Free Spiced to Death by Peter King Page B

trickling out the dainty music of Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet while another across the way had the Ink Spots singing “The Java Jive.” Aromas were now becoming indistinguishable as I found a phone booth and called Don.
    He sounded strangely uncommunicative.
    “Is something wrong?” I asked.
    “No, no, everything’s fine,” he said quickly.
    “A problem with the business?”
    “No, it’s not that …”
    “Is someone with you and you can’t talk? I can call you later.”
    I would have thought he would want to discuss the theft of the Ko Feng, in fact, be anxious to do so. Between us perhaps we could conceive some approach for finding out where it was and what the thief’s intentions were.
    “No, there’s no one here.”
    “I was thinking of coming over.”
    “Look,” he said hurriedly. “Could you come over in the morning?”
    “Sure. I’m anxious to see your warehouse and we can—”
    “Okay,” he cut in. “See you in the morning.”
    I plunged back into the throng, puzzling over what could be the problem. Was it something connected with the Ko Feng? That was the uppermost subject in my mind and it must be in Don’s too. But it looked as if I had to wait until tomorrow to find out what it was.
    I took a cab back to the Framingham Hotel, stopping to buy some essential supplies. I watched television for a few minutes while drinking a vodka and tonic. A hair salon was advertising “follicle nutrition” with panther urine and on the news, a man was perched on the ledge of a tall building in Manhattan threatening to jump if the Mets didn’t end their eleven-game losing streak. I fell asleep during a Doris Day movie and it was ten o’clock before I awoke. I made smoked salmon sandwiches, ate them accompanied by another vodka and tonic and went back to sleep.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    T HE SPICE WAREHOUSE WAS a place of spectacular aromas. Some could be isolated but the mingling of so many different herbs and spices resulted in an exotic atmosphere that was both heady and mysterious.
    Both the retail and the wholesale were catered for and it looked like a botanical wonderland. I couldn’t see either Don or Peggy so I picked up a current copy of the newsletter from the stack of literature by the door and looked around.
    It had really been a warehouse and had high ceilings with air vents and windows, ideal conditions for its present purpose. The retail section was laid out like a supermarket with herbs and spices in open boxes and trays—each marked with its country of origin and giving a description of its uses and characteristics.
    Chervil from Belgium, poppy seeds from Poland, nutmeg from Grenada, juniper berries from Italy—the extent of the stock was amazing. Glamorous names from all over the globe sprang out everywhere—Madagascar, Cyprus, Zanzibar, Bahamas, Ecuador, Egypt … It was like walking through a minijungle.
    Peggy was just concluding the sale of some lemon grass when I found her.
    “Don’s in his office talking to somebody,” she said. “I don’t know how long he’ll be.”
    “That’s all right,” I said. “I could browse here for hours. Wonderful place you’ve got—you must be very proud of what you’ve done here.”
    Her face lit up. “We are. So glad you like it.”
    “Is Don okay?” I asked casually, examining some sage, the herb whose smoke was used to protect against the black plague.
    “Yes,” she said and looked at me quickly.
    “He sounded preoccupied, worried even, when I phoned yesterday. I thought maybe something was wrong.”
    Alarm was beginning to show in her eyes and I hastened to placate her. “It was probably just worry about this Ko Feng business.”
    “He is very concerned about it. It’s the strangest thing … I could hardly believe it when he told me …”
    We discussed it for a few minutes, then an assistant in a trim green uniform came over to ask her help.
    “Go ahead and browse,” she told me. “I’ve got a perplexed customer