Chapter 5 - SEVEN MINUTES
Caleb March wore a camel-colored overcoat.
No hat.
No gloves.
He looked less like a criminal than a man arriving late to an expensive dinner.
Three men stood behind him.
Carmine recognized two.
Former private security.
The third was younger.
Nervous.
That made him the most dangerous.
Nervous men made mistakes.
Benny shifted slightly in front of Nell.
Caleb smiled.
“I expected Carmine.”
His eyes moved to Nell.
“I didn't expect Eleanor.”
Nell's face hardened.
“Don't call me that.”
“That was your name when we met.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“And unpleasant even then.”
Carmine stepped forward.
“You came personally.”
“I dislike loose ends.”
“Your father taught you that?”
Caleb's smile faded.
“My father taught me never to underestimate sentimentality.”
His gaze moved to the ledger.
“Give me the book.”
“No.”
“Carmine.”
“No.”
Caleb sighed.
“You have no idea what's in it.”
“I read enough.”
“Then you know Emmett Fontaine wasn't documenting a few illegal deliveries. He was documenting something much larger.”
“State police.”
“Judges. Port officials. Customs inspectors.”
Caleb glanced at Nell.
“Your father had a talent for noticing things that didn't concern him.”
Nell's voice shook with contained fury.
“You burned him alive.”
“He survived.”
“Barely.”
“That wasn't the intention.”
Carmine's expression changed.
Caleb realized too late what he had admitted.
Nell stared at him.
“What did you say?”
Caleb looked annoyed with himself.
Then he shrugged.
“The fire was supposed to empty the building.”
“You chained the door.”
“My man chained the wrong exit.”
Nell took a step forward.
Carmine stopped her with one arm.
Caleb continued.
“Your father was supposed to be at home.”
“He was doing inventory.”
“Yes. An unfortunate deviation from routine.”
Nell's face went pale.
“You almost killed him over a notebook.”
“A notebook that could have imprisoned half a dozen influential men.”
Caleb smiled slightly.
“Some of whom are still influential.”
Carmine's voice was cold.
“That's why the bakery footprint stayed undeveloped.”
Caleb looked toward the fountain.
“My father spent two years searching the foundation.”
“And never found it.”
“Emmett was clever.”
Caleb held out his hand.
“Ledger.”
Carmine gave him a faint smile.
“No.”
Caleb's men shifted.
Benny reached beneath his coat.
Carmine shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Not yet.
Caleb laughed.
“You think because people call you frightening, I should be afraid?”
“No.”
Carmine looked past him.
“I think you should have counted the cars.”
Caleb turned.
The lights outside the courtyard came on.
Six Orsini vehicles were parked beyond the gate.
Men stood beside them.
Caleb's expression finally changed.
Benny smiled.
“You really should count.”
Caleb's younger guard panicked.
His hand moved beneath his coat.
Carmine moved first.
“Don't.”
One word.
The young man froze.
Carmine looked at Caleb.
“You came here thinking I'd bring one car because you think everyone is as arrogant as you.”
Caleb's jaw tightened.
“You won't start a war over a maid.”
Carmine's eyes became absolutely still.
“No.”
He glanced at Nell.
“I'm ending one over a witness.”
For the first time that night, Caleb looked uncertain.
Then he smiled again.
“Fine.”
He stepped backward.
“Keep the ledger.”
Carmine frowned.
“That easy?”
“Of course not.”
Caleb looked at Nell.
“You should ask Carmine what happened to the original copy.”
Nell turned.
“What?”
Caleb's smile widened.
“Emmett wrote that ledger for years. Do you think a man careful enough to hide it under a flour bin only kept one copy?”
Carmine stared.
Caleb continued.
“Salvatore Orsini had the other one.”
Nell looked at Carmine.
Caleb stepped toward the gate.
“And when my father demanded it, Salvatore said it had been destroyed.”
He paused.
“My father never believed him.”
Neither did Carmine.
Caleb left.
No gunfire.
No dramatic threats.
That frightened Carmine more than violence would have.
Men like Caleb did not retreat unless they believed another weapon existed.
At two fifteen that morning, Carmine and Nell sat in the estate kitchen.
Neither spoke.
The ledger lay between them.
Benny had taken photographs of every page and stored copies in three separate locations.
Palmira had been awakened again.
She complained less this time.
That worried everyone.
Nell opened her mother's recipe tin.
Cards written in faded blue ink filled the inside.
Sweet potato pie.
Pralines.
King cake filling.
Cornbread.
Pecan pie.
She found the card.
Carmine watched her thumb move over the handwriting.
“My mother's.”
He nodded.
Nell read silently.
Then frowned.
“What?”
“The recipe says five minutes.”
Carmine remembered dinner.
“You said seven.”
“My mother taught me seven.”
“But she wrote five.”
Nell turned the card over.
Nothing.
She checked another version.
Five minutes.
A strange look crossed her face.
“Dad always teased her because she changed recipes without updating the cards.”
Carmine leaned forward.
“She told you seven?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly seven?”
“Yes.”
Nell stared at him.
Then both of them looked at the ledger.
Seven minutes.
A number precise enough to become family ritual.
A number Carmine had already learned mattered to Nell.
He picked up the recipe card.
“Maybe seven wasn't about the pie.”
Nell's breath caught.
She searched through the tin.
Seven recipe cards had small pencil marks in the corners.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
On the seventh card—bread pudding—was a set of numbers hidden between ingredient measurements.
Carmine recognized it.
“Safe combination?”
Nell shook her head.
“We never had a safe.”
“Your father did.”
“At the bakery?”
“Maybe somewhere else.”
Palmira entered the kitchen.
Her face changed when she saw the recipe tin.
“Oh.”
Carmine looked at her.
“You recognize it.”
“I recognize Miriam Fontaine's handwriting.”
Nell stared.
“You knew my mother?”
Palmira sat slowly.
“For twenty years.”
Nell looked stunned.
Carmine's anger returned.
“Anything else you'd like to mention before sunrise?”
Palmira ignored him.
“Your mother catered several dinners here before she became ill.”
Nell sat back.
“My mother never said that.”
“She wouldn't have.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother disliked Salvatore.”
That surprised Carmine.
Palmira almost smiled.
“She thought he was arrogant.”
“She was correct,” Nell whispered.
Carmine looked at her.
Nell's mouth twitched.
It was the first light moment they had shared.
Palmira continued.
“But she trusted him.”
“Why?”
“Because twenty-three years ago, Salvatore stopped a man from forcing your father's bakery to pay protection money.”
Nell's expression shifted.
“March?”
“No.”
Palmira shook her head.
“Different men. Different problem.”
She touched the recipe card.
“When Miriam became sick, your parents worried about Nell's future. Salvatore helped Emmett open a deposit box.”
Carmine looked at the numbers again.
“Bank?”
Palmira nodded.
“Canal Mercantile.”
“That bank closed years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Where did the boxes go?”
Palmira looked at him.
“Gulf Louisiana Trust.”
Carmine stood.
It was three in the morning.
The bank would open in six hours.
Nell stared at the combination.
“What would Dad put in a safe-deposit box?”
Carmine answered.
“The copy Caleb March thinks my father had.”
At nine fifteen, they entered Gulf Louisiana Trust.
At nine forty-two, after lawyers, identification records and a court authorization signed years earlier designating Eleanor Fontaine as successor owner, the bank manager brought out box 2990146.
Nell inserted one key.
The manager inserted another.
The metal drawer slid open.
Inside was a sealed envelope.
SALVATORE ORSINI.
Nell looked at Carmine.
He opened it.
A handwritten letter from his father lay inside.
Carmine read the first sentence.
Then stopped breathing.
Carmine,
If you're reading this, I failed to finish what Emmett and I started.
Beneath the letter sat a second ledger.
And a small cassette tape.
On the label, Salvatore had written:
MARCH — DECEMBER 18.
Nell whispered, “What is that?”
Carmine stared at it.
“My father's insurance policy.”
But when Benny tried to play the tape later that afternoon, they discovered the recording contained only static.
Except for the final seven seconds.
A chair scraped.
A man cursed.
And Salvatore Orsini said one sentence.
“You touch the Fontaine girl, Caleb, and I bury everything.”
Then came another voice.
Older.
Calmer.
Edwin March.
“You already buried one family for us, Salvatore. What's one more?”
The tape ended.
May you like
Nell looked at Carmine.
And everything they thought they understood became uncertain again.
