They’d been sloppy enough to leave plenty of tracks. Darla explained it to me, but most of the details just smiled and waved in passing. But what I did have a firm grasp of was the concept that money had been taken in for Army expenses that were never actually paid.

Darla was sure she could eventually lay the blame at the embezzler’s feet, if she had the time and access to the Barracks.

I reminded her such a feat might take months, even years, if the records were there in the first place. And, I pointed out, there were more direct means to find the answers that related to Lethway and Fields.

I planned to just show up and ask. And when they denied everything, I’d suggest that the Regency might conduct its own review of the records, if, for instance, someone from House Avalante suggested such an investigation.

Kicking a finder to the curb is one thing. Giving the Regency the boot is quite another.

For the first time since that morning Darla had bribed me with sticky buns, I felt like I was working the case.

I dropped Darla off at her place, and kissed her goodnight beneath her tiny yellow porch. I knew she was hoping I’d ask her to come with me on my visit to Mr. Fields, but knowing the reception I was going to get, I didn’t ask.

The cab rolled away from Darla’s neat little house. I could see her standing in the window, watching me go.

“Where to, pal?” called down the cabbie.

I gave him the address to the bakery. I was hoping Fields would still be there, even though it must be closing. Normally I don’t like to bother a man at his work, but I didn’t think he’d be any happier to find me on his doorstep at home.

My sleepless the night before was catching up with me. I put my face in the cab’s window and let the cool evening air rush past. Rannit stinks in my neighborhood, but closer to the bakery, it smelled of meals cooking and fresh-cut grass.

I wasn’t exactly revived when we arrived, but I felt a bit more coherent. The cab pulled right in front of the bakery, and I clambered out and paid the cabbie and sauntered to the doors.

They weren’t locked yet. The CLOSED sign was nowhere to be seen.

But neither was Mr. Fields, or anyone else.

Call it a sixth sense. Call it a touch of Mama Hog’s Sight. Call it what you want. But the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and a cemetery chill scampered down my spine. When I opened the door, I did so slowly, and as it opened I slipped my hand inside and caught that cheery little bell and I put my pinkie finger inside it to silence its cheery little ring.

Then I darted in and closed the door carefully behind me.

Voices. I heard voices, from the kitchen. Male and low and angry. In no way did they suggest a discussion about cinnamon was taking place.

I moved gingerly across the tile floor, thanking the Angels it hadn’t rained. My shoes would have squeaked, had they been wet. And if my hunch was right, squeaky shoes and tinkling bells were a good way to get killed, in that place and at that time.

The closer I moved to the swinging gate that led behind the counter, the better I could hear.

One of the speakers was Mr. Fields. There were two others. One did most of the talking. The other added occasional grunts or snorts to the conversation.

“…going to tell us what we want to know,” said a voice.

“I’ve told you I don’t know a damned thing,” replied Mr. Fields.

“He’s lying,” said the other voice.

“Could be,” said the first. “Maybe he needs reminding who it is he’s stalling.”

Then there came a crash and a rattle. Tin pots fell, glassware shattered, men grunted and cussed.

Outnumbered two to one, and with no assurances that Fields wouldn’t turn on me just out of spite, I did the only thing I could think of, which was go back to the door and yank it open and give that cheerful little bell a damned good shake.

The ruckus in the back abated, just a bit.

“Mr. Fields?” I called, good and loud. “Agent of the Regency. Time for your food service license inspection. Loomis, Charles, you two get started. Milton, take the back.”

Feet beat it, and a door slammed from somewhere in the kitchen.

I let out a sigh of relief. Assuming that every kitchen in Rannit has a back door that opens into the alley is a safe bet, unless it’s your life you’re betting.

Mr. Fields emerged. His nose was bloody and his shirt was untucked and missing most of its buttons. In his right hand was a long straight knife, and in his left was a wicked two-tined fork.

“What the Hell are you doing here?”

I plopped my butt onto a stool. “You’re welcome. Again. I dropped in for a cup of coffee. Are you going to stab me, poke me or pour me a cup?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“Want me to lock the door? Might be a good idea if your two friends from the kitchen head back. Also a good idea if you decide on stabbing me. Don’t want to scare off paying customers with violent acts of murder on the sales floor now, do we?”

“Do you ever shut that mouth of yours?”

“Hardly ever. It’s how I make my living. Take today, for instance. I spent all of it digging through old Army payroll records, Mr. Fields. Did you know most of them still exist? Well, they do.”

He glowered. He glared. But his hands were shaking and sweat was pouring off his fat little head. After a moment he threw the fork onto the floor and shoved the knife under his apron and stalked to the big brass coffee machine and set about pouring two cups of it.

“Two sugars, please. Hold the arsenic. But as I was saying. I spent all day going through these records, just to see if you and Mr. Lethway were not telling the entire truth about never having served directly with each other, during the War. Do you know what I found, Mr. Fields?”

He shoved the coffee cup at me and sat across from me. I took a sip. His cup never moved, and he didn’t meet my eyes.

“You were his personal cook. For two years, maybe longer. Why did you lie about that, Mr. Fields? Why did Lethway?”

“You’re going to get us both killed.”

“And if I just walk away, maybe take up turnip farming, is that going to keep those men from coming back? Is that going to keep them away from your daughter?”

He growled a curse word. But he didn’t reach for his knife.

I drank coffee and waited.

“I was the Colonel’s cook. Four years. Kept me off the front. Only Troll I ever saw was dead.”

“So you ran an officer’s kitchen. That’s nothing to lie about.”

“No.” He clutched his cup with both hands and stared down into it. “I wasn’t rich. Was just a kid. But I could read and write. I did my own requisitions. Handled the kitchen funds.”

It began to dawn on me.

“Whose idea was it, to skim a little off the top?”

“His.” He looked up at me. “I swear, finder. I was poor, but I was honest. It was the Colonel’s idea. Said he had some gambling debts. I kept a third of the take. Hell, it wasn’t much. At first.”

“But things didn’t stay small.”

He shook his head. His face was pure crimson. The veins in his forehead were swollen and throbbing.

Maybe he had been an honest kid, after all.

“The Sixth wound up at Killispill. Regional headquarters. The Seventh was already there. Hell, within a year we were feeding eight, nine hundred men a day. Double that the next year.”

“So a lot of money was involved.”

“A fortune. The Kingdom might have skimped on a lot of things. Hell, you know they did. But the officers got fed. Nobody asked any questions. They didn’t even look at the ledgers. We’d claim we spent a thousand crowns on beef, when we spent two hundred. It was like owning a bank, finder. Even when I tried to pull back, the Colonel wouldn’t hear of it. He got greedy. He’d have killed me, had I tried to stop.”

I nodded. That might have been true. Even if it wasn’t, it was something the baker needed to believe.