The Solace of Bay Leaves

Reed would graduate in the spring, and I didn’t know how long Kristen would stay. If we did expand the commercial facility, I’d need at least two employees there.
“It’s a start,” he said. “Misty says you’re great, and she’ll give me a good reference.”
“She already did.” We talked hours, pay, and a start date. “I’ve got a few forms for you to fill out. It’s a formality—you’re hired— but I need them for the personnel file.”
He relaxed visibly. I slid him the forms and he scribbled while I got back to work. A few minutes later, he handed me the paperwork, then chatted briefly with Matt before leaving. I retreated to my office and began setting up a personnel file.
I stared at the neatly printed name and address. Surely he’d said his full name when he came in. Had I not been listening?
Poor kid. Maybe it was a sign from the Universe, as my mother would say. Maybe I could help Cody Ellingson at the same time as I helped myself.
The shop buzzed the rest of the afternoon. When we closed, the computer balked at running the day’s sales. By the time I got the glitch resolved, I was running late. Arf and I sprinted down the Market steps to Western and up to the loft just long enough to grab the carrot soup, then down to the garage for the car. I was happy to see that the front door to the building was firmly latched.
As the dog and I drove to Kristen’s Capitol Hill home—the house where my family lived until I was twelve—I wondered how to broach the topic of the Ellingsons with Laurel. We would all talk about the investigation, of course, but annoyed as I was that she’d withheld info from me, I didn’t want to confront her in front of our friends. More important to focus on friendship. And I hoped Kristen could give us a good update on Maddie.
Not only was I realizing that Laurel wasn’t the open book she always claimed to be, but I was starting to think that Maddie Petrosian, the girl who turned everything she touched into gold, might be a little bit tarnished.
And that murder and friendship might not be the best combination.

Seventeen
The whole of life is just like watching a film. Only it’s as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it all out yourself from the clues.
—Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures
ERIC AND MARIAH, THE YOUNGER OF THE TWO GIRLS, WERE walking down the front steps of the stately gray home when Arf and I arrived. Flick Chicks at their house meant a night out with dad.
“Arf!” Mariah cried. She sank to her knees and threw her arms around my boy, who returned her affection by licking her face. “That tickles.”
“Hey, Eric.” I set the box with my soup pot and containers on the bottom step and we exchanged a quick hug. “Where’s Savannah?”
“We decided she could start wearing blush and mascara, so leaving the house takes an extra ten minutes while she triple-checks the mirror.”
“Got time for a quick question?” He nodded, and I filled him in on Edgar’s complaint about the stolen spice blend. “I told him I didn’t think he had a claim for copyright violation, but what about theft? If the facts add up.”
“If this other chef simply figured out what was in Edgar’s blend, then he’s out of luck,” Eric said. “But Edgar isn’t publishing the recipe, like when you post recipes on your blog or hand out copies in the store. If the other guy actually got ahold of Edgar’s recipe without permission and is using it, then yes, Edgar might have a claim for theft. Hard to show value, though.”
“Oh, Edgar will claim plenty of value, you can count on that. But thanks.” No sign of Savannah yet, and Mariah was happily distracted by the dog. “Another question. This might sound like blasphemy. Laurel adored Pat, everyone admired him, but I never knew him. Were there rumors? Could he have been involved in something—illicit?” Like what, I didn’t know, but ever since the confab in Laurel’s back room, I’d been wondering.
“Pat?” Eric shook his head. “No. No, he really was the guy in the white hat. He didn’t have any secrets.”
That couldn’t be true. We all have secrets. The only question is what we’ll do to keep them.
The front door flew open and Savannah flew out. She was the image of Kristen at that age. She hugged me and headed for the car while Eric sent Mariah to wash her hands. I took my soup and my dog inside.
“Pepper, good news!” Kristen said. “Maddie’s awake. The swelling in her brain has gone way down. Tim says you can see her tomorrow if you have time.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said, and I meant it. I may have inherited my mother’s distrust of the institutional church, but God and I are fine. “I’ll make time.”
Within a few minutes, we’d all arrived and unpacked our soup kettles and Crock-Pots. Wine and conversation flowed.
“What kind of Seattleites are we?” Kristen asked as she surveyed the bounty on her stove and kitchen island. “All this soup and no clam chowder.”
“Who has time to make it?” I said. “And why bother when you can swing by Ivar’s or the chowder shop in the Market?”
One rule for soup exchanges is no takeout, Laurel excepted, since she’s in the takeout business. And the homemade rule doesn’t apply to the dishes the hostess provides, thank goodness. Kristen had sliced up a rustic loaf of bread from Three Girls and scored a dozen truffles from our favorite chocolatier. Add salad for the perfect meal.
“I smell peppers and bay. That Tony’s