Page 89 of Loverboy
“Agreed.”
“Maybe he’s in an upstairs apartment—in Posy’s building, or the ones next door. Let’s go in there as the gas company, maybe? Or pretend there’s a gas main break? Why didn’t we do that already?”
“Because it’s illegal?” Max gives me a dark look. “You were supposed to find the guy by looking over his shoulder. But I guess it’s time to pull the Con-Ed truck and the jumpsuits out of the cellar and knock on some doors. I’ll get Pieter on it. You hire a barista, or beg Posy’s forgiveness, or both.”
“Okay,” I say dully. “On it.” I pick up my computer and leave Max’s office, heading for my own little-used office at the end of the row. Someone keeps it clean and dust free, even though I only visit it a few times a year.
Ginny was right, I realize as I settle in to look at job posting sites. She said I’d flake off and leave Posy hanging. And that’s exactly what I’m about to do.
And I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming.
27
Posy
It’sduring the lunch rush when a brand-new disaster strikes.
“Posy?” Teagan says, sticking her head into the kitchen. “The health department is here for an inspection.”
“Okay,” I say calmly, but my hands begin to sweat. I glance around the kitchen, hoping they haven’t caught me with anything out of the refrigerator.
My eye lands on an open carton of eggs just as the inspector appears in the doorway, a white coat on, and a clipboard in his hand. “Eggs,” he says in the voice of an automaton, writing it down quickly, and I feel my heart drop. “To prevent contamination, they must be refrigerated to forty-five degrees.”
“But they need to be at room temperature to whip up properly,” I argue. “And I’m going to use them all.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the robot says. “The code makes no distinction. Please correct the deficiency.”
Biting my tongue, I close the carton and carry the eggs to the reach-in refrigerator. I know better than to argue. But if he’d come just twenty minutes later, all those eggs would be doing laps around the mixer. I’m making meringue today.
This is just a spot of bad luck. I’ll lose a few points for the eggs. My last health department inspection was an A-, because there’s always some little thing that isn’t perfect. But you can’t havetwolittle things, because then your grade starts slipping. Or—God forbid—three.
So I start praying to St. Gourmet, the patron saint of restauranteurs that the inspector won’t find anything else to complain about.
St. Gourmet isn’t listening, apparently. Just when I think the inspector is finished, he asks to see the cellar.
“We aren’t storing anything down there,” I tell him. “It’s not convenient enough.”
“But it’s on your form as a designated storage area,” he says in a flat voice. “I am required to look.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I lead the man out of the pie shop’s front door, and then into my own front door. I unlock the door to the basement, and I descend the stairs carefully. Then I pull the string that illuminates the ugly space with a single bulb. “See? There’s nothing down here but mechanicals.” There’s a giant boiler that heats two buildings at once, and a double electrical box.
“Oh dear,” the inspector says, crossing the space.
“Oh dear what?” I demand.
The man points, and I see two dead rats on the floor, near the cellar wall. “Evidence of vermin,” the inspector says, checking a box on his clipboard. “And, furthermore, easy access for vermin.” He points his pen at the one little window out on the alley.
And there’s a hole in one pane. I’m so screwed.
“But we’re not using this space!” I squeak. “There’s nothing to contaminate!”
It doesn’t matter, though. Two minutes later he’s gone, leaving me with twenty-eight points against Posy’s Pie Shop, which will translate to a C grade.
I’m so screwed.
* * *
