Free Killing Thyme by Leslie Budewitz

clapped her hand to her chest.
    The natural deep blush on Cayenne’s high cheekbones faded, and she brought her hands together in front of hermouth. Reed slipped an arm around her. “I grew up on Beacon Hill.”
    â€œSpencer and Tracy are on the case. Don’t be surprised if they come in later.”
    â€œWhat do we tell them?” Cayenne’s voice quivered, but a flicker in her eyes betrayed a touch of excitement at being on the periphery of an investigation. She’d heard stories of past murders that had touched the Spice Shop; that had touched me and sucked me in.
    â€œEverything you know,” I said. “As honestly as you can.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Reed said.
    â€œNothing. I barely knew the woman.” Or did I? “It’s hard to focus on herbs and customers after a shock, but—”
    â€œBut she’s dead!” Cayenne said, and a customer snapped her head to look at us.
    â€œHonor her by keeping the world turning.” That’s what my law firm bosses told us when the planes crashed into the towers on 9/11. If you let evil stop you, they said, then evil wins. They were right.
    I could not let my mother hear the news of Bonnie-Peggy’s death—
call it murder, Pepper, ’cause you know that’s what it is
—from the radio or TV. Of course, they wouldn’t release the name yet anyway, until the family could be notified.
    How had Kristen heard? I’d told Spencer and Tracy about the party, but I was surprised they’d gotten hold of her so soon.
    Back in my office, I tried my mother again. Still no answer. I strived for a message that balanced urgency with detachment and achieved neither. After fits and starts, I blurted out, “Mom, call me. The moment you can.”
    Next, Kristen, on a family outing. No answer. I sent a text. I can’t believe it, either. What’s going on???
    Ben
. His name popped into my head as if from outer space. I’d told Spencer we’d taken Bonnie to the party anddropped her off afterward. And then I hadn’t given him another thought.
    Which meant either I’m a terrible girlfriend, or . . .
    No other viable excuses came to mind. If you don’t think to tell the guy you’ve been dating that the woman you introduced him to last night—a woman who’d sat in his car—was dead, well, that would probably top
Cosmo
’s list of Ten Ways to Know He’s Not For You.
    Right above not needing his comfort.
    I sighed. This was not the time to analyze my emotions, or lack of them.
    But then, he might already know about the body. He worked the food and fun beat on the local weekly, but all the reporters savored a good, juicy crime story, and he followed the Seattle Police Department on Twitter for breaking news. He also took his turn in the rotation, calling law enforcement PR types for updates and attending official briefings.
    Texting was made for moments like these. Bonnie Clay found dead , my thumbs spelled out. Expect to hear from Spencer and Tracy .
    Too callous. I pushed the “clear” button and retyped. Sorry to tell you, Bonnie Clay’s been found dead. Call me. I pressed “send.”
    I reached for the computer to check out Hannah Hart, then stopped myself. It was only curiosity, anyway. What couldn’t—
shouldn’t
—wait was telling Bonnie’s friends and neighbors in the daystalls.
    I took a deep breath, closed the office door, and told Sandra I was taking a stroll. I was a little embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of calling Ben sooner. There was nothing wrong with him. But—and this was the crux of the matter—there was nothing
right
about
us
. And stringing along Mr. Good Enough For Now wasn’t fair.
    Pike Place never fails to amaze and amuse me. Thesidewalks were nearly impassible around the take-out joints—the piroshky maker, the Greek guy, the cheesecake bakers. The line for