The Solace of Bay Leaves

do you buy into conventional wisdom?” Kristen held out her hands, palms up to indicate the shop. No one had thought I should buy it, except her. And my mother.
“No, seriously. Looks to me like she runs a small-but-successful company that has its hands full. Why was she so determined to buy up that block?”
Kristen met my gaze, and I could see the wheels turning. People sometimes dismiss her because she’s a pretty blond with a manicure and an upscale wardrobe, but there’s a heck of a brain behind those blue eyes. And a heck of a memory.
“Ten o’clock,” Sandra called. “Time to get spicy.”
I cleared off the nook table and glanced at this week’s book delivery before Kristen started shelving the new titles. A cookbook from David Lebovitz, an American living in Paris, and a kitchen memoir we’d thought intriguing. A stack of new foodie mysteries from Cleo Coyle, Laura Childs, and Vicki Delany.
And three new cookie cookbooks, in time for Christmas, which would be here before we knew it.
I retreated to the office to make a few calls and place some orders. When Kristen said Maddie bragged about me and my shop, my immediate reaction had been to doubt it. To think she couldn’t possibly mean it.
Why was I so resistant when it came to Maddie? Because she had the perfect husband, the ideal marriage, the beautiful children I didn’t have?
So did Kristen, and I never begrudged her a thing.
Although I hadn’t told Kristen about seeing Officer Clark at the hospital and making an idiot out of myself. Too embarrassing.
I was acting like a fifth grader, projecting my doubts about myself onto Maddie. That wasn’t fair to either one of us.
No one has it as easy as it sometimes looks. As my street-wise buddy Hot Dog had reminded me not long ago, first-world problems like failed marriages and lost jobs may feel like the darkest depths when we’re plunging into them, but they won’t kill you.
And I did desperately want to find who’d shot Maddie, and how it was tied to Patrick Halloran’s murder. To help Laurel, and to repay my debt to Maddie.
“Hey, boss,” Sandra said from the doorway. “You wanted to talk. Now a good time?”
“Yes, yes.” Always better to talk spice than ruminate about the past. I told her about Edgar’s complaint.
She crossed her arms and set her jaw. “No way anyone working for you told anyone what’s in Edgar’s secret spice. If there’s a leak, it’s on his end.”
“The most likely explanation is that the other chef, or someone who works for him, figured it out by tasting it. Edgar says that’s impossible, no one could have figured out all the spices in the blend, and I tend to agree, but we don’t know that it actually is identical.”
Her eyes flashed. “We could taste it ourselves. They’re open for lunch, right, this other joint?”
“That is brilliant. Tomorrow. I’ve got a lunch date today.”
“Something to do with the shooting and the cold case?”
“With any luck.” I reached for my shop notebook. “Now, let’s talk sugar and spice.”

Fifteen
Efforts to fake saffron, the world’s most expensive spice, date back to the ancient Greeks. The Unites States Pharmacopeia database lists 109 phony saffron substitutes, including marigold flowers, corn silk, gypsum, chalk, and cotton or plastic thread.
“OKAY, SO WHAT EXACTLY IS A BOND BROKER?” I ASKED CARL after we were seated at a corner table. Laurel had greeted us both warmly, looking wan but clear-eyed. “I mean, I know what you do, but not what they do. Or what Bruce Ellingson does.”
My brother, who is two years younger than I and at six feet, five inches taller, is way smarter. He is also a virtual copy of our dad, from features to gestures to tastes in food.
“So there’s municipal bonds, which is what I manage,” Carl said. “City needs to raise money for, say, light-rail expansion, or the waterfront project.”
That one I knew. Tearing down the viaduct had removed a major earthquake hazard and not incidentally, given me stellar views. But it had also created both a years-long mess and an opportunity to rebuild the seawall along Elliott Bay. In the process, the city decided to upgrade the surface streets and create new waterfront parks and paths. Glenn had been particularly proud of his work bringing together “the stakeholders”—the people affected. Downtown residents were a core constituency, and at his urging, I’d attended several meetings and voiced my opinions. Not that I actually need urging to voice my opinions.
“When a city faces a large capital expense, it borrows money by selling bonds. Each bond is for a specific amount and matures, or comes due, at a specific time. In effect, each bondholder is making the city a small loan. Combined, they give the city the cash it needs.”
“And the loans are repaid over time, out of future revenue,” I said and he nodded.
We sat back while the server set my mac ’n cheese and Carl’s tomato-basil soup on the table.
“You know you could order something different,” I said. “Variety is the spice of life.”
“I am a creature of good habits.” Both habit and reply came from Dad. “Munies are tax-exempt, so high-income investors love ’em. Corporations issue bonds, too, when they need more money than a bank wants to lend them, say for an expansion or to develop a new product. The interest on those is taxable, so they have to pay a better rate to make up for it.”
“Where do brokers come in?”
“They help with the initial offering, or sale. And bonds that have already been issued can be bought and sold, like any other securities.”
“Securities meaning stocks,” I said. This wasn’t my language.
“Mm-hmm,” he said, his mouth full.
“So that’s what Bruce Ellingson does.”
“I’m surprised he still calls