Killing Thyme Read Online Free PDF Page A

The threemen who sing in front of the original Starbucks, a block north of my shop, paraded by in the middle of the street, their voices in perfect harmony, and the last-minute shoppers slowed to drink it all in.
    This is why I love the Market.
    Shouts drew my attention to the North Arcade and the artists’ stalls. Heads turned. The singers blocked my view, and I couldn’t see the ruckus.
    The clamor stopped, and a moment later, a small figure emerged from the gap between the tables and marched diagonally across the cobbles toward my shop.
    Holy marjaroly, Mom. What’s up now?

Three

    Araucaria araucana, the Chilean pine, got its common name when a nineteenth-century wit observed that “it would puzzle a monkey to climb that.” Now endangered, the living fossil and source of Victorian jet does well on the North American West Coast, and a few older Seattle homes still boast monkey puzzle trees in their yards.
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    â€œSomething weird’s going on,” I told Carl five minutes later after he closed Mom’s car door. “But she won’t talk about it.”
    â€œFive-two and a hundred pounds, Pep, but she can take care of herself.” He took Mom’s shopping bag from me and headed around the back of his white SUV. “See you this weekend.”
    Family. Where would we be without them?
    We closed up the shop, and Arf and I dashed back to the loft, he to settle in for a nap in front of the big west windows and me to swap my uniform of stretchy black pants and a black T-shirt for a fun pink-and-yellow tunic dress and my lucky pink T-strap shoes.
    The dress had been a good choice—festive, with no bothersome waistband. Three hours later, Laurel and I waddledout of the Changing Courses dining room, the flavors of North Africa rolling around on our tongues.
    â€œIf I’d eaten one more bite, I would have exploded,” I said.
    â€œYou practically licked your plate,” she said. “Me, too. That spicy lamb tagine was heavenly. You should create a harissa blend for the store.”
    â€œChiles, caraway, coriander—what else?”
    â€œA touch of mint, a dash of salt. Add olive oil and lemon juice, and hello, Morocco! No passport needed.”
    â€œAnd no jet lag. Have I said thanks for roping me into this project? The food inspiration alone is worth every moment, not to mention seeing the changes in the students’ lives.”
    â€œYou can never say thanks too often.”
    We hugged good night—gingerly, careful of our full stomachs—and she found her car. I declined her offer of a ride—after that feast, I needed the short walk home. All downhill, thank goodness.
    I hadn’t wanted to spoil the night sharing my doubts about my mother and her old friend. Besides, Laurel’s advice would only echo Carl’s.
    After another quick clothing change and a dog walk, I poured a glass of a crisp Italian white—a Bastianich Sauvignon Blanc from Venice, by way of Vinny—and settled onto the caramel chenille couch in my living room. The Viaduct, the elevated highway above the waterfront, blocked most of my view, its long-slated removal delayed yet again by problems boring the tunnel that would replace it. Still, the last rays filled the loft with an orange-pink westerly glow. No place I had ever lived had felt so much like home.
    I reached for
The Reeve’s Tale
by Margaret Frazer, from her series featuring Sister Frevisse, fifteenth-century nun and amateur sleuth. Fifteen minutes later, I was dreaming of giant jars of preserved lemons, cinnamon-scented couscous dottedwith dates, apricots, and almonds, pigs made of salt, and a potter with startling blue eyes in her weathered face.
    *   *   *
    â€œThey want
me
to teach a class on chocolate?” Mary Jean practically squealed at the news.
    At the Changing Courses dinner, the director of volunteers had said the regular instructor had a family emergency and did