Fifteen

During World War I, Airedales carried messages for the British military, stood watch on the front lines, and warned troops when the enemy was approaching.

WALKING AND TEXTING ARE A DANGEROUS COMBINATION, in my experience, so I paused outside the Market office to text Roxanne.

Dr. Locke gave me rough translations of the letters. I’ll get them to you. Meanwhile, can you trace the ownership history of the Gold Rush?

The reply was nearly instant, and I guessed she was in her office at the Asian Art Museum. Does this have something to do with the pharmacy?

Maybe. Pure speculation on my part, but the letters relating complaints about a Chinese doctor had been found in the same building as a Chinese pharmacy. Logical to think it had been his. We knew nothing about the doctor. Had he committed malpractice, as Fong believed? Had he kept records in one of those cabinets? If he had, and Henry Locke or Roxanne’s professor pal could decipher them, we might be able to tell.

Tell whom? Nearly a hundred years later, did it even matter?

I considered going Down Under to quiz Dave the comic book dealer about Bobby Wu, but that would have to wait. My shop needed me.

I stashed my coat, kissed my dog, and got to work. Spices, jars, and labels are shipped directly to the warehouse, but books, teas, gadgets, and other spicenalia come to the shop. Everything we’d ordered to fill the after-Christmas gaps seemed to have arrived today. On the upside, that meant Sandra and Kristen had Vanessa unpacking boxes while they showed her where things went. On the downside, she was filthy. I rubbed a spot on my cheek to indicate the smudge on hers.

“Bathroom break,” she said, and headed for the back of the shop.

“Don’t kill her on her third day,” I cautioned my bestie and my assistant boss. “We need her.”

“She’s a doll,” Sandra said. “Hardest worker we’ve ever had. Does she have a twin?”

Tea at the clinic had not involved a snack, so I settled in the nook with my iPad and the last of Cayenne’s scones. The smoked cheddar baked up beautifully. I scanned the recipe she’d printed out for me. Nothing went on our blog or on a recipe display without being thoroughly tested. Cayenne and Sandra were pros; they could make anything. But what about a decent home cook like me or eager newbies like Kristen’s girls? Those were the results that counted. She’d combined smoked and regular cheddar, but hadn’t specified the type of apples. I like to bake with a variety, for a more interesting flavor, but availability varies. Our customers are literally across the continent. So suggestions were always a good idea.

And what about a pinch of cayenne or sweet paprika? I’d give it a try.

I opened my email and skimmed a couple of applications that had come in online. Sadly, the trend toward wacky job titles, driven by Google and other tech companies, had not waned. Took me far too long to figure out that the man who described himself as a modern hunter-gatherer had been a kitchen supply officer for a small school district.

Then came a resume that stood out, not for the education or work history but for the applicant’s current workplace, an Italian restaurant I knew well. I picked up the phone. After a brief chat with one Hayden Parker, I asked the question that was bugging me.

“Edgar know you’re looking?”

“He suggested I apply. He and Cody both rave about you.” His voice was deep, and tinged with a Southern accent.

Were Edgar and I about to trade employees? Too funny. He’d hired Cody on my referral, when the kid needed evening hours after going back to school.

“Good to hear. One more thing. You okay with dogs? I sign the paychecks, but my Airedale runs the show.”

The bass laugh was answer enough. We scheduled an interview for Thursday afternoon.

Deliveries remained a hitch. They take a huge amount of time, and right now, the job fell to me. Reed worked mainly at the warehouse. Kristen didn’t work every day, Vanessa was too new, and Sandra and Cayenne were more valuable in the shop. I’d already outsourced most deliveries outside the central part of the city, though I make a point of picking up the phone and calling every chef and producer—or hunter-gatherer—we supply for a chat each season. And if we have a new source or a special price on an item I suspect a particular client would like, I reach out. Retail is low-tech and high-touch. Personal contact is the best sales tool. That and good, consistent product.

Arf and I left early, though we weren’t off work. I was pulling a wheeled tote full of spices for a restaurant in Ballard, a fairly new customer, so we took the elevator down to Western. Arf stretched out on the Saab’s back seat and we made the drive in no time.

Delivery done, we stopped in Interbay. In working with every kind of food biz from hot dog carts to haute cuisine, I’ve learned you can’t judge the food by the origins of the chef, or the exterior of the building. Edgar, a Salvadoran immigrant, makes a pasta Bolognese that is simply divine. The chef at the French bistro in Sammamish, a James Beard semifinalist, was born in Grays Harbor, a logging and fishing town on the Washington coast.

And Daria Nadeau had not one drop of Italian blood in her. But the line outside the door of her pizza place, formerly a gas station, at quarter to five on a damp Wednesday in January told the tale.

Last fall, the local paper declared her wood-fired pizza the best pizza in the county. Nate’s brother Bron had met her when he stopped in Seattle for a few days and they’d been dating, in person and by phone, ever since. She and I had hit it off and I’d called ahead for a couple of pies, having been given Special Pizza Privileges.

With two tables, mainly for waiting in bad weather, most of her business is takeout. I stood at the counter beside the kitchen pass-through while Daria sliced fresh mozzarella, the air rich with the smells of tomato sauce and wood smoke. Bron had spent a couple of weeks in Seattle after Christmas, ostensibly to work with Nate on finalizing the crew and plans for the winter fishing season, but she was the real attraction.

“My parents are coming for a visit next month. Bron’s flying down to meet them.”

“Oh. Great. When they go back to harbor to offload.” Which depended on the catch. Nate had flown home on short notice a couple of times. Quick trips, but so sweet.

Fish run, boats follow. Every business has its rhythms.

“I guess you’re used to it,” she said. “Nate being gone for months at a time. I’m not sure that’s the life we want.”

Nate’s schedule was part of the deal. She was making me feel like some dull old married lady who didn’t care if her husband came or went.

“Not months,” I said. “We met last June, and the longest he’s been gone is five weeks.” Five weeks and three days. “Besides, your business keeps you crazy busy. So does mine.”

The knife stopped its rhythmic motion and she met my gaze. “But life changes. You follow your path, and then the road forks. And you make new choices.”

What choices was she talking about?

“Here you go, Pepper.” The counter man handed me two boxes, and I said my thanks and goodbyes. Set the boxes on the floor of the front seat. Arf poked his nose over the back, sniffing noisily.

“Don’t get any ideas, little buddy. Plenty of dog treats at mom and dad’s.”

Careful to avoid the Mercer Mess, I wound my way around the base of Queen Anne to the east side of Lake Union. Last summer, Nate had made more trips to Seattle than usual, leaving Bron in charge. Turnabout was fair play.

When a relationship is new, anything seems possible. Was Daria daydreaming, or were she and Bron making plans? Career-change plans? Vinny’d hinted at Nate rethinking his work and I’d brushed it off, but I’d never imagined that Bron might jump ship. He was smart and capable. He was a good mechanic, better than Nate, or so Nate said. Maybe he had job skills I didn’t know about. Maybe he had other options in mind. Maybe it was none of my business.

But it was, because any change Bron made would affect Nate, and that would affect me. If Bron gave up the life, would Nate cash it in, too?

Lots of ifs. Forks in the road, as Daria had said.

I forked left and parked. Laurel had arranged for my parents to stay in a boat a dock over from hers for a few weeks while the owners basked in the warm dry air of another clime. I grabbed the pizzas and Arf’s leash, and we passed through the gate into a magical world, scented by sea salt and a hint of diesel.

“Pepper, darling!” my mother cried, standing at the houseboat’s open door. She brushed her cheek against mine.

“There’s my girl,” Dad said, and took the warm boxes from my hands.

Anybody who’s seen Sleepless in Seattle thinks they know houseboats. That one is further up the lake, more mini mansion than boat, technically a floating home built on a dock. In contrast, a cluster of houseboats in the next bay are literal boats people live on, some more seaworthy than others.

My parents’ temporary home, like Laurel’s, is somewhere in between. Cozy, efficient, well-designed. We sat with our salad, pizza, and beer in the tiny dining booth, while Arf lay as close to my dad as caninely possible.

“How’s the house hunt going?” I asked.

“Swimmingly,” Mom said, and my dad’s mouth twitched. “We’re looking at houses. In the city.”

“You said you didn’t want a house. The yard, too much responsibility.”

“Plans change,” Dad said.

“Don’t I know it?” I told them about my conversation with Daria.

“It would be nice for you to have Nate here full-time,” Mom said.

“Yeah. But he hasn’t worked on land in more than twenty years. What would he do?” And part of the fun was rediscovering each other after weeks apart.

“He’ll figure it out. Like you did when you lost your job.”

On the heels of leaving my marriage. I wished that level of upheaval on no one.

“I had tea with the doctors Locke today. Henry asked about you and sends his greetings,” I told my mother, then recapped his comments on the letters. “We don’t know for sure that they have any connection to the pharmacy, except that they were found in the same building.”

“If Oliver does intend to redevelop the Gold Rush, the pharmacy could throw a wrench in his plans,” my dad said.

“No one seems to know what Oliver’s plans are. Not even Roxanne.”

“I’m sure that’s the building Aki pushed to reopen years ago,” Mom said. “Housing has always been especially important to her. She pestered the owners but didn’t get anywhere.”

“Hmm. Apparently there is a potential buyer, but what he—or they—have in mind, I have no idea.”

“Want me to call Aki?” my mother asked. “She might know.”

I shook my head. If anybody called her, it should be me.

My dad poured himself another beer. “You hear anything else about the victim?”

“They know his name and that he was staying in the CID, but that’s all—or was, when I talked to Detective Spencer. He shouldn’t be too hard to trace. There can’t be many Terence Leongs around.”

My dad left the table for a minute and came back with a VHS tape. “Found this in one of the boxes you’ve been storing for us. You should watch it.”

Way of the Dragon, written, produced, directed by, and starring Bruce Lee. I knew my dad had studied aikido after he came back from Vietnam, but I didn’t recall him staying up late to watch martial arts movies. “Might be interesting, after Crouching Tiger. Thanks. Hey, Roxanne said while she was working in the building, she sometimes heard odd noises or sensed that someone was there, though she didn’t see anyone. When she told Oliver, he said it must be the ghost of Bruce Lee.”

Dad’s eyebrows rose. “I think he was pulling her leg. Or she was pulling yours.”

“That’s what Reed said. That Lee’s life in Seattle was so well documented, any hint of a haunting and someone would have tried to exploit it.”

“Besides, he died in Hong Kong. Why would he haunt a building in Seattle?”

“Oh, you never know about ghosts.” As I’d had reason to discover. “They have their own logic.”

We decided to take an evening stroll while the skies were dry. Porch lights glimmered on the dark water, and across the lake, we could see the lights of Queen Anne. We passed the tall rack of mailboxes at the entrance to the docks, many of the boxes painted to match their owners’ boats.

“I’m going to miss this place,” my mother said, looping her arm through mine. I pressed her arm close and blinked back tears I was glad she couldn’t see.

A few steps down the sidewalk, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out.

“I need to take this,” I said, falling back a few steps. Dad had Arf’s leash fully in hand. “Hey, Rox. Find out anything useful about the Gold Rush?”

“Um, yeah.” She sounded out of breath. “But what I called to tell you was—I’m okay, I’m not hurt, not really, but it was pretty scary.”

“What? What happened?”

She’d been attacked as she walked home after work. As she walked past the Lakeview Cemetery. No serious injuries, thank God, but she was terrified. And not just because the most famous resident of Lakeview is the late Bruce Lee.