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

Animals, says British science writer Ed Yong, experience the world in radically different ways than humans. A dog’s world is full of smell, making a nondescript patch of pavement into a super-interesting corner of the world, crammed with new information.

I TEXTED SANDRA TO TELL HER I’D PICK UP LUNCH. WHILE I waited for our order at the Italian grocery, I debated the possibilities. Either Abigail Wu had harmed her son and stashed his body, which likely meant she’d harmed Terence Leong as well, and gone about her business, betraying nothing to her long-time acupuncturist, an astute observer.

While I know better than to underestimate the physical strength of an older woman, even one battling cancer, I also knew that it was impossible to overestimate the determination of a mother to protect her son.

One last question: Why was Oliver Wu’s mother so carefully tending a hotel with no guests? Was she that committed to tradition, that bound by duty?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur of teal. I slipped off my stool and called out.

The woman’s look of surprise turned to a scowl when she spotted me and my apron. I held up the coin purse.

“We found this on the floor after you left, but I couldn’t catch you. Thank goodness you stopped for lunch.”

She was speechless, unlike in the shop. Finally, she spoke. “Serves me right, the way I behaved. I just discovered it was gone. I had to use a card to buy a slice of pizza. I can’t thank you enough.” She paused, an idea forming. “Actually, I think I can. Let me buy your lunch.”

“No.” I waved her off. “It’s for my whole staff. You don’t need to.”

“Even better,” she said, and she did. Our goodbyes were heartfelt as we each went on our way.

MIDAFTERNOUN, just after I’d finished with a customer, Detective Spencer called.

“Quick update. No sign of Oliver Wu. He’s not at home. Not scheduled to work this weekend. Maybe his mother is right and he took some time to himself, though no one claims he makes a habit of that. We’ve interviewed your Ms. Sharma and several other friends. Officer Ohno and the rest of the patrol beat are asking around.”

All stuff they wouldn’t do for a missing adult—a man who got cold feet before a big date—if they didn’t think they had good reason. Reason to fear he was a killer on the lam, or another victim?

I told her about running into Abigail Wu. “She’s upset about something, but it’s not Oliver going missing. I think she knows where he is and isn’t telling you.”

“That’s obstruction of justice,” Spencer said. “We’ll follow up. You said you saw her coming out of Dr. Locke’s clinic?”

“Yes. Seetha says she has cancer, in remission. Frail as she is, she’s been cleaning the Gold Rush. By herself.”

I heard a soft, musing “hmm,” so unlike Detective Tracy’s customary grunt.

“Pardon me telling you how to do your job, Detective,” I went on, “but have you checked the hotel basement?”

“We have. Not much to see. Brick walls. A couple of storerooms off the utility access passage. No more dead bodies, thank goodness.”

“Thank goodness,” the detective repeated, and it was nice to lighten the mood by a teaspoon or two.

A few minutes before closing, Seetha called. “Not hearing from him is driving me crazy. Aimee and I are going to Pioneer Square to hear a new band. Come with us.”

So not my thing. “You two will have more fun without me. I’ll live vicariously when you tell me all about it tomorrow.”

And then it was home on a Saturday night with a good book. My mother had guessed right—I never had read Jamie Ford’s Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet. I made a stir fry with snow peas, shiitake mushrooms, and flank steak I’d picked up on my way back to the shop after a dog walk, and settled in for a tour of the Seattle of the past through the author’s loving but not uncritical eyes.

SUNDAY brunch is special time, whether it’s at home, a neighborhood café, or a ritzy place like the Olympic Hotel—a once-a-year splurge with my girlfriends. It’s a time to drink too much coffee, forget about a balanced meal, and talk, talk, talk. I love it.

Arf and I ducked under the weeping willow, passed through the gate, and strode down the dock. Laurel lived one dock over, but I was going to miss coming here so often when my parents left. More than the place, though, I was going to miss them.

“Comfort food,” my mother said when I sniffed the air, detecting cinnamon and apples. “Morning Glory Baked Oatmeal. Did they find that boy? The one Seetha’s dating?”

We sat and ate, and I asked Charlie, my nephew, if he had any new comic books. He was caught up on the Wings of Fire graphic novels, eagerly awaiting the next volume, and told me all about Moonwatcher and the school for dragonets, formed to create a new future after the end of the terrible war.

“I’ve been reading them myself,” my dad confessed. “They’re a lot of fun.”

“Dad, you were studying martial arts right around the time Bruce Lee was so influential. What was his appeal?”

“Never been anyone like him, before or since. I saw him give a demonstration once. He had physical skills you had to see to believe. He made your eyes pop. How he packed all that power in the one-inch punch . . .” Dad extended a fist and moved it ever so slightly. “But instead of making you feel like you could never do what he did, he made you want to try.”

“Wasn’t he a child actor in Hong Kong?” Mom topped off his coffee and he murmured thanks.

“Yes. Then he made martial arts movies there as an adult. Breaking into American film was harder. As I told you the other night, he played Kato, the Asian chauffeur and sidekick in The Green Hornet TV series. He auditioned for the lead in Kung Fu, but the role went to an American actor who wasn’t Chinese.”

“Yes. There was concern about Lee’s accent, and whether he was enough of an actor—not just a fighter—to play the part of the Chinese American Shaolin monk. But he was so philosophical and had such presence. I’m sure he could have done it.”

“Do you know anything about The Green Hornet comic books? Would they be valuable?”

“The classics, sure. They go way back, before my time, though the characters have been revived a few times, I think. Why so interested?”

“I saw a big cardboard cutout of the Green Hornet and Kato last week, and it got me wondering.”

Wondering if that’s the collection Bobby Wu had been trying to sell my friend in the Market.

“Can we walk Arf?” Charlie asked after he and Lizzie had cleared the table, and I agreed, though I was glad when my dad offered to go along. They’re good kids and Arf adores them, but they don’t have pets themselves, and anything can happen. Especially down here, where the smells that define a dog’s world often involve water and motors and tight places where even an eleven-year-old boy might not go.

“So, what about the house hunt?” I asked my mother when we were alone. “You’re both being so secretive.”

“Oh, you’ll know when we know.” But there was a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes.

I was not convinced. Dog and humans returned and we all kissed, then climbed into our cars. “Have a blast at the zoo. I want a picture of the rabbit parade.”

A few blocks up the hill, I parked in front of Rainy Day Vintage, closed now, and pushed the button for Seetha’s second-floor apartment.

“Pepper, hi. Good boy, Arf.” She greeted us wearing gray leggings and a flowing tunic pieced together from old saris. I’d only seen her in a sari once, on her way to the wedding of the daughter of a childhood friend of her mother’s in India, but she did have several skirts and tunics made from the repurposed fabric.

She blinked, her eyes rimmed in red, and ran a hand through her unwashed hair. “Coffee? Or chai? My mother’s special blend. I know you love it.”

I followed her to the kitchen. After I’d pocketed a sample last summer, intending to create a copycat recipe, Sandra and I discovered that Mrs. Sharma did not in fact make her own version of the Indian spice and tea blend, as she’d led her daughter to believe, but bought it from a shop near the family’s home in Boston. I know a few things about mothers and daughters and secrets. This one was safe with me.

“Thanks, no.” I said. “I had brunch with my parents and if I have one more drop of caffeine, I won’t sleep until next Thursday. Sparkling water, if you have it.”

We sat at the kitchen table while her coffee brewed—like me, she’s ambidrinksterous.

“There was something I was going to ask you, but I forget what it was.” She blinked again, her skin pale, and refilled her water glass. “Too much fun last night. Or too much vodka, which seemed like the same thing at the time. And then, this.”

“Yeah, I called Spencer. But while I appreciate the apology for standing me up, it’s about thirty-six hours too late. An out-of-town emergency, he’ll explain everything? Dude, seriously? He works here, his whole family’s here. He’s never lived anywhere but Seattle.”

“Could be legit. His mother might have family elsewhere. Although she didn’t mention an emergency.” I told her about my conversation with Abigail outside Dr. Locke’s clinic, when she’d brushed aside any concerns about her son.

“Ohh, I never thought to mention that. Abigail is seeing the Chinese doctor, along with chemo and all the regular stuff. According to Oliver, it’s a big fight between his parents. Bobby doesn’t believe in Chinese medicine. Calls it voodoo—”

A true believer, or the cancer patient grasping for a cure? Not if she was in remission.

Was this why the pharmacy had been walled off and Bobby wanted so little to do with the building? Was his distrust of the old ways—nursed by his father, assuming Francis was in fact Fong— another part of the family legacy?

And what did any of it have to do with Oliver’s disappearance or Terence Leong’s death?

Arf and I were halfway down the stairs when Seetha called after me. “Pepper, wait.”

“I remembered what I was going to ask you. In Pioneer Square, in the sidewalks, there are these purple glass squares.” She made lines and corners with her hands. “What are they? Aimee and I didn’t have any idea.”

“Oh, yeah. You see them all over down there. That whole area was basically a bog, constantly flooding. Sewage backups.”

“After the Great Fire of 1889, the city raised the street level in Pioneer Square. That meant ground floor businesses became basements. So they installed skylights, sort of—cast iron panels that held small glass prisms, designed to magnify the light.”

“Not originally. They were clear, but the glass has some chemical—manganese maybe?—that darkened over time. Sun exposure. You can see them from below if you go on the Underground Tour. And from the lower level of the Grand Central Arcade. That’s a historic district, so they’re protected now. Replacements are pre-purpled. I read that somewhere.”

“I knew you would know.” She gripped her arms. “Thanks Pepper. For everything.”

I blew her a kiss, and my dog and I headed out into what passes for sunlight in January in Seattle.

Arf and I made a quick stop at the shop to ensure all was well, but neither of us was quite ready to curl up at home for the day.

We took the secret staircase—it isn’t a secret, just not obvious if you don’t know it’s there—from Pike Place down to Lower Post Alley. We passed the Market offices and detoured around a gaggle of teenagers gathered at the Gum Wall. When we reached the old INS building, I stopped, wishing for some kind of memorial to remind the thousands of people who passed by every day that lives had been lived and lost here. So many families’ fates had been decided inside these walls.

Further down, we passed the doggy day care, closed on Sundays when downtown office workers were home with their dogs. “What do you think, Arf? Should we check it out, or do you like being a Spice Shop pup?”

He was too busy sniffing to answer, the scents of the canines who’d passed this way a carnival for his senses. They say dogs have more than a hundred million receptor sites in their noses, compared to six million for us, and watching him work the pavement, I believed it.

In Pioneer Square, I slowed to admire the purple vault lights. So much ingenuity and history.

We veered left at the venerable Smith Tower, built after the regrades, though I didn’t remember the year. At thirty-eight stories, it was the city’s first skyscraper and long the tallest building west of the Mississippi. We passed the ceremonial Chinatown Gate and my steps slowed. What if I was right? What then? I still wouldn’t know who’d killed Terence Leong or why.

At Hing Hay Park, I passed the red metal sculptural arch that welcomes visitors to the festival area. Best, I decided, to ground truth my theory in a spot where I could act like a tourist without raising alarm.

In the next block, we passed Tai Tung, a landmark that calls itself the city’s oldest Chinese restaurant. I’d never been in it. Whichever spice and tea supplier had sewed up the trade down here had worked hard to keep and maintain it, and truthfully, much as I wanted to grow my business, I had no real desire to disrupt those relationships. Karma, as they say, can bite you in the dogma in a hurry.

A sign in the window registered a moment late and I backed up for a better look. “Bruce Lee’s Favorite Restaurant!” it proclaimed. The menu was posted beneath it, proudly highlighting Lee’s favorite dishes: beef with oyster sauce and garlic shrimp. In the back corner hung a nearly life-sized photo of the shirtless fighter, more photos plastered on the walls.

Dad and Reed were right. Bruce Lee had been gone fifty years, but he was still good for business. Any rumors that he haunted a building would have made banner headlines. And while Bobby Wu appeared to have no love of the Gold Rush, it was clear from the cardboard cutout of Lee in his shop that he idolized the man.

I walked on, to Maynard Alley, one of several Pioneer Square and CID alleys that had been brought back to life through a public-private collaboration. Where I’d meant to be a week ago, when Seetha and I got turned around. Utterly charming, even on a gray day, with its bricked streets and bright doors. I could picture the planters and pots now sitting empty on the metal fire escapes brimming with herbs and pansies in spring. The project had converted the CID’s backsides into front doors, creating festival spaces and new storefronts just right for artisans and small businesses, much like Post Alley in the Market.

A chain of origami cranes hung in a window, delicate yet powerful. Popular hobby, and the papers were beautiful. Then I remembered how bad I am at wrapping gifts and folding maps and how I could never manage to get the tissue paper patterns back in their envelopes when my mother and grandmother tried to teach me to sew. No, no origami for me.

There. That’s what I was looking for. No prism skylights here. To limit flooding, the city had filled the streets and alleys with dirt from the regrades, leaving only the brick archways of the doors and windows of the past. Outside, they were ghosts of themselves.