Killing Thyme by Leslie Budewitz Read Free Book Online Page A

big one on the north end, down below. I called her name—” He rubbed his left eye and drew his fingers down his cheek. “I thought maybe she’d run upstairs to her apartment, but then—then I heard a noise. I went in. She was lying on the floor. Someone smashed—”
    â€œHey, Josh.” A young man poked his head around the corner of a tall rolling rack. “Where’s the salad dressing for the job?”
    â€œIt’s in—oh, I’ll get it.” Josh turned back to me, wipinga hand on his zebra-striped pants. “Thank God you called, Pepper. I don’t know what happened or who did this, but if she lives, it’s because of you.”
    I didn’t trust my throat to let me speak. He disappeared into the recesses of the kitchen. I walked out past the babies and ballerinas and the long row of bakery cases. For once, the cookies and cupcakes didn’t tempt me.
    Outside, I searched the street for Bonnie’s van. No sign of it, but she might have parked farther down the block. Another group of dance students had gathered on the corner. One familiar profile—Terry and Sharon’s older daughter?
    My breath deep and shaky, I sent the Universe a silent message to let Bonnie live. There was no one to ask how she was. The ambulance idled, the EMTs still inside. The only cop in sight was leaning against his cruiser, arms crossed, radiating “don’t come anywhere near me” signals as he surveyed the scene.
    But I’m not much for standing around, and I didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t slip down the hill and take a peek. The police hadn’t blocked it off. And if I was quick about it, Officer Don’t You Dare wouldn’t notice.
    I rounded the corner of the building and made my way through the urban bramble, glad I’d worn climbers today. Despite their thick rubber soles, I slipped on a damp rock and landed on my bottom, scraping the back of my hand on the brick wall as I reached out to break my fall.
    â€œWhose bright idea was this?” I muttered, staggering to my feet.
    Tall windows faced west, ideal for artists. One window had been cracked open, but the hillside sloped away, and I wasn’t tall enough to peer inside. I spotted an old tire in the brambles and yanked it free. Rolled it up the incline. Shoved it against the brick wall, where it rocked, then settled into place. Stepped on it and peered in, hands cupped around my eyes.
    In the dim light, shadows took shape: shelves of unfiredpots, rows of creamy clay pieces. Two large worktables. In the far corner, a kiln.
    I made out a potter’s wheel. A stool, lying on its side. And then, two uniformed medics, crouching, shoulders and upper backs visible. I craned my neck for a better view.
    No luck.
    One medic stood. Fragments of their exchange drifted through the open window. “. . . ME,” the standing medic said. “. . . pack the gear,” the other replied, and his partner stepped to the door, speaking into his radio.
    My hand flew to my mouth. “Bonnie,” I heard myself say. On the floor lay Bonnie-Peggy Pretty Pots, in her blue paisley skirt, her long gray-blond hair splayed out, amid fragments of a thick clay platter and a dark red liquid I knew wasn’t glaze.
    *   *   *
    When I finally scrabbled my way to the top of the hill and brushed the dirt and broken weeds off my black pants, one EMT chatted with an officer while the other closed the ambulance doors. The red lights were off now, the urgency gone.
    I stood on the sidewalk, stunned.
    A white van backed into view, maneuvering its way around the ambulance, BEACON HILL BAKERY AND CATERING painted on its side. An apron-clad woman emerged from the bakery, pushing a cart filled with trays of macarons, éclairs, and mini sandwiches.
    From out of nowhere, a deep voice accosted me. “What do you think you’re doing, interfering with a crime