Between a Wok and a Dead Place: A Spice Shop Mystery

The Market’s iconic clock and three-story red sign, lit up by neon, were created by architect Andrew Willatsen and erected in 1937, the year the Market turned thirty.

I WOKE WITH THE FEELING THAT SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT. Stretched out an arm and touched an empty pillow.

Time for Arf’s morning constitutional. No one else in this building owns a dog, but a man from the next block was out with his goldendoodle, Mishka, and we exchanged greetings while the dogs rubbed noses and exchanged gossip or whatever they do. Sometimes I’d like to know what’s going through my dog’s mind, and other times I’m glad I don’t.

Back in the loft, I started coffee and unfolded the Sunday paper on my dining room table, a weathered cedar picnic table my former mother-in-law snatched right out from under the trash collector’s nose because she knew I’d love it.

Though a picture of the children’s dance troupe had made the front page, and other photos from the Lunar New Year celebration in the CID filled the arts and entertainment section, nary a peep about the death in the Gold Rush. My guess, the cops and courts reporter couldn’t glean enough info before deadline. If I wanted an update, I’d have to get it myself. But I had a hunch my sources would come to me.

“Oh, that smells so good,” Roxanne said as she came out of the bathroom, and I poured us both cups of my favorite Market brew, an Italian roast with the faintest hint of chocolate. Funny— funny-peculiar, not funny-haha—to see someone else wearing my clothes. “I can’t thank you enough for taking me in last night. I was quite the mess.”

“I’d be more worried about you if you hadn’t been upset. You found a dead body. And that didn’t look like an accidental death.”

“Oh. Yes. Sure. I don’t know the Market very well.” She was sitting in a pink wrought iron dining room chair—the table had come with two benches, not the customary four, so I’d supplemented with a pair of junk store finds that more than one visitor had called ice cream shop refugees. “I bet you know the best place for Sunday brunch.”

“I hope it’s not too weird, hanging out with me. Nate’s a terrific guy, and it’s great to see him with someone who makes him so happy. Well, not with, since he’s not here.” Her tongue tangled and her cheeks flushed. I was seeing a different side of her this weekend.

“I know what you mean. And thanks.” I hurried to change the subject. Her sister’s loss was my gain, but no need for the details. “You live on Capitol Hill?”

“Yes, in a lovely old apartment. The previous tenant was retired from the museum and when she went to live with her daughter, she contacted the director before even giving notice. She wanted another museum staffer to have it, and I adore it.”

While Roxanne showered, I texted my pal Laurel. We had a flexible Sunday morning date, with the understanding that either of us could cancel at any time. I asked her to check on Seetha, who lives up the hill from her and has an unfortunate history with sudden violent death. I didn’t mention Oliver; Seetha could explain. Besides, we’d all see each other for Flick Chicks Tuesday evening, in the loft. I’d chosen the movie days ago and now wondered if I should reconsider. No, I decided. It was ultimately less about death and more about kick-ass women, and who doesn’t always need a good dose of that?

A few minutes later, Roxanne and I headed up the hill, Arf between us. I planned to spend the afternoon in the shop, and Reed and Cayenne would happily keep an eye on him for a while. Another reason I love my staff.

“Nowhere quite like this, is there?” Roxanne said as we made our way through the Main Arcade.

“Don’t suppose you know anyone in the hunt for a retail job,” I said. “I’ve got a part-timer starting tomorrow. We need another full-time salesclerk, as well as a production manager and crew.”

I exchanged a few greetings as we walked past the flower sellers and the arts and crafts tables. Arf wagged his tail. My mother started bringing me to the Market on her weekly shopping trips back when the big thrill was dropping a penny in Rachel, the bronze piggy bank near the entrance, and I’ve loved it ever since. We lived in an old mansion on Capitol Hill called Grace House, home to a Catholic peace and justice community. Kristen’s great-grandparents built the house and she lives there with her husband and two teenage daughters. It’s all spiffed up now, barely recognizable as the former home to two young families—her parents, mine, and five kids between them—along with an assortment of strays who helped do the community’s work. We’d moved to our own house in Montlake when I was twelve, but Kristen and I had never stopped being best friends. She even works for me part-time. One more reason I love my job.

When my life fell apart weeks after I turned forty—when I found my husband the cop and a meter maid practically plugging each other in a downtown restaurant when I went out for drinks with friends from the law firm where I worked, on an evening when Tag had said he was taking a late shift for a friend, then lost my job a few weeks later when the firm exploded in scandal . . . Well, when all that happened, the Market saved me. I’d never expected to find solace in bay leaves, or cinnamon and nutmeg, but it was clear the Spice Shop and I were destined for each other. And not just because of my name.

And I love watching people who don’t know the shop see it for the first time. Roxanne’s mouth practically hung open as she drank in the sights and smells. The air’s got a semipermanent tang of oregano punctuated with the aromas of cinnamon and lemongrass. The jars that line the walls are filled with the tastes of the wide world, showing off the jewel tones of turmeric and paprika, cumin and sumac. It’s the rare herb or spice that comes in tins these days, but the top shelves and a display case near the front counter hold a collection of brilliantly decorated specimens. Some date back to the shop’s early days, right after the voters saved the Market from “urban removal” in 1971. Others came from customers or my junking jaunts.

“It’s exquisite,” Roxanne said, almost breathless with appreciation. “And here I’ve been content with the spice aisle at QFC.”

The antique red apothecary in the back, the one I’d been reminded of in the old pharmacy, holds our teas and tea accessories. We don’t sell coffee, despite my devotion to the stuff. Talk about the specialist’s zeal. We do carry books, though—cook-books, chef lit and food memoirs, and food-related fiction.

Arf stuck his nose in Reed’s outstretched hand—his usual greeting—then took to his bed behind the front counter. The Market is his home ground. He’d lived here with Sam, a man who bounced between its streets and low-income housing before returning to his family in Memphis almost a year and a half ago. Man, dog, and I had all agreed that Arf would stay with me. And because the Market is a sort of paradise, I consider it a match made in heaven.

I introduced Roxanne to Reed and left them to chat while I checked on Cayenne, the other Sunday salesclerk. A thirtyish Black woman with long braids, today gathered in a high ponytail, and a talent for innovative flavor combinations, she’d upped our food game the day she walked in. We could get by with two employees on Sundays in winter, but not for long. Matt, who’d started the same time as Cayenne, had left the first of the year to team up with my pal Vinny at his shop, the Wine Merchant, and they were busy working on an expansion. My part-timer, Cody, had gone back to school, and I approved, though I missed his eagerness and his delivery skills. He works evenings tending bar for our good customer Edgar at Speziato, so I see him now and then. That left four staff and me. I’d hoped I could entice Reed to stay on after graduation in June to run the warehouse and production. But the odds were slim.

And growing slimmer. I knew he loved history and Seattle history in particular, but he practically glowed as he listened to Roxanne talk about what she’d found in the Gold Rush.

“I am always ready to eat,” I told her, and we strolled out into the cool gray morning. The sidewalk in front of the Triangle Building, the next one south of mine, was busy but nothing like a summer Saturday. Built on produce, the Market has its seasonal rhythms.

I heard a shout and a squeal and a crash. A scrawny man in a denim jacket sprinted across Pike Place, the Market’s cobbled main street, then disappeared into the Main Arcade. An aproned produce seller stood on the curb, shouting. In the street, a green Mazda had screeched to a halt to avoid the runner, stopping so suddenly that a white van smacked into its rear end.

The driver of the van jumped out and charged toward the Mazda, reaching for the handle of the driver’s door. At the same time, the Mazda driver pushed the door open, hitting the van driver and knocking him backward. He staggered into a pedestrian, who let out a startled cry.

The shopkeeper was still yelling at the long-gone thief. The van driver had regained his feet and was aiming for the Mazda driver, fists raised. Four-letter insults flew.

“Stop it,” I shouted, but no one stopped. I thrust my tote at Roxanne and dashed into the street. The shopkeeper, a barrel-chested man of about fifty, rushed into the fray at the same time and I was glad to have someone bigger and stronger on my side.

“He got away because of you, you moron,” he yelled, though whether at the van driver or the other man wasn’t clear. He was ready to swing at anyone in his path.

“Stop it,” I bellowed, stretching out my arms and making stop signs of my hands. “Act like grown men. This is no time for a fist fight or a temper tantrum.”

“Butt out, lady,” the Mazda driver said. “This is nothing to do with you.”

“Or with any of you,” I said. “To your credit, you managed to avoid hitting someone.” I turned to the van driver. “And yes, he made a sudden stop, but if you’d been paying attention, you could have avoided hitting him. You can’t drive street speed down here. It’s too narrow and there’s too much going on.”

I directed my next bit of wrath to the shopkeeper, a man I knew well. Or so I’d thought. “All this because of one smashed pineapple?” It lay in the street, the pulpy mess already emitting a sickly-sweet smell. The thief had gotten away, yes, but empty-handed.

In the brief, stunned silence, I heard the whiz of bike tires. Bike patrol tires. A blissful sound.

“All right, all right,” a voice I knew well broke in, loud but firm. A voice used to calming the irate and controlling the out of hand. Tag.

It didn’t take Tag and his partner long to separate the three men and sort things out. They took names, and Tag glanced at me, eyebrows raised, when he realized who Roxanne was. His partner oversaw the drivers’ exchange of insurance info. They got the description of the would-be shoplifter, but he was long gone. Another merchant swept the smashed fruit off the stones and the crowd of onlookers moved on.

It was a wonder road rage didn’t erupt down here more often. The combination of inattentive pedestrians spilling off the crowded sidewalks, impatient delivery drivers, and looky-loos using Google Maps to scout out the original Starbucks, not expecting a narrow, cobbled street built for another era, was a recipe for chaos and collision. Throw in a shoplifter and a fed-up shopkeeper and we were lucky insults were all that had been thrown. Frustration overload. People did stupid things and didn’t want to blame themselves, so they blamed anyone in their way.

“I don’t suppose you’ll listen to me,” Tag said as life around us returned to normal. “But I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Try to keep people from bashing each other’s faces and get them to see reason? Hey, it worked. Well, the first part, anyway.”

“I heard you were on the scene when the body was discovered in the CID,” he said. “I was already off shift.”

Word travels fast in the Seattle Police Department. Tag and I may be divorced, but other cops knew my name, passed along what they saw or heard, and kept an eye on me. Like a little family, the men and women in blue.

“Nice to meet Officer Ohno. Paula,” I said. “Her grandparents worked with my parents years ago on antipoverty programs. Any idea what the theory is, about the man in the basement?”

“Ohno’s a good young cop.” He reached for his bike, propped against a pillar. “As for the body, not a clue, but your pals are on it. They’ll nail the scumbag.”

I hoped so. Whether the lion dancer’s death was the result of spur of the moment rage, a long-simmering dispute that had boiled over, or something else entirely, I could only guess. The detectives’ job was to find the killer. They didn’t care about the mystery of the Gold Rush and the hidden clinic, and the secrets swirling around my friends.