The Solace of Bay Leaves

the dining room to the front entry. A staircase led to the second floor. “Can I take a peek from upstairs? To get the full effect?” I started up, leaving Bruce no choice but to follow. Pushy, I knew, but I wanted to see into the Hallorans’ old yard and couldn’t think of any other way.
At the top of the stairs, three doors stood open. I beelined to the corner room. His office—the decor masculine, the mahogany desktop clear except for a green-shaded banker’s lamp. Prints of ancient sailing ships hung on the walls, papered in a soft gray with a subtle herringbone pattern.
As I’d hoped, the windows opened to the yard next door. A narrow perennial bed curved around the foundation and the small wooden deck Laurel had mentioned, then stretched along the fence on one side. A yard designed not to show off flashy blooms, but to give a child space to play. I could almost see Pat and Gabe kicking around a soccer ball, Laurel leaning over the railing with a cup of coffee in hand as she watched.
I could almost see Pat Halloran sprawled across the deck, bleeding to death from a gunshot.
It gave me a chill and I turned away. Bruce Ellingson had remained in the doorway, shoulders rigid, skin pale.
Back in the hallway, I spotted a small student desk in the adjacent bedroom, covered with papers and files. Gray sweatpants had been tossed on the pink-and-orange flowered bedspread, a pair of well-worn men’s slippers on the floor.
Bruce Ellingson had forsaken an office that appeared to have been designed for him. And while he and Deanna looked the part of the perfect couple when they stopped for coffee on Sunday morning, I suspected they were using separate bedrooms. Not uncommon, for a host of reasons, but combined with the abandoned custom office, it seemed strange.
“Thanks for showing me your roses,” I said, my hand on the stair rail. “They must be gorgeous in summer. You have a lot to be proud of.” I bounced down the stairs and moments later, Arf and I were back on the sidewalk, making tracks.
I couldn’t believe what I’d just done, appealing to the man’s vanity about his roses to worm my way into his house. Mystery readers call that TSTL, too stupid to live. Happily, I had lived.
I could understand Ellingson not wanting to work in his office for a while. After all, he had found Pat. You didn’t have to be good friends with a neighbor to be haunted by his death. But it had been three years. If his office held too many terrible memories of the sight I’d seen, why not swap rooms, making the girl’s room his office and his office a guest room?
And though he’d gone along with my ruse, he’d seemed on edge. Because I’d pushed my way in, and in the process, gotten a disquieting look at his personal life? A second shooting in the neighborhood would upset anyone, as would an attempted burglary. Though Ellingson could have no reason to think the recent shooting might be linked to Patrick’s killing.
This was all getting tangled up in my brain.
We turned the corner on to the side street, where the houses and yards were smaller. A few feet ahead, a woman stood on her front steps, flipping through the mail. She glanced up at us and brightened. “Oh, an Airedale. My neighbors had one when I was a kid.”
As if he knew she were talking about him, Arf looked at her, then me. I stopped and the woman came down the sidewalk toward us.
“May I?” she asked, one hand extended for the introductory sniff, and I agreed. “How old?”
“Four or five—I don’t know for sure.”
“He’s a doll,” she said, and having gotten the sniff of approval, ran her hand over the top of his head and rubbed the magic spot beneath his chin.
A small white car zipped down the street, a little too fast, and I instinctively tugged on Arf’s leash to keep him close.
“Where are those police officers now?” the woman said, sounding annoyed. At my puzzled look, she explained. “There was an—incident nearby last week. A pair of detectives came by, asking questions.”
“I heard,” I said. “The shooting at the old grocery.” I kept my friendship with the victim to myself.
“Attempted burglary. It’s slated for demo any day now, so what they thought they’d find, I have no idea. Sadly, the owner arrived at the wrong time and was critically injured.”
“Oh, my gosh. Is he okay?”
“She,” the woman corrected. “And I don’t know. The detectives were more interested in gathering information than sharing it.”
“You must all be upset,” I said. “I grew up a few blocks away. It’s always been a safe, quiet neighborhood.”
“It still is,” she quickly replied. “Well, you might have heard about the prosecutor who was shot and killed at his home a few years ago. Right around the corner, in the next block. They never have solved that crime. But things happen everywhere, right?”
“You mean Pat Halloran,” I said. “Laurel is a friend of mine. I’m Pepper Reece. And this is Arf.”
“Lindy Harmon. Oh, poor Laurel. This must bring everything back for her.” She crouched next to Arf, who raised his chin for the extra attention. “Barry, my husband, worked with him on the NU protests.”
“En-you? Oh, oh, um, Neighbors United? Laurel’s mentioned it, but I don’t really know what it does.”
“Whatever we need to do,” Lindy replied. “We fundraise for the library and community center. Worked out a compromise when the highway expansion threatened the wetlands. Made our voices heard when the original proposals for the corner grocery were announced.”
Maybe she could tell me what no one else had. “Right. So you didn’t like her original proposal? The owner’s, I mean.”
“She had nothing to do with