Searching for diamonds.
Lexy walked through the destruction without speaking. She touched the edge of a smashed display case, ran her fingers across the counter where a tray of cookies had been swept to the floor.
This was her bakery. Her life’s work. The place she’d built from nothing.
Helen’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, Lexy.”
“They think I have more,” Lexy said. Her voice was flat, controlled. “They think I found the diamonds and hid some. It would have been nice if they busted in through the back door though, that one is already damaged.”
“Because that’s what they would have done,” Ruth said quietly.
Nans was already on the phone. Jack answered on the second ring, and before Nans could speak, he said, “I know. A neighbor called it in. I’m on my way.”
“How bad is it from the report?” Nans asked.
“Bad enough. Is Lexy there?”
“She’s here.”
Jack was quiet for a beat. “Tell her I’m coming. And Nans — where have you been all morning? Because the patrol car Iposted saw Ruth’s sedan leave three hours ago with all of you in it.”
“We went for a drive. Fresh air. Very therapeutic.”
“Nans.”
“We’ll talk when you get here.”
She hung up. Jack would be furious, and he’d be right to be furious, and it wouldn’t change a single thing.
Ida stood in the middle of the destroyed bakery, her purse clutched to her chest. “They sliced open every bag,” she said. “Every single one. They were running their hands through the flour.”
“Looking for more diamonds,” Helen confirmed.
“Which means they don’t know how many were in the original bag or someone took some somewhere along the line,” Nans said. “And as long as they’re not sure?—”
“They’ll keep coming back,” Lexy finished.
The words hung in the air, settling over the ruined bakery like the flour dust that covered everything.
Ruth set her iPad on the one clean section of counter, her expression grim. “So this isn’t just about finding the recipe anymore.”
“No,” Nans agreed. “It’s not.”
“I want my recipe back,” Lexy said. “And I want these people to stop destroying my bakery.”
“Then we need to get to that storage unit before Sal dumps what’s left,” Nans said. “And we need to do it today.”
“Tonight,” Ruth corrected, checking her watch. “Jack’s going to be here in minutes, and he’s going to park us somewhere and tell us to stay. If we’re going to the storage unit, it needs to be after he’s done processing this scene and thinks we’ve gone home like good, sensible women.”
Outside, a siren wailed — distant but getting closer. Jack, making good time.
Nans looked at each of them in turn: Ruth, already calculating logistics on her iPad; Helen, worried but resolute; Ida, clutching her purse like a soldier with a sidearm; and Lexy, standing in the ruins of her bakery with flour in her hair and fire in her eyes.
“Tonight,” Nans agreed. “We go to the storage unit.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jack keptthem for over an hour while he processed the scene. He photographed the broken door, the smashed display cases, the sliced-open flour bags. He dusted for prints — though they all knew that whoever did this had probably worn gloves, because even Sal Baretti wasn’t stupid enough to leave fingerprints.
