The Solace of Bay Leaves

know I never do anything to put myself in danger. Or anyone else.”
“Liar.” But he was smiling as he leaned in for a long, sweet kiss.

Fourteen
The best murder weapon would be a Tupperware lid, because no one would ever be able to find it.
—Anonymous, on the web
“IT’S ONLY A FEW DAYS,” I TOLD ARE AS WE TRUDGED UP THE stairs from the basement, past the rental unit. “We’ll be fine on our own.” We’d been fine long before Nate Seward came on the scene. But my furry friend’s footsteps lacked their usual bounce, and I suspected mine did, too.
“That you, Pepperoni?” Glenn called out from above. As we neared the landing, I saw him in his doorway, my soup container in hand.
“Just sending my Nate off to the San Juans for a few days. Fish feed when he gets back.”
“My Nate is glad that he doesn’t need to worry about me wasting away. Not with you two so close.”
“Glenn, how do you track the ownership history of a building? Or who applied for permits to do—I don’t know. Stuff. To the building.”
He swept his arm over the threshold, inviting us in. Tonight’s musical selection was Bob Marley. “Red or white?”
“Yes,” I replied. The remodel plans still lay on the dining room table. They drew me like a magnet. “This is going to be so great.”
“Big mess when we get started.” He set a bowl of water on the kitchen floor for Arf, then handed me a glass.
I took a sip. “Mmm. Love Washington cab.”
He nodded and pointed at his desk, computer screen glowing. “I’ve spent so much time visualizing the new space that sometimes I forget we don’t have it yet. Sit. What are you after?”
A few minutes later, he’d shown me how to access the city’s public records system for parcel data, including details about the property, present use, and current taxpayer, a.k.a. the owner. Additional screens showed the appraised value, and the date and price of the most recent sale. I pulled Frank Thomas’s card out of my coat pocket. “Try it with this address.”
“You try,” Glenn said, and I did. Sure enough, Petrosian Properties, LLC had purchased the building occupied by Frank Thomas Insurance not quite three years ago. “You want to find out who that is, you’ll have to go to the state’s business entity search page— those aren’t our records.”
“No, I know the Petrosians. Where would I find applications for building permits?”
“No one-stop shop, I’m afraid. How far back do you want to go?”
I didn’t know, but it turned out the process would not be easy. I’d have to search for each building in Maddie’s block by address, then track back in time, sale by sale. Records from the last thirty years or so were online, but before that, it was all micro-film. Unless I wanted to pay for a title search, which I did not.
“But Maddie Petrosian would have, wouldn’t she, as part of her purchases?”
Glenn faced me. “She’s the woman who was shot in Montlake last week, isn’t she? What are you up to, Pepper?”
“I’ve known Maddie practically forever,” I said. “I want to know what happened.” I did not want Glenn to think I was taking advantage of our friendship to get info on a police investigation, or a proposed development. Nor could I risk dragging him into anything that might create a conflict for him. I stood and clapped my hand against my thigh to signal the dog that it was time to go. “Thanks for the education. And the wine.”
“Pooh,” I said when the dog and I were home. I’d forgotten to ask Glenn if he’d had a chance to check on the rental downstairs. But I didn’t want to give him an opportunity to lecture me about messing in police business. We’d figure out the rental thing another time.
I gave Arf a chew bone, which reminded me that tomorrow, I needed to solve the mess with Edgar. Checked my phone, and smiled at Nate’s sweet “home safe” text. The Thalassa was his home. He’d lived aboard it a good chunk of the year for ages. But he was coming to see the loft as home, too. At least, I thought he was.
In the bedroom, I undressed and glanced at the tansu. My plans to buy it last summer for Nate to use had been stymied, but then, it had arrived as an unexpected thank you gift. He loved it as much as I did. A stack of books sat on top and I was about to move them when I stopped myself. They were his, and they could stay where he’d put them. Like his shoes on the closet floor next to mine, or his toothbrush and razor in the bathroom. I felt his absence when I saw his things. One more sign, I hoped, that the relationship was right.
But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t require care and attention.
The book on my nightstand, The Satapur Moonstone by Sujata Massey, sent me its siren call. My friend Seetha had given me it and the first in the series, The Widows of Malabar Hill, knowing how much I loved historical mysteries and how curious I was about India, particularly Bombay, where her mother had grown up.
Later. I had a different historical mystery to work on now.
Back in the living room, in my jammies, I sent Laurel a “checking on you” text. I didn’t expect a reply—she keeps baker’s hours. But a minute later came two words: Doing okay.
Under the circumstances, “okay” was good enough.
I fired up my iPad to see what the newspaper said about Maddie—Madeleine—Petrosian. Nothing more about the shooting since the weekend update identifying her as the victim. A couple of archived articles referenced the proposed development in Montlake and the community meetings. But none