Chapter 9 Non-Resolutions #2
Jenna couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past sunrise.
Such was the curse of the career path she’d fallen into and not being successful enough to share the baking responsibilities.
But she’d acclimated, even embraced such a drastically different lifestyle, so much so that she couldn’t help but mourn the loss of the product simply sitting and wasting away in her neglected store.
That was probably why she’d put herself through another inevitably pointless phone call over breakfast.
“The sheriff will release it when he releases it,” the female deputy said, her tone sharp. “Have a little respect for the people who died there, Hodge.”
Jenna nearly slammed her coffee onto the table.
“You mean the people your deputies let die? The same people who pointed a gun at an elderly man because they wanted to rob me? Those people? Because, honestly, at this point I kind of think I should have let them. If they’d taken everything I had that morning, I’d be looking at less of a net-loss than I’m looking at right now.
How about having a little respect for the civilians you’re supposed to be protecting? ”
“Weren’t you protected?”
Jenna ground her teeth. “By an off-duty Marine.” She took a breath, preparing to at least demand brief and escorted access, but anything she wanted to say was cut off.
“Right. Your dead ex-boyfriend. Isn’t that convenient?” Something that sounded like a door closed with a heavy thud in the background. “We’ll be in touch. Stay out until then.”
The line clicked in Jenna’s ear, leaving her blood boiling as she fought to hold the agitation inside. What is wrong with them? Was it her? Was she looking at everything the wrong way?
She knocked back the remainder of her coffee and opened her text app in the fruitless hope that one thing had improved while her attention had been elsewhere.
She’d texted Martha more than half an hour earlier, but Martha hadn’t replied.
The message did indicate it had been seen, though, if that was worth anything.
More of the same no-news stared back at her in the small employee thread. Eric and her other remaining employee, Zoey, had already chimed in on all the lack of new activity from Steph. Steph herself still had yet to read, let alone respond, to a single message anywhere.
Someone needed to report her missing if she still was.
It would help if Martha would answer, but Jenna suspected Martha didn’t want to admit the situation to herself.
That was only going to cost them all precious time.
But that wasn’t the only problem. Reporting Steph missing meant communicating, again, with the sheriff’s office.
They’d probably arrest her if she called again.
Helpless frustration tightened like a net inside Jenna’s chest and she struggled to push herself to her feet.
Her insurance couldn’t move forward without an inspection.
She couldn’t replace anything without insurance approval.
The inspection couldn’t happen until she was allowed to reclaim active ownership of her own damn property.
All the goods she hadn’t sold before the shooting were rotting on a shelf, stinking up the building.
If anyone had damaged a plastic seal or not shut a refrigerator door properly or God-forbid unplugged the entire damn thing, she could be looking at massive product loss.
None of which, of course, the bumbling sheriff’s office would take responsibility for.
Do I need a lawyer? The thought landed like a brick on her shoulders, but it made her laugh all the same. A hard, grating, scoffing sound that was not her normal laugh. As if she could even afford to think about a lawyer.
She scooped up her breakfast dishes and started for the kitchen in the hopes of keeping occupied. Of course, it was while her hands were full that her phone decided to ring. Jenna hurried to divest herself of her armload and rushed back to the device she’d left on the table.
It wasn’t Steph.
It wasn’t Jon.
It wasn’t anyone whose number was programmed into her phone. It wasn’t even a local area code.
But it could still have been important, so she answered. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Ms. Hodge,” a smooth, almost familiar voice said in greeting. Definitely male. “I apologize if this question is insensitive, but I noticed this morning that Sweet Stop is shut down. Are you planning to re-open?”
Her stomach threatened to drop to her feet.
“Yes,” she said, choosing not to address anything else.
“As soon as the sheriff releases it and I’ve got it all fixed up again.
” She wasn’t going to talk about blood stains on the asphalt or what fixing it actually entailed.
All she wanted her customers to see was that her little bakery could, and would, bounce back.
The stranger on the phone hummed. “And when do you expect that to be? I’m something of a creature of habit. I’ve come to like my morning scone and coffee.”
His morning scone and coffee? Her mind rolled backward without effort, thinking over who could possibly fit that description. She sucked in a breath. “Is this Q?” The mysterious, presumably wealthy man who’d recently moved to town and begun frequenting her shop?
“Quetzal Ybarra,” the man replied. “Q is fine, most people find it easier.” When he spoke his name, his generally subtle accent flared into something that gained an indefinable depth. It was similar to Spanish as she was used to it, but not the same.
Jenna gave herself a shake. “Unfortunately, the sheriff’s office won’t give me a timeline, and I can’t move forward without one. So, my most optimistic guess is a couple of weeks.” She wanted to stress that that felt much too hopeful, but she also didn’t want to lose a reliable customer.
Come to think of it, maybe she ought to start keeping some kind of diary or record of all the customers who approached her, inquiring about re-opening and implying or outright declaring they may move elsewhere. Just in case she ended up having to empty her bank account on a lawyer.
“Did you need help renting a temporary kitchen?”
Jenna almost didn’t register the question. “I beg your pardon?”
“Working off-site, selling even small batches of goods, would be better than sitting and losing money for the next several weeks while the legal crap holds you up, right? Pardon my language.”
She shuffled forward and dropped heavily back into her chair at the dining table. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Because it had only been one day, which she’d spent half of making ridiculous phone calls and the other half of … distracted. Not entirely Jon’s fault. Possibly not at all Jon’s fault.
Still, the notion had been presented and she couldn’t not see the genius of it.
If she had the right kitchen she could reacquire at least adequate versions of the right tools, charge them to whatever insurance claim because she was using them to recoup some of the loss, and not turn into a lump.
Someone had asked her in the diner about making cupcakes for a birthday that weekend, hadn’t they?
That would be a great way to let the town know she wasn’t down and out.
She could charge him half what she might have if he’d promise to talk up her work ethic or something.
Jenna nodded to herself, already seeing it come together in her mind.
“I’ll bite,” she said, “do you know of an industrial kitchen in the area that might rent at a reasonable rate?” Because all great plans had roadblocks, and those were her first three, lined up in a row.
Location, availability, and affordability.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”