5 From the Grounds Up

by Sandra Balzo

  'Uh, Sarah,' Ronny asked, 'where did you put yours?'

  'The wheel-well,' Sarah said.

  Ronny and I both looked at her.

  Sarah bristled. 'I'm not an idiot. I stuck it inside the rear one on the passenger side, not the front driver's side like in that commercial.'

  'Smart,' I said. 'No one would think of looking there.'

  'Hey,' she protested. 'There's a lot of fiberglass on my baby. Hiding places that are metal aren't easy to find.'

  Ronny was rubbing his chin. 'Maggy, this might answer the question you originally asked. If the car was, in fact, running as it came off the hill, the jump on to the porch seems a little more likely.'

  'Geez, we're lucky the un-guided missile didn't go through the door.' I was shaking my head. 'Think of all the added expense. Not to mention the time we'd lose.'

  Ronny seemed like he was about to say something and thought better of it.

  'What?' I asked.

  He looked uncomfortable. 'I need to talk numbers, but not just now. You have enough to worry about.'

  'Great, so now we can worry about what you're not telling us.' Sarah said sourly. 'Give.'

  Even as she said it, a pristine white tow truck pulled up in front. Sarah broke off and picked her way down the steps to meet the driver, who was wearing equally pristine white coveralls.

  I would have known this was Mario, even if he didn't have his name embroidered on his shirt pocket, or 'Mario's Repair and Restoration' tastefully stenciled on his truck.

  Sarah fell on the man like he was the father of her children. Or child, in this case. He listened as she spoke, wagging his head sadly. Then, together, they walked over to the Firebird.

  'We should give them some time alone,' Ronny said.

  He was right. 'Why don't we grab a table inside and go over the numbers?'

  I had a feeling Ronny was harboring bad news for us. I preferred to be sitting down when I heard the details.

  'Is this about the deck repair costs?' I asked as we settled into chairs. 'I thought you said there was no major damage.'

  'There isn't,' he assured me. 'Repairing the decking, stairs and railing should be easy enough and covered by insurance.'

  'After the deductible,' I said.

  'True, and we'll have to check the insurance policy.'

  'Maybe Sarah knows.'

  We turned in tandem to look out the window to where Sarah and Mario were standing, heads bowed.

  'Probably not a good time to ask her,' Ronny said.

  'Agreed. But, if you're not terribly worried about the recent damage, what's the problem?'

  Why-oh-why do I ask questions no rational person would want answers to?

  'Wiring.'

  I was relieved. I knew electrical work was expensive, but I was expecting to hear that the station had been built on a cemetery or something. 'Oh, well—'

  'And pipes.'

  Plumbers were really costly, but you had to expect that with—

  'Only the sewer is what really worries me.'

  That was it. The triumvirate of unexpected costs.

  'What's wrong with the sewer?'

  'Nothing now,' Ronny said, 'but it's an old system with a long run. Tomorrow, next week, a year from now, the thing is going to have to be replaced. And it'll be expensive.'

  'A long run?' I repeated. 'But doesn't the sewer line run down Junction Road here?'

  'That's what I thought, too,' Ronny said, getting up and approaching the window by the boarding platform. I followed him.

  'When I met with the building inspector,' Ronny continued, 'he told me that because Junction is a two-block, angle road—'

  'The only one in Brookhills—'

  '—they didn't bother running the pipes down Junction. Instead, the buildings connect through the backyards to the sewer on Civic.'

  I followed his pointing finger past the parking lot to the no-so-gently rolling hill beyond, leading to Civic.

  And one hell of a long way up.

  'But we're OK for now, right?'

  'Right,' Ronny assured me. 'But . . ."

  I held up my hands. 'OK, OK--I've got it. The sewer stinks. What other good news do you have?'

  Ronny sighed and I followed him into the kitchen. 'We'll need to put a door there,' he pointed at a blank wall, 'so anyone working in here doesn't have to exit through the service area.'

  'Makes sense.'

  'The electrical is in this wall and when I punched a hole,' Ronny opened a storage cabinet and showed me the opening he'd made. 'I found this.'

  He pulled out a mess of wires, some capped with little plastic tops, others exposed and still more held together with duct tape.

  'Not code?' I asked, dreading the answer.

  A headshake. 'Not even when this place was built.'

  'So, how much?'

  'No way of knowing until I get an electrician out here. And,' Ronny swung open the cupboard door below the sink, 'a plumber.'

  I peered in. 'A garden hose?'

  'Yup.'

  'As the drainpipe?'

  'Ditto.'

  'Great.' I walked through the area behind the ticket counters, past the swinging half door and took my seat at the table.

  'What are you thinking?' Ronny said, joining me there.

  'Thinking?' I lifted my head from its burial place in my hands. 'I'm thinking we can't do this. I don't have the money and I doubt Sarah does, either.'

  Ronny heard the catch in my voice and patted my forearm. 'Don't jump to conclusions. Maybe—'

  'What are you guys talking about?'

  Sarah joined us, flipping around a chair and straddling it. With the Firebird evidently in Mario's reverent control, she seemed calmer.

  'Not much,' I said. 'Just talking.'

  'The wiring and plumbing are below code,' Ronny said, even as I shook my head at him, trying to warn him off.

  'How below?' Sarah asked.

  Ronny looked at me apologetically before he answered. 'Sorry, Maggy. But she's the owner. Sarah has to know.'

  Back to her. 'Duct tape and garden hoses.'

  'Shit.'

  'Yeah,' I agreed.

  The three of us sat silently, staring out the window. As we did, Mario's truck passed by, Sarah's Firebird hooked by its nose like a wall-eyed pike on a fisherman's stringer.

  Sarah groaned, then came back to life.

  'This is it.' She spread out her arms. 'I've got this place and have to pay taxes and maintenance. I rent the space the office is in and that rent's going up. The house . . .' She laid her head on the back of her chair.

  I patted Sarah's shoulder. 'That's OK. We tried. Maybe instead we rent that industrial-park place you showed me.'

  Sarah lifted her head. 'The one you hated?'

  'The price was right.'

  'Yup. So much for being partners, huh?'

  'What do you mean?' I asked. 'Just because we can't open here, doesn't mean we won't open somewhere.'

  'We?' Sarah asked. 'You mean you and me?'

  'Of course.' I wasn't sure what she was getting at. 'Unless you don't want—'

  Sarah cut me off. 'I just figured if I wasn't contributing the building, you wouldn't want—'

  This time I interrupted her. 'The building?' I looked around. 'It's great. But,' I punched her in the arm, 'you're better.'

  For the third time since I'd known her--hell, for the third time in less than twenty-four hours--Sarah burst into tears.

  'Holy shit,' Ronny said, as he brought a mug of water back from the kitchen. 'What did you say to her?'

  'You were there. I didn't say anything.' I tried to hand the water to Sarah, who had gone from sobbing to a glassy, fugue-state stare. She didn't take the mug.

  And I hadn't said anything beyond the fact that I wanted Sarah to be my partner. Despite the fact that, even without the expense of updating the depot, we probably couldn't generate enough funds to get started and pay rent.

  'C'mon Sarah,' I said, sitting back down. 'We're going to do
fine. We'll get financing or, or . . .'

  Sarah showed the first signs of life in about ten minutes. 'I'll sell my house.'

  'The hell you will,' I said. 'It's beautiful and paid off. Where else would you find a place that's big enough for the three of you?'

  Sarah's face puckered up again and she scrabbled through her right pocket until a folded piece of paper saw the light of day. She shoved it across the table to me. 'There is no three of us.'

  With that, she lapsed into hysteria again.

  Ronny patted Sarah, while I unfolded the paper.

  Maybe you can go home again, but from the printed-out e-mail message, apparently Sam and Courtney didn't want to. At least not Sarah's home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  'So what does this mean?' I asked Sarah when she finally returned to coherence. The bottle of Jim Beam Black that Ronny dug up probably helped.

  'It means they don't want to live with me anymore.' The words came out mush-mouthed, but at least Sarah was talking again.

  I studied the e-mail, which had been sent that morning. 'The kids just say they want to look at schools out east. Maybe--'

  Sarah slammed her hand on the table and even Jim Beam jumped. 'Patrice followed up that e-mail with a phone call. Wanted me to know that if Sam and Courtney stayed on the coast, she thought it would be best that hubby and her--as 'family'--take over legal custody of both kids.'

  To quote Ronny's earlier words, holy shit.

  No wonder Sarah had been late this morning. She'd been dealing with Patrice and then, when she had finally arrived, we'd bombarded her with theories about the relatively insignificant porch railing.

  Worse, Sarah had been carrying the e-mail around all day with her, not showing it to us, not telling us. The Firebird's demise must have seemed like the final blow.

  'You know what I think?' Sarah continued. 'I think they had the whole thing planned. No way this just occurred to people last night.'

  Much as I hated to think it, she might be right. Sam and Courtney had been with their cousins for less than a day. 'We should talk to Caron's husband, Bernie. He's a lawyer.'

  'I'm trying to adopt them, Maggy, not copyright them.'

  Even tipsy, Sarah could be clever, if not crystal clear. 'You want to adopt Sam and Courtney?'

  'No, but I damn well don't want Patricia and "hubby" to.' She slammed her hand again and Ronny, anticipating, grabbed the bottle of bourbon just as it achieved lift-off.

  'Have you talked to Sam and Courtney?' he asked. 'Is this really what they want?'

  'I left voicemail messages. They didn't call back.'

  'Text them,' I suggested. 'It's less confrontational.'

  Sarah didn't answer at first.

  Then, finally: 'I guess I don't want to confront them, Maggy. I want them to be happy and if this makes them happy, I ought to be content.'

  She didn't sound content, much less happy. Sarah took the Jimmy Black from Ronny and downed a swig. Then she set it on the next table. 'Now, let's talk about Uncommon Grounds.'

  It was a cue to move on, so I did. 'Ronny, do you have any idea how much it will cost to bring this place up to code?'

  He played along. 'Maybe it won't be too bad. I haven't looked into most of the walls. A lot of times people mess with what's easily accessible and leave the rest the way it should be.'

  'That's true,' I said, trying to be equally upbeat. 'When I bought my house, there were all sorts of quirky little things about it. The stuff in the walls, though, was in pretty good shape.'

  'Right,' Ronny said, 'and I'm sure the sewer—'

  'Sewer?' Sarah's head snapped to attention. 'What's wrong with the sewer?'

  'Nothing,' I said, uncomfortably. 'It's an old system, but working just fine.'

  'Now, sure.' Sarah got to her feet, a trifle unsteadily. 'I'm a real estate agent, Maggy. I've sold houses to people who didn't realize there was routine maintenance required on these things. I'd try to tell them, but they'd ignore me. Until, of course, it broke.'

  'The sewer is fine,' I repeated. Maggy Thorsen, Voice of Reason. "If and when it fails, we'll deal with it. For now, let's figure out how we can pay for the repairs that need to be done in order to open.'

  'How in the hell did that frog guy get away with this?' Sarah grumbled.

  'Frog?' I asked gently. The woman was truly losing it.

  'You know--Jenada, the guy who looks like a frog and ran the restaurant here. How did he get a license if this building wasn't up to code?'

  'Beats me,' Ronny said. 'But the current inspector is new. And he did say that the last one had some . . . dubious dealings?'

  That was putting it mildly. 'We had some personal experience with Roger Karsten. I wouldn't be surprised if he looked the other way for a price.'

  'God,' Sarah said, hitching herself up to grab the bourbon she'd set on the next table. 'So Ronny, without bribing officials, how much will it cost to get us up and running?'

  'It's hard to say, but, maybe . . . seventy-five?'

  'Seventy-five thousand?' I grabbed the bottle from Sarah.

  'That includes the equipment,' Ronny said, looking a little hurt. 'Espresso maker, coffee urns, stove, refrigerator.'

  'There's no way,' I said to Sarah.

  She snatched the bottle back. 'You're being negative.'

  'No. I'm positive. We don't have the money. And Ronny is absolutely right. Nearly all that stuff has to be replaced.'

  Ronny raised his hand.

  Sarah ignored him and drained the rest of the bourbon. 'Well, I guess that's it, then. The end of a dream.' She tipped the bottle over and pounded the back end of it. 'The end of all dreams.'

  Ronny and I looked at each other. His hand was still up.

  'Yes, Ronny?' I said.

  'If you wouldn't mind having a silent partner, I think I know where you can get the money.'

  Sarah blinked rapidly. 'Where?'

  Ronny's hand was still in the air. Now he took it down and shrugged, both hands palm out. 'Me.'

  'You? Where would you get the money?' The question came from Sarah, though I have to admit I was thinking the same thing.

  Of course a contractor probably makes a whole lot more than a coffeehouse owner. Which begged the question: 'And why would you want to invest it with us?'

  Ronny looked back and forth between his potential new partners. 'Who do you want me to answer first?'

  I pointed at Sarah.

  He turned to her. 'My father left me some money and property, believe it or not.'

  Then he swiveled over to me. 'I like you, Maggy, and I love this old hulk of a place. I think having a business here would be great, especially with the new commuter train coming through.'

  'Kornell left you money?' Again Sarah had posed the question that was on my mind, but was better asked by a family member of sorts. Or, here, out of sorts. 'He didn't even like you.'

  'Now, Sarah,' I started. 'I'm sure that's not—'

  'No, she's right,' Ronny said. 'My father never forgave me for my little brother's accident.'

  'I'm so sorry.' I didn't know what else to say.

  'Don't be. I had Vi. Like I said, the one good thing that miserable man did for me was to marry her.'

  'And the inheritance?' Sarah reminded him. Amazing how sentimental she could be one moment, admittedly about her own car and her own foster kids, and how callous the next.

  Ronny said, 'The way I understand it, I got the inheritance more by negligence than benevolence.'

  'Your father died intestate?' I guessed.

  'Correct. He kept putting off making a will and . . .' Ronny shrugged.

  Kornell had been hit by a train. Made sense that he hadn't seen it coming.

  'I can't think of a more fitting place to invest the money than in the family business.' Ronny gave a sheepish grin, now, like he was worried that Sarah was going to remind him that he wasn't really family.

  But Sarah seemed genuinely touched.

  'That's really nice of you.' She sni
ffled. 'Family is so important.'

  'And I can stretch the inheritance dollars,' Ronny continued, 'save the three of us real money. I mean between sub-contractors who owe me favors and my own sweat equity . . .'

  Before Sarah could break down again, I interrupted him. 'We do need to be practical here, though. The shop may not produce a return on your investment for years.'

  I spoke, sadly, from personal experience.

  But Ronny was shaking his head. 'I think you may be wrong on that, Maggy. This place, done right, could be a huge success. I just want to help you do it right. Be a part of it.' Now he sniffled.

  Oh, for God's sake. Two days ago I had no partners. Now I had two weepy step-cousins and a 'family' business.

  I looked around the depot. The kitschy ticket windows. The space. The potential.

  'Works for me,' I said, standing up. 'Let's shake on it.'

  Of course, nothing is that easy. Nor should it be, in business.

  We needed to have a real partnership, with legally proper documents. Sarah and Ronny readily agreed that I should be the one to talk to Caron and get a concrete answer on whether she was in or out.

  By the time we left the station, the sun was slanting through the windows toward sunset. To me, it was eerily reminiscent of the night Kornell was killed.

  'Want to grab something to eat?' I asked the other two. Pavlik had suggested I keep an eye on Sarah. Especially since the Sam/Courtney e-mail--and the subsequent bourbon--that initially good idea had grown in importance.

  But Sarah shook her head. 'Nah. I've got too much to do.'

  'That's right,' I said, glad Sarah was thinking about her business again. 'The realty agency doesn't run itself. I'll give you a ride.'

  Another shake of the head. 'I'm packing up Sam and Courtney's things.'

  'Don't you think that's jumping the gun a little?' Ronny asked as we circled the building to our cars.

  Sarah's straightened her shoulders. 'Maybe. But it's what I have to do.'

  I said, 'There aren't other things you "have to do"? Beautiful houses to list, eager buyers to—'

  'I'm going to close down for a while.' Sarah walked right past my Escape.

  'Close down the realty?' I followed her. 'Why?'

  She turned and shrugged, arms hanging at her side like they were too heavy to lift. Whether it was from the Jim Beam or the events of the last two days, I didn't know.