Chapter 2 - THE RECIPE BELLAROSE COULD NOT STEAL
Z
Nell did not tell Carmine everything.
She told him enough.
Twenty-one years earlier, Fontaine Bakery had been profitable.
Not wealthy.
Not famous beyond New Orleans.
But profitable.
Emmett Fontaine had owned the building, the equipment, and every recipe used in his kitchen.
Then Conrad Bellarose arrived.
At first, he came as a customer.
Then as an investor.
He offered Emmett money to open three additional locations.
Emmett refused.
Bellarose returned six months later with another proposal.
Emmett refused again.
Three months after that, the bakery’s insurance premiums doubled.
A supplier suddenly demanded payment in advance.
The bank called in a portion of a commercial loan years before it was due.
Then a city inspector found six violations that had never existed before.
Nell had been six years old.
She remembered her father coming home every night smelling of sugar and exhaustion.
She remembered her mother saying they should sell.
She remembered Emmett refusing.
Then one morning, the ovens stopped.
Not because the bakery failed.
Because a court order transferred control of the building after a debt Emmett insisted he had never signed.
“He fought it?” Carmine asked.
“For eighteen months.”
“And lost.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nell’s laugh contained no humor.
“Because Bellarose had attorneys.”
She looked down.
“My father had a baker.”
Carmine sat quietly.
He had heard hundreds of stories about men being cheated.
Most were partly true.
Some were entirely false.
Nell’s story had something different.
She did not embellish it.
She did not ask him to believe her.
She did not ask him to fix anything.
That made him listen harder.
“What happened to your mother?”
Nell’s shoulders changed.
Barely.
“She left.”
“When?”
“After the bakery closed.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer was too quick.
Carmine noticed.
He did not press.
Not yet.
“And your father?”
“He found work in hotel kitchens. Then restaurants. Then smaller places.”
“What happened to his health?”
Nell looked toward the dark windows.
“Stroke three years ago.”
“That explains the care facility.”
“Yes.”
“And the wage deduction?”
She looked back at him sharply.
“That is none of your business.”
“It became my business when someone entered your room this evening.”
Nell froze.
Carmine continued.
“Benny noticed the lock.”
“I never told him the lock had been touched.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She stared at him.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t.”
A pause.
“You just told me.”
Nell almost became angry.
Then, against her will, she understood the trick.
Carmine had guessed.
She had confirmed it.
“Do you do that to everyone?”
“Yes.”
“That must make you very popular.”
“It makes me difficult to lie to.”
Nell folded her arms.
“I’m going home.”
“No.”
The word was quiet.
She stopped.
Carmine stood.
“Someone entered your room after Bellarose visited my office and after I asked questions about your personnel file.”
“You think those things are connected?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences that arrive the same day.”
“Maybe you created the problem by investigating me.”
“Possible.”
The admission surprised her.
He picked up his coat.
“That is why you’re not going home tonight.”
Nell laughed once.
“Absolutely not.”
“I have an empty guesthouse.”
“I would rather sleep at the bus station.”
“That can be arranged too.”
“You are not deciding where I sleep.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“I’m deciding whether my men leave you alone in an apartment someone has already searched.”
Nell stared at him.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know I made a pie.”
“I know you made a pie using the same method served at Fontaine Bakery twenty years ago.”
Her expression changed.
Carmine saw it.
“I remember it,” he said.
Nell’s voice softened despite herself.
“You ate there?”
“My mother took me.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“And you remember a pie?”
“I remember good things.”
For some reason, that answer unsettled her more than his threats ever could have.
Carmine returned the personnel file to a leather folder.
Then he removed a second document.
A photocopy.
He slid it across the table.
Nell looked down.
It was a deed transfer.
Her father’s signature appeared at the bottom.
Except it was wrong.
She knew immediately.
Emmett Fontaine wrote the letter F with a long downward stroke crossing beneath the rest of his surname.
The signature on the document did not.
Nell touched the page.
“Where did you get this?”
“City archive.”
“This isn’t his signature.”
“I assumed you would say that.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I haven’t decided.”
Anger moved into her voice.
“My father never signed this.”
“Then prove it.”
She looked up.
Carmine did not smile.
He meant it.
Nell pushed the page back.
“I don’t have records from twenty years ago.”
“What happened to the bakery’s papers?”
“Destroyed.”
“How?”
“Fire.”
Carmine’s face became still.
“When?”
“Two weeks after Bellarose took possession.”
Neither spoke.
A heater clicked somewhere behind the wall.
Carmine slowly sat again.
“A fire.”
“Yes.”
“Accidental?”
“That’s what the report said.”
“Do you believe it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Nell hesitated.
Because this was the part she had never said aloud.
Not to police.
Not to lawyers.
Not even to her father after he became ill.
She walked toward the window.
“My father kept duplicate recipe books.”
Carmine waited.
“One stayed in the bakery kitchen. The other stayed in our apartment.”
“Where is the second?”
“I don’t know.”
“You lost it?”
“My mother took it.”
Carmine’s eyes narrowed.
“You said your mother left.”
“She did.”
“With the book?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nell looked at him.
“Because she was working for Bellarose.”
The room went silent.
Carmine did not react immediately.
That was what made him frightening.
Other men rushed to fill silence.
Carmine used it.
Finally he asked, “Your mother helped Bellarose take the bakery?”
“I don’t know how much she helped.”
“But she stole the recipes.”
“Yes.”
“And then disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
Nell closed her eyes for one second.
Then opened them.
“Lydia Brisco.”
Carmine repeated it once.
“Lydia Brisco.”
Nell nodded.
He picked up the telephone.
She immediately said, “No.”
Carmine looked at her.
“Do not look for her.”
“Why?”
“Because I already did.”
That surprised him.
“For three years after she left.”
Nell swallowed.
“I found her once.”
“Where?”
“Houston.”
“What happened?”
“She told me never to contact her again.”
Carmine said nothing.
“She said the bakery was dead, my father had destroyed his own life, and I should stop trying to resurrect things that deserved to stay buried.”
Nell’s voice remained controlled until the final word.
Then it cracked.
Only slightly.
She hated herself for it.
Carmine replaced the telephone receiver without dialing.
“What happened to her after Houston?”
“I don’t know.”
He studied her.
Nell wiped one palm against her skirt.
Then she looked at the deed again.
“What does Bellarose want from you?”
“Distribution access.”
“To the restaurants?”
“And the port.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Why?”
“Because he already has distributors.”
Carmine nodded.
That was exactly what had bothered him.
Bellarose’s proposal was profitable.
Too profitable.
Men did not voluntarily surrender margin unless they wanted something more valuable.
Nell looked down at the document.
Then she whispered, “The basement.”
Carmine heard her.
“What basement?”
She looked at him.
“Fontaine Bakery had a storage basement.”
“And?”
“My father rented half of it to another business before I was born.”
“What business?”
“A wine importer.”
Carmine’s attention sharpened.
Nell continued.
“When Bellarose took the building, he didn’t just get the bakery.”
She pointed toward the contract Carmine had mentioned.
“He got access beneath it.”
Carmine was already moving toward the door.
Nell caught his sleeve.
He looked down at her hand.
She released him.
“If you go there,” she said, “don’t use the front entrance.”
“Why?”
“Because my father designed that kitchen.”
May you like
Her face had gone pale.
“And there’s another door Bellarose never knew he knew about.”
