Chapter 7 — The Rival Baker
The bakery in Bellweather was painted yellow.
Not cream.
Not butter.
Yellow.
A cheerful, unapologetic yellow that Clara found mildly offensive.
“It's not that bad,” Roz said.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You made a face.”
“I was thinking.”
“You make the same face when you're thinking and when someone puts raisins in a cinnamon roll.”
“Because both are disappointing.”
Roz laughed.
They stood across the street from Laurent Patisserie, watching customers come and go beneath a striped awning.
Clara adjusted Clove's carrier.
The cat looked thoroughly unimpressed with Bellweather.
“This is ridiculous,” Clara said.
“Yes.”
“I don't even have a reason to be here.”
“You bought something.”
“I bought a croissant.”
“That's a reason.”
“I bought it twenty minutes ago.”
“Still counts.”
Clara looked at her.
Roz smiled.
“Go.”
Clara sighed.
The plan was simple.
Too simple.
She was going to return a cake stand she'd supposedly borrowed from Fiona Laurent months ago.
She hadn't.
Fiona knew she hadn't.
Roz knew she hadn't.
Clara knew she hadn't.
But it gave her an excuse to ask questions.
Questions she couldn't ask as a detective because she wasn't one.
Questions she couldn't ask as a friend because Fiona wasn't her friend.
Questions she could ask as another baker.
At least, that was what she told herself.
She opened the carrier slightly.
“Ready?”
Clove stared at her.
“No?”
He blinked.
“Fair.”
They crossed the street.
The bell above Laurent Patisserie's door chimed.
Warm air wrapped around Clara immediately.
Butter.
Vanilla.
Coffee.
Caramelized sugar.
Fiona's bakery smelled expensive.
Everything did.
The display cases gleamed.
The pastries were arranged with mathematical precision.
Even the napkins looked judgmental.
Fiona stood behind the counter.
She looked up.
Her smile faltered when she saw Clara.
“Whitfield.”
“Laurent.”
Roz waved cheerfully.
“Hi.”
Fiona looked at her.
“Hello.”
Clara held up the small box.
“I brought something.”
Fiona stared at it.
“What is that?”
“A cake stand.”
“I can see that.”
“You lent it to me.”
Fiona's eyebrows rose.
“No, I didn't.”
Clara's face warmed.
“I know.”
Roz coughed.
Fiona stared.
“You came all the way from Thistlewood Bay to return something I never lent you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Clara considered lying.
Instead, she said:
“I wanted to talk.”
Fiona's expression changed.
“I thought so.”
She glanced toward the customers.
“Office.”
Clara followed her.
Roz remained behind.
“I'm going to inspect the pastries,” she announced.
Fiona rolled her eyes.
The office was small and immaculate.
A desk.
A computer.
Two filing cabinets.
A shelf filled with cookbooks.
And a stack of invoices that had been arranged so neatly Clara immediately suspected something was wrong.
Fiona closed the door.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to ask about Dean Harlow.”
Fiona's face went still.
“I've already spoken to the police.”
“I know.”
“Then you know I had nothing to do with his death.”
“I didn't say you did.”
“You came here asking about him.”
“I've asked everyone.”
“Why?”
Clara hesitated.
“Because I found him.”
Fiona looked down.
For the first time, Clara noticed the exhaustion around her eyes.
“I know,” Fiona said quietly.
She sat behind the desk.
Clara remained standing.
“Where were you the night he died?”
Fiona looked up.
“At home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you go home?”
“Eight.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
Fiona's expression tightened.
“I don't remember.”
Clara studied her.
“You're nervous.”
“Wouldn't you be?”
“Yes.”
“You're the one who found him.”
“I know.”
“Then you know what this feels like.”
Clara did.
She also knew when someone was avoiding a question.
“Were you meeting with Harlow?”
Fiona's eyes flicked toward the desk.
“No.”
Too quick.
Clara noticed.
Fiona stood.
“You should leave.”
“Why?”
“Because I've already told the police everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“About the negotiations?”
Fiona froze.
Clara's pulse quickened.
“What negotiations?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You were going to sell your bakery.”
Fiona's face drained of color.
“Who told you?”
“Nobody.”
Clara's voice softened.
“I saw the folder.”
She nodded toward the desk.
Fiona followed her gaze.
A corner of white paper protruded from beneath an invoice.
At the top was a logo.
HARLOW DEVELOPMENT GROUP
Fiona closed her eyes.
“Damn it.”
Clara didn't move.
“How long?”
Fiona sat down again.
“Three months.”
“You were selling?”
“I was considering it.”
“Behind your partner's back?”
Fiona's silence answered.
“Why?”
“Because I owe money.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Fiona.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“More than you think.”
Clara waited.
“My ovens are financed. The building has a second mortgage. Ingredient costs have gone up. I borrowed to expand two years ago, and then business slowed.”
Her voice cracked.
“Harlow offered enough to clear everything.”
Clara looked at the folder.
“And then?”
“Then I'd walk away.”
“So when he died, you lost the deal.”
“Yes.”
Clara frowned.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“What doesn't?”
“You had a reason to want him gone.”
Fiona stared at her.
“And his death destroyed the one thing that could save you.”
“Exactly.”
Clara's suspicion faltered.
Then returned.
“You could have known the deal was going to collapse anyway.”
“I didn't.”
“You could have wanted him dead before he changed his mind.”
“He hadn't changed his mind.”
“How do you know?”
Fiona's expression tightened.
“Because he was supposed to meet me.”
Clara's heart skipped.
“When?”
“The night he died.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“But you said you went home at eight.”
“I did.”
“And he never came?”
“No.”
“Why didn't you tell the police?”
Fiona looked away.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That they'd think I killed him.”
Clara understood that fear.
Too well.
She softened.
“Did you know what he was going to discuss?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
Fiona looked toward the folder.
“He had been acting strangely for several days.”
“Strangely how?”
“Distracted.”
Clara remembered the bakery.
“He kept asking questions.”
“What kind?”
“About the council.”
Clara's pulse quickened.
“Delphine?”
Fiona nodded.
“Once.”
“What did he say?”
“I don't remember.”
She did.
Clara could see it.
But she wasn't ready to admit it.
Fiona opened a drawer.
Inside were invoices.
Bank statements.
Letters.
She pushed them toward Clara.
“My debt is real.”
Clara scanned the documents.
It was worse than she had expected.
Much worse.
Fiona wasn't celebrating Harlow's death.
She was terrified of it.
Without him, she had no buyer.
No escape.
No way to pay off the debts.
Her business wasn't saved by his death.
It was endangered by it.
That didn't make her innocent.
But it gave Clara something important.
A contradiction.
Fiona had motive.
But Harlow's death had destroyed her best solution.
Clara looked at her.
“Why did you hide the negotiations?”
“Because my partner would leave.”
“And then?”
“I'd lose the bakery anyway.”
Fiona's voice became quiet.
“So I lied.”
Clara nodded.
“I understand.”
Fiona looked surprised.
“You do?”
“I lied too.”
“About what?”
“Nothing important.”
Fiona almost smiled.
“Right.”
From the other room came a loud clatter.
Fiona stood.
“What was that?”
They hurried out.
Clove's carrier was empty.
The cat stood near the bakery's back hallway.
His nose was pointed toward the rear door.
He sniffed the bottom edge.
Then sniffed again.
“Clove.”
He ignored Clara.
He pawed at the door.
Once.
Twice.
Then sat.
Fiona frowned.
“What's wrong with him?”
“I don't know.”
Clara walked over.
Clove immediately sniffed her shoes.
Then returned to the door.
Roz appeared beside them.
“He's found something.”
“Apparently.”
“Maybe it's where the killer came in.”
Fiona's face went pale.
“I didn't let anyone in through that door.”
Clara looked at her.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Clove continued staring at the door.
Clara crouched.
There was a faint scent beneath the stronger bakery smells.
Something sharp.
Metallic.
And faintly sweet.
She remembered the cooler.
That floral perfume.
Her heart skipped.
But this wasn't the same.
Was it?
Clove sniffed once more.
Then abruptly lost interest.
He walked back toward his carrier.
Clara stared after him.
“What was that about?”
Roz shrugged.
“Cats.”
Clara looked at the door again.
Maybe he'd smelled flour.
Oil.
A mouse.
Something spilled outside.
Anything.
She had to remind herself of what Clove was.
Not a detective.
A cat.
His attention wasn't proof of guilt.
It wasn't proof of innocence either.
It was simply attention.
Still, Clara filed the moment away.
She had started noticing things differently now.
Scent.
Fabric.
Tiny changes.
Things she might have ignored before.
Fiona returned to the office.
“Please don't tell anyone about the sale.”
Clara hesitated.
“I won't.”
Fiona looked relieved.
“But if the police ask me?”
“Tell them.”
“I will.”
Clara picked up the carrier.
“Thank you.”
Fiona nodded.
At the door, she called after Clara.
“Clara?”
She turned.
“I really didn't kill him.”
Clara looked into her eyes.
“I know you're scared.”
“That's not what I said.”
Clara paused.
“I know.”
Then she left.
Outside, Roz walked beside her.
“Well?”
Clara adjusted the carrier.
“She's hiding things.”
“Obviously.”
“But I don't think she killed Harlow.”
“Why?”
“Because she needed him alive.”
Roz considered that.
“That is a pretty serious problem for a murder suspect.”
“Exactly.”
Clove shifted inside the carrier.
Clara glanced down.
“Although he liked the back door.”
Roz smiled.
“Maybe he knows something.”
“Or maybe he smelled something.”
“Same difference.”
“No.”
Clara thought about the cooler.
The perfume.
The blue scrap at Bennett's store.
The way Clove had reacted to both.
Then Fiona's back door.
She frowned.
“Maybe not.”
“What?”
“Maybe Clove isn't reacting to people.”
Roz looked at her.
“He's reacting to smells.”
Clara nodded slowly.
“And I keep assuming the smell belongs to the person I'm questioning.”
Roz smiled.
“Look at you.”
“What?”
“Learning.”
Clara laughed.
They reached the car.
Clara placed Clove's carrier inside.
Then looked back toward Laurent Patisserie.
Fiona stood behind the window.
Watching them leave.
Clara couldn't shake the feeling that Fiona was afraid of something.
But fear wasn't guilt.
And Harlow's death had taken away the one thing Fiona desperately needed.
The deal.
The money.
The escape.
Clara opened the car door.
“Let's go home.”
Roz climbed in.
“What about the cake?”
Clara groaned.
“I forgot.”
“The competition cake?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to stop thinking about murder for five minutes and start thinking about chocolate.”
Clara smiled.
“That's probably the wisest thing you've said all week.”
From inside the carrier came a disgruntled meow.
Clara glanced down.
“Except you.”
Clove blinked.
Then closed his eyes.
For the moment, Clara let the case go.
But as they drove back toward Thistlewood Bay, one thought stayed with her.
Fiona Laurent had lied.
Bennett Marsh had lied by omission.
Everyone seemed to be hiding something.
And somewhere beneath all those secrets was the truth about Dean Harlow.
Clara just had to figure out which secret mattered.
And which one was merely another dead end.