He smiled again.
“I could probably find fifteen violations before I finish my coffee.”
“You’re not a health inspector.”
“No.”
“But I know one.”
“You’re not the fire marshal either.”
“I know him too.”
Celeste said nothing.
Voss leaned closer.
His breath smelled like coffee and mint gum.
“I am trying to help you.”
“That’s generous.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He pushed himself away from the counter.
“Three days.”
Celeste looked at him.
“Three days for what?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“And if I refuse?”
Voss slowly counted on his fingers.
“Maybe code enforcement discovers that crack in your floor.”
He pointed toward a hairline break in one of the old linoleum tiles.
“Maybe somebody notices your refrigerator is a degree too warm.”
“It isn’t.”
“Maybe tomorrow it is.”
He lifted a second finger.
“Maybe your business permit goes under review.”
A third.
“Maybe someone reports suspicious activity outside.”
A fourth.
“Maybe officers have to visit regularly.”
He lowered his hand.
“That tends to make customers nervous.”
Celeste’s voice remained even.
“Are you threatening my business?”
“I’m explaining risk.”
“With two armed officers standing behind you.”
Voss laughed softly.
“You’re brave.”
“No.”
She looked directly at him.
“I’m listening.”
For the first time, something uncertain crossed his expression.
Then it disappeared.
“Three days.”
He picked up his coffee.
As the officers turned toward the door, Celeste said:
“Lieutenant.”
Voss looked back.
“How many businesses pay this fee?”
Mercer stopped walking.
Dane looked at Voss.
Voss considered Celeste for a moment.
Then smiled.
“Everybody who plans on staying in business.”
The bell rang twice again when they left.
Celeste remained behind the counter.
The store was silent.
The elderly customer finally approached.
His name was Earl Callaway.
Seventy-nine years old.
Retired postal carrier.
He bought the same wheat bread every Tuesday and Thursday.
His hands trembled slightly as he placed exact change on the counter.
Celeste counted it.
“Mr. Callaway.”
“Yes?”
“You heard everything.”
His eyes lifted.
Then moved toward the front windows.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
Celeste understood immediately.
“Okay.”
He picked up his bread.
At the door he paused.
“My nephew had a tire shop on Quincy Avenue.”
Celeste waited.
“Had?”
Earl nodded.
“Ask him why he doesn’t anymore.”
Then he left.
For several minutes, Celeste stood behind the register without moving.
Fifteen years earlier, she had opened Ward’s Market with twenty-three thousand dollars in savings and a bank loan no one advised her to take.
The building had already been eighty years old.
The previous owner had sold lottery tickets, cigarettes, canned soup, and enough beer to keep the refrigerators profitable.
Celeste changed almost nothing.
She replaced the broken freezer.
Painted the walls.
Added fresh bread from a local bakery.
Started brewing coffee at six each morning.
Kept the candy rack low enough for children to see it.
Ward’s Market never became fashionable.
It never appeared in travel magazines.
Nobody drove across the state to photograph it.
That was exactly what Celeste liked.
At 5:35 every morning, she walked from the small house she rented three blocks away.