Thirteen

According to a 2018 study, Seattle drivers spend fifty-five hours a year stuck in traffic.

WE DON’T ANY OF US FIT IN THE BOXES PEOPLE BUILD FOR us, do we? Not me, and not Maddie.

Maddie ran her business from a small second-floor office in a commercial block not unlike the one I’d been prowling. But asking questions had taken time I didn’t have, so there was no chance of stopping by today. And I wanted to get back to the shop before closing, though that might mean springing for a spot in the Market garage. My plan was to zip over to Madison, then shoot straight down the hill and over the freeway into downtown.

But I’d forgotten to tell the traffic gods.

Cars were backed up on Madison for blocks. My best guess was a wreck at the I-5 on-ramp. I slipped the Saab into park, cracked a window, and turned off the engine—the gas gauge had been stuck for years, and the last thing I wanted was to run out of gas in a traffic jam. I sent the Universe a silent prayer that no one was seriously injured, and reached for my phone. It’s technically illegal in Seattle to even look at a mobile device when you’re behind the wheel, but I’d challenge any cop who dared ticket me when the motor wasn’t running.

Who to cyber-spy on first? My old friend, or the real estate agent whose plans she’d scuttled? Both Bruce and Deanna Ellingson had seemed perfectly pleasant in our brief exchange at the coffeehouse Sunday morning, but my view of him had already shifted.

Gad. Had that only been yesterday? So much had happened in the last few days. I once complained to an elderly friend that time seemed to go faster as I got older. She’d laid a wrinkled hand on my arm, trained her glacier-blue eyes on me, and said “Oh, honey. It just gets worse.”

At the moment, though, time was standing still. More accurately, the cars were. That sometimes seems like the same thing, in our addicted-to-motion society.

Deanna, Google told me, worked out of the Capitol Hill office of a big real estate outfit. Though the legal assistants and secretaries at my old firm had scattered to all variety of work after the firm’s dramatic demise, and I managed to keep tabs on most of them, I didn’t recall any landing there. I found her page, tilting my phone for a better angle. Recent and true-to-life, the photo showed a lively woman in her mid-50s with a healthy glow and a perfect haircut. I’d seen the same picture on her business card and the flyer for Laurel’s old house.

Looking that perky all the time had to be exhausting.

The website touted her decades of experience in commercial and residential property, single and multi-family. Unusual to handle both, I thought, but then a website is supposed to brag a bit. I read on. The bio listed training and certifications that sounded impressive, but what did I know? No mention of the Byrd’s Nest or the mysterious Mr. Byrd. With a Y.

Traffic hadn’t budged. In my rear view, I saw a vehicle attempting to wriggle out of the backup and turn around, but as tightly packed as the cars were on the narrow street, it would be nearly impossible. Besides, there wasn’t anywhere to go—a city of hills, water, and bridges, bisected by an interstate, didn’t offer many alternatives.

I turned back to my phone and scrolled through Deanna’s listings. Tons of condos. Seattle had gone a little condo crazy, not that I could complain, since my loft is one. A handful of listings for houses, all in her neighborhood.

How much longer? “Hang in there, buddy,” I told Arf, then called the shop.

“Don’t worry,” Cayenne said when I told her I was stuck in traffic. “If you’re not here by close, I’ll wait.”

“If I’m not back by close, I’ll die of boredom and a burst bladder. Go ahead and lock up at the usual time. I’ll deal with the cash register.”

Bladder talk made me shift in my seat. What was a bond broker doing home on a Monday afternoon? Surely he wasn’t running his business from the spare bedroom.

A bond broker. I barely knew what that was, but I was on close personal terms with a man who knew the field inside out. I texted my brother and asked him to meet me for lunch tomorrow.

A siren pierced the air, coming toward us. Around me, engines turned on, anxiety and relief spewing from tail pipes. “Take it easy, people. It’s gonna be a while.”

An ambulance came into view, then turned toward Harbor-view. Two more crested the hill behind it. Whatever happened, it had indeed been serious.

Meet you at Ripe, Carl replied. I could kill for a bowl of tomato-basil soup. One of Laurel’s classics.

Deal, I said, then clicked off the phone and tossed it aside.

Finally, cars began to inch forward. Twenty minutes later, at the corner of Third and Madison, I saw the remains of the problem: A black Suburban had crashed into the side of a Metro bus, clad in the purple and gold of the University of Washington. A tow truck was hitching up the SUV, and a giant tow idled on Third, waiting to remove the disabled bus. Police officers directed traffic. The bike patrol, with their ability to respond quickly, were sometimes called upon, but I didn’t see Tag. What had caused the SUV to lose control coming down the hill, I could not imagine. Thank God only three ambulances had been needed.

Trouble can hit you when you least expect it.

Arf and I made it back to the shop in time to count the till while Cayenne swept and Matt emptied the samovar. Business had been good for a rainy Monday in October. My concerns aside, we could weather the ebb and flow. No pun intended.

Assuming this glitch with Edgar and his custom blend didn’t blow up on me. I crossed my fingers and made for home. The door of my building was firmly latched this time, thank goodness.

Nate had texted to say he had dinner in hand. One of the advantages of dating a man in his forties is that he’s used to planning his own meals, even if it’s takeout. One of the advantages of being a woman in my forties is that I consider takeout pizza on the couch with a great guy to be a romantic dinner for two. Plus the World Series was on TV. What could be better?

Seeing the Mariners make the Series. Next year.

Next year. I tried not to think that far ahead in our relationship. But with the talk of houses and condos and apartments swirling around me, not to mention Glenn and his Nate expanding and my parents planning a return, I had living space on the brain. Though this space did seem to work rather well. By the time Nate went back to Alaska in the spring, we’d know.

We’d know if the loft worked for the two of us. But more importantly, we’d know if we worked.

Patience, Pep. Patience.

In between bites and at-bats, we talked about our days. I filled him in on Maddie. Kristen had talked to Tim, who said they were beginning to see signs of responsiveness—a twitch of a hand, movement behind the closed eyelids—but they still didn’t know when she’d come around.

“The grapevine’s buzzing—I’ve gotten oodles of texts and emails from our old classmates. I keep saying, ‘I know Maddie. It will take more than a bullet to the brain to stop her.’ But I still can’t believe this has happened.” My eyes watered, and my jaw tightened, my lips pressing together.

Nate took my hand. “I’m sorry I’ve never met her. Not that we don’t both have friends the other hasn’t met yet.”

Thinking of Maddie plunged me into a tangle of emotions I didn’t want to deal with right now. As if her success made me a failure because she had everything a woman was supposed to have, and I didn’t. Which wasn’t a fair assessment of my life and I knew it. Cadfael, my patron saint of investigation, would visit the Abbey chapel and contemplate his unworthy thoughts, confess if he needed to, and move on, taking solace in his balms and tinctures and the good his herbs did in the world.

Me, I changed the subject, telling Nate about Edgar and the copycat spice blend.

“Can he do that? The other chef, I mean.”

“Sure. You can’t copyright a list of ingredients. That’s why McDonald’s keeps its secret sauce secret and Kentucky Fried locks its recipe in a vault. Or at least, they say they do. Could be a ruse, to make us think it’s something special.”

“So you could make your own version of Old Bay and change the name and become a millionaire?”

“Just because it’s legal doesn’t make it smart.”

“Like intentional walks,” Nate said, his eyes back on the ball game. “I hate when the pitcher intentionally walks the hitter.”

We put our feet on the packing crate that serves as my coffee table and he slipped an arm around my shoulder.

“We’re heading out at the crack of dawn,” he said when the game broke for the seventh inning stretch, “so I need to go back to the boat tonight. I hate to leave you. But I’ll be home Friday or Saturday, depending on the catch.”

“It’s what you do,” I said. “You go out on boats and catch fish. That’s part of the deal.”

Home. Had he meant the loft, or his slip at Fisherman’s Terminal? Or just Seattle?

“Besides, I won’t be alone,” I continued. “I’ve got Arf.”

“And the FBI might be watching you. Although you didn’t sound sure he’s FBI.”

I hadn’t seen Agent Greer or Smoking Man all day. Kristen hadn’t mentioned seeing anyone. And Laurel had texted the all clear when she left the deli midafternoon.

“Honestly, I think I was overreacting, because I was upset about Maddie. If the guy we saw at the hospital is the same guy Laurel saw Friday, then he’s FBI and we should feel better.”

“Wouldn’t that Agent Green have given you a heads-up?”

“Greer.” I swung my feet up on the couch, cradling my knees, and met his gaze. “Good point. If the two shootings are connected, and they need to guard Maddie, it makes sense to guard Laurel, too. But why not tell her?”

“Unless they suspect her.”

“Doubtful. Dozens of people saw her at the soccer tournament in Vancouver the night Patrick was killed. And Thursday when Maddie was shot, Laurel never left the deli. Besides, Maddie didn’t own the building back when Pat was protesting the project. Laurel barely knew her—saw her at the public meetings, but that was it.”

The commercial break ended and the game resumed. As a Seattle native, I’m an American League fan. Nate claims to favor the Nationals, but I’ve caught him urging my guys to throw a strike or make a double play. Either he’s been playing opposites to get my goat, or my tastes were rubbing off on him.

This was our last evening together this week, and I tried to squelch all thoughts of crime and investigation. But as the center fielder raced to the wall to rob the lead-off hitter of a home run that would have tied the game, my mind was racing, too.

The women in the salon had been skeptical of Maddie’s promises, but I hadn’t heard them describe anything Maddie herself had done to warrant their distrust. Still, the salon owner wasn’t convinced.

No, it had to be that the previous would-be developer, this Byrd, had poisoned the well.

Lindy Harmon said Maddie had been trying to buy the corner grocery for ages, but she hadn’t mentioned the rest of the block. Though Frank Thomas trusted Maddie, the women in the salon had asked a good question: Why buy the other buildings, if all she wanted to do was redevelop the one lot? To protect the block from the kind of development the neighbors despised? An insurance policy, of sorts. A very expensive one.

I might need to talk with Lindy’s husband, or track down other Neighbors United stalwarts.

The game ended, the National League team the winner. But the Series is best of seven, so I wasn’t worried. About baseball, anyway.

I hooked up the dog’s leash and the three of us walked a few blocks before we returned to the parking garage beneath the building, where Nate had stashed the old pickup he bought when he came back from Alaska.

“Stay safe,” he said as he took me in his arms.

“Always,” I said. “You know I never do anything to put myself in danger. Or anyone else.”

“Liar.” But he was smiling as he leaned in for a long, sweet kiss.