The Solace of Bay Leaves

door, but now, with the shooting . . .”
Frank Thomas’s heavy eyelids closed briefly, his jaw tight. A woman had been shot on the other side of these walls, and Sheetrock isn’t much of an insurance policy. Pun, if it is one, not intended.
“Such a tragedy,” he said. “For Maddie and her family. We’re all praying for her.”
“She and I went to school together. She’s a fighter. I’m sure the police will catch whoever did this.”
“That’s right—you’re married to a police officer, aren’t you?”
I gave him a half-smile of acknowledgment. No need to set the record straight.
“Her project would have been a huge boost to the neighborhood,” Thomas continued. “Heaven knows, we need it. The upkeep on old buildings like this one is a major hassle. I didn’t wanta be saddled with it. Not to mention juggling renters and all their complaints.”
“Big job.”
“First priority is for her to recover. Then I hope we can all get to work alongside her, bringing this block back to what it ought to be.”
I liked his spirit.
“When your parents settle on a place, tell them to call me,” he said. “I’ll get them fixed up.”
I assured him I would and plucked his card out of a holder on the reception desk.
But before I did any more sleuthing, I had to pee. I tied the dog up outside the coffee shop and went in. In the corner, two men played a silent game of chess, while a young mother read at another table, her baby asleep in a carrier perched on a chair next to her. It’s bad manners to use the restroom without ordering something, and besides, the moment I smelled the coffee, I was suddenly desperate.
“Nonfat double latte, and what scones do you have?”
“We’re down to cranberry orange,” the barista told me. “Monday mornings are always busy.”
“Cranberry orange, then,” I replied. While he ground beans and pulled levers, I slipped into the restroom. On my way back, I noticed the rear door was open and peered out. The cobblestone alley had been closed to vehicles and reclaimed into outdoor space. In warm weather, the café tables and chairs would be full, the space made cozy by the brick walls and the box planters filled with shrubs and flowers. From here, I could see the rear door of the old grocery, at the opposite end of the block.
Back inside, a bulletin board in the hallway caught my attention. It held a flyer for the library’s used book sale, another for a school event, and a host of business cards, including that of the neighborhood real estate agent.
I carried my afternoon snack to a comfy brown leather chair by the window and waved at my dog. The coffee was terrific but the scone was bland. A simple dash of cinnamon or cloves would brighten the flavors. Though I had no samples with me, I asked the barista if the owners were in. Turned out I’d just missed them.
“Quiet in here,” I said. “Peaceful.”
“Monday afternoons are always slow,” he replied, and began wiping the counter.
“I hope the shooting doesn’t scare people away.”
His head jerked up, eyes wide, and he tightened his grip on the towel. “She used to come in every Saturday with her husband and kids. They were so nice.”
Saying that I knew her, though true, would intrude on his feelings, and I didn’t want to do that. “Paper says she’s expected to recover fully. I’m sure she’ll be sitting in here sipping dark roast and nibbling a scone before you know it.” I put an extra dollar in the tip jar and left, keenly aware that the repercussions of tragedy ripple far and wide.
Two buildings stood between the coffeehouse and insurance agency. A pair of street-front businesses occupied one. A note on the acupuncturist’s door said the clinic was closed for vacation, and the designer was closed on Mondays. Inside, a limed oak table was set with turquoise Fiestaware; I’d have to come back.
To my surprise, the salon next door was open. SHEAR DESIGN, the sign read.
I stuck my nose in. “Mind if I bring the dog in for a minute? It’s about to pour.”
The stylist, a leopard-print shop coat over her black leggings, her feet in leopard-print flats, broke off her conversation with the client in her chair. “Oh, come in, come in. Just don’t tell the Board of Cosmetology. What’s his name?”
“Arf.” That was the name he came with and I couldn’t change it, even if half the people thought I’d said Art and the other half Barf. Besides, it suits him.
“Cute hair,” the stylist said, pointing her scissors at me, not the dog.
I love my short dark spikes, though I have been accused of cutting my hair with kindergarten scissors and sticking my finger in a socket. “Thanks.” I sank onto the wicker love seat, the jungle print cushion poofing up around me. The salon was small, two chairs and a nail station, plus a massager pedicure chair, though only the one stylist was working at the moment. Pop music played in the background. I suspected Deanna Ellingson would favor a swankier salon, but dated decor doesn’t signal poor service any more than an on-trend look guarantees a good cut.
“Friend of mine’s a dog groomer,” the stylist said. She fluffed the highlights on the side of her customer’s head. “Got one of those mobile grooming vans. She comes to you.”
“Handy,” I said. Detective Tracy says it’s okay to fib in the search of truth. “This must be the salon my friend Maddie told me about. Cute place.”
“Maddie,” the stylist said, scissors pausing midair inches from her customer’s ear. “Maddie Petrosian?”
“Yes. Can you believe what happened?”
“I didn’t know anything had happened until the ambulance pulled up out front.”
“Her husband says she’s holding her own. Knowing her”—I shook