Chapter 5 - Elena’s Recipe Box
The box was gone.
We discovered that nineteen minutes later.
Lily’s closet had been searched so carefully that nobody would have noticed unless they knew exactly where to look.
Shoes aligned.
Clothes untouched.
Storage bins in place.
The top shelf empty.
Lily stared upward.
“It was there.”
Roman stood behind her.
“I believe you.”
“He took it.”
“We don’t know that.”
She spun around.
“You never believe me.”
Roman flinched.
He hid it quickly.
I didn’t miss it.
“I said I believe you.”
“Then why do you always say we don’t know?”
“Because believing something and proving it are different.”
Lily’s eyes filled with frustrated tears.
“You sound like Mom.”
Roman swallowed.
“That’s not an insult.”
For a moment neither moved.
Then Lily sat on the edge of the bed.
I sat beside her.
“What did the box look like?”
“Wood. Yellow flowers painted on top.”
“Anything inside besides recipes?”
“I never opened it.”
“When did your mom give it to you?”
“Two weeks before the accident.”
Roman turned toward the window.
Two weeks.
Not months.
Not years.
Elena had expected something.
“Did she say anything?” I asked.
Lily closed her eyes.
“She told me some recipes only make sense after you’ve made them more than once.”
Roman and I exchanged a look.
“That sounds like Elena,” he said.
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Lily frowned.
“Mom used to hide birthday presents in boring places.”
“Documents?”
Roman’s eyes sharpened.
“Possibly.”
I stood.
“Did Elena keep another copy of the recipes?”
Lily looked at me.
“At Honey & Rye.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“She used to trade recipes with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I barely knew her.”
“She talked about you.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“You helped her make my birthday cake.”
A memory returned.
Three years earlier.
A woman had approached me after closing because her daughter wanted an orange-honey cake she couldn’t find anywhere.
We experimented for an hour.
Elena.
I hadn’t remembered her name.
But I remembered the cake.
And the leather notebook.
I drove to Honey & Rye with Roman and Lily behind me.
Two black SUVs followed.
I complained.
Roman ignored me.
The bakery was dark when we arrived.
I unlocked the back door.
“Where do you keep old recipe notes?” Roman asked.
“In my office.”
“Is it secure?”
“It has a lock.”
“What kind?”
“The kind designed to keep employees from stealing my chocolate.”
He stared.
“So, no.”
We searched everything.
Folders.
Recipe binders.
Invoices.
Old holiday menus.
Nothing.
Then Lily noticed a wooden crate near the bottom of a storage shelf.
“What’s that?”
“Old customer recipes.”
I pulled it down.
Hundreds of handwritten cards.
People left them over the years.
Grandmothers’ pies.
Wedding cakes.
Cookies from immigrants who wanted American measurements.
We spread them across the worktable.
Twenty minutes became forty.
Roman removed his jacket.
Then rolled his sleeves.
I looked at his tattooed forearms.
He noticed.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing the bakery.”
He recognized his own line.
His mouth curved.
Lily groaned.
“You two are unbearable.”
Progress.
At 11:43 p.m., I found the card.
Orange Honey Celebration Cake.
Written in Elena’s neat handwriting.
At first it looked ordinary.
Then Lily pointed.
“Mom hated nutmeg.”
The recipe called for one teaspoon.
Roman frowned.
“Maybe she changed her mind.”
“No.”
Lily was certain.
“She said nutmeg ruins everything.”
I examined the card.
Nutmeg.
One teaspoon.
Vanilla.
Three teaspoons.
Orange zest.
Two tablespoons.
Honey.
Seven tablespoons.
Numbers.
1.
2.
3.
4.
On the back were instructions with strange capitalization.
Mix Slowly Until Smooth.
Never Overwork Dough.
Rest Overnight.
Temper Eggs.
Handle Everything Gently.
I wrote the capital letters.
M S U S.
N O D.
R O.
T E.
H E G.
Nothing.
Then Lily whispered, “Read the first words.”
Mix.
Never.
Rest.
Temper.
Handle.
MNRTH.
Roman leaned closer.
“What if it’s every second line?”
We tried.
Still nothing.
Then Lily flipped the card.
“Mom used page numbers.”
“What?”
“When we baked, she numbered steps even when there were only three.”
This recipe had seven unnumbered lines.
That was unusual.
We used the ingredient numbers as line references.
One.
Three.
Two.
Seven.
The first word of line one.
Third word of line three.
Second word of line two.
Seventh word of line seven.
It formed:
LOOK NORTH.
Roman straightened.
“North where?”
Lily grabbed another recipe.
Lemon shortbread.
The same strange measurements.
We decoded.
HARBOR.
A third card.
LOCKER 214.
Nobody spoke.
Roman reached for his phone.
I grabbed his wrist.
“Rule three.”
He looked at me.
“No decisions for you.”
“And no rushing into a harbor locker at midnight.”
“I wasn’t going personally.”
“That is not the reassuring sentence you think it is.”
Lily suddenly pointed to the back of the third card.
Tiny writing ran along the bottom.
Roman read it.
His face changed.
I took the card.
There were only eight words.
If Vincent asks, tell him the recipes burned.
Lily whispered, “Mom knew.”
Roman’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
His expression went completely still.
“What?” I asked.
He turned the phone toward us.
A security image filled the screen.
May you like
Vincent Caruso was leaving the Duca mansion.
In his hand was a small wooden box painted with yellow flowers.
