The Solace of Bay Leaves

himself that,” Carl said. “He hasn’t worked in the field in years. Two, three?”
“What?” Though that would explain why Ellingson was home on a Monday afternoon.
Carl set his spoon on his plate and steepled his fingers, another Dad echo. Like our dad, he excels at explaining difficult concepts. Even to someone without a degree in finance. Or in anything.
When he was done, I sat back, astonished.
I glanced toward the kitchen. Surely the police knew the history Carl had relayed. Patrick Halloran had been instrumental in pursuing Bruce Ellingson’s firm for systematically lying to customers, for years, about the prices at which they could buy or sell bonds, boosting their profit on the trade. A customer had stumbled over the truth and filed a complaint.
Now that I knew the story, I wished Carl had chosen another spot for lunch. But of course, neither of us had known we’d end up discussing all this right under Laurel’s nose.
“Their defense,” Carl said, “and it would sound crazy except that it kinda worked, was that puffing isn’t a crime—it’s part of business. They also claimed their lies weren’t big enough to influence decisions. That’s double crazy, in my opinion, because why else would you bother to lie?”
“Puffing is me telling a customer our lemon thyme is the freshest on the planet. Or that our smoked paprika will change her life,” I said. “Which it will. But that’s not the same as me telling a chef the ingredients he wants in his custom blend cost two dollars an ounce when I paid a buck and a half.”
“I agree, it’s not the same.” He picked up his spoon. “Good example, though.”
“So what was Ellingson’s role? Did he lose his license?”
“The case had nothing to do with the city, so I never knew the details. The firm closed shop. No criminal charges were filed, but I heard they reached a consent decree with the feds, which usually means agreeing to give up their licenses and find a different line of work, not involving other people’s money.”
Laurel makes the best mac ’n cheese—no puffing—and mine was getting cold. I took a bite. If Bruce Ellingson could no longer work in the field, was that why his wife worked so hard? What was he working on at home, in his daughter’s old bedroom? Personal stuff?
“What’s Nate up to?” Carl asked, and we chatted about family stuff for a few minutes. Carl and Andrea and the kids had gone to Whidbey Island last weekend, combining a getaway with a Mom errand, scouting out the site of a planned senior cohousing community she’d heard about. Ground-breaking was months off, though, so even if our parents bought in, they’d need a place to stay next summer. I immediately thought about the loft for rent in my building and immediately perished the thought. I love my mother dearly, and her living half a continent away is too far, but her living one flight of steps away would be far too near.
Carl started to push his chair back. “Thanks for lunch.”
“And another thing,” I said, leaning forward, my voice low. “Bruce Ellingson lived next door to the Hallorans. Doesn’t it seem like a conflict for Pat to investigate him?”
“I’m not a lawyer, but Pat always had the best reputation.”
“But it’s got to have been uncomfortable as heck. Even though they weren’t friends.” Had the dispute over the compost pile been a cover-up? Or a real disagreement that took on greater significance because of the underlying tensions?
“You never know about neighbors. We thought we saw ours a few weeks ago, but it turned out to be the UPS guy.”
I laughed. In the six years they’d lived in their house, Carl and Andrea could count the number of times they’d talked with one set of neighbors on one hand with fingers left over. Like me and the guy in the unit below mine. Their near-invisibility had become a family joke.
“Both Bruce and Deanna were pretty friendly when we ran into them at breakfast on Sunday.” Too friendly. And Laurel had been tense. I was beginning to think she must have known about Pat’s role in Bruce Ellingson’s downfall. It was a key piece of evidence, and she’d kept it from me. Still, I supposed Pat hadn’t made the ultimate decision whether to pursue the case or let the regulators obtain a compromise. That would have been up to the U.S. Attorney.
We stood and put on our coats. The door opened. Special Agent Greer walked in, followed by Detectives Tracy and Armstrong.
The tall, thin Armstrong had worked with Tracy on last summer’s murder in my friend Aimee’s shop. He’d told me how much he admired Tracy, but it had been clear from the start that he was more willing than the older man to listen to the citizenry. To me. He was young and scholarly. What my mother would call an old soul.
“Well, Ms. Reece,” Tracy said. “You’re saving us a trip to your shop. I hope you’ll stay and spend a few minutes with us.”
“Call me if you need to, sis.” Carl kissed my cheek and edged past the new arrivals.
“Mrs. Halloran,” Tracy called over my shoulder, and I turned to see Laurel standing behind the counter, her face pale. “I trust you can make time for a word. In your office, if you don’t mind. Ms. Reece will be joining us.”
My eyes flicked toward him involuntarily. Did I have a choice? Laurel would not have withheld information from me without good reason, and I’d never know what that was if I walked out the door now. In fact, I had a pretty good idea that if I walked out, I’d be torching our friendship. I’d never find out why she’d kept silent about Pat’s real relationship with Bruce Ellingson. And I wouldn’t be able to help her, or Maddie.
Besides,