Twenty

Ancient Greeks regarded marjoram as a symbol of happiness and planted it on graves to ensure the departed rested in eternal peace.

“DID YOU KNOW,” VANESSA SAID FRIDAY MORNING AS WE readied the shop for opening, “that oregano and marjoram actually increase in flavor when they’re dried? And that oregano means joy of the mountain in Greek, because seeing the flowers growing on the hillsides and catching their fragrance is guaranteed to make you happy?”

I said a silent “thank you” for the heads-up Angie had given me. “Two of our most popular herbs. I’m glad you’re getting to know them.”

“The stories make the spices easier to remember.”

“When someone buys an herb or spice I don’t know well,” Cayenne said, “I ask them how they use it. They think you’re brilliant because you’re interested in them, and you get to learn something new.”

I headed for my office, knowing the shop was in good hands.

Though it was early, Edgar was already in the restaurant, and we had a long talk about Hayden Parker.

“Good worker. I hate to lose him, but better to lose him to a job where he can use his love of food,” Edgar said. “And learn from a good boss.”

“Thanks. He mentioned a struggle with depression. Did it ever affect his work?” I appreciated Hayden’s honesty and had no intention of letting the disease influence my decision, unless it had interfered with his work. So easy to self-medicate in the bar and restaurant biz, but I knew Edgar tolerated no drugs or excessive alcohol.

“I know this struggle.” Edgar’s Salvadoran accent clung to the edges of his words. “It darkens too many lives. I tell him, find heart in the work. In serving people a plate of happiness. And he do that. I believe he will pack the taste of joy in every bag of spice. Your secret ingredient.”

“Edgar, have I ever told you how much I love you?”

I’d barely clicked off the phone when it rang. I read the caller’s name.

“Wynne Goodman, real estate agent to the stars,” I said by way of greeting.

“In my dreams. Hey, it’s not much, but I do have some news for you. The Gold Rush has never been listed for sale, as far back as the records show. An appraiser we work with got a call recently asking if he could put together a market value assessment. Sure, he said. Happy to. When could he see the property? And the man hung up.”

“Who was it?”

“No idea. The appraiser assumed he’d get a call back, if the man was serious. But a month went by and crickets.” Sounded like she was in her office, from the buzz and chatter in the background. “It’s an underutilized property. All those connected buildings with street front commercial space, apartments, and the hotel. People have wanted to get their hands on it for eons. If you get a lead, a hint that the owners might be ready to list it . . .”

“I’ll send them to you. Wynne, another question. Do you know a house in Montlake?” I gave her the address and heard her clicking keys, bringing up the listing.

“Oh, sweet house. Great price. It’ll go fast.”

“But no offers yet,” I said, and she confirmed it, then asked if I wanted to schedule a showing. Did I? No. My life had gone another direction, a good one. “Tempting, but no. Thanks, Wynne. Let me know if you hear anything else about the Gold Rush.”

So the property wasn’t officially for sale, but someone had considered putting it on the market. A man—Bobby or Oliver? And how did the unnamed buyer Yolande had mentioned, the suits who’d snared Keith Chang’s eye, or the man who’d peppered my pal in the Historic Preservation office, figure into the equation?

The plot was thickening.

HAYDEN and Reed were waiting when I got to the warehouse after lunch, Arf left safely behind in the shop. They’d struck up a conversation about the Seahawks and whether the NBA would ever return to Seattle.

“Hey, guys. Glad you’re getting acquainted.” I showed Hayden around the facility, a converted marine supply warehouse that now held more than a dozen small food producers and kitchens. I waved at a woman I’d gotten to know last winter after her husband found me unconscious and bleeding in the parking lot, briefly becoming the top suspect in both my attack and a brutal assault in the Market. I’d never doubted his innocence, but Detective Tracy had.

Fresh from restaurant work, Hayden was intrigued by the ghost kitchens, cooking up takeout dishes for groceries and delis. Some also ran their own delivery services.

“A pandemic pivot,” he mused.

“Here to stay.”

Back in our space, Reed was packing last-minute orders for restaurant customers.

“Gonna need extra help in a week or two,” he said, “for spice club.”

I explained our quarterly spice club, shipping boxes of seasonal blends to members across the United States and Canada. “Last couple of years, it’s exploded. Used to be, Sandra and I could fill the orders in one afternoon. Now it takes three or four of us twice that long.”

Hayden’s eyes widened when he saw the bags of black peppercorns and cardamom pods, and the giant plastic tubs of everything from Aleppo pepper to za’atar.

“Get a whiff of that curry,” he said.

“State of the art ventilation,” I said, “but spices smell. Be prepared. Even your hair will reek.” He ran a hand over his scalp, the stubble not a quarter inch long. “Well, maybe not yours.”

“Pepper,” Reed said. “Labeler’s balking. Would you take a look?”

I left Hayden to scout around and joined Reed. “What’s the problem? You know it runs on sweet talk.”

“No, it’s fine. I just wanted to talk in private.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Roxanne wants me to apply for an internship to work with her on some projects. Paid.”

“That’s great. What projects? After graduation?”

“Or sooner. Depends how quickly the grant comes through. She’s got a couple in mind, including cataloging the pharmacy. That would be so cool.”

I placed my hands on his shoulders and looked my serious young employee straight in his serious young eyes. “This is what you’ve wanted. It’s perfect for you. As for the timing, we’ll make it work.”

“Thanks. I knew you’d understand. But, Pepper. A man died there. How—you—”

“Yeah,” I said. “It isn’t easy, especially at first. The pharmacy was a place of healing for a long time. My guess, it will welcome you, because you respect what was done there. The medicine.” Not the murder.

Especially if Terence Leong’s killer had been brought to justice by then.

Maybe we should follow the lead of the ancient Greeks Vanessa had been quoting and add a few sprigs of marjoram to the offerings outside the Gold Rush’s front door.

HAYDEN decided to shadow Reed for the afternoon, so we agreed he’d come in next week to complete the new-hire process, and I left the two young men to their work. Me, I had another shadowing in mind.

As I drove south on I-5, I thought about Roxanne. She was part of this mystery, and I didn’t know how or why.

Nate’s account of her teenage misdeeds, if that wasn’t too nice a word, had me questioning her moves. Might she have taken the box of letters and claimed they were stolen? Why? What would she gain? And if she had taken them, why show me the photos? To follow up on the clues the letters contained without having to hand them over to their owner—or to the police if they proved to be evidence in the murder?

I’d seen her apartment. She was a collector, not a packrat or a hoarder.

Although there was that statue in the medicine cabinet. She liked small, curious objects. Was she trying to slow down the investigation while she searched for something in the wreckage— something the killer had been after?

She could have staged the attack. Dropped to the ground and scraped her hands and knees. Bruised her own cheek, though the thought made me wince. You’d have to be pretty seriously motivated to give yourself a black eye. No witnesses, no one to say it had or hadn’t happened the way she claimed.

But she’d been with me when the woman warned us off using the same words. What would Roxanne have hoped to gain by falsely alleging a second confrontation?

Unless she’d arranged the first one, too.

Hard to fathom. And I couldn’t honestly see her desecrating a historic place like the pharmacy. Unless Terence Leong had threatened it, or her. She would do a lot, I believed, to protect the objects she’d spent her career preserving, the antiquities she’d loved since she was a little girl. But if that had been the case, surely she’d have said so.

That I didn’t want to believe her capable of such a complicated setup didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

I exited I-5 and wound through the maze of unfamiliar streets to a strip mall housing an Ethiopian grocery and a nail salon. And on the corner, Bobby’s Comics and Collectibles.

After so many years shopping and working in the Market, I saw in an instant what the dealer Down Under meant when he said he had all the advantages. Not that a suburban strip mall can’t be appealing, if done right. I’d visited one last month, making an unplanned condolence call, that was warm and welcoming. Part of the neighborhood.

But this one? Bleh. Only a few cars were parked on the cracked asphalt. I drove around the block, then parked on the side street. What I hoped to see or find, I couldn’t say, but that was the point of snooping, wasn’t it?

I stood on the sidewalk near the corner of the building, phone in hand for cover. The shop windows were coated in that reflective film that looks like sunglass lenses, to prevent damage to the inventory. That made it hard to identify the large cardboard figures stationed inside the door. Standees, if I remembered the word right.

The door opened and two teenage boys emerged, each carrying a comic book. That gave me a brief glimpse of the cutouts. Seriously? The Green Hornet and his sidekick Kato—as my dad had told me, Bruce Lee’s first role on American TV.

The boys ignored me, crossing the lot to an older blue Ford Focus, and drove away.

In the ten minutes that I stood there pretending to be cool, no one entered or left the grocery. Two women came out of the salon and three went in. No one else entered or left Bobby’s Comics and Collectibles.

I strolled past the front door, its glass front not covered by the reflective coating. No customers inside, at least not that I could see. Comics spilled out of spinners and leaned dangerously from wall racks. Stacks of comics and books were piled on the floor. Though I spied a few glass cases, probably for the more valuable items, it had none of the charm of the shop Down Under.

I retraced my steps, then walked along the side of the building. Peered around the back corner. Caught an overripe whiff from a large trash bin that partially blocked my view, but I could see that the shop’s back door stood open, a red sedan parked on the other side. I crouched and crept forward, tucking myself behind the bin.

To my surprise, I heard voices.

“Blackmail, pure and simple,” the male voice said. Bobby. Blackmail over what? Was this the reason he needed cash? “That building has dictated my entire life. No more. No more.”

A second voice replied, lighter and harder to hear. Abigail, I was sure. Something about responsibility.

He had a responsibility? The building was a responsibility? It was all too vague to mean anything. I shifted position, hoping to see one of the Wus, but they remained out of sight, inside but near the back door. Something glinted and I noticed a small metal dish on the pavement.

“You were too innocent, trusting him like you trusted his mother.” Bobby’s reply was loud and clear. “I’ve given you a good life, but you’ve never gotten over your hard luck childhood. You’re a sucker for every sad story.”

I frowned. Who had she trusted that she shouldn’t?

One thing was clear. Whether it had been Bobby or Oliver poking around at city hall and calling an appraiser with an eye to selling the Gold Rush, Abigail was not on board. And she held the title.

I didn’t know how much Bobby’s shop contributed to their livelihood, or whether the “good life” he referred to came from the rentals in the CID. Those had come from Francis, whom I’d started to think of as Fong. Had Bobby’s father helped finance this place? Doubtful, if the Lockes’ assessment of the old man’s attitude was accurate. He’d had his ideas of what his son should do with his life, and comics were not among them.

The argument had died down but now the voices rose again.

“I’m doing this for us,” Bobby said. “To give you the best. So we can have the life we wanted. The life we deserved. If you hadn’t—”

A loud thunk echoed through the alley, and Bobby stopped. A stack of flattened cardboard boxes had fallen over, helped by a cat I hadn’t seen until now, skinny and white with brown patches on her sides and brown rings around the tip of her tail. She skittered away, taking refuge next to the front tire of the red car. At the sound of footsteps, I scooted backward out of the alley and around the corner to safety.

“Damned cat,” Bobby yelled. “Scat. Get out of here.” A scuffle, then a yowl.

I’d only met Bobby Wu once, but I’d instinctively disliked him. He had just proved me right.

And while I’d fallen asleep before the end of the movie, I’d seen the cat working out with Bruce Lee in the Coliseum before his big fight with Chuck Norris, practicing their moves and their yells. I knew, no way would Bobby Wu’s hero ever kick a cat.