by Sandra Balzo
From the Grounds Up
A Maggy Thorsen Mystery
Sandra Balzo
Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Balzo
Chapter One
'When one door closes, another's probably getting ready to smack you in the ass.'
Nice. My Brookhills coffeehouse, Uncommon Grounds, had been reduced to rubble by a freak but devastating blizzard. The very livelihood of Maggy Thorsen was in serious jeopardy. If another door closed on me, I'd need at least a window to jump out of.
'That's a glass half-empty kind of thing to say, don't you think?' I asked, following my friend Sarah Kingston through the doors of another unsuitable storefront located in yet another unprofitable strip mall.
Halfway out I stopped short, the stress of the last two weeks--and a full day spent with Sarah--overtaking me. 'I'd think that you, of all people, would want to put a positive spin on this. As my real estate agent you stand to make money if you find us a new location.'
'If' being the operative word. If Sarah found a new place we could afford. And if gourmet coffee survived the economic downturn. Hell, even Starbucks—
'You are an idiot, Maggy, you know that?' Sarah, who had already been heading to the car, turned back to me. 'I meant . . .'
Slap. The screen door she had just exited slammed shut, trapping me in the 'airlock' between that door and the more solid one swinging closed behind me.
Which, of course, smacked me in the butt.
Sarah opened the screen door to let me out. 'Sorry, but I warned you.'
I rubbed my rump, which was going numb. 'Sorry my ass.'
'Exactly.' She raised her eyebrows at me. 'I suppose you hate this one, too?'
I stepped off the sidewalk and into the parking lot to survey the long, squat brick building, fronted with dark square windows. 'It's characterless. Not to mention,' some feeling was returning to my butt, 'dangerous.'
'It's perfect.' Sarah snatched the listing sheet from me and stuffed it into her briefcase. 'My cousin Ronny is a contractor and he can fix that door in ten minutes. The space is already outfitted as a coffeehouse. Hell, what do you want? You and Caron would just have to move in. No build-out, no new equipment, no nothing.'
'That's because it was a coffeehouse,' I said. 'This is the middle of an industrial park, which is why Perk 'n Stew couldn't survive. Once the people working in the area realized they couldn't really get "stewed" here, the place went belly-up. What makes you think a resurrected Uncommon Grounds wouldn't do the same?'
'This is a perfectly good location,' Sarah said, a defensive tone seeping into her voice. 'Besides, you and Caron know how to market yourselves.'
I looked around. 'FOR LEASE' signs filled the windows of not just the building we'd been in, but half the factories and wholesale businesses on the two blocks I could see. The strip mall itself was set well back, barely noticeable from the street.
The only positive was plenty of parking. Which we wouldn't need, because nobody was likely to find us. 'It's crap.'
Sarah seemed almost--almost--hurt. 'And you're complaining about my attitude? You're not exactly Little Mary Sunshine yourself this morning.'
I sighed and sat down gingerly on the curb, thinking about last night's telephone conversation with my partner, Caron Egan. Caron had been 'too busy' to hunt for new locations with me. After two weeks of ducking my calls, she'd finally fessed up.
Patting my palms on the thighs of my jeans, I said, 'Caron wants out.'
Sarah started to join me at the curb, but glanced down at her usual uniform of baggy trousers and flapping jacket and thought better of it. 'Wants out of what? Her marriage again? Tell her to find another boy-toy and purge the urge from her system.'
Ah, if only it were that simple. A dalliance with an acned mini-mart clerk and Caron would come running back to me and our coffeehouse.
'This time it's Uncommon Grounds she wants to dump,' I said. 'She claims our first year was tough enough, without having to start all over again.'
Three or four murders, a couple of betrayals. The occasional natural disaster. What had Caron expected? We were small-business owners in America's Heartland.
'Maybe they're having money troubles.'
I looked up sharply at Sarah, who was digging in her pockets, likely for a phantom cigarette. She'd given them up months ago, but the reflex was still there.
'Bernie and Caron?' I asked. 'Why? What do you know?'
Sarah shrugged, but didn't answer the question.
Caron's husband, Bernie the attorney (yes, yes--I know), seemed to be doing quite well, even on our country's economic roller coaster. The couple had a lovely home on an acre or . . .
'They're selling?' I asked my real estate friend. 'Did Caron ask you to list their house?'
Sarah wouldn't meet my eyes. 'I can't say.'
'You just did.' Sort of. 'Besides, all I have to do is check the advertisements.'
'It's not on the market yet,' Sarah said. 'That's all I can tell you.'
Yet.
'FOR SALE' signs dotted lawns all across south-eastern Wisconsin. Milwaukee and its nearest suburbs had been hit hardest, but even Brookhills, farther west, was feeling the cash-flow pinch. The little exurb, as its residents like to think of it, was relatively affluent, but it wasn't recession-proof. Nor was anyone in it.
'Times are tough,' Sarah was saying. 'Good thing you bought that little shit-box of yours and didn't overreach.'
She was right, though I thought 'shit-box' was a bit cruel, despite my blue, stucco walls and puke-green toilet. 'Amen to that. I was just lucky I could pay cash thanks to my divorce settlement with Ted.'
Because I damn well couldn't qualify for a mortgage. There was always that pesky question about last year's income. Negative numbers need not apply.
Which brought me full circle to my current problem. Opening a business had been costly and I didn't have much cash left to draw upon. Happily, I also didn't have many expenses. Taxes, sure. Wine, but of course. And some food. Mostly Frank's.
Frank is my son's sheepdog. A furry stomach on four feet. And he drooled, even when nothing edible was in sight.
When Eric took English Lit, he suggested renaming the sheepdog: 'We should have called him "Dickens". He's the best of times, the worst of slimes.'
True on both counts. I'd given up mopping sheepdog saliva off my glass-topped coffee table and taken to using a bath towel as a table runner. On the other hand, the hairy lug had made the 663 days since Eric left home for the University of Minnesota (and Ted, for his slut in the big house) bearable. Truth is, I missed the kid far more than the cad.
But if something good had come out of Ted's affair and our subsequent divorce, it was that my life had already been forcibly downsized by the time the recession hit.
A cloud with a tin-can lining. Can't lose what you don't have anymore.
The 'haves', though, had lost a lot. If Caron's hesitation at re-opening UG was because Bernie's specialty--trademark and copyright law--was on the skids, I couldn't try to talk her into doing something that might prove devastating for them.
Still . . . 'Caron can't be broke,' I wailed. 'I can't afford her to be. Nobody could do this on her own.'
Sarah started to say something. Then, apparently thinking better of it, she clamped her mouth closed and looked away.
'What?' I got up from the curb and dusted off my tender butt. 'I'm going to have a bruise the size of a grapefruit.'
But my friend had already started back toward her car, a yellow 1975 Firebird.
With a last glance at the loser of a mall, I scurried after her.
'Wait up,' I called.
Sarah stopped short of the car and turned. 'Listen, I was thinking . . .' She paused again.
&n
bsp; 'Will you spit it out?' I demanded. 'Since when are you afraid to say what you think?'
She blushed.
Sarah. Blushing.
I felt a twinge of unease. Was she sick? Or were Caron and Bernie worse than broke? Maybe one of them was sick. I eyed Sarah. She didn't usually mince words or shrink from bad news. Especially somebody else's bad news.
So I waited.
'Umm . . .' Sarah pressed the toe of her shoe into the asphalt and twisted it, like she was grinding out a lit cigarette. She gave me the impression of a shy kid at recess, staring down at the ground while desperately hoping someone would ask her to play.
She started over. 'I was just thinking. Maybe . . .' Another twist of the shoe.
I waited some more.
Sarah Kingston finally took a deep breath and looked up.
'Maybe I could be your partner, Maggy.'
Chapter Two
Partnering with Sarah would be like starting a business with my mother. No amount of red wine--or Valium--could take the edge off that.
'You?' I squeaked, trying not to convey my misgivings. 'You're much too busy. I mean, your real estate business, the kids. When would you ever—'
But Sarah cut off my argument before I had a chance to elaborate on it.
'I knew it!' She stamped her foot. Ants went scurrying, pebbles flying. 'I don't know why I even try to help.'
Sarah stormed around the car to the driver's side.
I trailed after her, belatedly ashamed of my reaction.
'Listen,' I said. 'I appreciate your offer, believe me. It's just that—'
'It's just what?' Sarah threw open the driver's door of the Firebird, nearly clocking me.
I stepped back, barely in time. 'Only that . . .' It occurred to me I didn't really know what 'it' was. My response had been entirely emotional. Knee-jerk reaction, driven by abject terror.
The truth? If Caron was re-thinking our partnership, I was in big trouble. She had been the majority investor and after Uncommon Grounds' collapse, the insurance settlement was peanuts ('act of God' plus underinsured landlord--need to hear more?).
I couldn't come up with enough capital to refit a new store on my own. I already paid the salary of Amy, our rainbow-haired, multiply pierced rock-star barista, so she wouldn't leave us while we were getting back on our feet.
Not to mention that with Caron no longer working all the hours she had, I'd need to hire another employee. Either that, or I'd have to work even more . . .
'I'd love to have you as a partner,' I said, linking arms with Sarah. 'What did you have in mind?'
What Sarah had in mind was far better than I could have imagined. But then, I tend to prepare for the worst.
'Oh, my God,' I said, hand to my mouth. 'This is perfect. Absolutely perfect.'
We'd driven to 'Brookhills Junction', the oldest section of our town. In the mid-1800s, Brookhills had been a depot stop on the railroad that ran between Chicago and Seattle. Businesses had sprung up around the train station creating a small, but vibrant, downtown area surrounded by charming little houses.
But when the train had stopped . . . stopping, in favor of Milwaukee just fifteen miles east of us, the Junction had been forgotten, twentieth and twenty-first century settlers also preferring to 'Go West'--if only as far as the acres of farmland readily available down the road. There they could build their sprawling homes on acre-plus lots, rather than trying to shoehorn McMansions into the Junction's tiny plat.
Over the years I'd lived in Brookhills, a mishmash of small businesses had occupied the original buildings around the obsolete station. None of them was particularly remarkable. Or long-lived.
But the depot still stood. And Sarah and I, in turn, were now standing in front of it.
'This building is in amazingly good shape,' I said, climbing the steps to a balustraded porch that wrapped around the front and side of the building. The veranda was empty except for an oversized recliner covered in burgundy Naugahyde and patched with gray duct tape. 'What's it been used for lately?'
Sarah followed me up. 'An antiques shop and, most recently, a cafe.'
I didn't remember either of them, which meant they couldn't have lasted very long. A bit of doubt crept back into my mind. Don't business collapses, like death and bad news, come in threes?
Still, when I looked around, I couldn't help but picture the white-railed porch fitted with cafe tables and cushy easy chairs. And those seats filled with free-spending Brookhills Barbies and caffeine-needy soccer moms.
Just because we built it, though, didn't mean they would come. The Junction was a good mile north of the old Uncommon Grounds and far from the elementary schools and churches, soccer fields and tennis courts around which life in Brookhills revolved. Leaving a trail of muffin crumbs and coffee grounds wasn't going to get them here. It would take some real work.
But . . . the depot was just so damned cute. I tried to peer in a window. The slanting light of early evening allowed me to barely make out three round clocks on the opposite wall and what looked like the original ticket windows below them.
Amy, our free-thinking barista, would love working in this place. I could already imagine her behind the ticket window, latte-ing and cappuccino-ing. Maybe we'd have frequent-buyer cards that looked like train tickets to be punched.
Here I'd pretty much lifted my leg on the idea of the strip mall Sarah had showed me, but now I was getting lyrical, internally at least, about an abandoned train station even farther off the beaten track.
OK. Down, girl.
I turned to Sarah. 'I take it the recent businesses didn't do well?'
'The antiques shop was fine for a while, but they were drawing only from the immediate area, with not a lot of repeat customers. The cafe, now, did fairly well, from what I understand. I'm not sure what happened. It just closed.'
Uncommon Grounds would have to do a whole lot better than 'fairly well'. 'Tell me again why you think we can succeed. Because of our marketing expertise?'
I knew Sarah had been playing me back at the nondescript strip mall. Now here I was, practically begging for a repeat of the hard sell. I wanted to believe.
'Nah,' Sarah said. 'I just fed you a line at the industrial park. As the listing broker for that space, I'd have gotten the whole commission if you committed to it.'
A commission. And she was pitching again, trying to get me excited without my even setting foot in the place. To recalibrate myself, I gave the railing a little shove. Damn. Solid as a rock.
'Rebuilt not five years ago,' my real estate agent said.
I even liked the ugly old recliner. I wanted the depot. I couldn't afford it, but I wanted it. The American way.
I folded my arms. I wanted to stomp my foot like Sarah had done earlier. Or, better yet, kick her in the shins.
'Why did you even show this to me?' I said unhappily. 'We'd have to increase our sales by fifty per cent just to cover the overhead.'
'No, we wouldn't.'
'And why is that?'
Sarah smiled. 'Because I own it.'
'You own the depot?' Hope burned bright for a moment, but I fought it. Just because we wouldn't have to pay rent didn't mean we could generate the income needed in a classically low-traffic location.
'I own the depot,' she repeated, the Cheshire cat grin getting bigger. Sarah had a set of choppers that made dentists wish they could charge by the acre. 'I inherited half from my father years ago and the rest when my Auntie Vi died last week.'
'I'm sorry,' I said automatically.
'About what?' Sarah asked, looking confused.
'Your aunt. Her recent passing?'
Never one for sentimentality, Sarah waved the subject aside. 'Vi was in her nineties and ready to go. Now, what do you think about the depot?'
'I think it's great,' I said honestly. 'But even without rent, we'd still have a ton of expenses. An abandoned train station isn't—'
'It's not exactly abandoned,' Sarah interrupted.
'Not techni
cally, I suppose, if we moved in. But—'
'Don't you read the newspapers? Watch the local news?'
'Of course I do.' Occasionally. 'Why do you ask?' I did a three-sixty spin without seeing any ground-breakings. 'Is there a plan to develop this area?'
'No.'
Enough. 'Sarah, I refuse to ask if it's bigger than a breadbox. Or whether we're talking animal, vegetable or mineral.'
'Suit yourself, but the answer is worthy of the build-up.'
My eyes narrowed. 'Spill it.'
'Brookhills Junction resumes service as an official train stop on September first.'
Sarah Kingston's smile rivaled the sun.
Chapter Three
September first.
And it was now mid-May. Three and a half months. Not a lot of time to outfit the place and turn it into a gourmet coffee shop with all the bells and whistles that caffeine-fiends had come to expect. God knew what kind of problems lurked behind the walls. The building was nearly a century and a half old.
But Sarah owned the property. And as a real estate agent, she had connections all over town. Inspectors. Contractors. Hell, her cousin Ronny even was one.
We could do it. If we moved fast.
'How much work does the interior need?' I asked her. 'Is the kitchen from the cafe still there?'
'Let's find out.'
Sarah held up a key. It was enormous by modern standards. A skeleton key, my mom had called them, though I was never sure if that was because the old locks looked like skulls or the keys themselves were long and skinny like skeletons.
As Sarah struggled to open the station's main entrance, I looked around again. The front of the depot bordered directly on Junction Road, one of the few thoroughfares in Brookhills that ran on an angle, north-east to south-west. Much to the disgust of current city planners, who raised ninety-degree grids to the level of religion.
To make the depot area even more of a throwback, the buildings in the Junction fronted directly on the sidewalk, with nothing but a couple of parallel parking spaces between the storefronts and traffic. There were no parking lots in front (like modern Brookhills businesses were required to provide), or even in back. The depot and the store-owners that lined the two blocks north of the tracks were 'grandfathered', meaning they didn't have to comply with current codes, or at least not all of them.
