Chapter 5 - The Contract
For the next four days, Carmela did not come to the bakery.
Roz told Dana she wasn't worried. She said the family had probably hired an armed nurse to guard the front door of the Lake Drive estate. She said it while scrubbing the dough mixer until the stainless steel gleamed like a mirror. She said it again at noon while inventorying five-pound bags of almond flour. By Saturday afternoon, when the bell hadn't rung with that familiar small scuffle of orthopedic heels, Roz was checking the local obituaries on her phone between bread batches.
"She’s fine, Roz," Dana said gently from the prep sink. "Rich old Italian ladies don't die from half a slice of apple pie. They live to be a hundred and four just out of spite."
"I’m not worried," Roz muttered. "I’m just checking."
On Monday morning at 7:40, the bell finally jingled.
Roz dropped her scraper into a bowl of lard and bolted through the swinging door before she had consciously decided to move.
Carmela was there. She was walking more slowly than usual, one hand gripping the doorframe for support, her face pale beneath her makeup. Roz was around the counter before the door had fully swung shut, catching the old woman by the elbow and guiding her toward the window table.
"You’re limping," Roz said, her voice sharp with concern. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Carmela said, sinking into the chair with a soft sigh. "My pancreas decided to hold a strike, and I spent forty-eight hours in Froedtert Hospital being poked by twelve-year-olds with stethoscopes."
Roz pulled out the chair opposite her. "Was it the pie?"
"It was the roast pork my idiot nephew brought from Chicago," Carmela waved off dismissively. "Too much salt. My kidneys took offense. The doctors were very dramatic about it. They wanted to keep me until Wednesday, but I informed them that if I had to eat another bowl of unseasoned oatmeal, I would file a civil rights complaint with the governor."
Roz brought her a mug of black coffee with a single ice cube. She didn't bring any pie, and for once, Carmela didn't ask.
"I need to discuss business with you," the old woman said, reaching into the deep pocket of her camel coat.
She pulled out a folded sheaf of heavy cream paper, crisp and embossed with gold foil at the header, and smoothed it flat across the laminate table.
Roz looked down at it.
The Salvatore Benedetti Memorial Scholarship Gala
The Pfister Hotel – Grand Ballroom
Catering Authorization & Culinary Manifest
Roz scanned the lines. Halfway down the page, typed in neat legal Courier, was the specification:
Dessert Service: 350 individual artisan dessert pies, assorted varieties, supplied by Crust & Crumble Bakery.
Deposit: $7,500 (Paid in Full, Check #4102).
Below that was Carmela’s looping, spider-web signature in black fountain pen.
Roz’s mouth went dry. "Carmela, what is this?"
"It is a catering contract," Carmela said smoothly. "My late husband’s foundation gives two million dollars in trade-school scholarships to working-class children in Milwaukee every autumn. The dinner is next month. We usually use some French caterer from Whitefish Bay who charges nine thousand dollars for chocolate mousse that tastes like sweetened axle grease. This year, we are having pie."
"I don't do large-scale catering," Roz said, pushing the paper back. "I have two ovens and a nineteen-year-old assistant who cries when she has to crack more than sixty eggs in a morning. I can't produce three hundred and fifty pies for the Pfister Hotel!"
"You will hire two temporary helpers," Carmela instructed, tapping the table with her ring. "The deposit is already in your business checking account; my accountant wired it yesterday. That money will cover your back rent for three months."
Roz’s head snapped up. "How do you know my rent is late?"
From behind the espresso machine, Dana suddenly found herself deeply fascinated by the steam wand, polishing it with frantic energy.
Roz glared at Dana, then back at Carmela. "You can't just buy your way into running my business."
"I am not running your business. I am hiring an independent vendor who knows how to make crust that doesn't taste like cardboard." Carmela leaned forward, her obsidian eyes fixing Roz with an intensity that brooked no argument. "Listen to me, Rose Kowalic. My grandson has spent two years living in a stone house with ghost memories. He works fourteen hours a day, he eats protein bars from gas stations, and he hasn't laughed since the woman he was supposed to marry took a four-carat diamond ring and moved to Scottsdale with a private equity broker."
Roz felt a strange, cold pull in her chest. "Luca was engaged?"
"To Serena Vance," Carmela said, her lip curling with unadulterated venom. "A socialite whose father owned half the grain elevators in the harbor before he lost them in bankruptcy. She thought the Benedetti name would restore her family’s social credit. When she realized Luca wasn't going to buy her a villa in Lake Como and let her run his commercial books, she walked out six weeks before the ceremony."
Carmela tapped the bottom of the contract.
Roz looked down. At the bottom of the page, beneath the catering specifications, was the gala committee roster.
Event Chair: Serena Vance.
Roz looked back at Carmela. For the first time since they had met, the old woman’s expression was not that of a grandmother wanting pastry. It was the face of a chess master who had spent thirty moves maneuvering her opponent’s queen into a corner with nowhere left to turn.
"She came back from Arizona three months ago," Carmela whispered, her voice colder than the autumn wind outside. "She wants him back. She took the chairmanship of the gala to put herself back at his side in front of every family in the state. And she believes she is untouchable."
May you like
Roz stared at the contract, her heart thumping against her ribs. "And where do I fit into this?"
Carmela smiled. It was small, sharp, and terrifyingly brilliant. "You make the best pie in Wisconsin, Rose. And I believe it is time Serena Vance learned that some things in this world cannot be bought, starved, or handled with velvet gloves."
