her tote bag, strode forward, and set it on the paper-littered desk.
“And this.” Also from the tote, she’d produced a slice of apple pie wrapped in wax paper and set it beside the jar. “You need to be offering both in your café. I’ll come back tomorrow to work out the particulars of a deal. Have a pleasant afternoon.” She’d left him with his mouth agape.
When she’d returned the following day, Mr. Martin had been eager to negotiate terms. He’d soon learned that she was no shrinking violet, further weakened by grief. Settling on a price, he’d placed an initial order for two pies and 4 jars of moonshine. “I’ll come by twice weekly to deliver the products and take your next order,” she’d told him.
As they shook hands on the deal, he’d said, “I thought you were going to apply for a waitress job.”
“This pays better.”
Initially, Irv had kept up his route and the handyman cover, but once the new still was in operation, she’d suggested that she take over his deliveries. “I could drive your route on the days I don’t bake.”
“You can’t drive my truck.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a truck.”
She’d given him a roll of her eyes. “I could drive it, but you make a valid point. It would attract unwanted curiosity. Instead, what if you built some kind of false floor in my car, the way you did in your truck?”
He’d fashioned a false bottom in her trunk, creating a hidey-hole underneath, which she padded with an old quilt. Thus outfitted, she’d begun driving his route. As she became better acquainted with the roads and back roads in the area, she’d gone further afield, scouting for new opportunities.
She’d picked up two cafés in two different towns, both of which had been customers of Irv’s before becoming gun shy of the Prohibition law. In addition to delicious pies, cobblers, and corn whiskey, she’d promised her customers utmost discretion.
As Irv was leaving one evening to work at the still, she’d approached him with another idea. “What about Logan’s Grocery?”
“What about it?”
“As a possible broker.”
“Hell’d freeze over first. A nicer man you’ll never meet. Logan extends credit even to folks he knows will take a long time paying. But he’s a staunch teetotaler. His wife was the standard bearer for the local temperance society.”
“Does he sell fresh baked goods in his store?”
“Not that I know of.”
“He should, don’t you think? I’ll pay him a call and take samples.”
“I just told you, Laurel, he—”
“I saw a notice in his window that he offers delivery service for a small charge.”
“That’s recent.”
“Who makes the deliveries?”
“A couple of young men. Twins, in fact. Davy and Mike O’Connor.”
“Are they teetotalers?”
He’d scoffed. “They worked in the pool hall until it was forced to shut down. A campaign led by Mrs. Logan, by the way. I guess Logan felt bad about the twins losing their livelihood. He hired them to deliver groceries.”
“Hmm.”
It took several days for her to secure an interview with the busy grocer. As Irv had said of him, he was extremely polite, and highly complimentary of the samples of pie she’d brought for him to try. Even so, he’d declined.
“I would like to stock them, Mrs. Plummer, but the problem is a shortage of shelf space. I’m at full capacity.”
She’d made a sound of regret. “That is unfortunate. Because I notice that all the baked goods you carry are factory-made and packaged.” After a strategic pause, she’d added, “There’s nothing wrong with that, of course.”
At that, his smile had slipped a bit.
The next day, she’d gone back and told him, with rehearsed animation, that she had slept on his dilemma and believed that she had a solution.
“I could make up a menu of my pies. You display it and take orders. The pies will be delivered from my kitchen directly to the customer. You never have to touch the goods, and they won’t take up your valuable shelf space.”
“How would you get the orders?”
“You could telephone them in to me.”
“Do you have a telephone?”
“I will by tomorrow.” Her cheekiness had made him smile. “I think this idea is growing on you, Mr. Logan.”
“You certainly have my interest, and I admire your initiative, which is rare in a young and recent widow.”
“But?”
“But we haven’t yet talked terms.”
Acting girlified, she’d smoothed her hands over her skirt nervously, then had pretended to summon the courage to open the bidding. “For each pie order you submit, I’ll give you ten percent.”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen?”
“My two deliverymen are kept busy during store hours.