Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (3 page)

3

“Oh my gosh, you’ve must have gotten another shipment of Chunky bars and Mallo Cups, Allison. And what are these? Chocolate Ice Cubes! I haven’t seen these in years. I didn’t even know they still made them.”

“They came in yesterday, I just put them out this morning. Do you think the bins look too crowded?”

“No, they look perfect. Like something out of a magazine photo shoot.”

I ran my fingertips over a glass display case in the shop area of Oldies but Goodies. The shop was bright and appealing, with sunlight streaming in the front windows from Clark Street and zigzagging across the bleached oak floors. A pot of hazelnut coffee was brewing and a selection of fresh croissants was nestled on a serving tray along with a jar of Ali’s homemade blueberry jam and sweet cream butter.

Ali’s shop has neatly stocked rows of candies that were popular half a century ago. Red Hots, Scottie Dog licorice, hot dog bubble gum, jawbreakers, and candy buttons line the top shelf divided by colorful partitions. Circus Peanuts, Chuckles, Bit-O-Honey, and Juicy Fruits are arranged in neat compartments along the bottom.

I couldn’t resist reaching into an antique apothecary jar for a handful of French burnt peanuts. Munching away, I checked the rest of the inventory.

This was a trip down memory lane and Ali had been thorough. She hadn’t missed a thing. Swedish fish and Jujubes, sold by the pound, were there, along with Necco Wafers and Sen-Sen packets. I saw all my old childhood favorites. Clark Bars, Fifth Avenue Bars, and Mounds Bars were neatly arranged in wicker baskets on top of the counter.

The shop had a delightful, sugary aroma and reminded me of a real-life version of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I wondered why business wasn’t booming. Why was Oldies but Goodies one of Savannah’s best-kept secrets?

The building is tucked away on a side street a few blocks from the Historic District, and as I looked out the front window, I could see the heat already rising off the sidewalk. The sun was climbing high in the sky, signaling another scorcher on the way. I had the wild thought that Ali would be more successful selling frozen treats—ice cream, sherbets, and sorbets—than vintage candy.

“Everything looks tempting, but think of the calories.” I read the fat count on a chocolate bar and nearly gasped aloud. In the old days, manufacturers didn’t print nutritional listings on wrappers, but now they’re required to by law.

I checked out a row of glossy wax lips nestled close to a little mesh bag filled with chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. I had a sudden flashback to my childhood home in Indiana when my parents were alive and we were still a family. Nostalgia time.

“I don’t think an occasional splurge hurts anyone. Candy is a feel-good food; it gives you a little boost when you’re feeling down. Necco Wafers and Mallo Cups are two of my biggest sellers.” Ali looked up from her laptop, a tiny frown creasing her face. The AC was cranked to the max but the outdoor temperature was already in the nineties and Ali glanced up at the Casablanca fan as if willing it to spin faster. “Does that surprise you?”

Oops.
I gave myself a mental head slap. I’d been tactless and it was time for a little damage control. “I just figured that since everyone is so health-conscious these days, they might want to cut down on sweets. And especially white sugar,” I finished lamely.

“You’re not in Chicago anymore, sis. This is the South, remember? Home of sweet tea, lemon pie, and blueberry cobbler. Think of the spread I put out last night for the Dream Club. There was hardly a crumb left.”

“That’s true,” I agreed. Everyone had practically inhaled the pastries, and Persia Walker had even asked if she could bring home some chess pie in a plastic container.

Ali chewed on the end of a pencil and ducked her head back to the computer screen. After a quick breakfast, she’d spent the past hour going over last month’s receipts and tallying up the vendors’ bills. From time to time she gave a little sigh, and her forehead was wrinkled in concentration.

Or maybe it was quiet desperation.

Oldies but Goodies had been in operation for nearly a year, and I suspected she was barely breaking even. Allison had accepted my offer to stay with her for a while to get things in the black, but glancing around the shop, I wondered if I’d been fooling myself. Maybe this was a business that was doomed to fail. It needed a major infusion of something, but what? It doesn’t help to throw money into an operation unless you have a solid business plan. I wasn’t convinced that Ali did.

Ali continued, “When people come here for the evening, they expect a nice spread. It’s part of the enjoyment, you know. Sampling goodies and exchanging recipes.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, aiming for a positive note. I poured myself a glass of lemonade from the crystal pitcher she kept on the counter for the customers. “Retro is in and Southerners certainly do love their sweets.”

Ali keeps a well-thumbed copy of Sandra Lee’s
Bake Sale Cookbook
on the counter, and I idly flipped through it. “Sandra always manages to come up with a modern twist on all the old favorites.”

“She certainly does. That book is my inspiration.” Allison nodded. “Nostalgia is the name of the game here in Savannah. Southerners have long memories and a passion for old-timey things. People remember all these candies from the good old days, and they buy them for their kids and grandbabies. Of course it wouldn’t hurt if I could figure out a way to draw in the younger crowd, as well. Maybe you can help me with that, since you’re going to be in town for a while.”

I bobbed my head up and down in a show of enthusiasm. “You know I’ll do my best.” I paused, glancing at the street as a middle-aged couple in plaid Bermuda shorts stopped in front of the shop. They took a quick peek at the window display and then moved on.

Not a good sign.

I made a mental note to talk to Ali about revamping the window display. We needed something eye-catching that would draw in the tourists. Maybe a selection of vintage candy advertisements, blown up poster-size and mounted in old-fashioned frames? I might be able to find some online, I decided. Or perhaps a display of antique candy presses? A collage of vintage candy bar wrappers was another possibility. Something fun and colorful that would make people take notice and step inside.

And then another idea hit me
. We should be running a weekly special
. Ideas started ricocheting back and forth, and I couldn’t wait to get started with a marketing plan.

We could offer bagged candy that people could eat on the go, perfect for tourists as they took in the sights. Nothing that would melt in the sultry summer weather, maybe Broadway Licorice Rolls or Red Hots, or even those crunchy Boston Baked Beans. We could give away free samples, offer two-for-one coupons, anything to draw in more traffic.

Or maybe we could run a contest? Kids could guess the number of gummy bears in a glass jar or jawbreakers in a bin?

We could even do something interactive, maybe have an old-fashioned taffy pull on the sidewalk in front of the shop? I grabbed a notepad and started scribbling before the ideas got away from me.

“You’re still not operating in the black, right?” I said, writing madly.

I had the feeling Ali was putting a good spin on things, as usual, and leaving out half the story. Ever since our parents died in a car crash ten years earlier, I’d stepped into the parental role with my headstrong younger sister. I wanted to know the details on Oldies but Goodies, because in the end, I’d be the one picking up the pieces and maybe even bankrolling Allison’s next venture.

Ali had pulled her streaky blond hair into a ponytail and was wearing a black apron over her burgundy tank top and skinny jeans. She was tall, slim with the kind of good looks that turn heads. With her golden hair, china blue eyes, and finely chiseled cheekbones, she could have stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret ad.

Ali hesitated, a little frown flitting across her perfect features. “Well, I guess you could say I’m in the black, but barely.”

Barely
.
That meant she wasn’t at all, just what I’d suspected
. “So you’re just breaking even; you’re not turning a profit,” I said flatly.

She held up a finger for silence. “Okay, here we go. I’ve finally crunched the numbers, and here’s the deal.” She gestured to a spreadsheet she’d plucked out of the printer. “If I meet all my expenses by the end of the month, I’ll have enough to pay the rent till September, or possibly October. It’s cutting it close, but I think I can do it.”

“It sounds like you’re going to have to step up your marketing,” I said as gently as I could. The situation was worse than I’d expected. I don’t think Ali realized how dire things really were; her sunny personality seemed to protect her from some of life’s harsh realities.

“I’d like to do more promotion. I just never seem to have the time or the budget for it. What I really need is some national attention.”

“National attention?” That seemed like a stretch, but I didn’t want to burst her bubble.

“Yes,” she went on in a dreamy voice. “If I could just persuade the
Daily News
or one of the major metropolitan newspapers to do a feature on me, I’d have it made. Or if I could get on
The Today Show
, that would be incredibly cool.”

“I think it’s very hard to land those spots,” I said mildly.

“Who knows? Maybe Matt Lauer will visit the shop and bring along a camera crew. Now that would be sweet!” Ali pumped her fist triumphantly in the air like a boxer. She smiled but then her expression turned pensive. “I’ve sent out tons of press releases, but so far, no takers. I’m not sure what the problem is. No one’s beating a path to my door. The national media seems to be ignoring me.”

The
Daily News
.
The Today Show.
Always thinking big, that’s Allison
.

I let my gaze wander around the shop, trying to be objective. Trying to look at it dispassionately, through an investor’s eyes. It’s a charming brick building dating back to 1895, with wide-planked wood floors, a tin ceiling, and wonderful architectural details like eight-inch crown molding and hand-carved chair rails. The candy shop and lounge area are on the first floor, along with a small kitchen and bathroom. A shaded patio area is in the back, housing a few tiny bistro tables and wrought iron chairs.

Upstairs, there’s a cozy two-bedroom apartment that’s been completely renovated. Ali plans on eventually buying the building and using the apartment for rental income. Her goal is to buy a small house for herself, but at the moment, she and I are both living in the apartment above the shop.

Ali told me that the building used to be a jam factory at the turn of the century, a neighborhood lending library in the fifties, and more recently, the office of a community newspaper that had folded. The upper floor needed some paint and refurbishing, which is why Allison got a very good deal on the rent.

But would she be able to keep the place going? It seemed as though people weren’t beating down the old-timey door with the hand-painted lettering and brass fittings, clamoring for sweets. She definitely needed a gimmick, and maybe she should expand her offerings. Old-timey candy is nice, but why not add desserts and beverages?

The patio area in the back was pleasant, and perhaps she could start serving tea and pastries? Or would that require a different sort of business license? That was something I needed to investigate right away. The shop was in a downward spiral, and only a new business model could save it.

Who eats “retro candy” anyway?

As far as I knew, this was Ali’s fifth career move since graduating from art school. A brief stint working for a graphic designer, a freelance marketing gig for a textile museum, an event planner for a couple of local galleries, and the proud owner of a glass-blowing shop that opened and closed within the same month.

And now a retro candy shop.

There was a pattern here—no doubt about it.

Part of it was the economy, of course, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Ali, with her spontaneity and her devil-may-care attitude, was partly to blame. Maybe she just didn’t have the soul of an entrepreneur—the confidence, the relentless drive, the unstoppable ambition.