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

Szechuan peppers, so popular in Chinese cooking, are not a true pepper but the dried rind of fruit from the prickly ash, native to China. Lively and peppery but not hot, they leave a tingle on the tongue that adds a nice surprise to a variety of dishes.

“WHAT AN AMAZING PLACE. I NEVER KNEW IT WAS HERE,” Roxanne said as we sat at a table overlooking the water on the upper floor of Maximilien. The French bistro is tucked at the end of a narrow hallway near the fish market known for the crew tossing crab and salmon through the air, to the delight of the nearly constant crowd. Then, to the waiter in his white shirt and black apron, “How about a Bloody Mary?”

He turned to me. A mimosa is usually as strong a drink as I can manage at brunch, but after the road rage incident, stiffer measures were required.

We gave our attention to the windows and the world outside. From here, more than anywhere else in the Market, you feel like you’re on the water, despite the hill and two busy streets between here and the waterfront. The Ferris Wheel, the giant harbor cranes to the south, the ferries gliding back and forth—the city in motion. On a sunny day, sparkle and magic, Seattle at its best. Even on a winter day like this, the water, clouds, and mountains, all in shades of blue and green, tug at the heart.

Our drinks came and at the first sip, I felt a layer of tension slide away. We chatted about the Market, Roxanne’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, and her work at the museum. Then our food arrived—a salade niçoise for her, the tuna so fresh it was practically still swimming, and a goat cheese tart for me.

When our waiter offered dessert, Roxanne immediately said “No, thank you.” But I contradicted her.

One bite in and she was sold. “This is so good. How did you know it would be so good? It’s like a spice cake, but better.”

“You met Cayenne at the shop. She’s a trained professional chef, super creative, and works with some of our commercial customers on recipe development.” I picked up my coffee. “The chef here is French, classically trained. The result is this traditional French custard apple cake, with Chinese Five Spice.”

“Very good. That hint of licorice comes from fennel seed and star anise.” I ticked off the spices with my fingers. “The other spices are cinnamon, cloves, and Szechuan pepper, which isn’t a true pepper but adds a little bite. The blend is traditionally used with duck and pork, which have a lot of fat, but it also goes well on roasted vegetables.”

“And cake.” She cut another bite. “Do the spices correspond to the five elements?”

I tilted my head in question, and she explained. “In Chinese philosophy, the cycle of creation is expressed as the balance of the five elements: fire, earth, wood, metal, and water. Every-thing—health, well-being, peace—stems from the harmony of the elements. If you’re ill, if you’re angry or short of money—whatever the problem, it’s the result of imbalance.”

“I can safely say, after this meal, my inner harmony and balance have been restored.”

She cradled her coffee mug. “Do food people talk much about cultural appropriation?”

“Yes and no. Food has always borrowed from other cultures,” I said. We’d had these conversations at Wednesday morning staff meetings. “Take tempura, the Japanese method of coating vegetables with flour or breadcrumbs, then frying it. They learned that from Portuguese missionaries. Portuguese food has had a huge influence on the world. Sponge cake. Vindaloo in India. Lots more.”

“The influence went both ways, through trade. Cardamom is native to India, but every Swedish grandmother puts it in her Christmas buns. These days, advances in shipping and preservation mean we have a global pantry. A few celebrity chefs have gotten into hot water by claiming a heritage they don’t have or passing off a recipe as theirs when it wasn’t. It’s a question of respect for the culture and heritage.”

“I don’t think of it as politics. I think of it as people. You can’t talk intelligently about food in this country without thinking about these things.” My staff were curious and adaptive, and always appreciative. We learned from each other, one more reason I value diversity in the workplace.

“Do you get questions,” I asked, “because you’re a white woman working with Asian artifacts?”

“Now and then. But as you say, if you work at understanding the culture and the heritage, that’s what counts. Sometimes an outsider can see, or value, things an insider misses. I grew up around these objects, and I’ve always loved them. When I was a kid . . .” A shadow crossed her face and she let the words fade away.

She shot me a sharp look, eyes narrowed. Reached for the check the waiter had set on the table in a discreet black leather folder.

“No. No.” She was already fumbling in her bag for her wallet. “You go. I know you have to get back to the shop. I’ll take care of this. It’s the least I can do in exchange for your hospitality.”

I was walking out of Maximilien leaving a bite of Five Spice Apple Cake behind. Talk about the elements being out of balance.

THE damaged car was gone and the temperamental produce man was nowhere to be seen when I passed the site of this morning’s confrontation. Fine by me.

The abrupt change in Roxanne’s demeanor had left me rattled. That, and the road rage incident. And the murder, and the destruction of historic and heretofore hidden artifacts.

I took comfort in the sights around me. The celebration of the Lunar New Year wasn’t confined to the Asian grocery, the hum bao bakery, and the sushi joint—many of the Market merchants had put up decorations or displays. Any excuse for a party, especially if it meant a chance to sell more merchandise? I wasn’t that cynical. The Market saw itself as a celebration of the entire city, and I reveled in it.

In the Spice Shop’s tiny back office, I stashed my bag. Traded my coat for my apron, a black bib-front number with our name and logo—a shaker sprinkling salt into the ocean—outlined in white. Up front, I crouched to mug my dog.

After I’d rubbed his ears and buried my face in his fur, getting a good licking in return, I gave Arf a treat and washed my hands in the sink behind the counter. Then I surveyed my territory.

For big holidays, especially those that coincide with signature Market events, we spice up the whole shop. For the Fall Festival, just before Halloween, we’d hung wreaths of colorful leaves and fall flowers, filled baskets with warty gourds and goblin eggs, and focused on the flavors that make pumpkins and poultry beg to be eaten. For Christmas, we’d gone all out, in a tasteful way, knowing our customers were eager to celebrate the season after the pain and loss of the pandemic. As always, the spices and recipes are as important as the decor, and we’d already started brainstorming recipes using floral flavors, seeds, and petals for Daffodil Day and the spring Flower Festival.

Lunar New Year meant a focus on Asian flavors. Our Chinese Five Spice took center stage because it’s well-known and highly versatile. We’d also whipped up a batch of a Japanese pickle blend, stocked up on Thai ginger, chiles, and lemongrass, and put together a ramen seasoning kit that was a big hit. Inspired by our cocoa-paprika rub, Cayenne had created a tea rub using cinnamon, black pepper, and other spices. She and Sandra had identified several recipes from our collection that fit the theme, printing up a few for in-store distribution and highlighting others on our website. I straightened a stack of a popular new cookbook focused on the wok, and patted the star of the show, a stone rabbit.

Our goal was to shine a light on great flavors, showcase the spices, recipes, and cooks, and join in one of the city’s major celebrations. And when shoppers want to know where to get rice noodles or gluten-free tamari, we know where to send them.

“What’s up, boss?” Reed said, using the name Sandra had given me when I bought the joint. She hadn’t been at all sure a woman without any experience in food or retail—me—could save the faltering shop, but it hadn’t taken long for us to find a rhythm and develop a strong mutual respect. What began as a veiled barb had become an affectionate nickname the whole staff used. “You seem a bit low. I mean, you were on the scene of another murder, but besides that.”

Cayenne had finished restoring a rack of foodie fiction to alphabetical order: Vivian Chien’s terrific noodle shop mysteries came before Jennifer Chow’s LA Night Market series, and Mia Manan-sala’s Tita Rosie’s Kitchen mysteries, set in a family-run Filipino restaurant, came before The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones. A customer had recommended that last title, and we’d devoured it.

I checked for eavesdroppers. The only customers were a couple deep in consultation over French cookbooks, a full shopping bag from the map and travel bookstore on the floor next to them.

“Nothing’s for sure until the ME makes a ruling. Last I knew, they hadn’t identified the man.” I glanced at Reed. “Unless the rumor mill’s come up with a name.”

“Not that I’ve heard. I texted my dad about the pharmacy and he’s super jazzed to see it. He’ll ask Granddad about it at dinner tonight.”

“Did your dad have any idea it existed?” Easy to imagine old-timers mentioning it to Ron Locke, who’d been practicing a good thirty years, or his father, Henry. “Boarded up in the basement of the Gold Rush?”

“Not a clue,” Reed said. “The hotel’s been closed practically forever.”

“Not completely empty. The street-front businesses and offices may be enough to pay the taxes and upkeep.” Although the plumbing problems made me wonder. “By the way, we stopped at the Changs’ tea house last night. It was packed, and Keith is thrilled with our spices.”

“Yay!” Cayenne clapped her hands, then went to check on the cookbook browsers. They’d found one of my favorite authors, David Lebovitz. Cayenne steered them to another, Dorie Greenspan, and a shop favorite on French bistro classics.

Reed poured himself a mug of our signature spice tea. “Some of the old buildings in the CID belong to the Chinese family associations. A few were built as residential hotels and centers for the families—you can tell by the ceremonial balconies on the top floor, like at the Kong Yick. Over the years, the larger, better-financed families have bought up other property, to consolidate and solidify their business. Nobody in the CID has completely forgotten the Chinese Exclusion Act and the efforts to drive us out. Or the relocation of the Japanese during World War II. Owning property is a way to say we’re here, we’re staying, we’re as American as the rest of you.”

“That’s part of the concern about the transit system proposal, isn’t it?”

“Right. We need a new station if the system’s going to serve the entire region, but not one that will destroy what’s left of the Asian community.”

I’d read about the debate and listened to my neighbor Glenn, a city council member, explain the issues. Transit planners had laid out two routes. The easiest—a relative term, as both would tear up streets and limit access for years—would have the greater impact on businesses in the CID. Many, like the tea house, had already suffered through closures related to the pandemic and been forced to reinvent themselves. They feared they could not survive another major disruption. The other route would wreak less havoc but take longer and cost more. And some questioned the choice to build a new station in the neighborhood at all.

“You’re serious about this stuff,” I said. “Local events and history.”

“I did a summer internship at the Wing Luke in high school. Best job ever.” He realized what he’d said and blushed.

“So, which gold rush was the hotel named for, do you think?” The Klondike and Yukon booms had put Seattle on the map and built a lot of fortunes.

But before Reed could answer, three women burst through the front door and we got back to work. Groups of women are great for business. Competitive shopping.

Half an hour later, all was calm again. I took my iPad and a notebook and sat in the nook, a booth in the back corner, reading resumes. Hiring was always a challenge, and it had gotten tougher. But I knew how to find good people, and I’d started the process before the Christmas bows were tucked away, when Matt and Cody told me their change in plans. I’d contacted the cooking school placement offices and reached out to my HR pals. Posted online. Told customers we were hiring. Garlic forbid the chefs or producers who are the backbone of this business think I was poaching. Good for eggs and salmon, bad for client relations. But you never know who knows exactly the right person.

And the response had been decent. Job seekers had the advantage, though, and I’d made three offers before landing the young woman joining us tomorrow. We still had openings to fill. We’d grown a lot—a good thing, but growth brings its challenges.

My must-haves were simple. Retail experience not required. A retail personality, on the other hand, was essential. Our staff had to be willing to actually talk with customers and remain calm despite the occasional dustup. Heavy lifting not needed, but we make deliveries daily, and that can be physically demanding. Cultural diversity mattered, too. It makes for a more interesting workplace and reassures customers who don’t look like me—a standard-issue white woman a pinch past forty—that they are welcome. And it helps all of us better understand the social, economic, and cultural issues surrounding food. So many issues.

No need for cul school, though Cayenne was a graduate. I used to think knowledge of food an absolute until I’d hired Matt, whose natural talent for retail more than made up for initially not knowing the difference between basil and bay leaves.

What I needed was the person whose passion was pointing them toward food, toward adventure, toward doing something new and interesting that also happened to taste and smell great. I flagged a couple of prospects in the newest batch of applications.

At the production facility, on the other hand, food knowledge mattered. So did organization and precision. You can mess around with the amount of red pepper and oregano you toss on ribs you’re grilling in the backyard, but not in the blend you’re mixing for professional chefs and picky home cooks.

One new app had come from a Nate. My boyfriend’s name. My neighbor’s name. No way could I have a third Nate in my life. But he’d worked in the grocery business and had a degree in marketing. A definite maybe.

Reed was busy filling a customer’s order and Cayenne was on the phone when a woman came in, a quizzical expression on her face. Our eyes met in that instant “just who I’m looking for” moment of recognition, though I knew we’d never met.

“I was talking to Sandy Lynn over at Say Cheese! and she said you had the cutest aprons.”

“We do.” When her childcare situation forced the woman who made the aprons to give up her craft table in the Market, we’d offered to sell them for her. “They’re cute and durable. Made by a young mother in Phinney Ridge.”

A customer with a sense of humor had hung a pair on the outstretched arms of the Guardian, a found-object sculpture that keeps watch over the shop, and we’d left them there. The newcomer fingered one. “Good sturdy fabric.”

“We’ve got stripes, florals, plaids. Food puns.” I held up a bib-front apron printed with a parody of the Eurythmics song. Sweet dreams are made of cheese. Who am I to dis a Brie?

“Oh, what a hoot!” She flipped through a stack of folded aprons, and I noticed the bulging shopping bag at her feet.

“You scored with the cheese. I spy a chunk of brie and I’m getting a whiff of feta. Sheep’s milk or goat?”

“Smoked cheddar. Yum.” Sandy Lynn’s shop filled a tiny corner of the Main Arcade, near the top of the steps leading to the lower levels collectively known as Down Under. It’s a funky menagerie of shops that cater to all variety of hobbies and odd interests, along with a café or two and even a psychic. The cheese shop was new since the first of the year. I’d seen the owner at a merchants’ meeting, but hadn’t had a chance to chat with her or check out her wares.

My cell phone buzzed in my apron pocket and I snuck a peek while my customer browsed. My mother, who’d taken to texting like the proverbial fish to water. We spent the afternoon house hunting. Cross your fingers!

I hoped they found their dream house soon. Problem was, they didn’t know what they wanted. Last summer, a cohousing community in the trendy Pike/Pine neighborhood turned them down. Snowbirds, the residents had agreed, didn’t fit the model. After decades of community work, coalition building, and blah blah blah, my mother had been heartbroken. Now they were house-sitting a floating home, aka a houseboat, on Lake Union, and loving it, but prices were astronomical. They’d scoured virtually every neighborhood in the city, in the suburbs, and on the islands, but so far, the perfect fit eluded them. And time was running short.

My customer chose three aprons, then moved on to spice blends. I love everything involved in running Seattle Spice, except the hiring and firing. But talking to customers? Finding out what they cook, how they cook, what flavors make the people they cook for swoon—that is the cat’s meow.

Or, in my case, the dog’s bark. Arf is an incredible gentleman who somewhere along the line was trained to give out one tiny little yip when he needs to pee. Cayenne took over for me and out we went.

We angled northish—directions are skewed in the Market, as in much of Seattle—to Victor Steinbrueck Park, a delightful patch of green named for the architect credited with saving the Market. While Arf did his thing, I wondered if Roxanne would still want me to help her solve the mysteries of the Gold Rush. Depended, I supposed, on Oliver Wu and his parents. What would they decide to do, now that the secret pharmacy had come to light? Would they be interested in Dr. Locke’s assessment?

We wove our way back through the afternoon crowd. But before we turned left to the shop, we turned right in search of cheese.

“Say Cheese!” read a dark red sign with yellow lettering, an old-fashioned script outlined in white and black. Retro and immediately charming. The refrigerator cases gleamed, the cheese behind the glass so beautiful my mouth began to water.

“You must be Sandy Lynn,” I said to the woman behind the counter, a turquoise streak in her snow-white hair. “I’m Pepper—”

“Great to see a new face in the Market,” I said. “Winter can be slow, but that will give you time to iron out the kinks before spring. When the fresh flowers and produce start coming on, the locals start flooding in. And then come the tourists.”

“I can hardly wait.” She handed me a toothpick stuck in a cube of deep gold cheese and held up a bone-shaped cookie. “Can your dog have a treat? Homemade. Cheese is canine-safe.”

“Absolutely.” I gave Arf the dog biscuit and it disappeared in one bite. I ate my treat more slowly, savoring the mild earthiness that complimented the cheddar. “Oh, gosh, this is good.”

Both Washington and Oregon have plenty of creameries and cheese makers, but I didn’t mind her regional bias. The cheese was that good. Besides, I could see by the markers in her display case that she offered selections from around the country and the world.

The Market is a sort of incubator for entrepreneurs. But she was older than most. “What prompted you to open a cheese shop? And why here?”

“It’s been my lifelong dream. I grew up in Wisconsin, where cheese is religion. Married a military man and everywhere we went, I made it my mission to learn about the cheese. We ate the most divine goat cheese in Spain. Hiked up a mountain to a cave in France for an intense, creamy blue. My husband says our vacations were dictated by one thing. Not the grand churches or great museums or beautiful beaches.”

“Cheese,” she echoed. “His last posting was Joint Base Lewis-McChord. The kids and grandkids are in Seattle. So we settled here. I decided if I was ever going to open my own cheese shop, now was the time and this was the place.”

“Everyone’s been so welcoming. Including the other cheese shops, which surprised me.”

“Not me. We’ve got our grumblers, for sure, but most merchants realize that there’s room for all of us, and competition helps grow the market. Small m.” I scanned the cases. So many choices. “Could I have half a pound of that smoked cheddar? Too good to resist.”

“You bet.” She slid open the cooler door, talking as she worked. “Well, people couldn’t be more helpful. Though I couldn’t do what you did yesterday. Stepping between angry men.” She handed me a small brick wrapped in white cheese paper and waved me off when I tried to pay.

“Thanks. As for breaking up the fight, you do what you have to do, to protect your community,” I said.

“See? That’s why I knew this was the place to be. It’s a community. That’s what all of us want.”