Chapter 14
Cool Completely
Recipe Tip: Don't slice hot bread.
Saturday night settled over Larkspur Falls slowly.
The festival lights glowed along Main Street.
The last musicians packed away their instruments.
The pumpkin displays sat beneath strings of warm bulbs.
And the bakery, finally quiet, smelled faintly of cinnamon and toasted sugar.
Tessa stood behind the counter counting the day's receipts.
"One hundred and eighty-six."
She counted again.
"One hundred and eighty-six."
Pretzel sat on the counter.
He watched the money.
"You don't get any."
Pretzel blinked.
"Don't even look at me like that."
His tail moved once.
Tessa smiled despite herself.
It had been a long day.
The bakery stall had done better than expected.
People had bought cinnamon rolls, scones, cookies, and nearly every loaf of ordinary banana bread.
Nearly.
Tessa had kept the remaining loaves behind the counter.
She wasn't ready.
Not yet.
She closed the register.
Then looked toward the blue injector cap sitting beside her notebook.
She had brought it home from the office and placed it on the counter.
It looked harmless.
Tiny.
Almost ridiculous.
Yet it had become one of the most important objects in the case.
Someone had taken Garrick's injector.
Maybe both.
Someone had changed the bread.
Someone knew about his allergy.
And someone was selling knives under his name.
Tessa rubbed her forehead.
She was tired of mysteries.
She wanted her bakery back.
Her ordinary life.
Her ordinary problems.
Like flour deliveries arriving late.
Customers complaining about raisins.
Pretzel stealing measuring spoons.
Not murder.
Never murder.
The back door rattled.
Tessa jumped.
Pretzel's head snapped toward it.
Three seconds later, there was a knock.
"Tessa?"
She recognized the voice.
"Desmond?"
The door opened.
Desmond stood outside holding a paper bag.
"Sorry to bother you."
Tessa unlocked the door.
"It's fine."
He smiled.
"I brought dinner."
He held up the bag.
"The Copper Kettle had leftovers."
Tessa smiled.
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
He stepped inside.
Pretzel stared at him.
Desmond smiled.
"And hello to you too."
Pretzel didn't respond.
"He's tired."
"So am I."
Desmond set the bag on the counter.
Tessa opened it.
Soup.
Bread.
A small container of roasted vegetables.
"You really didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
She looked at him.
"Thank you."
Desmond leaned against the counter.
"How was today?"
"Busy."
"Good."
"Very."
He nodded.
"I'm glad."
Tessa poured two glasses of water.
Desmond sat.
For several minutes, they talked about the festival.
The crowds.
The weather.
The pie contest.
The mayor's ongoing obsession with the blueberry category.
It was normal.
Comfortably normal.
And Tessa realized how much she'd missed that.
Then Desmond's expression changed.
"You've been asking questions again."
Tessa's hand stopped around her glass.
"Who told you?"
"People talk."
"Of course they do."
He sighed.
"Tessa."
"What?"
"You need to let Wes handle this."
She looked away.
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"You're not a detective."
"No."
"And you're involved personally."
"I know."
"You found the body."
"Yes."
"You're a witness."
"Yes."
"Then let the police do their job."
Tessa looked at him.
"What if they're wrong?"
Desmond's face softened.
"They're trained for this."
"They arrested Bertie."
"Yes."
"But something doesn't fit."
"That doesn't mean you're right."
Tessa flinched.
Desmond immediately softened his voice.
"I'm not trying to upset you."
"I know."
"I just don't want you putting yourself in danger."
Tessa looked down at the table.
"I don't either."
"Then stop."
Simple.
Two words.
Stop.
Tessa felt the familiar pressure in her chest.
Someone louder than her.
Someone confident.
Someone who seemed to know what was best.
Wes had said the same thing.
Let it go.
Desmond was saying it now.
And perhaps they were right.
Maybe she was imagining connections because she wanted there to be a bigger mystery.
Maybe Bertie really had killed Garrick.
Maybe the bread had been an accident.
Maybe the injector was missing because someone had panicked.
Maybe the forged knives had nothing to do with it.
Maybe.
Tessa looked at the blue cap.
She picked it up.
"I found this."
Desmond looked at it.
"What is it?"
"An injector cap."
His eyes remained on the object.
Only for a moment.
Then he looked away.
"An injector?"
"Garrick carried one."
Desmond nodded.
"I heard."
"Did you know he was allergic to walnuts?"
The question came out before she could stop it.
Desmond looked at her.
"No."
Tessa watched his face.
He seemed genuinely surprised.
Or very good at pretending.
"I didn't know."
Tessa nodded.
"Okay."
Desmond stood.
"Think about what I said."
"I will."
He picked up his coat.
At the door, he turned.
"You've had enough."
Tessa forced a smile.
"Probably."
"Good."
He left.
The door closed.
Tessa stood there.
Pretzel was still watching the door.
"What?"
The cat didn't move.
Tessa turned toward the counter.
The blue cap sat beside her notebook.
She picked it up.
Then set it down.
Maybe Desmond was right.
Maybe she needed to stop.
She was exhausted.
She needed sleep.
Tomorrow was the gala.
The case would be over soon.
She could go back to baking.
Back to ordinary problems.
She walked toward the kitchen.
Then stopped.
Something was wrong.
The bakery felt different.
Tessa looked around.
The chairs.
The tables.
The pastry cases.
The ovens.
Nothing.
She turned toward the back hallway.
The door stood open.
Her blood went cold.
She hadn't left it open.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
Pretzel appeared beside her.
His fur rose.
"Tessa?"
She took one step forward.
The back door was open.
Cold night air slipped through the gap.
She approached slowly.
Then stopped.
Something sat on the counter.
A single walnut.
Tessa stared.
She didn't move.
She knew walnuts.
She'd spent the week thinking about them.
She'd never kept them in the bakery.
Not once.
Her grandmother's allergy rule had been absolute.
No walnuts.
Ever.
Pretzel stepped forward.
He sniffed the walnut.
Then hissed.
Not a playful hiss.
A warning.
Tessa's heart began pounding.
"Where did that come from?"
Pretzel stared into the darkness beyond the open door.
His back arched.
His ears flattened.
Tessa reached for the nearest rolling pin.
It wasn't a weapon.
It was just what her hand found.
She whispered:
"Is someone there?"
Nothing.
Only the wind.
Then—
a faint sound.
A footstep.
Tessa froze.
Pretzel hissed again.
The darkness outside seemed to move.
Tessa backed away.
Her hand closed around the edge of the counter.
She wanted to call Wes.
She wanted to call Dani.
She wanted to lock the door and pretend none of this was happening.
But then she looked at the walnut.
One tiny object.
Placed deliberately.
A message.
Or a warning.
She suddenly understood something far more frightening than the open door.
Someone had been inside her bakery.
Someone knew about walnuts.
Someone knew she was investigating.
And someone wanted her to know they knew.
Tessa slowly closed the back door.
She locked it.
Then checked it again.
Pretzel remained beside her.
She looked down at him.
"Desmond said to let the police handle it."
Pretzel stared toward the door.
Tessa looked at the walnut.
Then at the blue injector cap.
Then at the dark bakery.
She thought about the past few days.
Wes.
Desmond.
Both kind.
Both confident.
Both telling her to stop.
Both louder than her.
Tessa suddenly felt ashamed.
Not because she'd investigated.
Because she had kept doubting herself.
She had spent years doing it.
In Boston.
With Garrick.
With her bakery.
Whenever someone spoke with enough certainty, she assumed they must know better.
But her instincts had noticed the wrong bread.
Her palate had noticed the missing cardamom.
Her memory had noticed the wrong knot.
Her eyes had noticed the forged certificates.
Pretzel had found the injector cap.
And every time she had ignored one of those things, another clue had appeared.
Tessa picked up the walnut.
She stared at it.
Then whispered:
"I've been listening to the loudest voice in the room."
Pretzel's tail flicked.
Tessa looked at him.
"But not anymore."
She threw the walnut into a sealed container.
Then picked up her notebook.
Tomorrow was the gala.
And for the first time, Tessa wasn't going to wait for someone else to tell her what to think.
She was going to trust her own senses.
Her own memory.
Her own instincts.
And if someone had walked into her bakery tonight to frighten her—
they had made one very big mistake.
They had reminded Tessa Bramwell that she was no longer the woman who needed permission to trust herself.