The Solace of Bay Leaves

those things.”
Before I could tell him he was a fine young man and they’d be proud of him, or utter some other embarrassing platitude, he’d turned and headed for the shop, the hand truck clattering behind him.
My search for the artist who’d been searching for me didn’t take long. “Jamie Ackerman—Coloring the World” read the banner above a stall in the North Arcade bursting with vibrant acrylics. The artist was equally colorful—long hair streaked with shades of pink and orange, eyelids striped in pink, orange, and lime green. A puffy purple jacket hung open, revealing a bright floral T-shirt and narrow black pants.
“Pepper Reece,” I said, extending my hand across the table.
“Pepper!” As the woman at the bakery had said, the voice was at odds with the appearance. In my years in HR, I’d worked with a handful of transgender people and while those incongruities are initially jarring, they’re simply based on expectations. And expectations can get us into all kinds of trouble. Despite the baritone, Jamie Ackerman’s manner was the bounce and bubble of a Valley Girl. If that phrase isn’t dating me.
“I live in the same building as Tory Finch, and when I got accepted in the Market, she said I had to meet you. She said you know everyone and everything going on down here. But it’s been cra-a-azy getting set up and figuring everything out, so I asked about you at the bakery. A spice shop! You’re a real-life spice girl!”
“I am.” I get called “spice girl” half a dozen times a day, or more, and it never gets old. I surveyed the paintings, a kaleidoscope of color and playful images. The most eye-catching was a portrait of a woman—the artist?—with boldly colored hair piled in spirals on top of her head, swirls of color on her cheeks. A tiny bird perched on the woman’s shoulder, whispering into her ear. “Your work is delightful.”
Tory had worked at the Spice Shop when I bought the place and inadvertently triggered my first murder investigation. When it wrapped up, she left to pursue her true passion, painting. A few months ago, I’d helped her find space in a terrific old building on Beacon Hill with apartments upstairs and studios below. As a bonus, the owner runs a dynamite bakery and deli on street level, and a mix of thriving retail shops fills the other storefronts.
The kind of space I imagined the block on Twenty-Fourth could be.
“I had no idea Seattle was so beautiful—or so expensive. Finding a space where I can live and work has been heaven. Painter-girls need lots of room.” Jamie swept a hand dramatically over the canvases.
Painter-girl. The cue that ended any doubt about whether Jamie identified as male or female. HR trainers suggest modeling gender-accepting behavior when you meet someone new. “My name is Pepper and I use the pronouns she and her,” you say, inviting the other person to do the same, and I get the point, but it doesn’t fall trippingly off the tongue. Making space for natural revelation is more my style.
“And now I’m here!” Jamie crowed, the gold ring in her nostril catching the light.
“Pop over and meet my crew when you have a chance.” A shopper reached for a painting of a path leading into the woods, a fantasy world of color, light, and happiness. It drew me, too. You just knew you would like the person who created it. Jamie Ackerman had found the perfect palette and subject matter for her personality.
By the time I got back to the shop, my tummy was rumbling as loud as the delivery trucks on the cobblestones. Between customers, I finally managed to finish my breakfast. Then I checked the stock to see if we could fill the orders Matt and I had received on our rounds.
I was crossing the shop floor, a jar of marjoram in my arms, when I glanced out the front door and saw two wheels spin by. Moments later, a second bike sped in and out of view. Bike patrol on a mission. Though I hoped Tag could tell me more about the investigation, I didn’t mind putting it off. Had he talked to Officer Clark since Sunday? Did he know I’d embarrassed myself by fleeing at the sight of her in the hospital? Though I didn’t honestly know if she’d seen me, or known who I was. Either way, a can of worms better left unopened.
Because worms have a way of crawling into unexpected places and catching you by surprise.
And when it comes to Tag, I am no better at keeping my lips zipped than at keeping my emotions off my face. That’s the lingering effect of umpteen years together and thirteen years married. It’s not always bad. It’s good that we’re still friends.
But my curiosity about the meter maid turned cop might not be so good.
Behind the counter, I started on the spice orders. As I spooned out marjoram and weighed bay leaves, I considered what we knew so far about Maddie’s shooting and its possible link to Pat Halloran.
Not much more than a tablespoon or two, to use a cooking metaphor.
What would Cadfael do? Keep an eye open and when the time was right, talk to young Sheriff Hugh Beringar.
The shop’s landline rang and Matt answered. He cupped a hand over the receiver and held it out to me. “Edgar, from Speziato.”
One of our best customers, creator of the very popular baked paprika cheese. I handed Matt the bag and an invoice. “Thanks. Run this up to the chowder shop, please.” I took the phone. “Edgar! Great to hear from you. Arf misses you.” What Arf missed were the bones the chef saves for him.
“You know I think worlds of you, Pepper,” the Salvadoran chef who runs a terrific Italian kitchen said. “But when you made my special spice blend, you said