The Solace of Bay Leaves

black bean chili, Aimee?” I asked. Our newest addition, Aimee McGillvray, had joined us in August, not long after I’d helped solve a murder in her vintage retail and design shop, the place where I’d found the tansu and neon lips. She’d just taken a sip of wine, and wiggled her eyebrows in a “yes.” Her brother, who shared her apartment, was the family cook.
“Soup conjures up home,” Seetha Sharma said. Laurel had invited the massage therapist to Flick Chicks a year ago, shortly after she moved to Seattle. Though she’s over thirty, she avoided learning to cook until this past summer, after resolving tensions with her Indian-born mother. The results were improving. “I always thought I hated Indian food, but it turns out I kinda like it.”
“You were probably just trying to differentiate yourself from your parents,” Laurel said. She gave her tomato-basil soup a stir. “Like when I was in my vegetarian phase, before I opened the restaurant, and thought that was the only healthy food. Gabe rebelled by demanding McDonalds.”
“I bet he wanted the toys,” Kristen said.
“Is this your mother’s recipe?” I asked as Seetha ladled out small bowls of lentil, potato, and cauliflower curry, rich with spices, and we all snickered. My quest last summer for Seetha’s mother’s chai recipe had nearly led to disaster, but it had also prompted some great taste-testing. Seetha didn’t know the full story, a secret Sandra and I had vowed to keep to ourselves.
After dinner, we migrated to the elegant home theater in the basement, a product of the recent remodel. The wine and truffles came with us. Tonight’s offering was Tampopo, the Japanese classic that spoofs both Westerns and Samurai movies.
“Why do they call it a noodle western?” Seetha asked as we settled into the comfy chairs.
“You’ll know in about two minutes,” Kristen said. She picked up the remote and off we went, to the land of truck drivers who wear cowboy hats and single mothers who run noodle parlors. The effort of reading subtitles muted the possibility of conversation, until Kristen hit pause for a potty break.
I refilled wine glasses. “I’m convinced the building is the link between Maddie’s shooting and Pat’s. But why now? The redevelopment’s been under consideration for years. Why try to stop it by stopping her now?”
No one had an answer.
“Why do you suppose,” I continued, still on my feet, “the project changed so dramatically? Part of it seems to have been the neighbors—they wanted that wreck on the corner gone, but they wanted the right replacement.”
“It isn’t unusual for commercial projects to take a long time,” Aimee said. “Or change along the way. When I was doing interior design, the final plans rarely looked anything like the initial concept.”
“Like your loft,” Kristen said. “How many times did we rework the kitchen plans? You were living in my guest room and we laid it out on the floor right here, with colored tape and cardboard.”
“And it turned out perfectly, thanks to you,” I said. “But who is this Byrd guy who upset everybody? I Googled my eyes out and I couldn’t find him. Were he and Maddie partners?”
“Doubt it,” Kristen said. “She likes to run the show.”
“So she bought up the other buildings, then I guess she bought him out.” I’d been too tired last night to try to remember what Glenn had showed me, about looking up purchases and sales. I hadn’t thought it mattered. But I was getting more and more curious.
Nobody had any answers. Kristen dimmed the lights and we went back to the movie. Arf lay at my feet. Gun, the trucker determined to rescue the noodle parlor, was taking Tampopo, the owner, to visit other shops. They tasted and compared notes. A master noodle maker came in to teach her. A construction crew arrived to rebuild the kitchen, and a designer to give her shop a new look.
I bit into a ginger truffle and thought about Carl’s explanation of how bonds work. How much had financing influenced Maddie’s plans? Who would know? Tim had an MBA, too, but he always made it a point of pride to say that Petrosian Properties was Maddie’s baby, not his.
But even Maddie wasn’t made of money. What if she’d brought in Byrd as a partner to help foot the bill, but then when they couldn’t agree, she worked out another plan? She bought up the other buildings in the block, and then what? I’d seen the sales price for the insurance agency’s building and it had been substantial though not outrageous, but that was just one building. Borrowing the bond analogy, I wondered if she’d used the buildings and their future income as collateral for a loan, not just to pay for the property, but to buy out the partner, or whatever he was.
Was it underhanded or good business?
I kept coming back to why. If we were talking about other people—faceless, anonymous developers—making money or doing deals might be motive enough. But not Maddie. According to the stylist, she’d promised to update the buildings without raising rents. Just talk—puffing—to mollify the tenants? Stories like that run rampant, new landlords making promises they broke as soon as the ink on the deal was dry.
“Do you remember when Maddie started coming to the meetings about the corner grocery?” I whispered to Laurel.
“No.”
“Was she part of Neighbors United?”
“No.”
“Quiet,” Kristen said. “We’re watching a movie here.”
The permit files would name the key players, wouldn’t they? But I couldn’t waste a day digging in city archives and poring over dusty drawings and applications.
I decided to go to the public meeting tomorrow night. Its purpose was to update the community on the criminal investigation and answer questions. Surely people who’d worked with Pat on neighborhood issues would be there. But I didn’t live in Mont-lake. I’d be less like the proverbial sore