Chapter 9 - THE LETTER LYDIA NEVER SENT
Z
Three weeks after Carmine kissed Nell outside Fontaine Bakery, a letter arrived with no return address.
It was waiting beneath the front door when Nell came downstairs at 4:48 in the morning.
No stamp.
No postal mark.
Someone had placed it there by hand.
Nell stood three feet away from it without touching it.
Three months earlier, she might have assumed it was an invoice.
Six months earlier, she might not have noticed the envelope at all.
Now she noticed everything.
Cream paper.
Her name written in blue ink.
Not Nell Brisco.
Nell Fontaine.
Her stomach tightened.
Only four people regularly used that name.
Her father.
Carmine.
Benny when he wanted to annoy her.
And herself when she signed bakery documents.
The handwriting belonged to none of them.
Nell stepped backward and called Carmine.
He answered on the second ring.
“What happened?”
Not hello.
Not good morning.
What happened?
Nell had complained about that twice.
This morning, she appreciated it.
“There’s an envelope outside the bakery.”
Silence.
“Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Where are you?”
“Inside.”
“Doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“Carmine.”
“Are they locked?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming.”
“You are six blocks away.”
“Seven.”
“You counted?”
“I count everything.”
He hung up.
Nine minutes later, Carmine arrived with Benny.
Nell opened the side door only after seeing them through the kitchen camera.
Benny stared at her.
“You installed cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Without asking us?”
“It’s my bakery.”
Benny looked toward Carmine.
“She’s becoming you.”
“God help New Orleans.”
Nell folded her arms.
“Can we focus?”
Benny examined the envelope using gloves.
“No wires.”
“That is reassuring,” Nell said.
“No powder.”
“More reassuring.”
“No smell.”
“That is less reassuring because now I’m wondering what kinds of letters you usually receive.”
Benny opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
No message.
No explanation.
Only a photograph.
He placed it on the counter.
Nell looked down.
Lydia Brisco stood outside Fontaine Bakery.
She appeared approximately thirty-five.
Beside her was Emmett.
Between them stood Nell.
Except Nell had never seen the photograph.
She looked twelve.
Maybe thirteen.
Her hair was braided.
Flour covered the front of her shirt.
Her father was laughing.
Her mother was not.
Lydia was looking past the camera.
Toward someone outside the frame.
Nell turned the photograph over.
A message had been written on the back.
CHECK THE CLOCK.
Carmine read it.
“What clock?”
Nell looked toward the kitchen.
Her father had owned only one clock inside the old bakery.
A round brass clock mounted above the original ovens.
It had disappeared when Bellarose renovated the building.
Or Nell had thought it disappeared.
She walked toward the framed recipe book.
“Dad hated digital clocks.”
Benny followed.
“Useful fact.”
“He said bakers needed to hear time.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It did to him.”
Carmine said, “Where is the clock now?”
“I don’t know.”
They called Emmett’s care facility.
He was awake.
For once, lucid.
Nell asked carefully.
“Dad, do you remember the old bakery clock?”
Emmett laughed.
“Ugly thing.”
Nell closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather bought it.”
“Do you know what happened to it?”
“Lydia took it.”
Nell’s eyes opened.
“When?”
“Before…”
His voice faded.
“Before what?”
“Before the fire.”
Carmine and Benny exchanged a look.
“Where did she take it?”
Emmett coughed.
“Church.”
“What church?”
“Saint…”
He stopped.
Nell waited.
“Dad?”
“Saint Anne’s.”
Then his memory slipped.
“Are you bringing rolls today?”
Nell swallowed.
“Yes.”
“I like the orange ones.”
“I know.”
She hung up.
Saint Anne’s Church was twelve blocks away.
The building had closed years earlier after hurricane damage and later became a private event hall.
By eight in the morning, Benny had the owner’s permission to enter.
The old sacristy smelled of wood, dust, and rain.
Nell remembered attending Christmas mass there as a child.
Her mother had sat beside her once.
Only once.
Nell remembered Lydia gripping her hand during the service harder than necessary.
They searched storage rooms.
Nothing.
Then Carmine found a stack of discarded church furniture beneath canvas sheets.
Chairs.
Candlesticks.
An old lectern.
And one brass clock.
Nell stopped.
“That’s it.”
The glass was cracked.
The hands had stopped at 4:17.
Benny lifted it from the wall hook.
Something rattled inside.
They removed the back panel.
A narrow envelope fell out.
Nell caught it.
Her name was written across the front.
Not Emmett’s.
Hers.
NELL.
The handwriting was Lydia’s.
Nell knew before opening it.
Her mother’s handwriting had appeared on birthday cards until she was eight.
Then less often.
Then never.
Nell sat down on an old wooden bench.
Carmine remained beside her.
“Do you want privacy?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Her fingers opened the envelope.
Inside were four pages.
My Nell,
If you are reading this, then either I finally became brave enough to tell you the truth, or something happened before I could.
Nell stopped.
Her vision blurred.
She continued.
You will grow up believing I left because I wanted another life.
I need you to believe that for as long as possible.
It will hurt you.
I know that.
But hatred may keep you away from me, and distance may keep you alive.
Nell pressed one hand against her mouth.
Carmine looked away, giving her the dignity of not being watched.
She continued reading.
Conrad does not know how much I copied.
He thinks I helped him because I wanted money.
Let him think that.
Your father knows part of the truth but not all.
That is safer.
There is one thing Bellarose wants more than the bakery.
A ledger of payments can put men in prison.
But names can be denied.
What cannot be denied is his own voice.
Nell looked up.
Benny leaned closer.
She turned the page.
I recorded him.
Carmine’s face changed.
Nell read faster.
There are tapes.
Not one.
Seven.
Conrad admitting what he did to Emmett, discussing police payments, describing the forged deed, and talking about shipments through the river tunnel.
I separated them.
Never keep proof in one place.
If he finds one, let him believe he found everything.
Nell stared at the page.
“Seven tapes.”
Benny exhaled.
“That changes things.”
Carmine’s eyes remained on the letter.
“Where?”
Nell continued.
The clock contained only this letter.
The tapes are where Conrad would never willingly enter.
Nell frowned.
The final line said:
Ask your father where he refused to bury your grandfather.
Nell read it twice.
“What does that mean?”
Carmine looked toward her.
“Your grandfather died before the bakery closed?”
“Yes. Four years before.”
“Where is he buried?”
“Lafayette Cemetery.”
“Your father refused to bury him somewhere first.”
Nell thought.
Then remembered an argument.
She had been eight.
Emmett and Lydia shouting.
Her father saying, “A Fontaine belongs in New Orleans, not in some Bellarose family ground.”
Nell stood.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
She looked at Carmine.
“Bellarose owned a private cemetery plot outside the city.”
Benny stared.
“Your mother hid recordings in a cemetery?”
“No.”
Nell folded the letter.
“She hid them somewhere Bellarose would never enter.”
Carmine understood first.
“Your grandfather’s grave.”
Two hours later, they stood in Lafayette Cemetery beneath brutal summer heat.
The Fontaine family tomb was small.
White stone.
Weathered edges.
Nell had visited only twice in twenty years.
Carmine inspected the base.
One brick differed from the others.
Benny removed it.
Inside was a metal box.
Still sealed.
Nell’s hands shook as Carmine placed it before her.
She opened it.
Seven cassette tapes.
Each numbered.
One through seven.
And beneath them, one final note.
Nell read it.
This is not revenge.
Revenge destroys everything around it.
This is proof.
Use it only when you are strong enough not to become what he is.
Nell remained silent.
Carmine watched her.
“What are you thinking?”
“That my mother knew me.”
“You were thirteen.”
“She still knew.”
Nell looked at the tapes.
“I would have wanted revenge.”
“And now?”
She considered the question.
Then closed the box.
“Now I want him to lose legally.”
Benny smiled.
“That might actually hurt him more.”
Nell looked toward Carmine.
“There’s another problem.”
“What?”
“Who left the photograph?”
No one answered.
Because Lydia had been dead eleven years.
Emmett had no access to the bakery.
Thomas Avery had never seen that picture.
Someone else knew about the clock.
Someone who had waited until now to tell Nell.
Someone who knew Lydia’s secrets.
And someone who had been close enough to Fontaine Bakery to possess a photograph taken twenty years earlier.
Carmine looked across the cemetery.
“Bellarose wasn’t the only person Lydia was working against.”
Nell felt the summer heat disappear from her skin.
May you like
Because suddenly, the investigation they thought was almost finished had opened again.
And this time, they did not know who the enemy was.
