Twenty-Two

Never give away parsley if you are in love, or you’ll give away your luck.

— European folklore

EVEN WITH THE DOORS TO THE CONCERT HALL ITSELF closed, the strains of something big and symphonic leaked out, highlighting the emptiness of the lobby. Seetha sat in the fancy food court where concert-goers could enjoy an unrushed dinner and a drink before the performance. Her phone lay on the table next to an empty wine glass, her coat draped over the back of the chair next to her. No one else was around, except for a small crew cleaning up behind the counters, the Caesar salads and quiches and berry-topped mousse no longer on display.

Seetha lifted her head at my approach, the glimmer of hope on her face vanishing.

“Why?” she said. “Why would he invite me, then stand me up?”

“I’m sure there was a good reason.” I slid into the seat across from her.

“I texted.” She held up her phone. “Nothing.”

On my way here, I’d called Oliver’s hotel to ask if he was working late. It was Friday night—were they hosting a big shindig that demanded all hands on deck? No, I’d been told; he’d left when his shift ended at four.

“Any chance one of you had the date wrong?”

She showed me his text from earlier in the week. The date and time of the invitation were clear. “I checked at the ticket counter. He bought the tickets online. They’re still there. In his name so I couldn’t go in, even if I wanted to, but don’t you see, Pepper? Something must have happened.”

“Why don’t you go freshen up, then we’ll find a place for a bite.”

While Seetha was in the restroom, I called Detective Spencer. “I barely know the guy. But he sprang for symphony tickets to see a woman he’s obviously hot for, then ghosted her. Something’s not right.”

“I’m on it,” she replied. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got news.”

A few minutes later, Seetha and I walked into a favorite spot down the street. I’d briefly considered the restaurant in Oliver’s hotel, then decided that was too much like stalking. Although not unwarranted, under the circumstances. And guaranteed to plunge Seetha deeper into the blues.

“You look great, by the way,” I said as we settled into a romantic booth for two. After Seetha called, I’d managed to throw on a pair of pants and a tunic that didn’t reek of oregano, but it was no match for her form-fitting sweater, narrow skirt, and kitten heels. A seriously uptown outfit.

We ordered drinks and a small charcuterie plate with bruschetta and herbed goat cheese. “They’ll find him. Everything will be fine.”

“It’s probably his mom,” she said, “though why not let me know? But he said her cancer is in remission.”

The illness I’d guessed at. Was that what Bobby meant, when he talked about the life they deserved?

“What else do you know about her?”

“Not a lot. She came from a close family, but her parents struggled to support them all, including the grandfather who lived with them after her grandmother died. I guess he was pretty cranky.” She paused while the server delivered our drinks, then drew her pear-tini toward her. Pear vodka accented with lemon, honey, thyme, and bitters. I’d been tempted but decided to stick with wine to stay in the vicinity of my wits.

“Or maybe I have the grandfathers mixed up,” Seetha continued. “She wanted a big family, but it didn’t work out that way. Oliver said she was always bringing home strays. Kids, not dogs.”

I remembered the cat dish. “Is she very involved with the comic book shop?”

“Not according to Oliver. It’s Bobby’s baby.” Her black hair swung as she shook her head. “He can’t be involved in murder, Pepper. He can’t be.”

She was smitten.

“I’m sure he’s not,” I said, no longer sure at all. “Men are a mystery.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

No word from Spencer by the time we’d finished our drinks and dinner, so we said good night. I was knackered. But before the dog and I took our walk, I had to call Nate.

The dilemma in having a serious discussion by phone: Do you lead with the “how was your day?” chit chat, or dive right in?

I dove right in. “You didn’t tell me the truth about the incident with Roxanne. You said she pocketed a small statue, then when she got caught, things got wild. You didn’t tell me she hit you. Or that her sister, your wife, insisted she be prosecuted. I had to find out from Detective Michael Tracy, of all people.”

No reply.

“Why, Nate?” I continued. “Why not tell me? When you introduced us last fall, you said she was a sweet kid. Sweet kids don’t shoplift, then punch their brother-in-law.”

“I was embarrassed. I shouldn’t have let it happen. And I wanted to protect her.”

Now I was the quiet one.

“Besides, she was a sweet kid, except for that one time.” We fell into an uncomfortable silence. “Listen, I know it sounds harsh. Rox is ten years younger and Rosalie was responsible for her. The parents—who knows where they were. And like I said, I’ve never been aware of any other problems.”

Good garlic, Pep. Do you have to be hit in the head to get it? I’d been upset with Nate for not telling me the truth about something that happened twenty years ago and didn’t involve me. For protecting someone he genuinely cared for. And here I was the one not being honest about what was happening right now.

“When I stopped for pizza the other night,” I said, “Daria hinted that Bron was thinking about staying down here instead of going back to Alaska after this season. I’ve debated telling you— you have a right to know, but should you hear it from me?”

“I do know. And likewise, I realized you’d want to know, which is only fair.” I heard Nate shuffling around his on-board cabin as he spoke. “But Pep, Bron and I are different people. He thinks out loud. This isn’t the first time he’s talked about giving up fishing. Yes, there’s usually a woman involved, and yes, this time could be different. He talks about Daria in a way I’ve never heard him talk about anyone. And that shoulder injury of his has been acting up again. Bottom line, I can’t predict what he’ll do. I didn’t want to get your wheels turning if he was just spinning his.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. I barely knew Bron. But Nate knew us both, and I had to trust his judgment.

“Laurel was right. She said I always want to talk everything to death, in the guise of working it out, and that you want to know what you think before we talk. Or something like that.”

“Laurel is a wise woman.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” Relief flooded through me. But I couldn’t quite let the serious stuff go. “That’s why you told me to be careful about Roxanne.”

“Yes, and I see now that I should have told you the whole story right up front. But I’m serious, Pep. I don’t have any reason to doubt her honesty now.”

Neither did I, but the whole tangle of interconnected stories was proving pretty tricky to unravel. I told Nate about Seetha and Oliver, hiring Hayden, and the ongoing saga of my parents’ house hunt. He talked about the catch, the balky engine Bron had whispered back to health, and the tentative schedule. It was a long conversation that could have gone on had my dog not been holding his pee far more patiently than I had a right to expect.

“Love you,” I said.

“Love you more,” he responded.

“I doubt that, but it’s a nice thought.”

Then my dog and I walked out into the mist.

SATURDAYS, families flood the Market. A pair of teenage girls came in with their dad. He handed Cayenne a shopping list and the girls browsed the foodie fiction.

Seeing them brought me back to Roxanne. The teenage slipup that could have derailed her but hadn’t. Had her sister been right to insist on prosecution for the assault as well as the theft? Nate took the blame for getting hit—“I should have ducked”—but also because he’d been the adult. She’d been part of his household, and he hadn’t wanted her lost in the juvenile justice system. Another good sign about the man.

I straightened the tea accessories—infusers, strainers, pots— pondering Roxanne’s role in the mess at the Gold Rush. I’d wondered if she’d stolen the letters herself, or if she’d gone after Terence Leong to protect the pharmacy somehow. My speculation made less sense the more I thought about it.

And Oliver’s disappearance blurred the picture further.

I snapped a few shots of our updated displays and settled in my office for some blatant shop promotion. We might appreciate winter’s slower pace, but that didn’t mean we could rest on our bay laurels.

But questions kept interfering. Why had Bobby and Abigail left the hotel empty? What was the blackmail he’d mentioned? Who was the woman who’d been staying in the second-floor room, and where had she and her baby gone?

As I edited the photos and created graphics, I recalled Roxanne’s pictures of the lion dancers. Had she been spying on Oliver Wu or Terence Leong? Tracy would be wondering if she’d gotten the wrong man the first time and now gone after the other.

I couldn’t believe that. I didn’t know her well, but Nate did, and he was sure she’d trod the straight and narrow ever since that humiliating experience as a sixteen-year-old. He’d been married to her sister for another ten years, and he and Roxanne had stayed in touch despite the divorce. I thought about some of the girls I’d known in high school. Even if you’d lost contact. you knew the kind of women they’d become. Mostly—a few had done a one-eighty. Classmates might be surprised that I ran the Spice Shop in the Market, but not that I worked my tail off, or that Kristen and I were still joined at the hip.

How were Oliver and Terence connected, beyond their yellow costumes?

I retrained my focus on work. Sandra and Kristen had both tested Cayenne’s scone recipe with fabulously tasty results, so I created a blog post, sent it to our newsletter subscribers, shared the photos on Insta, and all the other blah blah. So many business owners stumble because they don’t like doing the business part of the job—they love books or wine or bicycles, but let the details they don’t enjoy like HR and accounting and promotion pile up. I am grateful daily that there’s very little about this job that I don’t love.

One such thing is stepping in when a customer interaction goes awry.

I was back on the shop floor, intending to restock the recipe rack, when the customer at the front counter raised her voice.

“I specifically told you it’s two separate orders. You’ve mixed them up and created a complete mess.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Kristen said. “I can void the transaction and start over. Just tell me which items you want rung up together.” Vanessa had already bagged several items and stood frozen, a tin of grilling rub in one hand. No one likes a heated situation.

“No, no, no. It’s too late for that. Just finish what you’ve started.”

I slipped a stack of recipes for our Salty Oat Cookies into one rack and Pepper’s Gingersnaps, starring my secret ingredient, in another. As I worked, I kept an eye on the front counter. Transaction completed, Vanessa came around the counter with the shopping bag. The woman snatched it from her hands and marched out of the shop.

“Oh, cardamom.” On the floor lay a small brown leather coin purse stitched with a floral design. I’d seen it in the woman’s hand but hadn’t noticed her drop it. I scooped it up and dashed outside. Scanned the crowd on the sidewalk.

“Where did she go, where did she go?” I stood on the corner, muttering.

There, at the top of the hill, her teal coat standing out in a sea of black and tan. I sprinted up Pine. Stopped at the corner. Where had she gone? Had she stepped into the Bagel Bakery or the map store? Stopped for a milkshake or falafel? Down the street I went, glancing in the windows as I passed.

The cantankerous customer had disappeared. But inside the entrance to the upper level of the Sanitary Market, emerging from the Lockes’ clinic, was Abigail Wu.

I shot one more glance up and down First Avenue. No sign of my target. I couldn’t let two women get away from me within minutes. I opened the door and walked inside. Abigail had paused, fishing for something in her purse. Keys, phone, her Orca card for the transit system?

“Mrs. Wu,” I said. “How nice to see you. Pepper Reece. We met at the Gold Rush a few days ago. I’m a friend of Seetha Sharma and Roxanne Davidson. I run the Spice Shop down on Pike Place.”

“Yes,” she said pleasantly, snapping her bag shut. “I see that.”

My apron. “Oops. I ran out after a customer who dropped something and didn’t have time to grab my coat.” I held up the coin purse. “No luck, I’m afraid. Seetha is worried about your

son.”

“So I hear, from Detective Spencer. Lovely woman, considering what she does for a living. I’m sure Oliver’s fine—just needed a day or two for himself. Ms. Sharma seems like a nice girl, but clearly, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Granted, Oliver Wu was a grown man, but an odd reaction. There was no misunderstanding the text Oliver had sent Seetha, or the tickets he’d paid for and never collected.

“You came to see Dr. Locke?” I changed the subject. “I’m a big fan. His son works for me. His father translated a couple of the letters Roxanne found in the hotel, hoping to fill in some of the gaps in its history.”

What had I said that stunned her? That I knew the doctors Locke, young and old? That Roxanne had found the letters and now had a rough idea what they said? Or that outsiders cared about the history of her family’s building?

“Dr. Davidson has proven invaluable,” Abigail said, a firm control on her voice. “We were fortunate to find her.”

The words I’d overheard outside the comic shop popped into my mind, like one of those thought balloons in a comic strip. “You cleaned the hotel, didn’t you? For the Lunar New Year. Clearing out the old, to make room for new. For good luck. I’d been wondering who dusted that beautiful woodwork and vacuumed those carpets. You even lit incense. You’re the owner, and you’ve seen maintaining it as your responsibility. For your son?”

“And for—” She stopped herself. Ron Locke opened the clinic door and stuck his head out.

“Oh, Pepper. Hi. Didn’t notice you. I saw Abigail standing here and wondered if something was wrong.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “See you next week.” She pushed past me as if hurrying to escape without saying something she might regret.

“I wanted to reassure her,” I said. “I’m sure the police will find her son safe and well in no time.”

The expression on Ron Locke’s face made clear she hadn’t said a word.

And that convinced me that Oliver Wu wasn’t missing at all.