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

Current status: Compassionately caffeinated. That means I’m drinking coffee not just for myself, but for the good of all. You’re welcome.

— Nanea Hoffman, Sweatpants & Coffee (blog)

I STAYED PUT WELL AFTER THE BACK DOOR TO THE COMIC shop slammed shut. The cat had disappeared. I put my shoulders back and strolled to my car with all the confidence I could muster, trying not to look as out of place as I felt. Then I drove to a coffee shop near Southcenter Mall and ordered a double espresso. Added a big fat piece of chocolate torte, for good medicine.

The coffee came and I inhaled the sweet perfume, what my artist pal Jamie calls the elixir of life. Roasted on site, dark and rich, like the cake. Funny how caffeine, with or without chocolate, can be both calming and energizing. I took a sip and let it do its work.

Though I didn’t know just what I’d witnessed, I was reasonably sure it didn’t warrant a call to my friends Spencer and Tracy. And I was reasonably sure Bobby Wu would not have hurt me, despite his mistreatment of the neighborhood stray. But that didn’t mean I wanted him to know I was there. I believe a man capable of screaming at his wife and kicking a cat equally capable of murder, but that didn’t prove he’d done it.

Did I really think he might have killed Terence Leong? Roxanne had heard sounds in the basement and her concern for the pharmacy had overcome any fear she might have had about going into a dark space alone. She’d met Bobby Wu. If she’d caught even a glimpse of him in the hotel that night, she’d have said so.

All the people you pass without realizing it. Who else might have been lurking around the Gold Rush last Saturday unnoticed?

The comic book shop didn’t look prosperous, but looks can be deceiving. Everyone knows someone who drives a beater and wears ratty jeans and T-shirts even though they have plenty of money, because cars and clothes aren’t important to them. But, the shop. A visible lack of interest sends the wrong kind of message in retail, if you ask me.

Thinking of impressions, the one time I’d seen Abigail Wu, I’d gotten the sense of internal strength, despite her pale skin and loose clothing. As if she’d been ill. As if she were fighting. I wished I’d heard more of what she’d said to Bobby just now.

I cut another bite. Illness might explain the need to make a plan for the building. To estimate its value and lay out the options. The Wus weren’t old—early 60s. They could run the shop and the rentals for years. Though at thirty-fiveish, Oliver might be itching to take over the property. You’d think a family would know the history of a place it had owned for almost a century. But the circumstances of the purchase were mysterious, and the stories of the Gold Rush’s early years could easily have been lost. If Bobby had known about the walled-up pharmacy before Oliver discovered it a few weeks ago, he’d kept the secret. Why? After all this time, why did it matter now?

I sipped and ate, my sense of self slowly returning. Between bites, I scrolled the Spice Shop’s social media on my phone, replying to a few comments. Cayenne’s post discussing herbs, spices, and cheese would have had me salivating if my mouth hadn’t been full of cake.

Long as I was snooping, I pulled up Roxanne’s Instagram. Lots of shares from the museum and other places with great art, some Asian, some not. Scenes from Volunteer Park, home of the Asian Art Museum. And the Lunar New Year festivities last weekend.

I stopped scrolling at the shot of the lion dancers. Just what hackles are, I’ve never quite known, but I was sure mine were standing on their tippy toes. I used two fingers to enlarge the photo and scroll to the edges. I wasn’t in it and neither were Seetha or my mother. But I recognized the angle, and the edge of the dumpling seller’s lantern-festooned table where we’d been when the dancers came by. Whoever took this picture had been standing close to us, with the same view of the giant lions that we’d had. And with the same view of Oliver Wu and his dancing pals.

I hadn’t seen Roxanne. Not only that, she’d said she’d been working late and was about to quit for the night when she heard the noise in the basement.

Why hadn’t she called the police on the prowler? Simple, I’d thought. She wanted to protect the pharmacy, which meant keeping it quiet as long as she could. Not until she found the body did she go for help.

Now my hackles were jumping up and down, pointing their fingers. Any moment now, they’d start screaming and I’d have to either tell them to use their inside voices or skedaddle. And I still had cake.

I sat back, thinking this through. Had she said she’d never left the building, or had I made that assumption? I stared at the photo.

Time to go. I dropped my phone in my tote and scooted back my chair. Saw that last lonely bite of cake on the plate and ate it.

BACK in the car, I texted Seetha. No point asking if she’d seen Roxanne earlier in the afternoon; they hadn’t met before Roxanne burst out of the Gold Rush, so Seetha wouldn’t have recognized her. But I did wonder what she knew about Oliver’s parents. I finally settled on saying I hoped they were okay—the discovery of the body must have been deeply upsetting.

Should I tell her I had my doubts about Oliver? That there was something strange going on? Laurel had tried to caution her, with no luck. I had no reason to worry about her physical safety. If I said anything now, she’d shut me out.

Traffic on I-5 is a nightmare on a good day, let alone snaking north through the bottleneck around downtown on a Friday afternoon. First chance, I exited and made my way to First for a straight, if slow, shot to the Market.

Just past the stadia, the old INS building, the replacement for the one barely a block from my loft, loomed large. Immigration loomed large over much of this city, not always casting the kindest of shadows. I tried to imagine Fong’s wife, alone despite the crowded detention cells, frightened and possibly unwell. How long had she been held? Had he been able to visit? When had she realized she was seriously ill, possibly dying, in this terrifying new world? She and her husband had put their trust in a doctor from their own culture. Had he failed her, or had the situation been too dire?

The light changed and I drove on. My own grandparents left Hungary for the promise of freedom in the United States in the 1950s. Of course, they hadn’t faced the changing winds of a country that first welcomed and then reviled them.

It was all too much to think about at the moment. So I didn’t. I thought about Hayden and his enthusiasm, and what a relief it was to find promising young employees like him and Vanessa. I thought about scones and quiches with smoked cheddar and Five Spice apple cake and egg tarts and crab rangoons, about Pinot Gris and Pinot Noir. And all that raised my spirits so high that I didn’t even mind the traffic near the Market. I zipped left on Virginia and left again into the parking garage.

In Post Alley, I stopped at the wine shop. My cellar—a rack for the reds and a mini wine fridge tucked under the kitchen counter for the whites—might runneth over, but I wanted to say hello and check on the guys.

Matt was helping a customer. Vinny insisted on showing me the progress of build-out. The opening between the existing shop and the new space had not yet been cut, so we walked outside and he unlocked the door. The workers were gone, but they’d left behind the smells of sawdust and promise. So much better than the stench of murder.

“At first, I could almost feel the girl’s spirit, lingering. Kinda spooked me.” Vinny rubbed his cheek. “Then it clicked. She’s watching the place. Making sure we do it right.”

“We’re putting a special display right here.” He stomped one foot on the pine plank floor. “‘Beth’s Picks.’”

“Speaking of wine,” I said. I asked if they might like to get together after work, sample a glass of something yummy. But it was Date Night for Matt and Misty, and Vinny was hosting a garden club meeting. Naturally, there would be wine. He’d given up ghost hunting and was throwing himself into his perennials and his baseball cards.

Outside in the Alley—in reality, a narrow, paved street despite the name—I checked my phone for a reply from Seetha.

Seeing Oliver tonight, followed by a happy dance emoji. I’ll ask about his parents and let you know.

DETECTIVES, Tracy and Spencer like to remind me, do not work regular hours. They show up unannounced at five-thirty on a Friday afternoon when the proprietor of the shop—that would be me—is returning from a brisk walk with her faithful companion— that would be Arf—expecting to dive into the closing routine.

Instead, I found myself facing them in the nook while my staff swept the floors, wiped down the counters, and tackled other tasks essential to retail but invisible to the public.

Fine. I could run the till and count the cash later. I had no Friday night plans. Me and Arf and a bottle of red, and leftovers.

“Time to talk about your friend, Dr. Davidson,” Detective Spencer said. “A few things in her past cause us some concern. We don’t know how much you know, although your Mr. Seward is her brother-in-law.”

“Former,” Spencer repeated. “And he knows the full story.” “Which we assume you didn’t,” Tracy said. “Or you’d have told us about it.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Tracy tossed a hand in the air. “You of all people. You know we can’t do our jobs if people don’t tell us everything they know.”

What did they mean, Nate knew the full story? There was an implication behind the words that I wasn’t sure I liked.

“I just found out,” I said. Monday. Four days ago. “It’s not that big a deal, is it? A sixteen-year-old swiped a statue on the spur of the moment. Paid her dues—community service or whatever—and stayed clean. The system worked.” Though my mind’s eye did flash on that figurine in Roxanne’s medicine cabinet.

My chest tightened. What had Nate said? “He said things got kind of wild. But I didn’t ask what he meant.”

“When her brother-in-law tried to stop her, she took a swing at him. Hit him. The charges were shoplifting and assault.”

A spasm of pain shot through my jaw and I rubbed it, stunned. “He—I—I didn’t know that. He told me no one was hurt and she’s never been in trouble again. Is that true?”

“Far as we know, yes,” Spencer said. “Neither he or the shop owner wanted to press charges, but her sister was her legal guardian and she insisted. To teach Roxanne a lesson.”

“I assume what you’re after,” I said, “is whether I know anything to suggest she might have violent or larcenous instincts. Whether she might have struck Terence Leong with the brick and taken the letters to throw you off.”

“I don’t, but I can’t say it’s impossible.” I fished my phone out of my apron pocket and found the photo. “Have you seen this, on her Instagram feed?”

“She didn’t say she hadn’t left the hotel that afternoon, but she clearly meant to give that impression.” I scrolled back through my own photos, to the selfie with dumplings. “Same view, almost the exact same moment. She has to have been within fifteen feet of me. And that”—I pointed to a figure in yellow, dressed as Terence Leong had been when he died—“is Oliver Wu.”

THE STAFF had left. The cops left. I locked the door behind them and turned off the lights. Taking that as a signal, my dog stood and gave himself a full-body shake, ready to “hook up” and walk home.

Instead, I sat in the nook. He followed and after a long minute, sat on the floor beside me, his chin on my knee. I twined my fingers in the soft fur behind his ear.

“Why was Roxanne photo-stalking Oliver Wu?” I asked out loud. “Did she mistake Terence Leong for him?” Oliver had struck me as polished and pleasant, a loyal son unsure of his role in the family and his responsibility to it. Was he secretly up to something that would make someone—Roxanne, or persons unknown— want to kill to stop him?

Or was it the other way around? Had she been following Leong, and mistaken the two men?

And what about Nate? He knew the one thing I could not accept in a relationship was dishonesty. Not that he’d actually lied. He just hadn’t told me the whole story, which amounted to the same thing. Or did it?

I sat for a long time. Finally, my bottom began to ache from the hard wooden bench. “Time to go,” I told my faithful companion, and we walked out onto Pike Place. The shops were dark, the metal doors of the highstalls and street-front takeout joints rolled down and locked up. The vendor tables were bare. Lights glowed in the bars and restaurants, and clink and chatter spilled out, but it was subdued. Friday night, yes, but Friday night in January.

A few minutes later, I unlocked the door to the loft and shucked off my coat and boots. Fed Arf and wondered what I should eat, though my appetite had disappeared. My phone buzzed. Nate? What would I say to him?

But it wasn’t Nate. It was Seetha. She’d had a date with Oliver, for dinner at the bistro inside Benaroya Hall before the concert.