The Solace of Bay Leaves

More than fifty years ago, according to the Seattle Times, a thief fled from Pike Place Market into the Great Northern railway tunnel and was never seen again.

THE LIGHTS CHANGED AND FOOT TRAFFIC SURGED INTO THE all-way intersection. By the time Arf and I crossed, Greer had vanished. Had I imagined her? Had she slipped into the Atrium, the corner building anchored by the Italian grocer? Or disappeared down one of the Market’s many passages and back alleys?

It was nearly eight thirty and the bakeries and coffee counters were beacons of light in the gloom. Or more precisely, beacons of caffeine and sugar. Stores with doors, like mine, were still closed, but the cobbles on the main thoroughfare, the L-shaped Pike Place, glistened as trucks and vans made their deliveries. At the daystalls, men and women in rain gear unloaded buckets of flowers and crates of produce. The drizzle dampened the sounds of the Market, but not its energy.

But the coffee I’d downed at the houseboat had worn off, and as my caffeine levels plunged, so did my mood.

I started coming to the Market as a kid, tagging along on my mother’s weekly shopping trips. The sample cups of tea at the Spice Shop were as much a treat as the mini doughnuts we picked up from the Daily Dozen.

Even so, when I stumbled over my husband and a parking enforcement officer practically plugging each other’s meters in a downtown restaurant, just before scandal destroyed the law firm where I worked and took my HR job with it, all within months of my fortieth birthday, I never expected to find solace in bay leaves.

But crazy as it sounded at the time, buying Seattle Spice may have been the smartest thing I ever did.

Today, though . . . Despite the bustle in the streets and my determination to sound upbeat when Nate asked about the rain, I worried. Saturday is our busiest day, but locals might stay home if the drops turned to torrents. Tourists could shop or stroll through the city’s museums instead of getting drenched down here. Every food tour guide had a Plan B to keep the clients warm and well-fed elsewhere.

I’d been counting on a good October. The next big step for the business was to expand our production facility, with full-time staff and pricy new grinders and packaging equipment. To make it fly, we needed strong fourth quarter financials. Fall cooking and Christmas baking were the ticket.

The Market is so alluring in autumn, when the last of the fall produce and flowers fill the stalls. Not to mention Halloween. Where else can you buy warty gourds, fresh pumpkins, ghost peppers, and a Dracula costume in one shopping trip?

But worry is a retailer’s ritual. As the news of Maddie’s shooting and its possible link to Pat’s murder soaked in, my sense of dread grew. Add in Laurel’s nightmare and her questions, and I had to ask: Why now?

Arf’s leash looped through my hand, I bought a paper at the newsstand and stuffed it in my striped jute tote. Squeezed by the stacks of papers and magazines waiting to be unpacked and threaded my way down the congested aisle, patted Rachel the brass pig, the official Market mascot, and got in line at my favorite bakery.

Minutes later, the counter woman handed me a cinnamon roll and a nonfat double latte. I stood beside a column topped with a Victorian cast-iron capital, one of the features that prompt visitors to ask why modern architects don’t do that, and took the first sip. Instant attitude adjustment. You could make a fortune selling this stuff.

Across Pike Place, the produce seller and the old lady from the Asian market were jawing at each other, each pointing at a pile of flattened cardboard boxes, then at the other’s storefront and back at the boxes. I didn’t say everyone in the Market always gets along.

Then my dog and I headed into the Arcade, where I traded a wrinkled ten for a giant bouquet of sunflowers, a riot of red and yellow. We dashed across the cobbles to the shop and unlocked the front door.

I paused on the threshold to breathe it all in. Cinnamon and cardamom, ginger and nutmeg, cumin, cloves, and garlic. Spice in all its variety, the stuff of my life.

When new customers walk in, they often describe, unprompted, a memory evoked by scent: a fragrant stew, their grandmother’s apple pie, a day exploring the lavender fields in the south of France. There’s a reason for that. The same part of the limbic brain that detects smells also houses memory. They are physically linked.

I set my bounty on the counter and unhooked Arf. He let me wipe his feet and run a towel over his tan legs and tail; happily, the slicker had kept his head and the wiry grizzled fur on his back, called a saddle, dry. I gave him a rawhide chew bone, which he carried to his bed behind the front counter. Official Market policy says no dogs, but no one pays any attention, and the Market Master carries treats in his pocket. After I hung our coats and stashed my tote in the office, roughly the size of your standard refrigerator, I found a vase for the flowers. Even the worst grouch can’t help but smile at sunflowers, especially on a rainy day.

But before the day came rushing in, I had reading to do. I took the newspaper and my breakfast to the mixing nook, a small booth where we conduct taste tests. Flipped pages, the only sounds the ticking of the railroad clock beside the front door and my dog chewing.

On the front page of the local section, I found a short update on the shooting. As Tracy had predicted, Maddie was named now, described as a property investor who had apparently surprised an intruder. No pictures, no other details. No mention of Pat Halloran’s murder, though the annual recap would run soon. If the link between the two cases was public by then, the story would be front page news.

Then it was time to get to work. The staff arrived earlier than usual to prep. Food tours are all the rage with tourists and locals who trust an expert to find the best of the city’s food and drink. Some focus on wine, or chocolate, or sushi. The Market tours give guests a close-up with merchants and vendors, and a taste of history. Guests buy tickets, so we’re not paying kickbacks to the tour operators. And they shop. A group of eight or ten can easily drop several hundred dollars on spices, tea, and books, and order more online when they get home.

Sandra’s husband had driven her to work today, and I helped him haul in a cooler filled with appetizers. Cayenne set up the serving table and warming trays for the stuffed mushrooms and baked paprika cheese, with help from Reed, our college kid computer whiz. Paprika cheese is an invention of one of our favorite customers, and he’d been thrilled to hear we planned to serve it today. All week, we’d been serving our new chai—a spice blend or masala brewed with strong black Assam tea and vegan coconut cream. But today it was back to our signature tea, and Matt started the first batch brewing in the giant electric kettle that looks like a Russian samovar. The scent of cinnamon and cardamom filled the air. We’d go through vats of the stuff—the colder and wetter the weather, the more we serve. And the more we sell.

In two weeks, we’d be marking the end of my second year as Mistress of Spice. Was it shallow to celebrate something so trivial with Laurel’s more ominous anniversary on the horizon? Life is full of difficult juxtapositions. Besides, Laurel would never begrudge me a celebration, or a glass of champagne.

“And you said it wouldn’t last,” I replied. The corner of Sandra’s mouth twitched. The shop’s long-time assistant manager, she hadn’t been sure about me when I went from loyal customer to owner. But we make a great team, feeding on each other’s ideas.

“I’m happy to help you cook as long as I get free samples,” her husband said, then kissed her goodbye.

Cayenne brought out the decorative gourds she and I had found at the farm stalls. Nothing jazzes up a buffet like goblin eggs and speckled gremlins.

“Feeling up to a full shift?” I asked quietly. This was her first day back after an extensive bout of testing related to her multiple sclerosis. She hadn’t shared last summer’s diagnosis with the rest of the staff yet, and I’d honored her request for privacy.

She nodded, the roll of red-and-black braids on top of her head bobbing. “The tests confirm that it’s the remissive type. How long remission will last, we don’t know—it could be months or years. But the rain is a relief.”

Turns out that hot, dry weather aggravates MS. And Seattle had just endured one of the hottest summers on record. “Then let it pour.”

Matt finished setting up the tea cart. He and Cayenne joined the staff last spring, and they couldn’t be more different. She’s a trained chef who, at thirty, had never held a job outside the kitchen, but longed to trade the stress of restaurant work for a more normal life. She helps Sandra and me create the recipes we give our customers, and she had begun to experiment with developing new blends. In contrast, Matt’s a retail whiz with a talent for handling difficult customers, but he’d never worked in the food business. He happily takes on the heavy jobs like wrestling a hot tea kettle or breaking down boxes and hauling out the recycling. The two of them clashed last summer when what she called “her clumsy spell”—losing her balance and dropping things—had tested his patience. But equilibrium had been restored, for now.

“Sandra and I will herd the tour guests and keep the table stocked,” I told the staff. “Other customers could be tempted to crash the party, so let’s give them their own treat. Cayenne, would you find a bowl for these?” I handed her a bag of our spiced glazed nuts and pretzel mix—I’d whipped up a double batch earlier in the week for exactly this purpose.

Then I gave the display of seasonal blends a once-over. It looked good—heavy on fall faves, along with the chai masala and baking blends. We pack our blends in small bags and containers with custom labels, but also keep bulk supplies behind the front counter. A rack mounted on the end of the cookbook shelves holds our signature recipes, including a few highlighting the featured blends.

Moments before our ten o’clock opening, Sandra pulled me aside. “What’s up, boss? Not your usual sparky self.”

“Laurel got some news yesterday,” I said. “About her husband’s murder.”

“A break in the case?” Sandra asked. Laurel is a good customer and the staff all like her. Though Sandra isn’t part of Flick Chicks, my weekly movie night with Kristen, Laurel, and two other friends, she always enjoys hearing about the movie and the food, and giving me ideas for what to serve when it’s my turn.

“Cross your fingers,” I said. Then it was time to unlock the door. I packed up my troubles in my old kit bag, whatever that is, and prepared to smile, smile, smile.

THE rain gods were in a good mood, pulling back the clouds in time for the tour guide to give the Market trek the go-ahead. Now, ten people crowded around as I told the story of Seattle Spice. Then Sandra described the process of developing our blends. Some, she said, are updates of classics, like our pie spice, poultry blend, and curries. Others were prompted by recipes we’ve dug up. A few are pure invention.

Sure enough, the first question was the one we get most often. “How long should you keep spices?” a woman in a stylish black raincoat asked.

“A year is a good general rule,” I said. “Whole spices last longer than ground, so a grinder is a good investment. Make sure you store your spices in tightly closed containers, out of the light and heat. Taste them occasionally. If you’re not sure, replace it. Don’t try to make up for the age of a spice by using more—some flavors may be fine, but others may go off. If it’s worth using, it’s worth using fresh.”

“Those grape, cheese, and prosciutto skewers are fabulous,” another woman said, her accent screaming Texas. “What did you use to marinate that mozzarella?”

“Olive oil and our Italian herb blend,” I said. “We also used it in the stuffed mushrooms. You’ve got recipes for everything we served today in your gift bags, along with a discount coupon for our Spice of the Month Club, and a special treat—a bag of our Glazed Spiced Nuts.”

“I never thought of putting herbs in shortbread,” the woman in the black raincoat said. “You’re setting my imagination spinning.”

“Mission accomplished,” I replied. “Thank you for coming in. The staff will help you any way we can. And remember, it really is okay to play with your food.”

They laughed and dispersed, perusing our displays, flipping through books, and eyeing spice and tea accessories. Sandra offered shopping baskets.

I bent over to pick up a dropped napkin, a custom design featuring our shop logo.

A pair of black bike shoes strode into view, attached to a very fine pair of legs clad in black riding tights. I straightened and found myself staring at Officer Thomas Alan “Tag” Buhner of the Seattle Police Department’s bicycle patrol.

I felt my pleasant retail expression wobble as I watched the man I’d once loved take off his helmet and fix his gaze on me. “I heard.”

He looked down at the tiny rivulets forming on the floor from his cleated shoes.

“Don’t worry about it. Days like this, we have to mop the floor every couple of hours anyway.” I poured two cups of spice tea. Sandra was packing up the leftovers from the food tour and offered Tag the cookie tray. He took two gingersnaps, and we slid into the nook, facing each other.

“Don’t, Tag. Not even as a joke.” He meant the black pepper, my signature ingredient—we can’t call it a secret since we hand out copies of the recipe by the hundreds. But figuring out years earlier what it does to a gingersnap would not have saved our marriage.

It’s inevitable that Tag and I run into each other frequently. Downtown, including the Market, had been his beat for years, long before I bought the loft on Western, a few blocks away, and later, the shop. But if he thought I’d invaded his territory, he’d never let on. Actually, I think he likes the chance to keep an eye on me.

He sipped and watched, with that maddening expression that mixes focus and indifference. Nonattachment, as my yoga teacher would say, if I managed to make it to class. With Nate back on land, I didn’t want to leave home that early. Told myself I was stretching parts yoga didn’t reach.

“So, what’s the working theory on how Maddie Petrosian’s shooting is related to Pat Halloran’s murder? And why now?”

“Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. You know that.” He took another bite and spoke with his mouth full. “But the link could give us a break. Everybody’s fired up.”

“But in the meantime? Is Laurel in danger?” Oh. Was I? Was that why Meg Greer had been watching me?

“Hey, do you know this Special Agent Meg Greer? What makes them so special anyway?”

“Met her, but that’s all. Transferred here last summer from somewhere back east. She’ll bring a fresh perspective, which is good,” he said. “The term ‘Special Agent’ dates to the early twentieth century, when the automobile changed the nature of crime. The FBI needed authority to make arrests across state lines, but Congress and the states were afraid of a power grab. So ‘special’ actually means ‘limited.’ The FBI’s jurisdiction is limited to federal crimes, even when they cross state lines.”

“Don’t tell anyone I told you,” he said, “but she might be running a Mr. Big operation.”

“A sting, sort of. They set up a fake crime ring and lure the suspect to join the fun. Then, after he’s hooked, they tell him the head guy will only trust him if he tells them about similar crimes he’s participated in in the past. Like a job interview, where you brag on your past accomplishments. Makes them feel all big and important.” He balled up the used napkin and made a free throw into the trash basket. “Hence the name, Mr. Big.”

“I gotta go,” he said. “Just wanted to touch base.” He slid toward the edge of the bench, then turned to face me, gloves in one hand, the other flat on the table. “Pepper, we’ve got a second chance to get this guy, whoever he is, and we’re going to get him.

Not long ago, that would have been the last thing Tag told me. But he and Tracy had cleared the air between them. Like Tracy, Tag saw Pat Halloran’s murder as an attack on the brotherhood, and sisterhood, of crime-fighters.

What possessed me, I couldn’t say, but when we stood, I kissed his cheek. “Stay safe,” I whispered.

“You, too,” he said. Then he plucked another cookie from the tray and was gone.

After the whirlwind, I surveyed the leftovers. Not enough for staff lunch, my Saturday treat, so I called the piroshky place and made an order. Traded my black clogs and apron for my rain gear, then bundled Arf into his slicker and hooked up his leash.

We wound our way through the crowds to Victor Steinbrueck Park, named for the architect credited with saving the Market from urban removal in 1971. Arf pooped and I scooped. Ordinarily, we pause at the wrought iron railing, designed by Steinbrueck himself, to enjoy the westerly view of Puget Sound and the Olympics. No point today—it was all mist and mush.

We turned back, the lure of hot dough filled with seasoned meat and veggies lighting a fire in my belly. When we reached the original Starbucks, I glanced inside. No matter what the weather, the place is always packed with coffee pilgrims.

And who should I see sitting at the counter inside the front window, nursing a white paper cup with the familiar green-and-white logo, but Special Agent Meg Greer.