Fifteen

Greeks and Romans burned thyme bunches to purify their homes and temples and to build courage in those who inhaled its smoke.

—Michelle Schoffro Cook, “All About Thyme,” Mother Earth Living

I hoped Josh Gibson was a workaholic, like most entrepreneurs—though one who stayed in his shop more often than I’d been staying in mine.

The sight of cars idling in every parking spot told me a dance class was just letting out. As I glanced in my rearview mirror, a dozen girls and a couple of boys surged up the hillside on the south end of the building. By the time I’d circled around, a space had opened in front of the gift shop.

The Dr Pepper cooler in the window called to me. Someday. I opened the door, a bundle of cards advertising our wedding registry in hand. The owner was out, and the salesclerk hadn’t known Bonnie or Hannah. I refilled my slot in the rack labeled “More gifts from the heart.”

In the window of the dress shop next door, closed on Mondays, wigged mannequins showed off bridal cream puffs—yards of white lace and satin festooned with seed pearls or glass beads. In a corner of the display, a headless dress form held a one-shouldered emerald green silk, above the knee.

If I ever have another wedding . . . Unlikely. Especially the way my life was going. Focus on the challenge at hand, Pepper.

Inside the bakery, two women about my age sat at the front table, drinking espresso and chatting with girls flush from class. The familiar twinge of regret over not having children—at having waited for Tag, only to find out it was too late for both my body and our marriage—zinged through me.

“Josh around?” I asked the barista over the noise of her machine and the alt-rock blaring through the speakers. She flicked her eyes toward the kitchen. Through the open window, I saw the baker/chef/delivery man’s bandanna-wrapped head bob in and out of view. “Thanks.”

I stood at the pass-through and watched Josh work. He pulled two huge trays of roasted eggplant out of the oven and slid in two of summer squash. Poured olive oil into a giant bowl full of chopped onion and spread the glistening white chunks on a waiting tray. Threw handfuls of herbs on a cutting board. Turned to grab a knife and spotted me.

“You’re still cooking this time of day?” I said.

“The fun never stops. Roasted veggie salad for tomorrow.” He pointed the knife toward ingredients piled on the worktable behind him. “Prep cook makes the tossed salad fresh every morning, but I make our deli staples every afternoon.”

“I hate to interrupt, but I was wondering—” I started, at the same moment he said, “Any news?”

“You took the words out of my mouth,” I said. “So I guess the answer is no, for both of us.”

“Cops keep finding excuses to pop in, me being an important witness and all, but I notice they keep their lips zipped tight.” He stretched out of view and reappeared, a green water bottle in hand.

“You mean because you found her? Yeah, that does get their attention.” As I knew too well.

He drank, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Apparently, I was the last person to see her alive. Except the killer.”

“What?” With all the commotion Saturday, and Josh speeding off to the wedding, I’d missed that.

“About nine thirty Friday. We close at six thirty, but I was sitting up front, working on my dairy order. Surprised me to see her walk by—most nights, she worked even later than me. Lots of times, I took dinner to her—leftover quiche, a day-old brownie.”

“No chance you saw anyone else, I suppose.”

“Sorry. Right after that, I headed upstairs to my place. Baker’s hours on top of owner’s hours make for a long day.”

And the circles under his eyes.

“The Market Master’s pushing me to find a place for her stuff, because I knew her,” I said.

“He called me, too. I suppose I’ll have to clean out her studio and apartment, unless I hear from a relative pretty quick. And find a new tenant.”

Before I could ask if that wasn’t Hannah’s responsibility, I remembered the other reason for my visit. “I nearly forgot.” I slid my tote off my shoulder and dug around for Mary Jean’s truffles. “I heard one of your counter people say you’d lost your chocolatier. A woman in the Market might fit the bill. You’ll make a killing from the dance moms alone.”

The word “killing” hung in the air between us. Josh set his water bottle on the pass-through counter, wiped his hands on the white apron tied over his black-and-white pants, and reached for the box.

“So your tenants have keys to the main door. Cleaning people? Anyone else? Any idea who would have a key to her studio?”

“Street-level tenants and the dance school have their own doors—they don’t have keys to the main entry. I clean the hall and stairway—not very well, I’m afraid. The studio . . .” Box in hand, he sagged against the counter.

Patience . . .

“They say don’t mix business and pleasure, but for me, they’ve always run together. And I guess I didn’t know where to draw the line.” He exhaled heavily. “The tenant who sublet to Bonnie—”

“Hannah Hart. I’ve been wanting to talk to her, but no one seems to know where she is. Bonnie was a friend. I’m hoping Hannah remembers something helpful.”

He studied the floor. “When I decided to start my own restaurant, my parents urged me to buy rental property. They put up half, and I borrowed the rest. The rents pay for the place, and that’s giving me time to develop the business. Anyway, the building came fully occupied, including Hannah.” He paused, face flushed. “She’s quite—alluring, and I wasn’t thinking. Not with my brain, anyway.”

“What? You mean you’re her boyfriend?”

“Ah. I see our reputation precedes us,” he said wryly.

I set my tote on the floor. “Mr. Adams said she and her boyfriend fought a lot, but he didn’t mention any names.”

“I finally called it quits. Her lease was running out, and I told her I wouldn’t renew it. She blew up and moved out early. Not that I minded, but then Bonnie moved in, and I had no idea no what was going on. Turns out, Hannah rented the place to her without telling me.”

“Whoa. Wait.” My brain felt like it was caught in the high-speed mixer bolted to the worktable. “How could she sublease without your permission? And why? To help you out, or cause you trouble?”

“Oh, trouble, no question. Hang on.” He sprang across the kitchen, out of sight, and I heard him shuffling papers. A minute later, he was back, waving a newspaper.

“I kept the advertisement as evidence.” He began flipping to the back. “In case I had to evict Bonnie, or whatever.”

I reached through the window and stopped him, then drew his attention to the front page. The page showing me in my black apron, standing next to the old samovar. MISTRESS OF SPICE, the headline proclaimed.

The same article Bonnie had read and kept. What did this coincidence say about the Universe?

Poor Bonnie. She claimed she wanted a home and yet she chose a temporary arrangement. Did she sense that it wouldn’t work out?

Was he saying—? “Josh. You don’t mean Hannah would kill someone to make trouble for you?”

“No. I don’t know.” His fingers grazed his forehead, ran over the bandanna, and tugged at his hair. “No, she would never go that far. Ever since she left, I’ve been expecting a time bomb to go off. But murder? I can’t imagine that.”

I couldn’t see the connection, either. “You said you might need to evict Bonnie. Why?”

He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his biceps bulging below his white T-shirt sleeves. “She was a great tenant. But Hannah stuck herself in the middle, overcharging and interfering, telling Bonnie to contact her if she had a problem, not me, because I’m an ass—” His voice had risen, and a woman standing at the counter while her young son chose a cookie glared at him. “Sorry,” he called, then to me, “Big-shot downtown lawyer I talked to said change the locks, wait till the lease expires, then write Bonnie a new lease. But I didn’t trust Hannah not to have some trick up her sleeve.”

I didn’t tell him Hannah had been pestering Bonnie to give her back the space—that little trick he’d feared. “At least she doesn’t have a key anymore.”

The tips of his ears reddened. “We’ve been so busy, I never called the locksmith.”

Holy cardamom.

So Hannah could have let herself in Friday night and confronted Bonnie. But it’s a long way from using someone to get revenge on an ex-lover to murder.

For that matter, Josh had a key, too. But as much turmoil as Hannah’s petty scheme was causing him, he had no beef with Bonnie—and getting rid of her would not have solved the Hannah problem.

Besides, Mr. Adams had seen someone speeding away. Josh lived upstairs.

“One more thing. Mr. Adams across the street said there have been questionable people hanging around. Thugs, he called them.”

He stuffed his hand in a big oven mitt. “Lou worries too much. Any guy under thirty wearing baggy pants, he thinks they’re a gang member. Last week, he saw a couple of guys he didn’t like the looks of, and he hobbled over to warn me, in front of my customers. They were just doing odd jobs for the dance school.”

“I suppose even gang members get a cookie craving now and then.”

He grinned. “Truth. Hey, I don’t know where Hannah is—mooching off somebody—but when you find her, wear your tap shoes.” The oven timer rang, and he went back to work, tossing one more comment over his shoulder. “Because the truth and the redhead have a way of dancing around each other.”