hope we can all get to work alongside her, bringing this block back to what it ought to be.”

“When your parents settle on a place, tell them to call me,” he said. “I’ll get them fixed up.”

I assured him I would and plucked his card out of a holder on the reception desk.

But before I did any more sleuthing, I had to pee. I tied the dog up outside the coffee shop and went in. In the corner, two men played a silent game of chess, while a young mother read at another table, her baby asleep in a carrier perched on a chair next to her. It’s bad manners to use the restroom without ordering something, and besides, the moment I smelled the coffee, I was suddenly desperate.

“We’re down to cranberry orange,” the barista told me. “Monday mornings are always busy.”

“Cranberry orange, then,” I replied. While he ground beans and pulled levers, I slipped into the restroom. On my way back, I noticed the rear door was open and peered out. The cobblestone alley had been closed to vehicles and reclaimed into outdoor space. In warm weather, the café tables and chairs would be full, the space made cozy by the brick walls and the box planters filled with shrubs and flowers. From here, I could see the rear door of the old grocery, at the opposite end of the block.

Back inside, a bulletin board in the hallway caught my attention. It held a flyer for the library’s used book sale, another for a school event, and a host of business cards, including that of the neighborhood real estate agent.

I carried my afternoon snack to a comfy brown leather chair by the window and waved at my dog. The coffee was terrific but the scone was bland. A simple dash of cinnamon or cloves would brighten the flavors. Though I had no samples with me, I asked the barista if the owners were in. Turned out I’d just missed them.

“Monday afternoons are always slow,” he replied, and began wiping the counter.

His head jerked up, eyes wide, and he tightened his grip on the towel. “She used to come in every Saturday with her husband and kids. They were so nice.”

Saying that I knew her, though true, would intrude on his feelings, and I didn’t want to do that. “Paper says she’s expected to recover fully. I’m sure she’ll be sitting in here sipping dark roast and nibbling a scone before you know it.” I put an extra dollar in the tip jar and left, keenly aware that the repercussions of tragedy ripple far and wide.

Two buildings stood between the coffeehouse and insurance agency. A pair of street-front businesses occupied one. A note on the acupuncturist’s door said the clinic was closed for vacation, and the designer was closed on Mondays. Inside, a limed oak table was set with turquoise Fiestaware; I’d have to come back.

I stuck my nose in. “Mind if I bring the dog in for a minute? It’s about to pour.”

The stylist, a leopard-print shop coat over her black leggings, her feet in leopard-print flats, broke off her conversation with the client in her chair. “Oh, come in, come in. Just don’t tell the Board of Cosmetology. What’s his name?”

“Arf.” That was the name he came with and I couldn’t change it, even if half the people thought I’d said Art and the other half Barf. Besides, it suits him.

I love my short dark spikes, though I have been accused of cutting my hair with kindergarten scissors and sticking my finger in a socket. “Thanks.” I sank onto the wicker love seat, the jungle print cushion poofing up around me. The salon was small, two chairs and a nail station, plus a massager pedicure chair, though only the one stylist was working at the moment. Pop music played in the background. I suspected Deanna Ellingson would favor a swankier salon, but dated decor doesn’t signal poor service any more than an on-trend look guarantees a good cut.

“Friend of mine’s a dog groomer,” the stylist said. She fluffed the highlights on the side of her customer’s head. “Got one of those mobile grooming vans. She comes to you.”

“Handy,” I said. Detective Tracy says it’s okay to fib in the search of truth. “This must be the salon my friend Maddie told me about. Cute place.”

“Maddie,” the stylist said, scissors pausing midair inches from her customer’s ear. “Maddie Petrosian?”

“I didn’t know anything had happened until the ambulance pulled up out front.”

“Her husband says she’s holding her own. Knowing her”—I shook my head and blew out a breath—“it will take more than a bullet to slow her down.”

The stylist and customer exchanged a glance in the mirror. I had to speak carefully if I wanted to learn anything useful.

“The new building should be good for business, right?” I said, taking a cue from Frank Thomas’s upbeat attitude. “People popping in for milk will see your shop, give you a call. The people in the apartments upstairs will be thrilled to have a salon close by.”

“Hmmph,” the stylist said, squinting at her customer’s roots. “We’ll touch those up next week when you come in for your manicure.”

“With all the plans and rumors over the years, who knows what will actually go in,” the customer said. “Now she comes along and promises an old-style neighborhood grocery with a modern wine and cheese shop. Sounds great, but I’m not holding my breath.”

She’d unwittingly touched on my own confusion. “So somebody else proposed something else? Before Maddie got involved, I mean.”

“I went to a couple of meetings,” the customer said. “I didn’t trust that Burns or Burke, whatever his name was. He acted like we should be grateful that he was here to save the neighborhood. I mean, we all knew something would happen to the property—the old guy wasn’t going to live forever, and that lot has to be worth a bundle. But we could never get the straight scoop. My impression, he meant to tear down the whole block and put up fancy condos. He and that pushy real estate agent.”

“His name was Byrd,” the stylist said. “With a Y. And he called the project Byrd’s Nest. With a Y.”

“That’s right. He had all these fancy drawings, but they were ugly as sin.”

“Oh, Neighbors United. They asked him to make a presentation, up at the community center. So we would know what was going on. Then they claimed his proposal violated city standards, and wasn’t in keeping with the neighborhood. They were right, but developers do what they want, no matter what we think.” She looked in the mirror and touched the side of her head. “A little shorter, maybe?”

“That went on for ages,” the stylist said. “A couple of years. Then all of a sudden this summer, he was out of the picture and your friend had bought the corner grocery. Her proposal looks nice. It looks great.” Snip, snip, snip.

“But can we trust her, either?” the customer said. “I mean, she says she just wants to put up a new building on the corner, so why buy the whole block?”

“Right?” the stylist said, nodding at the mirror. “I admit, this place needs work, but the rent’s been fair. She promised to upgrade all the wiring and stuff when she remodels upstairs—her electrician’s already crawled over every inch—but she also said she had no intention of raising our rent. If you believe that . . . Except the coffee place. I heard they wouldn’t sell.” She put her scissors down and twisted the lid off a jar of product. A sweet, gooey smell filled the air.

“Well, why would they?” the customer replied. “That building’s been in their family for ages. But I will say this. Once Maddie took over, tensions eased. When she held a community meeting, she listened. Made a point of saying she lives here, too, and intended to address our concerns. Even the NU people seemed happier.”

I understood her skepticism, but from a developer’s perspective, it made sense. If Maddie needed to rent out the upper floors to help pay for the building, she’d need to bring them into the twenty-first century, and she couldn’t do that without upgrading the entire structure. By holding rents steady, at least for a while, she could mollify the existing tenants and keep the street level space occupied.

“Maddie just bought the corner grocery this summer, right? When did she buy this building?”

“A year ago,” the stylist said. “Same time as she bought the one next door. I think she’d already bought the insurance agency and the apartment building, a year or two before.”

That was what I wanted to know. When Patrick Halloran was killed, Maddie did not own the corner grocery, the property at the heart of the neighborhood dispute. She’d bought all these buildings after his death, and finally acquired the corner lot.

“If she hasn’t raised the rents yet,” I pointed out, “sounds like a promise kept.”

Time for me to go. I stood. One more question, though I thought I knew the answer. “Who was the real estate agent? The one you thought was so pushy?”

“Oh, what was her name?” the customer said, again looking at the stylist via the mirror. “It’s plastered all over the neighborhood.”