No Parking

by Valentine Wheeler

  “I know he and Simon were friends. But I didn’t know the mayor was part of their group.”

  “He was the ringleader. And he was driving the night Josie died.”

  “He killed a girl, and they still elected him?”

  “Well, there was no proof he was the one driving, you see? And his granddad was the mayor too. He and Josie were thrown from the car when it hit the Creeley farm’s stone wall. That was back in, oh, ’54, I believe.” He shook his head. “Simon took it hard. Your daddy did too. And things weren’t the same with Bill and them after that. Those two stuck together, and Bill started running with the North Swanley crowd, getting ready to run things like his family wanted. Simon and Bill eventually reconciled enough to do business, but your dad and him never did.”

  “So what happened then? I mean, how did Simon get so much land in town if he was on Bill’s bad side?”

  Joe swirled the coffee in the base of his mug. “The next few years, Mr. Leventi—Elias, that is—started getting plenty of contracts with the city—he was a builder, you see, putting up all the new town buildings in the sixties.” He shook his head. “I think Daniel—your old man—and Simon put some kind of pressure on Bill.”

  “Like blackmail? No, not my dad.”

  “Your father might’ve gotten cold feet, at some point; I don’t know. And then he signed up and headed off to Asia, to the war, even though he was too old for the draft. He wanted to help his country, but he came back changed. He didn’t have the stomach for business anymore, I believe. All I know is Leventi’s fortunes kept rising, and so did Bill Bryce’s. I don’t know if Simon ever forgave him for the death of his girlfriend, but he most definitely became a very wealthy man at the hands of Mayor Bryce.”

  “And all this made them closer. My dad and Simon, that is.”

  “I’d say so. That’s why he trusted Simon with the business while he was away.”

  “And why he let him have suite B.”

  “That’s likely too.” Joe shook his head. “I wasn’t around for that deal; I’m sorry to say. That’s the year my mother took a turn for the worse. I wasn’t there for your dad at the end, and I’ll always be sorry for that. But when I got back, Simon had the place running smooth. I loved your daddy, but he didn’t have much business sense. Of course, he did have plenty on his plate at that time. Lord knows what he was thinking when he passed over the keys. All I can say is that the two of them argued plenty, but Danny always let Simon have his way in the end.”

  “Joe, you know everything about this town. I’ll never stop being astonished.”

  Joe laughed. “Well, it’s not a big town, honey. You of all people know that. And I was working for your granddaddy at the time. And nobody thought I’d be listening when they had all their big emotional chats. I wasn’t paid much more attention than the broom I pushed or the bike I rode.” He smiled. “Your family’s been good to me, but this town took a long time to change.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Marianne, not sure what she could say to that. She had had her issues with the town, sure, but Joe had seen so much, been through so much, in nearly a century in Swanley. He’d seen the town go from horse and buggy to electric cars, from telegraph to smartphones, and he’d been there through it all. His father had fought in World War I, his grandfather in the Civil War, and he had marched in the ’60s alongside heroes. And now he sat in her bakery most mornings, enjoying rest and the company of his great-grandson, who was fighting his own battle for rights. Marianne needed to comp the guy more coffees.

  “What do you think I should do?” she asked. “If my dad sold the building, if Leventi owns it, how can I keep him from doing what he’s planning to do? I can’t have a Dunkin’ Donuts in my great-grandfather’s building. I can’t, Joe. “

  “Oh, old Marvelle wouldn’t like that one bit, my dear. Not one bit. He could rail against the wealthy with the best of them, that man.”

  “So, what can I do?”

  Joe laughed, a low, creaking sound. “Do? Marianne, that family does what they want around here these days. You’ve never gone up against them, not really. All most of us can do is get out of their way, most times.”

  “He’s going to replace me with a Dunkin’ Donuts. Windmere Bakery has been in Swanley for a century and a half, Joe! And he’s going to replace me with a place that sells Celtics donuts! And then once he drives me out of business, he’s going to knock my bakery down and build a drive-through or something!”

  “Nothing wrong with the Celtics, Marianne. Not when they’re winning like they are now.” Joe sighed. “If you’re going to fight this, dear, you’re going to need to get ready for him to fight dirty. He’s got a lot to lose, you know, with the race coming up.”

  “I’ve got my whole livelihood to lose, Joe. He’s the one who’s got to watch out for me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marianne had a mission now, and she wasn’t going to let anything get in her way. As soon as she handed the bakery over to Zeke for the slow last couple of hours of the afternoon, she hurried back to the newly cleaned filing cabinet. Deed in hand, carefully slipped into a page protector and tucked into a folder, Marianne marched right down to city hall.

  As she neared the building, a familiar figure, coming down the steps from the front door, caught her eye. It took Marianne a moment to recognize Doris Chanthavongsa, her brightly patterned blouse and dark jeans a sharp contrast to her usual postal blues. As the door to city hall swung closed behind her, Marianne called out across the street. “Doris!”

  Doris looked up and smiled. She looked tired, dark shadows under her eyes and a slump in her shoulders Marianne hadn’t seen there before.

  “Is everything all right?” asked Marianne as she crossed the street to the city hall side.

  “I’m not sure,” said Doris, and then she looked up, her face clearing. “Oh, Marianne, hi. I didn’t see you there.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Doris shook her head. “Just voting. I’m going to be out of town on election day. I wanted to make sure I got everything settled before I went.”

  “Where are you going?” Marianne smiled. “Not that it’s any of my business, sorry. I know you’re not working.”

  “No, that’s all right.” Doris turned her tired smile toward Marianne. “I’m trying to help with a family problem; that’s all.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  Doris laughed. “Oh, no, thank you.”

  Marianne nodded, wanting to press because Doris looked upset but not wanting to overstep the boundary they’d always worked within. They’d known each other fifteen years, but they’d been each other’s customers that whole time. Doris’s private life wasn’t any of her business. She’d like to think of Doris as a friend, but she wasn’t quite sure if she could; they never saw each other outside their professional capacities, after all, and Doris didn’t visit out of wanting to—she was legally required to stop by Marianne’s shop every day, and there was always the possibility that she was just trying to maintain a cordial relationship with someone she wouldn’t want to see otherwise. “Well, I hope things work out,” she said. “And let me know if you need anything.”

  Doris smiled, a little more honestly this time. “Thanks, Marianne. I will. See you tomorrow.” And with that, she turned and headed toward the parking lot. Marianne watched her go, frowning and then climbed the steps and pulled open the heavy oak door of the Swanley City Hall.

  The sign for the records hall had a small sign warning that it was under maintenance, but she didn’t let that dissuade her. She made her way up to the second floor and followed the corridor down to the end, where a round older white woman sat reading a thick novel with a spaceship on the cover.

  “Hi,” said Marianne. “Sorry to bother you. I need to see a copy of my property survey.”

  The woman looked up, sliding an index card into the paperback and setting it to one side.

  “It’s no bother. It’s what they pay me to do. What’s t
he property?” she asked, sliding a pair of glasses onto her snub nose. She clicked her mouse, the ancient desktop whirring to life. “And what company conducted the survey?”

  “It’s 121 Main Street, and—well, I don’t know who did it.”

  “What year?”

  “Well, we sold part of the property in the sixties, so there must have been a survey then. In 1968?”

  The woman pulled the glasses back off, setting them aside and turning in her chair. “So you don’t know if there was one?”

  “If we split the lot, there would have to be, wouldn’t there?”

  “There should be.” The woman cocked her head. “Hmm, 121 Main. That’s the bakery, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  The woman smiled. “My husband loves the muffins there—he’s always bringing them to his office. And we’ve fallen in love with the new place next door.” She put her glasses back on. “Well. Let me take a look.” She typed a few keywords into the program she had open and then hit enter. “We’ve been planning to stop by for pies this year before Easter—will you be doing the preorders again this year?”

  “Of course,” Marianne answered. “We’re trying a new pie this year, too, a fruits-of-the-forest theme. Come by sometime, and I’ll put you on the early-bird list.”

  She grinned, delighted, and held out a pale, wide hand. “I’m Jolene. Jolene McGonnegal. I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think we’ve ever met in person.”

  Marianne shook her hand. “Marianne Windmere.”

  “Windmere. Of course. You said it was your family’s.” The computer pinged, and Jolene looked back at the screen and then frowned. “Well, that’s odd,” she said.

  “What’s odd?” asked Marianne.

  “There’s no survey record in 1968. Let me try expanding the parameters.” She changed some fields. “I’ll try 1965-1975, in case it was entered late.”

  “I might have the date off by a year or two,” admitted Marianne. “I wasn’t exactly running the business back then.”

  Jolene smiled. “No, I’d imagine not.” The computer pinged again.

  “Still nothing?” guessed Marianne as Jolene’s frown deepened.

  “No,” replied Jolene. She widened the parameters again. “Let’s try 1960 through 1980.” Her face brightened. “There we go. 1964. No wonder we couldn’t find it!”

  “That can’t be right,” said Marianne. “Nineteen sixty-four was before my dad even went to Vietnam. He didn’t sell until he got back.”

  “Well, honey, that’s what the system says.” She looked up. “Would you like a copy of that record, at least?”

  “That would probably be a good thing to have on record. What would it mean that he had a survey done? I mean, if it wasn’t for a sale.”

  Jolene leaned back in her seat, looking up at Marianne. “Well, if he had thought about selling the property, or about applying for it to be rezoned, he might get one,” she said thoughtfully. “The building had been in your family a long time, hadn’t it?”

  “Since 1886,” said Marianne.

  “So maybe he wanted to get a new deed made,” said Jolene. “Many of the old ones are not exactly precise by modern standards.”

  “But there’s nothing from the sale? And there would have to be, wouldn’t there?”

  Jolene nodded. “To determine where the borders were between the lots, yes, of course.” She rubbed her chin. “The only other place that would be is in the deed of sale. If it’s well-defined there, sometimes back then the survey wouldn’t be filed, just kept in the personal possession of the two entities involved.”

  “Well, my dad didn’t keep a copy, if he ever got one,” said Marianne.

  “What about the person he sold the property to?”

  Marianne winced. “We’re not on great terms, which is actually why I needed the survey.”

  “Ah.” She typed some more, frowning. “I’m not seeing the sale record here,” she said apologetically. “It’s possible the record was lost in the fire in ’76.”

  “So, what would that mean?” She pulled her copy of her deed out of her bag, “I have my original deed. Does that help?”

  “Not unless you have the updated deed,” said Jolene. “Or he does.”

  “So, the city has no record of the sale. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

  Jolene grimaced. “I’m sorry, Ms. Windmere, but it looks like that’s true. Either the paperwork was lost in the fire or the flood in ’92, never filed, or never sold.”

  “Never sold?” Marianne stared at Jolene. “That— Huh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I have no idea if that’s a possibility,” Jolene hurried to say. “But it’s one you should consider, in the full spectrum of possibilities.” She shrugged. “It’s much more likely the paperwork is lost.” She shuffled a pile of papers on her desk to one side. “Although I have to tell you, if the city has no record of his deed filed, you’re the owner on record.”

  “I am?”

  “If there’s no record, then possibly, yes.” She raised a warning finger. “Possibly. Of course, there’s no reason the deed wouldn’t be found later, misfiled. And then where would you be?”

  Marianne winced. “That’s a good point. So, what can I do? I need to figure out where my property ends.”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately, you may have to go to court to determine the boundary if there is one. I’m not sure what that process would look like.”

  “Hm.” Marianne wasn’t sure what to do with that information. She didn’t like the ambiguity of the response, that was for certain. If Luke’s family had bought the property, she wanted proof. If he didn’t, how had he been operating it for so long? How had no one noticed?

  With that thought came a very uncomfortable realization. She’d assumed so much that might not turn out to be true when she took the bakery over. When Luke’s father Simon handed Windmere Bakery’s reins back to her after running it in trust for the decade after her father died—the decade when she had thought she’d rebel against the family business, and go do something else, and the decade where she’d realized the place she wanted to escape was actually exactly where she belonged—she should have gotten documents from him. She should have made sure she knew where his family ended and hers began. But she’d trusted that her father’s best friend had her best interests in mind. She’d only realized otherwise in slow jolts over the next decade, as Simon stepped back from the realty empire he’d built and his less subtle, more ambitious son had stepped in.

  Her business was at risk because her father had trusted his friend and his friend’s family to be honest, good neighbors. And now Marianne didn’t know what to think. If Simon didn’t file the paperwork with city hall—and she couldn’t imagine that having happened, because no one built a real estate empire like his without being very good at paperwork—where could the records be? And why hadn’t her father ever confirmed everything was all set?

  Her father hadn’t been the most organized person in the world, Marianne knew. She had learned that quickly when she’d first started helping with the financial issues after her mother had passed away. But the big stuff didn’t start to slip until near the end, long after she’d moved out and pulled away from the business and her father.

  But something had fallen through the cracks, and now they were all dealing with the fallout—her and Zeke and Rana most of all. That was the other thing that bothered her: that Rana was suffering for her lack of research and care in the nineties. Rana, who made incredible food and kept her family afloat through so much hardship after her husband died; Rana, who’d brought some light back into Marianne’s life that she hadn’t even known she was missing. Rana, who might lose her livelihood and the shop she loved because of Marianne’s meddling.

  Marianne was suddenly glad it was Friday, the day Rana closed the Cairo Grill early to attend services at the mosque in Framingham with Fatima and her family. This was something Marianne had to work through on her own before she
could include anyone else.

  She thanked Jolene, zipping her coat back up and starting toward the stairs. She had so much to figure out now. So many new avenues she had to search, and no idea where to start. But she had to do something; that much she knew. She had to get clarity, and if she could get back the part of her building she’d mourned losing for the last thirty years and screw over Luke Leventi in the process? She’d take it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marianne tossed and turned most of the night, possibilities running through her head. What if they never found out what really happened? What if she confronted Luke on the issue of ownership and he took his anger out on Rana, and on Marianne’s own business? He had enough connections in the town, as well as owning many of the local businesses, and he could do plenty to damage both of their reputations and customer bases.

  And what if she found out her father hadn’t sold the building, that it had all been a vicious misunderstanding? She didn’t know if she could stand that.

  She finally got out of bed around four a.m., despite it being her usual day to sleep in until six, and headed downstairs to throw some croissants and muffins in the oven for the early risers. By the time she needed to open the front door, she’d prepped the next day’s pastries as well. She’d mixed batters and doughs and a huge tub of chocolate buttercream, and even made a gallon of raspberry jam. That last part was an indulgence in the decidedly not-raspberry season of December, but she’d been craving raspberry croissants. She took her time stocking the display case and grinding the beans for the coffee, pouring herself a huge mug of sweet, milky espresso. She’d usually drink it darker and more bitter, but with no one there to judge her on a cold, sleepy day, she could indulge.

  The sleet kept the customers away when she opened at her usual 7:00 a.m., and since it was Zeke’s day off, Kevin was the first person to walk into Windmere Bakery when he showed up around eight.

  “Coffee,” he said, heading straight for the register.