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

From listening comes wisdom.

From speaking comes repentance.

— Fortune cookie wisdom

WEDNESDAY MORNING, WE GATHERED FOR THE WEEKLY staff meeting. We all fit in the nook now, though it was tight. Cozy. Intimate. One more thing that would change as we grew.

Coming to retail from HR, I knew the staff was the heart of the shop. The best ideas come from the people on the ground.

Cayenne had brought apple-cheddar scones made with Sandy Lynn’s smoked cheddar. We all dove in, and she scribbled comments in her shop notebook as we oohed and ahhed and suggested spice combos.

“Cayenne?” Vanessa said, hesitating as if to make sure it was okay for the new girl to speak. “I mean, the pepper, not you. Or you.” She glanced between us, embarrassed.

“We do have the perfect names for our jobs, don’t we?” I said. “They’re called aptonyms. And if a Ginger or Rosemary applies, I’ll hire her on the spot.”

“Chiles would be great in the ham and cheese biscuits,” Cayenne told Vanessa. “We have several varieties. Why don’t you and I taste a few after the meeting?”

We were heading into a rare weekend without a special Market event. After we hashed over a couple of recent customer questions, I gave an update on hiring. “I talked to a decent prospect for the warehouse yesterday, but he texted me last night to say he’d decided to take another offer. Private chef on an island.”

“Right? Not sure I’d trust the judgment of anyone who said no to a gig like that. Any suggestions, bring ’em on.”

Knowledge and experience counted, but fit mattered most. As with the crew crammed into the nook. My throat got a little full as I contemplated what we’d done in my two and a half years, taking the shop from a stale operation with shaky supply lines and a lack of spark to a truly collaborative crew. Working together, sharing our love of the Market and good food to give the customer a worthwhile experience. Not everyone would fit; not everyone would stay. Cody and Matt had been what we’d needed at the time, and I hoped we’d been what they needed—stepping stones on their own paths.

Had Kristen been right when she suggested, before I posted the job announcement, that I was reluctant to hire a production manager because I would no longer be in charge of everything?

Bah. She also thought a floral print blouse went with a striped skirt, so what did she know?

But I took the point. If I wanted the Spice Shop to prosper, I had to make sure I stayed out of its way.

“Pepper,” Reed said as we slid out of the nook, ready to tackle the opening tasks. “Today’s my grandfather’s clinic day. He still comes in once a week, though he doesn’t see patients anymore. Do you have time to meet him for tea this afternoon?”

“I’ll make time.” My mother had taken me to see old Dr. Locke—Henry—when I was a kid, for knee pain after a gymnastics class I’d had no business taking. I’d been anxious about the acupuncture needles, but they hadn’t hurt, and two treatments had done the trick. And the shelves of glass jars, bottles, and vials had fascinated me. Until I saw a jar of flying squirrel droppings and another holding dried geckos on sticks. Reed’s dad had taken over the clinic years ago and didn’t rely much on the old herbal formulas. “Will you and your dad be there?”

“I’ve got class, but Dad’s planning on it, unless there’s an emergency.”

I spent the rest of the morning in the shop. Called the third Nate for an interview and discovered he too had found another job. I was disappointed—he had good credentials—but glad to avoid forever having to clarify which Nate I was talking about. I gave Fabiola, our graphic designer, final approval on the labels for our spring and summer blends, then went over the supply list. It’s a constant juggling act, projecting sales months in advance. Extra jars keep, and I can always find more uses for yellow mustard seed or push hibiscus flowers for tea, but leftover beet root powder is a hard sell.

Then I updated our social media pages. Contrary to popular myth, not every digital native has mad social media skills or is hot to develop them. Texting with your friends or posting videos of dance moves on TikTok is not quite the same as designing and carrying out a professional campaign for a retail and commercial food business. But when we were fully staffed and I wasn’t running the production facility, I’d have more time for promotion.

Truth be told, there were all kinds of projects I could give more attention to once I was spread less thin.

Then it was time for the traffic task force meeting. I had managed to steer clear of most Market committees since buying the shop. Time to do penance, or play a part in some serious problem-solving?

Two by two we filled the meeting room in the Economy Market. Two produce sellers, two restaurateurs, two arts and crafts folks. Reps from the service sector, the residents, and the public. Plus two actual farmers, who set up booths on the cobbles to sell their fresh-picked crops. I was here as a merchant, representing the “stores with doors.”

My compatriot was Dave Hudson, the comic book dealer from Down Under, a tall bulky man with a red beard who could have stepped straight out of The Lord of the Rings.

We greeted each other and shook hands. “I met one of your competitors over the weekend. Bobby Wu.”

I grabbed a plate and helped myself to falafel, stuffed grape leaves, and pita, along with a spoonful of hummus and a healthy drizzle of tzatziki, the cucumber-yogurt dressing speckled with dill from my shop.

“Decent lunch might be the best thing we get out of this,” the leather worker ahead of me in line said. “We’ll never agree on a fix.”

“Gotta agree on the problem,” I said, “before we can talk about solutions.”

And that was where Yolande started, introducing a planner from the city Department of Transportation. We proudly tout our ten million visitors a year, and in that context, two hundred collisions in twenty years didn’t sound too bad. But every one of them involved real people, not numbers, who suffered physical injuries and property damage. Every one tangled up traffic and interfered with business.

Not to mention that today’s trucks and SUVs could do a lot more damage than the cars of yesteryear, when the decision to keep Pike Place open had been made.

“Bring back horses and wagons,” the leather worker said. “Problem solved.”

I nearly choked when the urban planner described the harmful effects of repeated exposure to air and noise pollution created by vehicles. Most Market businesses are at least partly open air, so we’re all affected. Not to mention our life blood: the shoppers. And the Market residents, many elderly or disabled.

“Limit the hours,” said a restaurant owner. “And no public parking on the street.”

“Fortunately, we have detailed traffic studies,” the planner said. “We know who’s driving through here, when, and why.” He pointed a laser at charts projected on a giant screen. Pedestrians outnumbered private cars by nearly twenty to one. Another chart estimated the numbers and types of delivery vehicles and the time they spent on the streets.

Our Historical District coordinator spoke next, explaining the process for reviewing any proposed changes. “Keep in mind the mission of the district,” she stressed. “The mission always comes first.”

Then an expert in community dynamics discussed the causes of road rage and the effectiveness of potential responses, using phrases like “high-anger drivers” and the “intensity of aggressive responses hinges on perception.”

“Psycho-babble mumbo jumbo,” Herb the Herb Man groused, but my HR-loving heart ate it up.

“Bottom line,” the speaker said. “There’s a lot we can’t change about the built environment. But we can change human interaction.”

“Yeah, but do we want to?” Dave Hudson asked. “I mean, sure, nobody wants a tire jack thrown through a windshield or anybody getting hurt, but people walking around, eating donuts, listening to a three-piece band playing upturned buckets—that’s part of the Market.”

Yolande thanked the presenters, then handed out packets. “Staff has put together lists of possible solutions. Everything that’s been suggested over the years, with no judgment about whether it’s workable. Please review the options, add your own, and think seriously about how we can address the problems, in light of the Market’s mission.”

I skimmed the list. Some measures were already in place. Market security regularly restricted general traffic during festivals and peak tourist days, while maintaining access for taxis and those with disabilities. But retail’s a tough way to make a living, and I was sure many of my neighbors feared anything that might send their customers elsewhere.

How did you measure how many people didn’t come down here because traffic was a mess? How many would hear about Sunday’s altercation and stay home?

“Too bad we can’t ban jerks,” Dave said on our way out. “Coulda solved Sunday’s problem before it started.”

I barely had time to take Arf for a quick walk before meeting Ron and Henry Locke. My dog would appreciate more open space, for sure. Recent changes added more tables and benches, so you could sit to eat your takeout, rest your feet, or watch the world go by. But isolated incidents, like the one on Sunday, I thought as I swerved to avoid a car door that opened unexpectedly, didn’t warrant extreme solutions. This was a working Market, after all, not a suburban mall.

“SORRY I’m late,” I told Ron Locke. “I broke up a fight between a couple of drivers last weekend and got myself recruited for the new traffic task force.”

“I heard about it,” he said. “Happily, Market traffic isn’t a big problem for us. Most of our patients come in from First Avenue, and many take public transportation. No worries. The tea is still hot.”

The clinic was tucked in a tiny upper-level spot in the Sanitary Market, a virtual rabbit warren that dates back almost a century. You pretty much have to know where you’re going to find it. And though Ron kept a stash of herbs and tinctures and other remedies, his clinic looked nothing like the mysterious Gold Rush pharmacy.

“Little Miss Pepper. Good to see you again.” Henry Locke rose and took my hands in his. His hair was completely white, his glasses askew. But behind them, his eyes were bright, and his grip was strong. “Sit, sit. How is your knee? We treated Stomach 36 and Gall Bladder 34, if I remember correctly.”

“That was thirty years ago. How can you possibly remember?” There was not a file in sight, though the same rubber anatomical figurine marked with the points and meridians that had fascinated me as a kid stood on the corner of the desk, next to a brass lamp. “And it’s great, thanks.”

“Dad remembers every treatment he’s ever given and every herb he’s ever prescribed.” Ron gestured to a chair and slid behind the desk, where he poured three cups of tea. “Just don’t ask what he had for breakfast.”

“Eat the same thing every day,” the old man said, “and you never have to remember.”

Ron passed the tea around and we cradled the small porcelain cups in silence. The steam carried notes of jasmine, and I inhaled them happily. Once Henry, the oldest person in the room, had taken a sip, Ron and I were free to follow.

“Reed is very taken with Dr. Davidson,” Ron said. “She’s given him some good ideas about how to pursue his love of history and turn it into a career.”

“I’m going to hate to lose him, but I’ve learned, never stand in the way of someone following their passion.”

As this family knew well. Old Dr. Locke had trained in Vancouver, BC, eventually marrying his teacher’s daughter.

“My father-in-law was old school, refusing to train a daughter to follow in his footsteps,” Henry said. “He preferred to train a male outsider. Happily, she put aside her resentment and fell in love with me. And agreed to move back to Seattle with me after my training was complete.”

“It’s kind of sweet,” I said, “painful as it must have been for you both.”

He nodded slowly, then gestured to Ron. “We were deeply gratified that our son wanted to practice medicine as well. No matter what tradition he chose.”

“You never pushed me,” Ron said, “and that’s how we learned not to push our own children.” Then he laughed. “Very un-Chinese of us, but they’re all good kids.”

The letters Roxanne had scanned for Reed with her phone had been printed out and lay on the desk, the handwritten translations beside them.

“I’m no longer fully literate in the old calligraphy. I learned it as a child, forgot it, then relearned what I needed to know to grasp the essence of a few texts.” Henry waved a hand at a book-lined wall. “I can understand why the young lady had trouble with it.”

“Two were written in 1930, to Fong, whoever he was. Could be a first name or a last. The Exclusion Act was still in force—it wasn’t repealed until 1943—but a citizen could bring over a wife or children. Seems Fong’s wife made the journey to Seattle, but after she was released from immigration detention, she got very sick and died. Heart failure, I gather.”

“He took her to a Chinese doctor, who was not able to save her. Fong must have written his friend and explained the situation. The friend tells him he cannot sue the American government because he can’t prove she got sick in detention.”

“They would have claimed either she was sick when she arrived, and it wasn’t detectible,” Ron said. “Or she was healthy when they had her in custody and she got sick afterward.”

“The latter, according to the second letter. They said the Chinese doctor must have been a quack who didn’t know what he was doing, or that he harmed her somehow.” Henry took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The friend told him he could not approve of any plan to take matters into his own hands. Let it go, he advised. Find a new wife—whether here or back in China—and build a new American life.”

Ron refilled our cups. “He might have intended to expose the Chinese doctor and try to get him deported. The practice of Chinese medicine, which was primarily herbal at the time, was not legal, though it was tolerated. His friend feared that the attempt might backfire and make Fong a pariah. The doctor was popular and malpractice claims are always hard to prove.”

“Earlier, to Fong from his wife.” The old man cleared his throat, then began reading.

My dearest Fong,

I received your letter and money. Though we have now been apart many months, I think about you constantly. My love for you is as deep as the ocean that divides us. I am grateful for all you are doing to build our new life together in Seattle. Do not worry about me. We will be together soon.

Your loving wife,

Pearl

I was momentarily speechless. “To work so hard, wait so long, then lose her. The grief.” I gripped the cup, too small for any warmth to reach the chill I felt. Then I pictured the drawer of the dressing table in the abandoned room. “Any idea why these letters were locked up in the Gold Rush?”

“None at all,” Henry said. “Most of the old hotels closed in the early 1970s. They didn’t meet code, the rooms were too small—a variety of reasons. Though Francis Wu lived upstairs, even after it closed. The boy never had any interest in it.”

“Bobby.” Strange to hear a man in his sixties described as a boy, but a man nearing ninety could get away with that.

“Yes. The Wu family always held themselves apart. One child, born of a late marriage. I can’t say I ever knew the family well.” Henry shook his head.

“So if Chinese medicine wasn’t legal,” I said, “the pharmacy was hard to find on purpose.”

“Most likely,” Henry said. “It was considered the practice of medicine without a license, but enforcement was inconsistent. Chinese doctors often claimed they simply sold herbs, which was legal, and didn’t diagnose or prescribe. But of course, they were doing just that, covertly. And they did some physical manipulation, in a style similar to acupressure or massage, though most didn’t use acupuncture back then. Occasionally there was a nominal crackdown and a doctor would pay a fine or spend a few days in jail— the cost of doing business.”

I pictured the pharmacy and the tiny treatment room. “That’s quite the price.”

“Truth is,” the old man continued, “everywhere there were Chinese people, there were Chinese doctors. But by the time I started practice, times had changed. There had been no herb shops for so long that the people forgot about it. I had to educate my patients.”

Poor Pearl. She’d crossed the ocean to rejoin her husband only to be held in detention, get a taste of her new life, then die not much later. “I’ve been in the old INS building. A few Market artists have studios there and invited us to an open house.” On the edge of the CID, near King Street Station. Five floors of studios and workshops, plus performance space. A permanent exhibit told the history of immigration in Seattle. I shuddered at the memory of the cells in the basement and the marks that told detainees where to stand and put their hands on the wall so they could be searched.

“That’s right,” his father said. “The original immigration center was a few blocks from here.” My chills returned.

I thanked the doctors, gathered up the documents, and left. Instead of taking the stairs down to Pike Place, I walked out onto First Avenue. It had rained overnight, and the skies were threatening. I walked slowly, thinking about all I’d learned and the gaps that remained in the story. Letters. We don’t write letters anymore. We write texts and emails, fragments that disappear into the ether, the connections they represent no longer tangible, like pen and ink on paper. Though little good the words did, if no one could read them anymore.

At Union, I stopped and looked down the hill. How many times had I walked this block? The building was easy to spot. Dark red brick, the terra cotta trim a rich cream. When Henry was a boy, he’d said, it held offices for the canneries and unions and a hiring hall. By the time he moved back to Seattle and opened his clinic in the Market, it housed mainly pigeons. Later, the building was gutted and the interior completely redone. More recently, the offices had been converted to apartments. I hadn’t looked at them when I was on the hunt, wanting a more industrial loft.

I paused outside the entrance. Fluted columns—Doric, if I remembered my art history. Dentil molding above the stone lintel. A glass door and two sidelights that reminded me of the entrances to the Gold Rush and the Fortunate Sun. The door was locked but I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered in. Small, uninspired lobby. On one wall, a bank of mailboxes. On another, a bland modern couch beneath a framed print, a pairing designed to discourage anyone from sitting longer than it took to flip through their mail.

No name carved in the terra cotta—it had not been built for the INS. Did the residents know the history? Had the ghosts been exorcised along with the cracked plaster and the warbled glass? Small apartments, big views. Rooftop planters and trees. My neighbor Glenn and I had toyed with the idea of creating a rooftop garden on our building—it was plenty strong—but he and his Nate were preoccupied with their remodel, and I was preoccupied with my work and my life.

Or rather, my work, which was my life. Maybe the garden project was the hobby I needed. Although my tendency to kill anything but the hardiest herbs might be a problem.

I walked up the alley and after a short distance, found myself on Lower Post Alley, not far from the Gum Wall and the Market offices.

Humans. So clueless. We walk by a thousand stories every day, and we have no idea.