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was a good fifteen minutes before I could drag myself away to find Ben.
    â€œWe’d better go. The Market will be crazy-busy tomorrow.”
    But no sign of Bonnie. Sharon stood alone near themonkey puzzle tree, its weird, wiry green branches eerily human in the fading light. A flush covered her cheeks, and if she’d been gripping her champagne flute any harder, it would have cracked in her hand.
    â€œSo nice to see you again, Sharon,” I said, and she jumped, snapping her head toward me.
    â€œPepper. Sorry. Daydreaming.”
    Nightmaring, from the looks of it.
    â€œGreat kids you’ve got there.”
    Her chin rose, and she drew her shoulders back, worry turning to pride. “They’re everything to us. Oh, Terry. There you are.”
    I followed her gaze. A stone path alongside the house led to a gate, open under a rounded arch. Terry ducked under the arch, his long face weary, and held out his hand to his wife.
    â€œI meant to tell you, Sharon,” I said, “those are gorgeous earrings. Your husband’s gift?”
    â€œShe’s the kind of woman a man gives jewelry to,” he said, sounding tired but tender.
    â€œThat’s because you’re the kind of man who gives a woman jewelry,” she replied, her shoulders softening.
    We found our passenger sitting on the front steps, arms clasped around her bent knees, her faded blue-and-white paisley skirt spread around her. Bonnie rose quickly, shoving her hands in her pockets, ready to make a getaway.
    And I found myself trying to recall that old line—Shakespeare, or was it Faulkner? “The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.”

Four

    It was just my imagination, runnin’ away with me.
    â€”Norman J. Whitfield and Barrett Strong, “Just My Imagination”
    â€œHaven’t seen her,” the jeweler who repurposes guitar strings and bits of painted car skin told me.
    I’d have scratched my head if my hands hadn’t been full of coffee, croissants, and Arf’s leash. When we’d left the party last night, Bonnie had been all too ready to get home and get a good night’s sleep before a busy summer Saturday in the Market.
    The doll maker, the satchel seller, and the bookbinder who creates stunning leather-bound journals all agreed: Bonnie Clay had missed the mandatory roll call, and now, minutes after the opening bell, had still not shown.
    â€œYou work weekdays to be sure of a table on Saturday.” The T-shirt designer ( THERE’S NO NOOKIE LIKE CHINOOKIE ) frowned. “Nobody skips Saturday.”
    Don’t let last night’s under-the-surface tension spill into today.
If I’d learned anything working here, it was that life in the Market is as unpredictable as the Szechuan peppercorn supply.
    On the drive back to the Market where she’d left her big blue van, Ben and I had insisted Bonnie sit up front, and I’d watched from the back as she stared, wordlessly, out the window. All evening, I’d kept an eye—and ear—out for another confrontation with my mother, but the two women had barely exchanged a word.
    Back on my side of the street, a customer juggled her shopping bag and sample teacup to hold the door for me, and I thanked her. The shop smelled like a pizzeria. Sounds charming, but the scents of basil, thyme, and oregano were left over from a bag of Italian blend that broke yesterday afternoon.
    Spice happens.
    Sandra hustled out of the back room, tying her apron strings as she walked, and I gave her the latte and croissant I’d intended for Bonnie. She said nothing about being late, and the set of her jaw said “don’t ask.” So I didn’t.
    Midmorning, I stood on the sidewalk and scanned the artists’ stalls across Pike Place, but the shoppers and sightseers blocked my view. I stepped into the street and wound my way north, past the delivery vans and trucks. Daystall locations are never guaranteed, so I