Read Online Killing Thyme by Leslie Budewitz - Free Book Online

handed him her card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
    Arf hopped back in the car, and I followed Spencer across the street, a little dazed. The caffeine and sugar had worn off.
    â€œPepper.” Spencer spoke sharply, breaking my reverie. “Why don’t I get a uniform to give you a ride home?”
    â€œAre you kidding? I know it’s not a bad neighborhood, despite Mr. Adams’s gang theory, but if anything happened to that car, my father would kill me.”
    â€œI can call Officer Buhner and ask him to drive it home for you.”
    â€œOh, good garlic, no. If—
when
Tag hears about this, he will become a serious pest.” We stood on the sidewalk outside the bakery. “I’m fine. I just need to get back to work.”
    She dropped her chin and peered at me. “If you insist. Now, what’s Mr. Adams’s gang theory?”
    I explained. To my surprise, Spencer didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. “I’ll check with the burglary unit and gang squad. But any burglar worth his salt knows high-dollar retail goods don’t necessarily mean large amounts of cash on hand.”
    â€œAnd bridal gowns aren’t cash purchases. Very little in the wedding industry is,” I said. “Unless somebody imagined a potter would have a chunk of change on hand after a busy day in the Market. Did you see any signs of a break-in?”
    â€œDetective, you want a last look before we move the body?” the medical examiner called out.
    â€œBe right there,” she replied, then to me, “You sure you’re okay?”
    I could drive safely, but that wasn’t what she meant. I nodded.
    Before leaving, I climbed partway down the hillside, more careful of my footing than I’d been an hour ago, and studied the wall. Outdoor murals had sprouted all over the city in recent years, a marriage of graffiti and public art. One day last summer, I’d stood outside the production facility in SoDo where we pack our tea and spice blends, watching an artist use ladders and a lift and crates full of spray cans to create a school of fantastical fish. Daunting scale, but then, artists make careers of what daunts the rest of us.
    Like the best murals, this one appeared to burst from the wall, the layers of paint and shadow giving it such depth that you almost wanted to reach out and pluck a flower. Thecolors weren’t quite realistic—a hint of fluorescence, a touch of shimmer—but that made them all the more intriguing.
    On the lower right corner, at a hard-to-read angle, was the signature. I whipped out my phone, zoomed in, held it above my head, and clicked. Peered at the tiny screen. HART. As in Hannah Hart? Or H Art, Hannah’s Art?
    I snapped a few more shots, then tucked the phone away and headed for car and dog. Plenty of time later to Google the name—I know not to phone and drive.
    Not that it was my problem, anyway. The police had this well in hand. They’d see that Bonnie got justice.
    And I had an urge to be back among the living and breathing, the hustling and bustling. Back in the Market, selling sugar and spice and everything nice.
    That may not be what little girls are truly made of, but it’s a comforting thought, now and then.

Six

    No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, then Europe is the less.
    â€”John Donne,
Meditation XVII
    Arf and I trotted up Western to the Market Hillclimb, trudged up the stairs, and made our way to the pizza window. I fed him a chunk of sausage, then browsed the newsstand, checking out the headlines and photos on the foodie magazines. (Eyes only until my hands were clean.) Arf trained his attention on a recently trimmed black poodle whose owner was flipping through the postcard rack.
    â€œMind your manners, dog.” I had to admit, she was rather fetching. For a poodle.
    First thing, call