The Solace of Bay Leaves

riding tights. I straightened and found myself staring at Officer Thomas Alan “Tag” Buhner of the Seattle Police Department’s bicycle patrol.
I felt my pleasant retail expression wobble as I watched the man I’d once loved take off his helmet and fix his gaze on me. “I heard.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Come sit. Tea?”
He looked down at the tiny rivulets forming on the floor from his cleated shoes.
“Don’t worry about it. Days like this, we have to mop the floor every couple of hours anyway.” I poured two cups of spice tea. Sandra was packing up the leftovers from the food tour and offered Tag the cookie tray. He took two gingersnaps, and we slid into the nook, facing each other.
He bit into the cookie. “If you’d made these when we were married . . .”
“Don’t, Tag. Not even as a joke.” He meant the black pepper, my signature ingredient—we can’t call it a secret since we hand out copies of the recipe by the hundreds. But figuring out years earlier what it does to a gingersnap would not have saved our marriage.
“Sorry,” he said, and reached for his tea.
It’s inevitable that Tag and I run into each other frequently. Downtown, including the Market, had been his beat for years, long before I bought the loft on Western, a few blocks away, and later, the shop. But if he thought I’d invaded his territory, he’d never let on. Actually, I think he likes the chance to keep an eye on me.
He sipped and watched, with that maddening expression that mixes focus and indifference. Nonattachment, as my yoga teacher would say, if I managed to make it to class. With Nate back on land, I didn’t want to leave home that early. Told myself I was stretching parts yoga didn’t reach.
“So, what’s the working theory on how Maddie Petrosian’s shooting is related to Pat Halloran’s murder? And why now?”
“Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You know that.” He took another bite and spoke with his mouth full. “But the link could give us a break. Everybody’s fired up.”
“But in the meantime? Is Laurel in danger?” Oh. Was I? Was that why Meg Greer had been watching me?
And why Tag just happened to stop by?
“Hey, do you know this Special Agent Meg Greer? What makes them so special anyway?”
“Met her, but that’s all. Transferred here last summer from somewhere back east. She’ll bring a fresh perspective, which is good,” he said. “The term ‘Special Agent’ dates to the early twentieth century, when the automobile changed the nature of crime. The FBI needed authority to make arrests across state lines, but Congress and the states were afraid of a power grab. So ‘special’ actually means ‘limited.’ The FBI’s jurisdiction is limited to federal crimes, even when they cross state lines.”
Tag is more than a pretty face.
“Don’t tell anyone I told you,” he said, “but she might be running a Mr. Big operation.”
“A what?”
“A sting, sort of. They set up a fake crime ring and lure the suspect to join the fun. Then, after he’s hooked, they tell him the head guy will only trust him if he tells them about similar crimes he’s participated in in the past. Like a job interview, where you brag on your past accomplishments. Makes them feel all big and important.” He balled up the used napkin and made a free throw into the trash basket. “Hence the name, Mr. Big.”
I had never heard of such a thing. “Ohhh. Who’s the target?”
“That, I don’t know. I don’t officially know anything.”
The retort was tempting, but I bit my tongue.
“I gotta go,” he said. “Just wanted to touch base.” He slid toward the edge of the bench, then turned to face me, gloves in one hand, the other flat on the table. “Pepper, we’ve got a second chance to get this guy, whoever he is, and we’re going to get him.
Or her.”
I breathed in and breathed out.
“Trust Mike Tracy,” Tag urged.
Not long ago, that would have been the last thing Tag told me. But he and Tracy had cleared the air between them. Like Tracy, Tag saw Pat Halloran’s murder as an attack on the brotherhood, and sisterhood, of crime-fighters.
The door opened and a gaggle of chatty tourists surged in.
What possessed me, I couldn’t say, but when we stood, I kissed his cheek. “Stay safe,” I whispered.
“You, too,” he said. Then he plucked another cookie from the tray and was gone.
After the whirlwind, I surveyed the leftovers. Not enough for staff lunch, my Saturday treat, so I called the piroshky place and made an order. Traded my black clogs and apron for my rain gear, then bundled Arf into his slicker and hooked up his leash.
We wound our way through the crowds to Victor Steinbrueck Park, named for the architect credited with saving the Market from urban removal in 1971. Arf pooped and I scooped. Ordinarily, we pause at the wrought iron railing, designed by Steinbrueck himself, to enjoy the westerly view of Puget Sound and the Olympics. No point today—it was all mist and mush.
We turned back, the lure of hot dough filled with seasoned meat and veggies lighting a fire in my belly. When we reached the original Starbucks, I glanced inside. No matter what the weather, the place is always packed with coffee pilgrims.
And who should I see sitting at the counter inside the front window, nursing a white paper cup with the familiar green-and-white logo, but Special Agent Meg Greer.

Five
One man’s smelly Polish market is another man’s fragrant reminder of home.
— Emily Badger, “In Praise of Smelly Places”
ARF CAME TO ME A YEAR AGO THROUGH A MARKET RESIDENT named Sam, who’d acquired him under circumstances that I never fully understood. When a series