Chapter 5 — Suspect Number One
By eleven that morning, Clara had learned that there were several different kinds of silence.
There was the silence of an empty bakery.
The silence after someone died.
And then there was the silence of a police interview room, where every pause seemed to mean something.
Clara sat at a gray table with her hands folded in front of her.
She had been asked the same questions three times.
When did Dean Harlow arrive?
When did he leave?
What did they discuss?
Had they argued?
Did she hate him?
Did she want him gone?
Had she ever threatened him?
Had she touched the cake stand?
Had she entered the cooler after arriving that morning?
The answers hadn't changed.
Neither had the detective's expression.
Marcus Cross sat opposite her, a thin file open in front of him.
He wasn't aggressive.
That almost made it worse.
He was calm.
Patient.
Observant.
The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to make someone uncomfortable.
Clara looked at the clock.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then can I leave?”
“You can.”
She stared at him.
“But?”
“But I'd like you to stay.”
There it was.
The invisible line.
Clara wasn't arrested.
But she wasn't exactly free.
Cross turned a page.
“You said Harlow came to your bakery last night at approximately nine fifteen.”
“Yes.”
“And you were alone.”
“Yes.”
“You argued with him earlier that day.”
“Yes.”
“You told him he'd regret making things difficult.”
“I was angry.”
“Understandably.”
Clara looked at him.
“That's the first sympathetic thing you've said.”
“I haven't been unsympathetic.”
“You told me I'm one of your questions.”
“You are.”
She leaned back.
Cross continued.
“Did Harlow tell you he was afraid of anyone?”
“He said he didn't know who he could trust.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“Did he mention Delphine Ashworth?”
Clara's stomach tightened.
“No.”
“Gideon Pratt?”
“No.”
“Bennett Marsh?”
“No.”
“Fiona Laurent?”
“No.”
“Theo Whitfield?”
Clara's eyes narrowed.
“No.”
“Margery Quinn?”
“No.”
Cross made another note.
“Did he show you anything?”
“He opened his briefcase.”
“What was inside?”
“I don't know.”
“You didn't see?”
“No.”
“Did he take anything out?”
“No.”
“Did he leave anything behind?”
“I don't think so.”
“You're not sure?”
Clara thought about it.
“No.”
Cross closed the file.
“Forensics are still processing the bakery.”
Clara's heart sank.
“Have you found anything?”
“We found the cake stand.”
“I know.”
“And we found evidence that it was used against Harlow.”
Clara stared at him.
Her mouth went dry.
“There's no question?”
“About what?”
“That it was the weapon.”
“We're still waiting on the full report.”
“But you think it was.”
Cross didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Clara looked down at her hands.
They were the hands of a baker.
Small cuts around the fingertips.
A faint burn near her thumb.
Flour trapped beneath her nails despite washing them.
Hands that had kneaded dough for years.
Hands that had held that cake stand hundreds of times.
Hands that would now be examined as evidence.
“I'm beginning to understand,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“Why you're looking at me.”
Cross said nothing.
“The argument. The bakery. The cake stand.”
“And the fact that you found him.”
Clara swallowed.
“That's a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Enough to arrest me?”
“Not at this moment.”
She looked up sharply.
“What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.”
The door opened.
An officer leaned inside.
“Detective?”
Cross looked over.
“What?”
“Her friend is here.”
Clara almost laughed.
“Roz.”
The officer nodded.
Cross stood.
“Your statement isn't finished.”
“I know.”
“You can have a few minutes.”
He walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Clara.”
She looked at him.
“Don't discuss the case with anyone who may be involved.”
“Who might be involved?”
“That is what we're trying to determine.”
He left.
A few seconds later, Roz burst into the room.
“Oh, thank goodness.”
She crossed the room and hugged Clara so hard the chair squeaked.
Clara closed her eyes.
“I can't breathe.”
“Good. That means you're alive.”
“That's encouraging.”
Roz pulled back.
Her expression was furious.
“I brought coffee.”
“Bless you.”
“And muffins.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Clara reached for the coffee.
Roz sat across from her.
“So.”
“So?”
“You're not arrested.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Apparently.”
Roz narrowed her eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he accuse you?”
“Not directly.”
“Did he ask about the argument?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Of course he did.”
Clara stared into her coffee.
“They think I killed him.”
Roz's expression softened.
“Everyone doesn't.”
“Enough people do.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Then don't decide for them.”
Clara looked up.
Roz leaned closer.
“You didn't kill Dean Harlow.”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
Clara stared at her.
“Yes.”
“Then that's the end of that.”
“It doesn't feel like the end.”
“It isn't.”
Roz reached across the table.
“We're going to figure this out.”
Clara immediately shook her head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Detective Cross told me not to investigate.”
Roz's mouth curled.
“And?”
“And I should listen.”
“Absolutely.”
Clara looked at her suspiciously.
“You don't mean that.”
“Not remotely.”
Despite everything, Clara laughed.
It was small.
But it was the first real laugh she'd managed since discovering the body.
By three in the afternoon, Clara was allowed back near the bakery.
Not inside.
Near it.
Yellow police tape stretched across the entrance.
Two officers stood outside.
A crime-scene technician moved between the front door and the cooler.
Clara stood across the street with Roz.
Her entire life was behind that tape.
Her ovens.
Her mixing bowls.
Her grandmother's recipe books.
Her orders.
Her coffee machine.
Clove.
“Where is he?” Clara asked.
Roz pointed.
“There.”
Clove sat behind the front window.
His crooked ear was visible through the glass.
He looked deeply offended.
Clara almost smiled.
“He looks angry.”
“He probably thinks the police are trespassing.”
“That would be like him.”
Clara stepped toward the bakery.
An officer raised a hand.
“Sorry. Can't cross.”
“I know.”
Clove saw her.
He immediately jumped down from the window.
A moment later, he disappeared toward the back.
Clara watched.
“Where's he going?”
She waited.
Then he appeared again.
This time in the office doorway.
He pawed at something.
Clara frowned.
The ledger drawer.
The same drawer he'd been fixated on before.
He pawed again.
“What's he doing?”
Roz looked.
“Being a cat?”
“No.”
Clove pawed again.
Harder.
His claws scraped against the wooden drawer.
Clara moved closer to the window.
“Clove.”
The cat stopped.
Looked at her.
Then pawed the drawer again.
Clara frowned.
“What's in there?”
Roz shrugged.
“Paper?”
“Probably.”
“Money?”
“Maybe.”
“Secret documents?”
“Roz.”
“What?”
“You've been watching too many mysteries.”
Clove pawed the drawer again.
Clara sighed.
“I'll check it later.”
She turned away.
“Clara.”
She stopped.
Roz was looking at her.
“Are you sure?”
“About what?”
“Leaving that drawer.”
Clara looked through the window.
Clove was still sitting beside it.
“I have enough problems.”
She walked away.
Behind the glass, Clove remained beside the drawer.
That night, Clara didn't sleep.
She tried.
At ten, she turned off the lights.
At ten-thirty, she read the same paragraph in a cookbook six times.
At eleven, she gave up.
She went downstairs.
The bakery was still inaccessible, but the kitchen in her upstairs apartment was large enough for one cake.
She needed something familiar.
Something measurable.
Something that could be fixed.
Chocolate.
Flour.
Butter.
Sugar.
Eggs.
Cocoa.
Cream.
She arranged everything on the counter.
Clara opened her notebook.
Attempt #3.
She stared at the words.
Then she added:
Don't overcorrect.
She mixed slowly.
The batter came together smoothly.
For the first time in two days, her mind stopped racing.
She measured.
Folded.
Scraped.
Checked.
Waited.
When the cake finally came out of the oven, the smell filled the apartment.
Clara closed her eyes.
It smelled like Grandmother's kitchen.
Not exactly.
But close.
She let the layers cool.
Then spread the chocolate filling.
A thin layer of peach preserve.
Another cake layer.
More chocolate.
She stepped back.
It looked beautiful.
She cut a slice.
Tasted it.
Then stopped.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh.”
It was good.
Not perfect.
The peach still needed to be brighter.
The frosting was slightly too heavy.
But the cake was moist.
Rich.
Balanced.
The first one that felt like it belonged in the competition.
Clara smiled.
Then the smile faded.
Because immediately, she thought of Harlow.
His voice.
His briefcase.
His strange question.
Do you trust me?
And then:
If I don't come back tomorrow—
Clara put down her fork.
She couldn't stop thinking about the cooler.
The cake stand.
The perfume.
The argument.
The fact that someone had entered her bakery and killed a man.
Someone who had known enough about her business to use her own equipment against her.
Someone who had a reason to hate Dean Harlow.
Maybe several someones.
Clara walked to the window.
Below, Main Street was dark.
The police tape still stretched across the bakery.
She could see the faint silhouette of Clove inside.
Still near the office.
Still beside that drawer.
Clara folded her arms.
“I'm not investigating.”
She said it aloud.
The words sounded ridiculous.
She knew that.
Because even as she spoke them, her mind was already replaying every detail.
Every suspect.
Every inconsistency.
Every strange thing Harlow had said.
And one question kept returning.
Who had something to gain from Dean Harlow's death?
Clara looked at the bakery.
Then at Clove.
“Fine,” she whispered.
“I'm not investigating.”
She paused.
“I'm just paying attention.”
Clove's silhouette shifted behind the window.
As if, somehow, he approved.
And on the kitchen counter upstairs, Clara's third chocolate cake cooled quietly into the night—the first one that was finally close to perfect.
The murder was anything but.