Happenings, and Sam immediately took a liking to the petite British-born young woman who wasn’t a whole lot older than her own daughter.
Sam held up the pages of the lease. “Yep. Here I am.”
Riki squealed and danced around. “I’m so happy for you, Sam.”
Sam showed them around, pointing out the changes she planned to make. Her daughter, Kelly, had designed a logo for the shop in Sam’s favorite shades of purple, and Sam would use those same colors, along with gold trim, in the scheme throughout the store. A wall already divided the space roughly in half, and Sam had a bake oven, walk-in refrigerator, and all the best in equipment on order from a bakery supply house. She’d not revealed to most people where the money came from for her new venture, but there was sufficient cash to do it right and that’s just what she intended to do.
At the moment, though, the main requirement would be elbow grease. The previous tenant had not left on good terms with the Tafoyas—being four months behind on rent before they evicted him—so he’d taught them a lesson by leaving masses of cardboard boxes, unsold product, piles of paperwork and old brochures—generally anything he didn’t want to make the effort to move. And of course the Tafoyas didn’t care. The location, one block off the Taos Plaza, was so prime that they knew it would rent, in any condition. Enter Samantha Sweet and her dream of opening her own pastry shop.
“Is a good place,” Ivan said when they’d completed the quick tour.
“Hmm, it needs a spot of work,” Riki said.
Sam laughed out loud. “More than a ‘spot’ I’d say. But it’s doable. I’ll call up my old resources.” A dumpster and perhaps a couple of muscular teenage boys would come in handy.
“Ah yes, what about that?” Riki asked. “You’ve not quit your other job have you?”
Sam grimaced. Breaking into houses for a living was not how she wanted to spend the rest of her days, but she was under contract for another two years. It had seemed her only choice when money was so tight last year; she’d really needed the income just to scrape by.
“No, I’ll have to juggle both for awhile. Right now I’ve just got two properties in my care and they are pretty simple ones. I’ve suggested to my supervisor that he might shift some to other contractors, if there’s someone who can take them. But I don’t know how it’s going to work out. There are only two of us in the county right now.”
“Well, my shop is only closed on Sundays but if I can lend a hand . . .” The dog groomer patted Sam’s arm. “Better get back to it now.” She practically skipped toward the front door. “Later, Sam!”
“Ah, I am seeing cars at my place too,” said Ivan, heading that direction. “Pleasing to be your neighbor.”
Sam chuckled as he left. It was nice to be here among friends. She had a good feeling about the shop.
“Okay, let’s get busy,” she muttered to herself, walking out to her van parked in the alley behind the row of businesses.
She shed the jacket that had been necessary early this morning and rummaged among her tools in the back of her van for a box cutter. Flattening and stacking empty boxes, she piled them into the van for a trip to the recycling center. The former tenant’s old brochures and other miscellaneous paper could probably also be recycled. Most of the other stuff would simply have to go into the trash. She was no more than an hour into the job when her phone rang.
Delbert Crow, her USDA contracting officer. A new job, and of course he wanted this one tended to quickly. Sam took down the address, her mind zipping through the steps in hopes of handling it, along with her own new cleanup project, as efficiently as possible.
She finished talking with Crow and decided she might as well go out and do the break-in and assess the situation at the new place.
She pulled out the roll of white butcher paper on which she and Kelly had written in huge letters: COMING SOON—SWEET’S SWEETS—A BAKERY OF MAGICAL DELIGHTS. Carrying it to the front of the shop she carefully unrolled it and taped the banner across the front windows. Not only would it conceal the current grime and her subsequent cleanup-in-progress, she also hoped it would whet the appetites of passersby and give the business a boost when it opened. She walked outside and stood on the sidewalk. It looked good. She smiled.
Washing her hands in cold water—she must remember to get the gas and electric turned back on today—she rummaged for a paper towel and then made herself a list of cleaning supplies to bring from home. She locked the front door, felt her way through the dim space and went out the back to her van.
The property her USDA supervisor had added to her workload was located beyond the far south end of town, she discovered as she looked up the address on a road picturesquely named Hickory Lane. She drove through mid- day traffic, past the little community of Ranchos de Taos with its famous historic church, and turned off the highway into an area filled with tiny houses interspersed with single-wide trailers. The lots were small and most had no landscaping to speak of—dirt yards with a few shrubs and a lot of kids’ plastic toys seemed to be the norm. Hickory was the first dirt road after the turnoff.
She figured out the address by process of elimination. Looking for #23 she spotted a 21 on one side and a 25 on the other. The unmarked one in the middle must be it. She pulled through an opening in the coyote stake fence, onto a dirt track that passed for a driveway. The little house was covered in badly done white stucco, with aluminum frame windows and a cheap hollow-core wooden front door. Surprising that the USDA had guaranteed a loan for the place; not surprising that the owner abandoned it. Sad, really, that even such an unassuming house would be beyond the means of the buyer. Perhaps someone who had lost a job in the recession. Sam had no way of knowing. Her job was simply to get inside, make sure the place was cleared of personal possessions and made ready for sale or auction.
As was her custom, she first walked the perimeter, looking for broken windows or other damage, assessing what yard work might need to be done, finding the easiest way in. That part of it turned out to be quite simple. When she tried the front doorknob it was unlocked.
The door swung open about twelve inches before it bumped against something and came to an abrupt stop.
Sam bit back a few choice words as she shoved against it and inched into the opening. Why hadn’t she worked a little harder to lose some of those extra pounds? She kicked at whatever was blocking the door and pressed harder to squeeze herself through.
Stacks of newspapers, magazines and boxes lined a narrow entryway forming a tunnel-like walkway. Sam pulled a small flashlight from the pocket of her jeans and aimed it toward the ceiling. The piles of paper to her left looked really precarious. She edged away. Yikes, if this mess starts to fall, there’s nowhere to go, she thought. Even with the unlocked front door, she began to see why thieves had not messed with this place.
Turning sideways, she sidestepped farther into the clutter. A break in the tall paper-stacks revealed a living room. A sofa had some crocheted afghans and a couple of small throw pillows on it, looking like someone had just gotten up from a nap. A cheap fake-wood stand, minus the TV, stood in one corner and little nests of afghans were bunched in front of it. In the corners were piles of plastic toys, the kind that seem to grow and multiply in so many American homes. On the south wall, they were literally stacked to the ceiling in plastic crates.
Paper sacks lined the walls of a dining area—Sam assumed that a table was somewhere under the collection of silk flowers, half-burned candles and cereal boxes. When she shone her light toward the latter, two spiders edged away. She gingerly poked into one of the paper sacks and pulled out three baby t-shirts, size six months. Another sack revealed size twelve months; another size four. Some items were new, in wrappers, while others were splotched with food stains, as if they’d been worn and stashed away dirty. What the heck?
She dropped the small clothing back into the bags and headed for the kitchen. The stench of old garbage filled the small space. Every counter top was covered in dirty dishes, with a conglomeration of pots and pans in the sink as well. The stove would have to be hauled away. No degreaser in the world would cut through that mess. Dreading it, Sam reached for the refrigerator door. Green fuzz coated several lumpy surfaces, but the odor of rotten meat nearly knocked her over. She slammed the door vowing to bring a respirator mask when she came back.
She’d seen a few things nearly this bad, but that was back when she had no choice but to take every job that came her way. She headed back toward the living room and blew out a sharp breath to get the kitchen-stink out of
