Killing Thyme Read Online Free PDF Page B

his regulation black bike shorts wasn’t enough for that.
    *   *   *
    And then, after a whirlwind of tourists, a late-night restocking, and all the daily dramas and traumas of retail life, it was Friday.
    Time to party.
    â€œChampagne?” The angled hem of Kristen’s gauzy blue dress swung as she grabbed two glasses from the tray her fourteen-year-old carried. Mother and daughter both wore flat black ankle-strap sandals, and their blue toenail polish matched. “No worries—the flutes are plastic.”
    â€œWow.” Bonnie eyed the deep couches and rich mahogany woodwork. The once-drab room, home to a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture and lamps with perpetually crooked shades on wobbly tables, had been transformed into a warm, tasteful gathering spot. “This sure isn’t how I remember it.”
    Kristen laughed. “My parents were too busy saving the world to care about cracked plaster or that the living room only had one working outlet.”
    I raised my glass. “A toast, to a piece of Seattle’s history—and our own.”
    An arm slid around my waist, and I leaned into Ben’s embrace. He’d had his hair freshly trimmed, close on the sides, longer on top. A bit of gel darkened it—a wet look I found both appealing and a little silly. We were in Seattle, after all—why fake the wet look when it comes naturally so often?
    I’d warned my mother that we were bringing Bonnie, but she’d only said it would be good to catch up. And I couldn’t wait to be a fly on the wall.
    â€œThese windows weren’t here, were they?” Bonnie asked of two stained glass windows, classic Victorian medallions with tulip edging and a shimmering blue border. Each stood above a bookcase, flanking the original tile fireplace.
    â€œNo. My uncle put a baseball through one when he was a kid, and my grandparents replaced them with clear glass. We found one in the basement and had it fixed, and a twin made for the other side.” Kristen pointed.
    But Bonnie’s gaze was no longer on the windows. She was staring at Kristen’s wrist. Or rather, her bracelet, diamonds and sapphires set between twisted strands of silver and gold.
    Kristen held out her arm. “Isn’t it stunning?”
    â€œThat’s what you found in the remodel? My best score was a 1918 silver dollar.” But then, I’d redone a century-old warehouse, not a semi-posh private home.
    â€œA family piece, I guess, though I don’t remember ever hearing about it. ‘The Case of the Missing Sapphires.’ Too grand for a casual summer party, but how could I not wear it today?”
    Beside me, Bonnie tensed. Did all this splendor give her revolutionary heart an attack? Had she been one of those angry hippies, declaring war on the middle class? Part of the faction that viewed home repair and decorating as signsof hopeless middle-class bourgeoisie, an evil to be avoided like locusts and Buick station wagons? I’d racked my brain last night, trying to place her or recall the name Peggy Manning, but while I could feel those eyes burning into my young soul, I remembered nothing more about her.
    â€œI’ll show you the house later.” Kristen’s freshly polished fingertips brushed Bonnie’s ropy arm. “Old friends are waiting for you out back.”
    â€œShow-and-tell time,” I said to Ben. “Got your Mom shield up?”
    Bless the man—he winked.
    The glorious summer day had become a stellar summer evening. As we made our way to the backyard, I stopped to hug Kristen’s sisters, Raine and Aja, whose kids were playing bocce ball with Carl’s two. Then it was on to more of my parents’ old friends, their names run together—TimandGina, LarryandKaye, DaveandJanet. Now it was GinaandKaye, and Tim had a new wife.
    The Spice Shop crew had come—sans Sandra and Mr. Right—and the Senior Señoras, a group our