Sweet Dreams on Center Street (17 page)

Sadly, they did.

“So,” said Darren, giving Blake a look that threatened not only
termination but dismemberment, “shall we go?” Blake was about to claim a heavy
workload and stay behind when Darren said, “Lead on, Blake.”

Blake clenched his jaw and walked with them out of the bank,
feeling like a Judas goat about to lead the sheep to slaughter.

Chapter Fifteen

Sooner or later, trouble is bound to knock on your door. Welcome
it. Then poison it.

—Muriel Sterling,
Knowing Who You Are:
One Woman's Journey

D
el wasn't in his office. Again. “When will
he be back?” Samantha asked Pissy.

“By noon, but he has a lunch date so he's not going to be able
to talk to you.”

“I'm sure he can spare a minute,” Samantha said, and plunked
herself down on a chair to wait. This time she was not leaving until somebody
told her something about those permits.

Pissy shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then she went back to her desk
and got busy looking busy.

Really, if people could get a degree in immaturity, Pissy would
have a doctorate. Samantha took out her phone and began checking email.

She'd barely gotten started when Elena called. “You'd better
get back here.”

The urgency in her voice made Samantha's heart stop. “What's
going on?”

“Something fishy. The manager from the bank is here with two
other men and they want to inspect the factory.”

“What?” Samantha bolted from her seat and hurried out the door.
“Where are they now?”

“I sent them to the gift shop for some free samples. I didn't
know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” Samantha said.

“Why are they here? Does this have anything to do with your
meltdown a couple weeks ago?”

“Yes, but it's under control. Don't worry.”

“Don't worry?
¿Estás demente?
I
know a shark when I see one. What's going on,
chica?
”

“Nothing I can't handle,” Samantha assured them both. Oh, Lord,
she hoped she was right. She ended the call and broke into a run.

But when she reached her street she realized she needed to face
these buzzards from a position of strength, not weakness. Entering her business
establishment breathless, sweaty and panicked was no way to put up a strong
front. She slowed down, finger-combed her hair and found a tissue in her purse
to blot her damp forehead. Then she took a deep breath and marched into
battle.

She'd expected to see Blake the Snake and maybe another bank
manager, but not the third man, and her heart seized at the sight of him. She
knew this man, just like she knew all her competitors. She'd made it her
business to check out the competition. Trevor Brown was a busy boy. Every year
he lobbied for Madame C to become the official candy of Washington State, as the
Liberty Orchards people who made Aplets and Cotlets did, and Brown & Haley,
producers of Almond Roca—as if he was even in their league—and Sweet Dreams, the
chocolate contender. He had big suppliers and a big appetite. He'd already
gobbled up two small companies, and now he was looking to swallow hers. Well, he
wasn't going to get it.

She donned her business smile and forced herself to move
forward, hand out. “I heard we had visitors.”

Blake shook her hand. She felt a jolt at the contact and told
herself it was rage, pure rage.

He looked embarrassed. He should. He should be mortified by his
behavior. Entering the Mr. Dreamy contest and now bringing the vultures for a
little deathbed visit. She ended the handshake as quickly as possible. Shaking
hands with the other two men as he made introductions wasn't any more pleasant.
No jolt there, just panic.
Don't panic!

“Nice to meet you,” she said to Trevor Brown even though they
both knew it was a lie. “Your reputation precedes you.”
As
a maker of inferior chocolates.

“Does it?” He smiled and took another bite of the pecan butter
crunch fudge Heidi had given him.

Meanwhile, Heidi was standing behind the counter, a question
mark in her big blue eyes.

Samantha smiled reassuringly at her, then returned her
attention to the trio of vipers in front of her. “So, gentlemen, what can I do
for you?”

“Actually, we're here to tour your facility,” said the man
Blake had introduced as Darren Short.

“I'm afraid we don't give tours.” Samantha smiled with faux
regret.

“To the bank that's calling in your note you do,” Darren said
pleasantly.

Samantha's veins turned to ice. Heidi's shock came at her like
a wave; before the day was over, all her employees would be in a panic. She
suddenly felt like the proverbial little Dutch boy trying to plug a multitude of
holes in the dike. “The bank doesn't own Sweet Dreams.” Not yet, anyway.

“No,” Darren said, “but as holder of the note we do have the
right to inspect the facility at any time and make sure it's in good working
order.”

“Then I suggest you send in someone who's qualified to do
so.”

“We have,” Darren said. “That's why Trevor is with us.”

This had to be how a cat felt when it was cornered by a pack of
dogs. Both Darren Short and Trevor Brown were slobbering to devour her, and
Blake the Snake stood there, his jaw clenched like he wished she'd just shut up
and die and be done with it.

Well, she'd be damned if she would. She raised her chin. “I'm
sorry, gentlemen, but I'm afraid Mr. Brown doesn't qualify as an inspector.” The
only title he qualified for was king of mediocrity. “If you're concerned about
the condition of our building or equipment you can, of course, send someone
appropriately qualified, although I can assure you everything is in perfect
working order.” Now she smiled, the charming businesswoman offering hospitality.
“Mr. Brown, I know you've got a long drive back to Seattle, but I'm sure you'll
want to check out one of our fine restaurants. Zelda's is popular, and if you
like Mexican there's Der Spaniard. And Schwangau can give you some wonderful
authentic German fare.” She moved to the door and opened it.

“Now, wait a minute,” Darren sputtered.

“Gentlemen, I think it's time for lunch,” Blake said, moving to
the door.

Trevor shrugged. “I've seen enough. Great chocolate, by the
way,” he said to Samantha as he sauntered past.

Darren wasn't such a good sport. He punched a finger at her. “I
want reports on all your equipment and the condition of your building on Blake's
desk by the end of business today. Got it?”

In his dreams.
Samantha glared at
him. “Get. Out.”

He stormed off, but Blake lingered. “Samantha, this was not my
idea.”

She glared at him, too. “But here you are, anyway.”

“Not by choice.”

“Said the hangman to the prisoner,” she retorted.

“Believe it or not, I'm trying to help you.”

“Yes, I can tell,” she said through gritted teeth. She nodded
at his departing partners in crime. “You'd better hurry and catch up. I'd hate
to see the vultures start lunch without you.”

For a moment he stood there, his jaw working.

“I guess that was too polite. Let me translate. Leave.”

He nodded curtly and strode off down the street and she closed
the door behind him, then collapsed against it.

“What's going on?” Heidi asked in a small voice.

“A temporary glitch with the bank,” Samantha said. “Don't
worry. We'll be fine.”

She said the same thing to Elena a minute later.

“
No me digas mentiras, chica
. We
have troubles, don't we?”

“We have troubles, yes, but we're going to pull out of them,”
Samantha insisted. “Hang in there with me, okay?” It was asking a lot. Elena
needed both the money and the health insurance.

She nodded. “You know I will.”

Samantha's throat tightened and her eyes stung with tears.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, and shut herself in her office.

The rest of the day was torture. More than one employee came to
her wearing a worried expression.

That night she tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling.
When she finally slept, her dreams took her to the factory, where she stood
alone on the assembly line, trying to gather a million chocolates off the
conveyor belt as they scooted by and put them in boxes. Above her a giant
grandfather clock began striking the midnight hour. With the final bong the
factory door shot open and the flying monkeys from
The
Wizard of Oz
swooped in. One snatched her up and out the door they
flew. Over a frozen Wenatchee River, it let go and she began to fall.

She woke up right before she hit the ice, her heart pounding.
And she'd wanted to go to sleep? What had she been thinking?

She called a meeting with her employees the next day and
assured them that Sweet Dreams was not closing its doors, all the while hoping
she didn't end up a liar. “With Waldo's death we've had a few challenges to work
through.”
Yeah, and the great flood of Genesis was just a
rainstorm.

“But what were those men doing here?” Heidi asked.

“Snooping,” Samantha said.

“I heard one of them was from the bank,” said Chita Arness, a
single mom who worked the production line. “Are they trying to close us
down?”

None of Samantha's business classes had prepared her for this.
She took a deep breath. “No one is closing us down. My family owes them money
and they were checking on their investment. It's that simple.” And that ugly.
She didn't have the heart to tell everyone that if they didn't pay up, Cascade
Mutual would be selling Sweet Dreams to the highest bidder.

But Chita obviously wasn't fooled.

“What if you can't pay the bank?” she asked. “What about our
jobs?”

“If we were to get bought out, I'm sure you'd still have them.”
Trevor Brown would keep everyone employed, wouldn't he? Samantha's stomach
churned. “Don't worry,” she said as much to herself as her employees. “We're
restructuring and, as you all know, we're gearing up for a lot of business the
weekend of the chocolate festival. We have no plans to shut our doors, no matter
what you may hear to the contrary.” That was her story and she was stickin' to
it.

She went back to her apartment drained and ready to do nothing
but stare at her TV like a two-legged squash. But vegging out wasn't an option.
It was Friday and she had to go to Mr. Dreamy Night—the brainchild of her sister
and Charley—which was taking place in the bar at Zelda's. And, according to
Cecily, the face of Sweet Dreams needed to be there for the big contest
kickoff.

“Well, you'll have to find another face,” she'd said when
Cecily had first asked her to attend. “I'm not going.”

Then Cecily had caught a bad cold. She was still in bed,
slurping Mom's homemade chicken soup and watching old movies on her computer and
guess who was going to Mr. Dreamy Night.

Samantha pulled her hair into a sloppy ponytail, put on a black
skirt, her favorite V-neck gray sweater and a pair of boots and left it at that.
No way was she freshening up her makeup or getting all dolled up for what could
very well prove to be a repeat of the Bill Will incident. Cecily and Charley had
promised her things wouldn't get out of hand, but she knew better. Her whole
life was out of hand. Why would tonight be any different?

There wasn't much to eat in the fridge but that was okay. Since
her confrontation with the vultures earlier in the week she'd had no appetite,
anyway.

She got to the restaurant at quarter to eight. The dining area
was almost empty with only a few older people and one or two couples. From the
noise drifting out from the bar, it wasn't hard to figure out where all the
customers had gone.

“Everyone's raring to go,” Charley told her. “Go on in and
order a drink. I'll be there as soon as I can get away.”

Samantha entered the bar. It was so packed with people both
standing and sitting, she could hardly see the vintage pictures of twenties
gangsters and flappers that hung on the wall. Laughter and loud talk rolled over
her like a tidal wave. This was going to be a zoo. No one under the age of forty
had stayed home tonight; they were all here, slurping huckleberry martinis and
chowing down on hot wings and pretzels. Samantha looked around and saw that most
of the tables were occupied by couples, but there were also plenty of singles.
Four women sat at one table, clearly out hunting for their own Mr. Dreamy. They
were dressed to the max in outfits designed to show both cleavage and leg and
wore full makeup. At another table she spotted a couple of grocery checkers from
Safeway, probably new Mr. Dreamy contestants.

Rita Reyes, looking hot in her simple black shorts and shirt
and requisite flapper headband, came over to Samantha, bearing a sheaf of
papers. It was impressively thick. “New entries,” she said.

“Just from tonight?”

“Yeah. Oh, Charley said to ply you with booze. What would you
like?”

The way her week had been going? Arsenic. “I don't know.”

“Your sister had Hank invent a drink for the night—a chocolate
kiss. They're pretty popular. Want to try one?”

What she really wanted was to go home and feel sorry for
herself but that wouldn't help, so she said, “Sure.”

“Charley will be here soon. We're about done out in the
restaurant.”

Samantha was about done in here and they hadn't even
started.

“The shirtless-man parade's in twenty minutes. She'll be MCing
it.”

Shirtless-man parade. Oh, Lord.
Cecily had conveniently neglected to tell her about that. “Hurry up with my
drink,” Samantha said weakly.

She tried her best to shrink into the shadows, but failed.
Several women dragged their boyfriends over to schmooze and a couple of guys
offered to buy her drinks. And then—oh, no—here came Bill Will.