Chapter 11 — Gideon’s Folder
By Saturday night, Clara had developed a new relationship with closing time.
She no longer trusted it.
Closing time used to mean sweeping flour from the floor, wiping chocolate from the counters, checking the refrigerators, turning the sign to CLOSED, and going home.
Now it meant checking shadows.
Listening for footsteps.
Wondering whether the next person through the door would be a customer, a friend, or someone looking for evidence.
Clara hated that.
She hated what the murder had done to the bakery.
The place had always felt safe.
Her grandmother had taught her that a bakery should smell like warmth even after everyone had gone home.
Tonight, it smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and bleach.
Not exactly comforting.
Clara locked the front door and checked it twice.
“Done,” she announced.
Clove sat on the counter.
He looked at her.
“Don't start.”
Clove blinked.
“I know.”
He jumped down.
Clara turned off the display lights.
The bakery fell quiet.
She gathered the day's receipts and headed toward the office.
Then she heard something.
A scrape.
She stopped.
Silence.
Clara's fingers tightened around the receipt book.
Another sound.
A drawer closing.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Someone was in the back office.
She grabbed the nearest weapon.
A rolling pin.
She held it with both hands.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
Clara took one step.
Then another.
The office door was open.
A figure stood with his back to her.
Dark jacket.
Dark hair.
Bent over the desk.
Clara raised the rolling pin.
“Don't move.”
The man froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Gideon Pratt.
Clara recognized him from Harlow's company.
He looked nothing like the polished young associate she'd seen trailing Harlow around town.
Tonight his shirt was wrinkled.
His tie was gone.
His face was pale.
And he was holding a folder.
“Clara.”
“What are you doing here?”
Gideon looked at the rolling pin.
“I can explain.”
“Good.”
She tightened her grip.
“Start.”
“I wasn't looking for anything of yours.”
“You're standing in my office after closing.”
“I know.”
“You opened my desk.”
“I know.”
“You've been going through my files.”
“I wasn't.”
Clara pointed at the folder.
“What is that?”
Gideon glanced down.
Then back at her.
“Something Dean had.”
“Had?”
“He kept copies.”
“Of what?”
Gideon swallowed.
“Documents.”
“That narrows it down.”
He looked exhausted.
“Please.”
Clara didn't lower the rolling pin.
“Why are you here?”
Gideon looked toward the hallway.
Then closed the office door.
Clara's pulse jumped.
“Leave the door open.”
He immediately opened it again.
“Sorry.”
That one word changed something.
He wasn't acting like a confident corporate executive.
He looked terrified.
“Talk.”
Gideon took a breath.
“Dean was investigating something inside the company.”
“What?”
“Fraud.”
Clara lowered the rolling pin slightly.
“Whose fraud?”
“That's the problem.”
“Yours?”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
Clara stared.
“You're admitting to fraud?”
“No.”
Gideon almost laughed.
It came out as a broken sound.
“That's what I'm trying to prevent.”
He put the folder on the desk.
“Dean had documents that could make it look like I was involved.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Why would they make it look that way?”
“Because someone used my authorization.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why were you looking for the papers?”
“Because if the police find them before I do, I'm finished.”
Clara studied him.
“What exactly would happen?”
“I'd be blamed.”
“For something you didn't do?”
“That's how these things work.”
His voice cracked.
“People don't care who's guilty. They care who signed the paperwork.”
Clara thought of the envelope.
Harlow's records.
The strange payments.
She said nothing.
Gideon rubbed his forehead.
“Dean kept everything.”
“Everything?”
“Copies. Notes. Emails. Payment records.”
“Why?”
“Insurance.”
The word landed heavily.
Clara understood.
Harlow had been collecting secrets.
Maybe he had done it for years.
Maybe that was how he'd become so powerful.
Gideon looked at the folder.
“I found out three days before he died that he'd been building a file on me.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don't expect you to believe anything.”
He looked at her.
“I just need you to understand that Dean's death didn't help me.”
Clara frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because whatever he had on me is still out there.”
She remembered Fiona.
Everyone seemed to have secrets.
Everyone had something to lose.
“What did Harlow have against you?”
Gideon hesitated.
“Expense reports.”
“That's it?”
“And vendor payments.”
“Were they fraudulent?”
“No.”
“Then what's the problem?”
Gideon looked at her.
“Someone made them look fraudulent.”
Clara slowly lowered the rolling pin.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
His eyes were wet.
“I joined Harlow's company because I thought I was going to build something. I worked eighty-hour weeks. I did everything he asked.”
“And then?”
“Then I realized he didn't trust anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because he kept records on everyone.”
Clara thought of the envelope hidden in her drawer.
Harlow had left records behind.
Records about someone.
Perhaps several people.
Gideon continued.
“He told me once that the safest person in a room was the person who knew where everyone else had buried their mistakes.”
Clara's stomach turned.
“That sounds like him.”
Gideon nodded.
“Exactly.”
A faint movement came from beneath the desk.
Clara looked down.
Clove.
His eyes reflected the office light.
The cat stared at Gideon.
Then immediately disappeared beneath the filing cabinet.
Clara noticed.
“You scared him.”
Gideon glanced down.
“I'm sorry.”
Clara frowned.
Clove didn't like strangers.
Especially strangers who appeared after closing time.
That wasn't unusual.
Still, something about his reaction unsettled her.
“You should go.”
Gideon nodded.
He reached for the folder.
Clara stopped him.
“What exactly is in there?”
“Nothing that belongs to you.”
“Then why were you searching my office?”
“I thought Dean might have hidden another copy here.”
“Why?”
“He came here that night.”
Clara's blood went cold.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I drove him.”
“You drove him?”
“No. I followed him.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to talk to him.”
“When?”
“The night he died.”
Clara stared.
“Where did you follow him from?”
“The company office.”
“What time?”
“After eight.”
“And you saw him enter the bakery?”
“Yes.”
Her heart pounded.
“You didn't tell the police.”
Gideon looked away.
“I panicked.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew what I was looking for.”
“The fraud papers?”
“Yes.”
“And you thought the police would think you killed him.”
Gideon didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Clara walked toward him.
“Did you see anyone else?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What happened when Harlow came inside?”
“I stayed outside.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Then?”
“I left.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn't answer his phone.”
Clara remembered.
Harlow had come into the bakery agitated.
Asked to speak off the record.
She had sent him away.
Had he been carrying the envelope then?
Probably.
“Did Dean mention anything about the council?”
Gideon stiffened.
“Why?”
“I'm asking.”
“He mentioned…”
He stopped.
Clara waited.
Gideon looked toward the door.
Then back at her.
“Delphine.”
“Delphine?”
“Council.”
He immediately shook his head.
“I mean—someone on the council.”
“Who?”
“I don't remember.”
Clara frowned.
He had clearly said a name.
But before she could press him, he grabbed the folder.
“I have to go.”
“Gideon.”
He stopped.
“If those papers are innocent, why don't you just give them to the police?”
His face tightened.
“Because innocence isn't enough when someone has already prepared the evidence.”
Then he walked out.
The bell above the front door chimed.
Clara stood in the empty bakery.
Clove emerged slowly from beneath the filing cabinet.
He sniffed the air where Gideon had stood.
Then hurried toward Clara.
“You don't like him?”
Clove rubbed against her ankle.
Clara crouched.
“Neither do I.”
The cat purred.
She scratched his head.
But the moment she stood, she remembered something.
Gideon's fear hadn't felt fake.
He wasn't protecting a murder weapon.
He was protecting himself.
Or trying to.
Clara looked at the folder's absence.
The documents were gone.
She had no idea whether Gideon had told the truth.
But she knew one thing.
The case was getting stranger.
Harlow hadn't simply been buying buildings.
He had been collecting secrets.
Financial secrets.
Business secrets.
Political secrets.
And apparently, he had known enough about his own company to make even his employees afraid of him.
Clara turned off the office light.
“Come on, Clove.”
The cat followed.
But as she locked the bakery, Clara's mind returned to the envelope.
The initials.
D.A.
She had assumed they might mean Delphine Ashworth.
Now Gideon's slip made that possibility feel less ridiculous.
Still, it was only a possibility.
Clara refused to let herself turn suspicion into certainty.
Not again.
She pulled the door shut.
The lock clicked.
For a moment, she stood beneath the festival banner hanging across Main Street.
Three days ago, the biggest threat to Whitfield's Sweet Shop had seemed to be a corporation buying up the town.
Now Clara wasn't sure what Dean Harlow had been running from.
But whatever it was, people were frightened.
Fiona had been frightened.
Gideon was frightened.
And someone had killed Harlow.
Clara looked down.
Clove was staring at her.
“What?”
He blinked.
She sighed.
“Don't look at me like that.”
Clove turned toward the bakery.
Then toward the dark office.
For once, he didn't scratch at the ledger drawer.
He simply walked away.
Clara followed him home.
Neither of them noticed the small folded scrap of paper that had slipped beneath the office desk when Gideon searched it.
Not yet.