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.”
