Chapter 2 - ELEANOR FONTAINE
Nell was polishing the second-floor banister when Odette appeared below.
“Mr. Orsini wants you in his office.”
The cloth stopped in Nell’s hand.
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
Odette’s voice was calm.
Too calm.
Nell looked at her.
“You knew.”
Odette’s face gave nothing away.
“Knew what?”
“My name.”
“Nell—”
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Odette glanced toward the hallway.
“Go see him.”
Nell felt her stomach drop.
Carmine’s office door was open.
He sat behind the desk.
The folder was in front of him.
And there, sticking from one side, was the old bakery photograph.
Nell stopped breathing.
Carmine looked up.
“Come in.”
She didn’t.
“Nell.”
Her eyes stayed on the photograph.
“Or should I say Eleanor?”
The color left her face.
“Where did you get that?”
“Your employment records.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t exist anymore.”
Carmine stood.
“You changed your name after the fire.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So people would stop finding me.”
“Who?”
She said nothing.
Carmine came around the desk.
“I read the report.”
Nell backed away.
“Then forget it.”
“The rear door.”
Her face tightened.
“Nell.”
“Please.”
“Was the fire an accident?”
Her eyes finally met his.
He saw the answer immediately.
“No,” she whispered.
Carmine’s jaw tightened.
“Tell me.”
“My father woke up first. Smoke everywhere. He tried to reach me.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“He got to the rear door.”
She closed her eyes.
“It wouldn’t open.”
“Why?”
“He saw the chain.”
Carmine stopped.
“What chain?”
“Outside the door.”
Nell wrapped her arms around herself.
“Someone chained it from the alley.”
“You saw it?”
“My father did.”
“Did he tell the investigator?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They said he was confused from smoke inhalation.”
“Was he?”
Nell’s expression hardened.
“My father owned that bakery for nineteen years. He knew every inch of that building.”
“What happened to him?”
“Brain damage. Weakness on his left side. Some days he knows me. Some days he doesn’t.”
“And you?”
“I got blamed.”
Carmine said nothing.
“The oven was mine that night,” Nell continued. “I had been making brioche. They said I forgot to turn it off.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“How sure are you?”
Her eyes flashed.
“I checked it twice.”
Something moved in the doorway.
Benny.
He was holding his phone.
“Carmine.”
The tone made both of them turn.
“I found something on the investigator.”
“Where is he?”
“Maybe dead.”
Nell grabbed the edge of a chair.
Benny looked at her, then at Carmine.
“His name was Walter Doyle. Six months after the fire, he told his wife he was going to Baton Rouge for two days.”
“He never came back?”
“No.”
“The money?”
“Cash deposit. Eighty grand.”
“From who?”
“That’s the interesting part.”
Benny handed Carmine his phone.
A scanned bank document filled the screen.
The deposit had been made through a shell company.
Carmine read the name twice.
Marigny Development Holdings.
He knew it.
Everybody in New Orleans real estate knew it.
The company belonged to Vincent Calder.
Developer.
Political donor.
Professional snake.
Nell stared at the screen.
Her face changed.
“You know that name,” Carmine said.
She whispered, “He tried to buy our bakery.”
“When?”
“Three weeks before the fire.”
The room went silent.
Carmine asked, “Your father refused?”
Nell nodded.
“He told Calder the bakery wasn’t for sale.”
Benny slowly exhaled.
“And three weeks later, it burned.”
Nell looked sick.
Then a sharp crash came from the hallway.
Carmine turned.
Odette stood outside the office.
A silver tray lay on the floor.
She looked at the name on Benny’s phone.
May you like
Vincent Calder.
And for the first time in twenty-two years, Carmine saw pure panic in Odette Pruitt’s eyes.
