Twenty-Eight

You put water into a cup; it becomes the cup. You put water into a teapot; it becomes the teapot. Now water can flow, or it can crash! Be water, my friend.

— Bruce Lee

ROXANNE HAD WANTED TO SHOW GLEE AND HER HUSBAND the pharmacy, but the detectives said no, the entire basement was now a crime scene and they’d make arrangements for the Websters to see it after the crime scene investigation was complete. Bobby would face assault and kidnaping charges for his attacks on Roxanne and me, along with murder.

The patrol car dropped me off in front of my loft. When I hadn’t returned to the shop, Sandra had called my neighbor Glenn, who’d come up to the Market to collect my dog. The chain of texts had been pinging like mad when I emerged from the hotel basement and found my phone, chiming like a clock stuck on the hour.

Now I crouched in the doorway to Glenn and his Nate’s temporary home on the lower level of the building and my dog threw himself into my arms.

“Oh, Arf. Arf. Good boy. My good boy.”

“He’s been walked and fed,” Glenn said. “He’s been well-behaved, as always. But we could tell he knew you were in trouble.”

A tear dribbled down my cheek, and a rough tongue wiped it away.

On our way upstairs, I passed the door of the neighbor I barely knew. “Tomorrow,” I said. “Tomorrow, we’ll get to know each other.”

And then it was time to call my Nate. Didn’t matter what time it was, frankly. I wanted desperately to hear his voice. To assure him I loved him, trusted him, needed him in my life no matter what the terms or where he was.

That’s what love is. I sat on the floor and called my guy, stroking the dog’s head in my lap. I was a fortunate cookie, indeed.

OVER the next few days, more of the story emerged. When Abigail had been diagnosed with cancer, she’d rewritten her will to leave the Gold Rush to Oliver and Terence jointly. Oliver had known and agreed. It was Abigail who’d encouraged him to take control of the property. Terence had not been attempting blackmail, as Bobby had charged in the argument I’d overheard in the comic book shop. Rather, he’d hoped to find the drawing his mother had hidden and not had time to retrieve. The police made a copy, which Oliver and Abigail gave Roxanne to help complete her survey of the building. The project would take months, and there was a good chance she’d be able to hire Reed as her intern.

Oliver assured her that no matter what they did with the hotel, the pharmacy would be preserved. The old man had not been able to bring himself to destroy it. Despite his bitterness, he’d understood its historic importance to the community and beyond. And perhaps, I mused, keeping it intact had allowed him to nurse his grudge.

The chop found with Dr. Chen’s drawing had in fact been his seal, and Detective Spencer gave it to Glee.

Glee had experience with converting older buildings into modern hotels and was willing to offer her advice, if that’s what Abigail and Oliver chose to do. Aki Ohno and her friends advocated for senior housing or assisted living. Once a community activist, always a community activist. No decisions had been made. After all, Oliver told Seetha when they finally made it to the symphony, and she told me the next day, the Gold Rush had been waiting patiently for decades. It could wait a little longer.

When Roxanne reported hearing noises while she worked, Oliver had quickly realized that her unpredictable schedule meant she and Terence were prowling the hotel at the same time. He’d grasped at his father’s love of Bruce Lee for an explanation. He apologized profusely, and she accepted with the grace I’d come to expect from her, and even a touch of humor.

As for why Terence had rented the lion dancer costume, we surmised that he wanted to be part of the community at the Lunar New Year. To dance and bring good fortune.

Glee spoke with Gloria Wong about researching the family history and genealogy. Gloria and my friend at the city would help sort out the multiple deeds and identify what Dr. Chen had owned and what Fong aka F.H. and Francis had bought when, in the block surrounding the Gold Rush. I had little doubt that forcing a man to sell you a five-story building with a working hotel above a successful clinic for a hundred dollars was a bad sign. Nate wondered if they might uncover evidence that Fong had taken unfair advantage of other families as well. Time would tell, as it often does.

Now cleared of any suspicion, the would-be buyers had set their sights on another building, one without so many ghosts.

Hayden arrived for the Wednesday morning staff meeting, his first, with a serving tray.

“What? What did you bring?” Cayenne asked.

“Pimento olive puffs, made with smoked cheddar and a dash of smoked paprika. I developed the recipe myself.” He uncovered the tray and passed it around.

“You’re going to fit in just fine,” Sandra told him, and I agreed.

Reed had joined us for the meeting. “Dad and Granddad and I are taking a tour of the pharmacy as soon as the cops okay it.”

“Prepare to have your mind blown,” I said.

“Granddad’s been going over the medical records Glee and John Webster brought, trying to solve the mystery of old Mr. Wu’s first wife.”

“And?” I was surprised how desperately I wanted Dr. Chen to be proven blame-free in the death nearly a century ago of a woman I had never met.

“Based on her pulses and the herbs Dr. Chen gave her, he suspects a heart condition caused by malaria or some other infection she never knew she had. If she’d known, if she’d had symptoms, it could have been treated. But with the stresses of travel, then detention, by the time she saw Dr. Chen, it was too late.”

“Such a tragedy.”

“Also, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but my dad says Abigail is doing fine, despite all the stress. He’s treating her regularly to keep things in balance, but the moment he senses any serious change, any sign that she’s coming out of remission, he’ll send her back to the oncologist. You know he believes Eastern and Western medicine work best together.”

Keeping the elements in balance. Always a good thing.

DETECTIVES Spencer and Tracy came by to give me an update.

“No cookies today, Detective,” I said to Tracy after our conversation. “Care for an olive puff?”

He grunted. And ate three.

I’D SET a few of Hayden’s olive puffs aside for Sandy Lynn and delivered them midafternoon. I had to wait my turn as she wrapped wedges of triple-crème brie and Rogue River blue for customers.

The spunky cheese monger looked happy, but tired.

“Pepper, you used to work in HR, didn’t you? I thought I could run the shop on my own, but if it’s like this in January, I’ll never be able to handle the busy season. Can you help me hire someone?”

So much for leaving the past alone.

Then I headed to the comic shop Down Under. At my suggestion, Oliver had contacted Dave Hudson to appraise the contents of Bobby’s shop, as neither he nor his mother wanted to run the place. They’d also asked him to inventory the collection stashed in the Gold Rush, once the crime scene was released. Whether it belonged to Bobby or Abigail was a legal question, but the proceeds of a sale might go a long way toward paying his legal fees—and Abigail’s medical bills. And maybe, if the boxes held what Bobby believed was hidden there, seed money to help restore the Gold Rush.

“Passion,” big Dave said to me now, “is healthy, even when other people don’t understand.”

In all my talk about needing a hobby, this was the piece I’d been missing. There’s no point spending hours learning to knit one, purl two if you don’t truly, deeply enjoy making things with yarn.

“And then there’s obsession,” he continued. “Comes from the dark side. Driven by something other than love. If you aren’t careful—and the obsessed rarely are—it’ll kill you.”

Wise words.

“By the way, I’ve been thinking about the traffic tangle.” Dave reached under the counter and brought out a roll of paper, laying it flat so I could see the Market streets, drawn to scale. He added a toy car and a couple of delivery trucks. “Not that I’m obsessed or anything.”

I laughed right down to my toes.

THANKS in equal parts to Keith Chang’s enthusiasm for our spices, my role in solving the murder, and Aki and Paula Ohno’s words in the right ears, the Spice Shop got a surprising uptick in business from restaurants in the CID. Even Rose from the Red Lantern called me. And the next weekend, when the Market wrapped up the city’s two-week celebration of the Year of the Rabbit with a parade and food walk of our own, I invited Keith to serve dim sum in the Spice Shop. My staff added a few goodies made with Sandy Lynn’s smoked cheddar. If the Year of the Rabbit proved lucky, the Fortunate Sun might develop some new business, too.

Watching the lion dancers snake down the street, with barely a vehicle in sight, made my heart swell. Some traditions are meant to be shared.

Oliver and Seetha sauntered in, hand in hand, matching grins on their faces. Fitting, with Valentine’s Day fast approaching.

“Who knew my dad was a world expert on the Green Hornet?” Oliver said. “Bruce Lee’s first role on American TV. It’s hot again. Do you know how cool that would have made me as a kid?”

“I think you’re pretty cool right now,” Seetha said. Ah, the flush of new love.

“I heard from Roxanne,” Oliver said, “that you give a mean Bruce Lee yell. You should take up kung fu.”

“You were looking for a hobby,” Seetha said.

“ Smarty pants.”

I had plenty of questions for Oliver, but they could wait. This was a day to celebrate the successes of the past and the promise of the future. That’s what Cadfael would do. I had decided that the Buddha in Roxanne’s medicine cabinet was her Cadfael, her reminder to stay on track. Maybe I’d ask her someday. Or not.

A last-minute change upended her plans to take in the parade. She texted her apologies. The expert from San Francisco is coming today to see the pharmacy. You understand, I know.

I replied that I did. A string of dots formed on my screen.

I want to come to the Market next week, if you have time to give me a tour, she said. And go Down Under, to the import shop, she wrote. It’s time to put the past behind me.

Amen, sister. Amen.

ARF AND I walked home past the old INS bldg. So many stories. I made a mental note to ask my friends at the city preservation office about a plaque. There are times when the past deserves to be remembered.

As we walked away, I glanced up at the roof, sticky-uppy things of some kind in the planter boxes, waiting for spring. Azaleas?

A little bud of an idea began to take root in my brain. A future hobby? Maybe.

WE WERE having dinner on the houseboat, one of the last gatherings before my parents flew back to Costa Rica. My brother and his family were there, Arf and Charlie stretched out on the floor together.

“We bought a house today,” my mother said as I was about to take a sip of wine.

“What? Where?” I lowered my glass. “You didn’t tell me you were making an offer.”

My dad gave the address.

Carl and I stared at him. At them both. They were brimming with delight. With glee.

“That’s our old house,” Carl said. “In Montlake.”

“Yeeeep,” Dad said. “Good house. Perfect house.”

“I saw that listing,” my brother went on. “Even if you didn’t offer the full ask, it was nearly twice what you sold it for.”

“Yes,” my mother said. “But darling, you invested the money so well that we can pay cash.”

Twice in one day, I howled with laughter. Howled until I cried.

When I recovered myself, I raised my glass. “A toast to the perfect house. To a fortunate life.”

I would be sorry to see them go. I would be sorry to see Reed leave the shop, as I’d been sorry to lose Matt. But I knew the importance of following your passion, no matter how young or old you are when you find it. Passion, after all, had led me to the Market and the Spice Shop, and the loft and the dog. To my Nate, out on the ocean.

I didn’t need a hobby. I had a life filled with people and work I loved. And that is the true spice of life.