Between a Wok and a Dead Place, page 7
Which, in a roundabout path that only the truly weary brain can take, brought me back to Roxanne and Nate, and Detective Tracy’s veiled suggestion that the curator wasn’t all she seemed to be and that Nate knew all about it. He hadn’t said a word.
Actually, he had, last night. He’d told me to be careful.
A lover’s reflexive response to my proximity to crime, or a warning from the voice of experience?
Eight
At First Avenue and Pike Street, the character of the Market begins to be revealed. It is a hustling, bustling scene of essential human activity. The life of the city flows through here. It is not a lonesome place.
—Victor Steinbrueck, Market Sketchbook (1968)
ARF AND I TOOK THE LONG WAV AROUND TO WORK MONDAY morning, so we could swing by the bank and slip yesterday’s deposit into the secret slot. We came to the Market through the main entrance at First and Pike. This time of day, it’s busy not with shoppers and tourists but with merchants and daystallers and delivery people. Working people.
My people.
We got coffee and a cinnamon roll at Three Girls Bakery, one of the oldest businesses in the Market and the first in the city licensed to a woman, way back in 1912.
“Tell Matt we miss him,” I told Misty, the manager.
“Tell him yourself,” she said, eyes brightening at someone behind me. My former employee, a big grin on his face. Though he’s not a huggy-touchy guy, Matt pulled me close.
I gave him a motherly inspection. “New haircut, for the new job? Looks good.”
He smiled at Misty, then back at me. “Everything’s going great, with the banks, the wine distributors, the PDA,” he said, referring to the Preservation and Development Authority, the nonprofit created by the city to run the Market.
And with Misty, clearly. It had taken me a while to catch on to their relationship, but I couldn’t be more delighted. The only shadow was the death of his sister two months ago.
“Heck,” he said, “even Vinny’s great.”
I laughed. In a place thick with quirky eccentrics, Vinny Delgado, aka Vinny the Wine Merchant, ranked high on the list. The Market’s holiday theme had been “A Dickens of a Christmas,” and Vinny, like many others, had dressed the part. Thank goodness my staff had stuck to our usual black and white dress code, adding a seasonal pop of color with Santa hats and festive scarves. Vinny had enjoyed wearing a top hat and cravat so much that he’d threatened to wear them every day. But he knows wine and he knows the Market. And in Matt, he couldn’t have found a better business partner and future successor.
Arf nudged Matt, who held up a hand. Misty tossed him a homemade dog biscuit.
“Sit,” Matt said, and Arf obeyed. The treat disappeared so fast he couldn’t possibly have tasted it.
“I’d say you’re spoiling him, but I’m afraid that ship sailed a long time ago.”
We said goodbye to Misty, and Matt walked up the street with me.
“How’s construction going?” I asked.
“Good. Almost on schedule. Darren Yardley is helping me build the new shelving. He’s got all the tools, and my dad taught me a few things.”
A pleasant surprise. Yardley was the biological father of Matt’s sister. Half-sister. Her killer and an accomplice had been charged and were awaiting trial. I was a witness, though I hoped they’d plead out. Hard enough for the living to recover without the delays and uncertainty inherent in the justice system, let alone the constant need to tell the story yet again. The Yardleys had embraced Matt, making him and Misty their family.
“Biggest challenge,” Matt continued, “might be hiring. Misty says the bakery has never had so much trouble staffing.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I loved working with you and Sandra and Cayenne,” he said. “I didn’t have any plans to leave.”
“I know. You were at the Spice Shop to learn about food and flavor, and to get to know the Market. So you could be ready when the right opportunity knocked.”
“And I’m taking over where my sister left off.” His pace slowed as he considered his words. “It’s almost like she knew she was doing this for me, setting me up for a step—a leap—I never would have taken otherwise. If that doesn’t sound too woo-woo.”
“I’m not the one to ask about that.” Not with the twists and turns my life had taken that brought me here, to the absolutely unexpected, absolutely perfect place for me.
“However it happened,” he said, “I’m grateful. People come in, people who knew her, and they want to talk about her. But when they figure out that she was my sister, they get all weird. Like they don’t know what to say.”
“They don’t. They’re afraid talking about her will upset you.”
He looked straight at me. “I like talking about her. Her death was—is—as painful as losing our mom. But remembering her is pure joy.”
Now that’s a life well-lived, even if it was too short.
We’d reached the shop and he held Arf’s leash while I unlocked the door. “Thanks. And remember, if Vinny drives you nuts, you’ve always got a job here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, though the lift to his voice said “nice try” and “fat chance.”
Inside, I followed my morning routine, getting the till ready, brewing the spice tea for customer samples, and generally making sure the shop was bright and shiny. That left me plenty of time to sit in the nook with my coffee, still hot, and the yeasty, yummy cinnamon roll. The body in the Gold Rush merited two paragraphs in the morning paper, paragraphs that didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. No name, no cause of death, no manner of death—accident, murder, random act of the fates or furies.
And no mention of the hidden pharmacy. I had almost as many questions about that as about the man we’d found there.
Not “we,” I reminded myself. But who wouldn’t be curious about the history boarded up in the hotel basement? That was a mystery I could help solve. If I could help name the victim or solve his murder while I was at it, all the better.
Heck, I had nothing else to do.
I found the crossword puzzle. Devotees claim they’re good for the brain. The puzzles are supposed to be easier on Monday and get harder through the week.
Ten minutes later, I knew I would never find out.
And now I had a shop to run. Cayenne arrived, Kristen sweeping in behind her. Next hire, I told myself, can’t have a name that starts with a “k” sound. When Cody worked here, I’d been like one of those mothers of ten who ticks off the names of all her kids before landing on the right one.
Then came a knock on the door. Our new part-timer, Vanessa Rivera, a friend of the Orchard Girls, two sisters who run a Market daystall selling jams and preserves made from fruit grown in their family orchard. They’d all grown up together in Wenatchee, the farm country east of the mountains. She was twenty-one, new to the city, and bilingual. If she stayed more than a year, I’d be surprised, but giving young people job experience is part of retail.
I introduced her to Arf and the human staff, then showed her where to stash her things and gave her an apron. I’d given her a quick tour the day of her interview, but now it was time for the nitty-gritty. We walked the shop together. Fortunately, she already knew how to work a basic point-of-sale system, so getting her up to speed on ours would be a breeze. Cayenne showed her how to weigh and measure spices, using the electronic scale and the old-fashioned eyeball.
“She’s smart,” Kristen said to me, her blond ponytail bobbing. “She’ll catch on quick. And so cute.”
“So young.” We got to work, packing up the morning’s deliveries.
“Oh, hey,” I said. “I met the woman who opened the new cheese shop. She’s a hoot. Gave me a brick of smoked cheddar to try. Smooth and mellow.”
“You make it sound like elevator music.”
“No, it’s good. She bought one of our cheese joke aprons and sent a customer in. That woman bought three aprons and half a dozen spice blends.”
“You showed her these, right?” When we were teenagers, Kristen worked in a bookstore up on Broadway, and she manages our book section now. She pulled a couple of paperbacks off the shelf. Our customers love the word play in the titles of light-hearted mysteries, proving that bad jokes are always in good taste.
“I completely forgot, but you’re right. If we’re going to forge a working relationship, we need to feed it. For Cheddar or Worse,” I said, quoting the title of a cheese shop mystery by Avery Aames.
“Take them both.” She held out a book by Korina Moss. “Unless you think she’d be Cheddar Off Dead.”
I added the books to a tub full of deliveries, then checked my route on the iPad, a staff innovation. Cheese shop first, my hand truck clattering on the cobbles and reminding me of the altercation Sunday morning. A tossup which was more absurd, a pineapple thief or grown men ready to punch each other over a traffic mishap.
“That cheese was terrific.” I handed Sandy Lynn the books. “We thought you might enjoy a little light reading.”
She cackled at the titles. “I’m expecting some hazelnut smoked cheddar from Oregon later this week. I’ll bring some over.”
“Gouda on you,” I quipped. “I’m mulling over recipes using your cheeses and our spices.” An ideal project for Sandra and Cayenne.
Then it was back to work. I hadn’t done the full delivery route in ages, and it was good to reconnect with my customers. January is when we catch our breath after Christmas, and this past season had been particularly busy. Soon, chefs and restaurant managers would begin retooling their menus for spring, prompting fun conversations about spice and flavor combos.
Outside the Economy Building, near the entrance to the Market, I glanced up at the second-floor windows. A dance hall once occupied the space across from the office of Arthur Goodwin, nephew of one of the Market’s first owners. A natty dresser, he often wore a top hat as he assigned farmers their spaces and checked on vendors. He loved to dance, and many claim to see him still, in his top hat and tails, waltzing away on a long-gone floor. Me, I’ve never seen him, but I always look.
What about ballroom dancing? An old college friend had taken it up. She and her husband even compete, on land and on international cruises. But no. I’d need a partner. And shoes with heels.
Everywhere I went, the talk was about the road rage incident.
Some favored cutting back vehicle access to make the Market more pedestrian-friendly, while others feared restrictions would interfere with deliveries. It is a working market, after all. Plus, we needed to maintain access for those with disabilities, both shoppers and vendors. The question was how to improve safety.
“Saw you in the CID Saturday,” one of the butchers said as I handed over bags of fennel seed and chile pepper flakes for his signature sausage blend. “Dumplings to die for.”
Much as I’d enjoyed the food, the image gave me an instant stomach cramp.
“I heard,” he continued, “they found a body in the basement of some rathole. My guess, a homeless guy or a druggie looking for a place to crash and waking up dead.”
I didn’t correct him or mention the “m” word. Nothing stirs up a bout of verbal indigestion faster than mixing business and murder.
Back at the shop, I handed Cayenne the list of orders I’d picked up on my route—a short one, consistent with the season—and checked on Vanessa.
She was standing in front of the Wall O’Spice, her phone in hand. The screen showed the A-Z listing from our website.
“I’ve never heard of half of them. Amchur?”
“The powder of an unripe mango. It’s used mainly in Indian food—soups and stews, pickles, or anywhere you’d use vinegar.” I found a tasting spoon and offered her a tiny bit of the fine powder, the color of an unbaked pie crust. “I tracked down a source after a regular customer said she couldn’t find it and had resorted to grinding a piece of dried mango in her food processor.”
Vanessa took a careful taste, touching the tip of her tongue to the spoon. “Oooh.” Her eyes squinched and her lips pursed. “Tart, and I grew up in an orchard. You wouldn’t need much, would you?”
“A pinch or a dash, I’d say. It’s a finishing spice.” I grabbed more spoons and we made our way down the wall, Vanessa asking questions and commenting on the colors and textures as she tasted. Curry leaf baffled her, as it does many people—it’s not related to curry powder at all, though it is Indian. She noticed its resemblance to the bay leaf, and the uses are similar.
“We’ll save the blends for another day,” I said. “You’ve got a good eye and a good palate.”
She swiped her phone to sleep and dropped it in her apron pocket. “How do you come up with all the blends?”
“Some are traditional,” I said, “like Chinese Five Spice. Each maker uses basically the same ingredients, though the proportions may vary, depending on the flavor profile you’re after. Occasionally we’ll tweak a classic. We add lavender to our herbes de Provence, for a hint of the French countryside. Other blends we’ve created ourselves, like our lemon seafood rub and cocoa-paprika steak rub. Some we carry year-round. Some are seasonal.”
“I’ll never remember all of this.”
“No worries. Give yourself time.”
I was sitting in the nook, lunching on piroshky, when a text came in from Keith Chang.
Weekend knocked us out. 2 more weeks of LNY. 5 Spice and Szechuan peppers, double our last order!
Running out of your main spicery on the opening weekend of Lunar New Year might cause a temporary freak-out, but it’s a great sign that business is back. Good for us, too—if we had all the goods on hand. I mentally crossed my fingers and got up to check our supply.
Pooh. We did not. I had planned to spend the afternoon in the shop. Foot traffic might be slow, but I had a million orders to place and details to handle. But I’d take any chance I got to solidify my relationship with Keith and, if I could, develop more customers in the CID. What about the dim sum seller? I hadn’t gotten her card. I tried to remember the name on her sign. No luck.
Wait. I’d taken a picture, hadn’t I? I grabbed my phone and scrolled. There we were, the three of us smiling and happy in front of the booth, the woman and her assistant in the background. The string of red lanterns hung below the banner, but I couldn’t see the name.
Keith would know. And while I was in his kitchen, I might get lucky and figure out where he bought his tea.
I found Cayenne. “Can you take charge for the afternoon? I need to run to the warehouse, then make a few deliveries.” With Matt gone, I was doubly glad I’d taken the time to train her on opening and closing. She thrived on the extra responsibility, as well as the creative projects. I told her about my conversations with Sandy Lynn at Say Cheese!
“Smoked cheddar and ham biscuits. Apple-cheddar scones.” Ideas flew out of her brain. “It’s going to be drier than other cheese—any idea what its melting point is?”
I held up my hands. “All I know is that it was delicious paired with fruit and crackers and the Cotes-du-Rhone red I’ve been buying.” At the employee discount Vinny insists on giving me. I reciprocate by sending him as many customers as I can.
“That’s a good start.”
“Mind if I leave the dog?” Arf loves the car and in this weather, he could safely wait on the backseat for a few minutes. But I’d be gone too long.
She agreed. I kissed the dog goodbye on my way out. He barely noticed.
Maybe it was time to consider doggy daycare, I thought as I hurried to the loft to fetch my car. I’d heard of a place close by that caters to downtown residents and workers. It had a safe, supervised play area and a spa for those days when your tail is dragging and your fur is in your eyes. My one concern about signing Arf up was that he’d rather stay there than come home with me.
A few minutes later, I was in the ancient Saab, zipping down First Avenue South past the baseball and football stadiums. Stadia, as my father insists on calling them. Back when the first, the unla-mented gray concrete Kingdome, was built, International District residents had protested the plans because of the impact on the neighborhood, including the destruction of apartment buildings. One of Aki Ohno’s causes, if I remembered the stories.
In every neighborhood, there are places you drive by regularly and never notice. They’re not new. You can tell by the age and style of the structure, the weeds at the edge of the parking lot, the air it gives off, that it’s been there all along.
But I swear, until I saw the giant inflatable Baby Cupid anchored outside a nondescript building, bobbing and weaving in the breeze like the dancers we’d watched on Saturday afternoon, I had never noticed the costume and party shop on a side street off First Avenue South.
I switched lanes, earning an angry beep from the car behind me, then made a right and came around the block. Parked at the curb. A converted car dealership, single story, low-slung, with huge plate glass windows, each sporting a garish costume display. Every superhero you’ve ever heard of and a few more.
And in the window closest to the front of the building, hanging from the ceiling with velvet-covered ropes, was a giant lion, a good thirty feet long from the tip of its massive nose to the end of its feathery yellow tail.
Nine
Australian spice wizard Ian Hemphill says cloves are believed to have been introduced to China during the Han dynasty (206 BC-AD 220), when courtiers held them in their mouths to sweeten their breath while addressing the emperor. That makes cloves among the first reported breath fresheners.
