The Solace of Bay Leaves

of the Brother Cadfael mysteries
MADDIE PETROSIAN AND TIM PETERSON LIVED IN AN angular, glass-and-metal, three-story contemporary on the north end of Capitol Hill that should have been everything my vintage-loving heart hated in a house, but the one time I’d been inside, I’d been smitten.
It was both warm and light-filled, Frank Lloyd Wright meets Bilbo Baggins. A major redo of a 1950s split level, the house was set back from the road, hidden by a hedge-like swath of dense shrubs and lacy trees. The terraced backyard led to Interlaken Park, a hilly stretch of urban forest that even some locals don’t know about. At their house rewarming party a year ago, Maddie had taken me into the master suite, cantilevered over the ravine, to show off the expansive views that remained virtually private. You could stand in the bedroom window in your birthday suit and no one but a raven or intrepid chipmunk would ever see you.
At the moment, though, the house emitted a dark, mournful air, a soccer ball on the front step the only sign that children lived here.
I took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, remembering my yoga teacher’s exhortation to inhale calm, exhale stress. Then I opened Laurel’s car door, straightened my spine, and marched to the front door.
No answer. I’m ashamed to say I was almost relieved. It’s easy to poke your nose into other people’s business when you barely know them. With old friends, it’s easy on the one hand, but hard on the other—you never know what you’ll find.
Besides, I liked thinking Maddie Petrosian had the perfect life. She didn’t, of course; I knew that. No one does. But of all the people I knew, she come closest. Seeing her as the flawless Golden Girl—though brunette, and probably salon-assisted—let me imagine perfection possible.
Not fair, was it? Hence my embarrassment, over my own foolishness, and my distance. She couldn’t possibly live up to my fantasies of her unassailable life.
Okay, so maybe I was jealous. Just a little.
I followed the perfectly hewn slate pavers around the corner of the house, pausing to admire an elegant Japanese maple—no scraggly rhodies with spent blossoms waiting in vain to be decapitated here. Picked my way down the slate steps set into the slope and peeked into the living room, where leather furniture and glorious Persian rugs sat on gleaming wood floors.
No lights, no cameras, no action.
Well, considering the neighborhood, there probably were cameras, live-streaming my every move to Tim or Maddie’s phone. Neither of them would be watching, at the moment.
When I hiked back to the car, Laurel had the window down, listening to a woman holding the leash of a handsome German shepherd.
I held out my hand to let the dog sniff it. “Good boy,” I said, my tone low and steady.
“You’re Maddie’s friend?” the woman said, giving me a onceover. “How do you know her?” Clearly, she could not imagine someone like me knowing someone like Maddie, despite my shiny plaid rain boots.
“We went to school together, up the hill.” At the Catholic girls high school. Maddie’s family was Armenian Orthodox, and I’d always assumed her parents chose a Catholic education for her as the next closest thing. “I’m Pepper Reece. You’ve met Laurel.” The hand I extended was not the one I’d just let her dog lick, but she ignored it anyway.
“Well, you can’t be too careful,” the woman replied. “After everything that’s happened. I’m in the next block.”
The houses in the next block weren’t in the same stratosphere as Maddie’s, but nothing to sneeze at, either. Or sneeze in—our inquisitor looked like the kind of woman who followed her guests around with a broom and a dust cloth. How did she put up with a dog?
“We keep an eye out for each other around here,” she continued. “My next door neighbor has a bad cold, so I’m walking Duke for her.”
Ah. That explained it.
“They won’t tell us what’s going on.” By “they,” I assumed she meant the police.
Duke pushed at my hand with his muzzle. “Duke, sit,” I said, and he sat. I ran my palm over his head, scratching behind one black-and-tan ear. “Good dog.”
“We have a right to know,” the neighbor said. “We pay their salaries.”
“I’m sure they’ll tell you what they can, when they can,” I replied.
“For all we know,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken, “we could be next.”
“Didn’t it happen down in the old grocery?” I said. “Not up here.”
“Well, no,” she said. “Not up here. But if we don’t know what happened, we can’t say we’re not in danger, too, can we?”
Paranoia or a good point? I believed Maddie’s shooting had not been random; the gun tied it to the murder three years ago. But this woman didn’t know that and I wasn’t going to tell her.
Besides, I could be wrong.
“Have there been other incidents in the area?” I asked. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. But they better have some answers for us at the public meeting Wednesday night.” She tightened her grip on the dog’s leash and he stood. “Give Maddie our best. Come on, Duke. Eight thousand steps to go.”
I’d have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so horrible. The woman’s fear made some sense, as did holding a public meeting. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for the SPD’s community relations officer.
We zipped over to Madison and down to what some people call Pill Hill. Harborview Medical Center is a hulking gray edifice that lurks above I-5. It did once have a harbor view, but the downtown office towers have all but blocked sight of Elliott Bay. I imagine that from the higher floors, you can still glimpse the industrial end of the bay, where the giant cranes and ships create a Lego-like charm. I’d last been here after Louis