Part 9
The rubber molding pried away from the wood with a wet, sticky resistance.
Behind it, the base of the counter wasn't solid. The original carpenter had left a small, rectangular access space in the framing, meant for reaching the plumbing lines for the old soda fountain that had been removed in the eighties.
Clara reached her hand into the dark opening. Her fingers brushed against rough joists, cold copper pipes, and then—something else.
Something wrapped in heavy oilcloth.
She caught the edge of the material and pulled. It was heavy, covered in a thick layer of grey dust that smelled of old lard and mineral spirits.
She dragged it out into the pale green light of the kitchen fluorescents.
She unrolled the oilcloth on the floor. Inside was a thick, leather-bound ledger with Maple Street Diner - 1974-1976 embossed on the cover in faded gold leaf. Beside the ledger lay a legal document, its pages stiff and yellowed, secured by a rusted paperclip that had stained the top sheet with a brown circle.
Clara opened the document first.
It was the original partnership agreement between Edward Miller and Ruth Vance. She skimmed the legal jargon until she found the clause Teresa had mentioned: In the event of tax delinquency or abandonment of management duties by the primary shareholder, full operational control and seventy percent of property equity shall default to the secondary shareholder, Ruth Vance, or her legal heirs.
Beneath the document was a stack of certified mail receipts. They were notices from the Internal Revenue Service, addressed to Edward Miller, dated August 1976.
Tax liens. Three thousand dollars in unpaid payroll taxes.
Eddie hadn't lost the money to the numbers racket; he’d stolen the girls' savings to pay off the government so he wouldn't lose the building, and then he’d framed Teresa to cover the theft.
Clara opened the ledger. The pages were filled with her grandmother's meticulous handwriting. Every egg, every loaf of rye, every gallon of milk was recorded on the left. On the right, in a separate column labeled Eddie's Cash, were entries written in a different, frantic hand—Lou’s father. The numbers didn't match. Eddie had been taking money out of the register every night, recording it as "spoilage," while Ruth had been keeping the true receipts hidden in the duplicate book.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
The voice came from the dark front door.
Clara scrambled to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat as she shoved the ledger behind her.
Lou stood by the entrance. He hadn't turned on the lights. He was holding a heavy iron tire iron from his trunk, the metal dull and cold in his hand. He was breathing heavily, his flat cap soaked with sweat despite the cold.
"I saw the light from the street," Lou said, stepping forward. His boots made no sound on the floor she’d scrubbed so many times. "I knew you were getting too smart for your own good, Clara. Just like your old lady."
"You knew," Clara said, her voice shaking but clear. "You knew your father stole this place."
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"My father gave forty years to this dump!" Lou shouted, his voice echoing off the stainless steel hoods. "He died with nothing but a mortgage and a bad liver! I’m the one who kept it open. I’m the one who paid off the back taxes. You think you can just walk in here with some old paper and take it?"
"It’s not yours, Lou," Clara said, backing up until her spine hit the edge of the prep table. "It never was."
