Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Z
They left the bakery at 2:17 in the morning.
Bellarose never saw them.
Carmine insisted Nell stay at the guesthouse.
This time she did not argue.
Not because she had begun obeying him.
Because Bellarose knew where she worked.
And if he knew that, he might know where she lived.
The guesthouse stood behind the Orsini estate, separated from the main residence by a courtyard and a row of lemon trees.
It had two bedrooms.
A kitchen.
A sitting room.
And more space than Nell’s entire boarding-house floor.
Odette Puit met her at the door.
The housekeeper looked at Nell’s coat.
Then at the recipe book in her hands.
“You will need clothes in the morning.”
“I have clothes.”
“At your boarding house.”
Nell hesitated.
Odette understood.
“I’ll send someone.”
“No.”
Nell’s answer came too quickly.
Odette looked at her.
“I need to go myself.”
“At six in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“You are not leaving this property at six in the morning.”
Nell almost laughed.
Apparently everyone in the Orsini family household had inherited the habit of making statements as though disagreement were a grammatical error.
“I don’t work for you tonight.”
“No,” Odette replied. “Tonight you are a guest.”
“That sounds worse.”
For the first time in three years, Odette smiled at her.
Very slightly.
“Sleep, Miss Brisco.”
Nell did not sleep.
At 4:30, her body woke automatically.
She sat at the kitchen table beneath a small yellow lamp and opened the recipe book.
Page after page carried her father’s handwriting.
His notes became a history of their family.
Reduce sugar by one ounce in humid weather.
Never rush custard.
Lydia says cinnamon. Lydia is wrong.
Nell laughed aloud at that one.
Then she reached the final pages.
Her own handwriting appeared.
Messy.
Young.
Confident.
Pecan filling experiment #4.
Too much vanilla.
Experiment #5.
Toast nuts first.
Experiment #6.
Seven minutes cooling.
Nell stopped.
The pie Carmine had eaten was not her father’s recipe.
It was hers.
She had created it at thirteen.
Emmett had preserved it.
Her fingers moved across the paper.
Then something slipped from between two pages.
A photograph fell onto the table.
Nell turned it over.
Three people stood inside Fontaine Bakery.
Emmett.
Lydia.
And Conrad Bellarose.
Nell stared.
Her mother looked young.
Beautiful.
One arm rested around Emmett’s waist.
Bellarose stood beside them holding a bottle of wine.
On the back, Emmett had written:
January 14.
Conrad brought the first shipment.
Lydia says we can trust him.
Nell felt sick.
A knock came.
She closed the book immediately.
Carmine entered carrying coffee.
She stared at the cups.
“You bring coffee to maids now?”
“You aren’t working.”
“So what am I?”
He set one cup in front of her.
“Difficult.”
She almost smiled.
Then he saw the photograph.
His expression changed.
“Where did you find that?”
“Inside the book.”
He picked it up.
“Your mother knew Bellarose before the business trouble.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Carmine examined the back.
“First shipment.”
Nell nodded.
“My father rented the basement to a wine importer.”
“Bellarose.”
“Apparently.”
Carmine sat.
“So he had access to the building before he owned it.”
“Yes.”
“And your mother introduced them.”
Nell’s face tightened.
“That doesn’t mean she knew what he planned.”
“No.”
“You think she did.”
“I think assumptions are expensive.”
Nell looked at him.
“That almost sounds compassionate.”
“It isn’t.”
Carmine drank his coffee.
“It is practical.”
She opened the recipe book again.
“There may be more.”
For two hours, they went page by page.
Recipes.
Supplier notes.
Phone numbers.
Names.
Nothing seemed important.
Then Carmine found a list written near the spine of a page.
Six dates.
Six amounts.
Initials beside each.
CB.
LB.
EF.
Carmine pointed.
“Your mother’s initials.”
“Lydia Brisco.”
“CB is Bellarose.”
“And EF is my father.”
The amounts were large.
Too large for bakery purchases.
Carmine took a pencil.
“Look at the dates.”
Nell did.
The first amount came eighteen months before the bakery collapsed.
The second came six months later.
The final amount appeared three days before the building changed ownership.
“What are they?” Nell asked.
“Payments.”
“To whom?”
“Maybe no one.”
Carmine turned another page.
A piece had been removed.
Cut close to the binding.
Nell touched the edge.
“My father never tore pages out.”
“Someone else did.”
A voice came from the doorway.
“Sir.”
Benny stood there.
Carmine looked up.
“You found Lydia Brisco?”
Benny glanced at Nell.
“Yes.”
Her chair moved backward.
“Where?”
Benny hesitated.
Carmine noticed.
“Say it.”
Benny placed a folder on the table.
“Lydia Brisco died eleven years ago.”
Nell went completely still.
She did not cry.
She did not speak.
Benny continued carefully.
“Car accident outside Mobile.”
Nell looked down at her hands.
Eleven years.
For eleven years, she had believed her mother was somewhere choosing not to contact her.
That hatred had been painful.
But hatred was still a relationship.
Death left nothing to argue with.
Carmine pushed the coffee aside.
“Was she alone?”
“No.”
Nell looked up.
“Who was with her?”
Benny opened the folder.
“Passenger survived.”
“Who?”
Benny did not answer immediately.
That was the answer before he spoke.
“Conrad Bellarose.”
Nell stood.
The chair fell behind her.
Neither man moved.
“He was with her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Were they—”
She could not finish.
Benny shook his head.
“The report says Bellarose told police she was an employee.”
Nell laughed.
The sound was broken.
“An employee.”
Carmine picked up the accident report.
“Where were they coming from?”
“Houston.”
Nell’s breathing changed.
Houston.
The city where she had found Lydia.
The city where Lydia told her never to contact her again.
“How long after I saw her?”
Benny looked at the dates.
“About four months.”
Nell turned away.
Carmine read further.
Then stopped.
“Benny.”
“Yes?”
“This officer’s name.”
Benny looked.
“Thomas Avery.”
“Find him.”
“He’s probably retired.”
“Find him anyway.”
Nell turned back.
“Why?”
Carmine pointed to one line.
The accident report listed personal property recovered from Lydia.
Purse.
Wallet.
Watch.
Two keys.
And one sealed envelope addressed to E.F.
Nell grabbed the paper.
“E.F.”
“Emmett Fontaine,” Carmine said.
“What happened to the envelope?”
“It should have gone to evidence, then next of kin.”
“My father never received it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because my father kept everything.”
Nell held the report with both hands.
“What was in it?”
Carmine looked at her.
“That is what Bellarose has spent twenty years hoping nobody asks.”
At 9:16 that morning, Conrad Bellarose sat in his office overlooking Canal Street.
His secretary entered.
“Mr. Bellarose?”
“Yes?”
“Someone accessed the old Maison property last night.”
Bellarose stopped writing.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“The cameras?”
“Back alley unit was disconnected.”
Bellarose placed his pen down.
Very carefully.
“Check the basement.”
“They already did.”
“And?”
His secretary swallowed.
“The Fontaine ledger is gone.”
Bellarose did not move for several seconds.
Then he asked one question.
“Where is the girl?”
“The Brisco woman?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t report to work this morning.”
Bellarose looked out the window.
Below him, New Orleans continued as usual.
Cars.
Streetcars.
Tourists.
Office workers.
No one looking upward could have guessed that one missing recipe book had just terrified a man who had survived investigations, elections, lawsuits, and twenty years of enemies.
Bellarose reached for his telephone.
“Find Lydia’s daughter.”
His secretary hesitated.
“And if she’s with Orsini?”
Bellarose’s hand stopped.
May you like
Then he smiled without warmth.
“Then we finally learn whether Carmine is as intelligent as everyone claims.”
