“Smart, but no, thanks.”
“Maddie’s father had pestered Mehmet to sell, and he didn’t like that. Called him a pushy Armenian, out to pull one over on a Turk. But the son lives in Seattle. He’d been to the community meetings, and he knew the neighborhood didn’t like Byrd’s plan.”
“That’s for sure,” I said.
“The son thought Maddie had the experience to do things right. The neighbors liked her plan and it met city requirements, with a façade consistent with the rest of the block and a grocery on street level.” Amanda took a long drink, then continued. “Nothing like packing to kick up dust. Seeing her plans tipped the scales. They knew Mehmet cared deeply about the neighborhood. He’d been part of it for decades. They trusted Maddie to follow through and not go all high-end condo, even if her grocery sells more fancy wine than Twinkies.”
Maddie did love fine wine, but I suspected she was not above selling Twinkies.
“And they figured he’d have enjoyed scoring a small fortune off the Petrosians, way more than Byrd could put on the table,” Amanda continued.
“Might ease their minds to know the Petrosians weren’t after the property because they wanted to outplay a Turk. I believe it once belonged to their family, decades before Barut bought it from someone else.” My guess was Barut knew the history, and let the old nationalist animosity get in the way of helping a family regain its legacy. Nothing else explained Maddie’s willingness to trick him.
“If it was so important, why’d they ever sell?”
“Dunno.” I stood. “Thanks a million. Good luck with the move.”
I pointed my creaky old Saab toward downtown. Maddie’s scheme hadn’t been so underhanded at all. Smart. Shrewd. She’d found a way to get what she wanted. Family trait, though in this instance, she’d succeeded where her father had not.
But Amanda had asked a good question. I intended to get the answer.
BACK in the Market, on foot, I slowed when I got to the Asian grocery, wondering if the woman in the photo with Joe Huang might be working. I had no good excuse to talk to her. But thinking about the shop and its possible connection to Huang, and his possible connection to Patrick Halloran, over the last few days had made me crave cold sesame noodles with a hot stir-fry. That’s just how my mind works.
But every plan—and a recipe is a plan—needs a few essential ingredients.
The old lady was not on front door duty, so my ankles were saved their ritual nipping. I found the egg noodles and chili-garlic paste, but wasn’t sure I had enough sesame oil on hand. I was staring at the shelf, pondering toasted or regular, organic or inorganic, cute bottle or ho-hum, when a woman spoke to me.
“May I help you? Sesame oil is very good.”
No mistaking her. She was the woman in the photo—small, dark-haired, maybe thirty. “Can’t make up my mind—too many options. For sesame noodles and a stir-fry.”
“This is my favorite.” She was several inches shorter than I, about five-two, and the top shelf was a stretch, but she reached for a shapely brown bottle with a white label, the name written vertically in Asian characters. “Plain is good. Toasted is better.”
Toasted would have more flavor, ideal for drizzling on top. Plain would tolerate the heat of cooking better, without picking up a scorched taste or setting off my smoke alarm. “I’ll take them both.”
“What else do you need?” she asked as I followed her to the counter. “Sesame seeds? Soy sauce? Tamari?” Though her grammar was correct, her inflection was off, suggesting she was born abroad and had learned English as an adult.
“Mama!” a small voice interjected. The woman and I turned to see a small girl, who bowed her head, then raised it and spoke. Her purple jacket hung open, the pink backpack dangling from one hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Hello, there,” I said. The child in the photo, the child I had seen in the back hall with the old lady. Then I heard shuffling feet and glanced toward the back of the shop in time to see the old lady peeling off a coat as she disappeared into the office. “Do you go to the Market preschool? Does your grandmother meet you after school?”
The girl nodded, turning shy.
“I run the spice shop down the street,” I told her.
“Oh, where Arf stays,” she said. “The dog who used to live with Sam.”
“That’s right,” I replied, surprised, though I shouldn’t have been. Sam had been a fixture in the Market, and Arf his faithful companion. The dog had more friends here than I did.
The woman rang up my purchases. I handed her a twenty and as she fished in the drawer for change, my eyes drifted to the photographs on the wall behind her. Family pictures, as in Maddie’s office. But the one that stood out was a group of two dozen men and women, all ages and ethnicities, united by their dress-up clothes and beaming smiles. In the middle stood a former lawyer from my old firm who’d been appointed a federal judge ten years ago, in her black robe. She was beaming, too.
The woman followed my gaze and pointed to her younger self, standing beside an older couple. I recognized the old lady right away. “The day we became citizens,” she said, and grinned. “The whole family.”
I grinned back, then glanced at the photo again. No Joe Huang. “Your husband, too?”
Her smile wavered, and she did not
