Chapter 4 — What the Cooler Held
Clara woke before the alarm.
For a few seconds, she lay perfectly still beneath the covers, listening to the silence.
Then she remembered.
Harlow.
Ten o'clock.
He was supposed to come back at ten.
She reached for her phone.
5:17 a.m.
“Oh.”
She had plenty of time.
The bakery would need to be opened by six-thirty anyway. There were croissants to proof, fruit to slice, coffee to prepare, and three dozen peach turnovers waiting in the refrigerator.
Clara pushed herself out of bed.
By five-thirty, she was downstairs.
The morning air was cold enough that she pulled her cardigan tighter as she unlocked the back door.
The bakery smelled exactly as it always did at that hour.
Chocolate.
Butter.
Coffee.
Yeast.
Comfort.
Clara switched on the kitchen lights.
“Morning, Clove.”
No answer.
She frowned.
Usually, Clove appeared within seconds of hearing the door.
She checked beneath the counter.
Nothing.
The office?
Empty.
The little cushion beside the radiator?
Empty.
“Clove?”
A faint thump came from somewhere behind her.
Clara turned.
The cat emerged from the hallway.
His fur was raised along his spine.
His crooked ear was pinned back.
He stopped several feet from the walk-in cooler.
Clara looked at him.
“What?”
Clove growled.
Not loudly.
But deeply.
A low vibration seemed to come from somewhere inside his chest.
Clara's smile disappeared.
“What's wrong?”
Clove took one step backward.
The walk-in cooler door stood slightly open.
Clara stared at it.
She knew she had closed it the night before.
She always checked it twice.
Always.
A terrible thought entered her mind.
Maybe the door hadn't latched.
That happened occasionally.
Except the cooler light wasn't on.
And there was something dark on the floor just inside.
Clara took a step closer.
Clove growled again.
“It's okay.”
She reached for the handle.
The cooler door moved beneath her fingers.
Cold air spilled over her hand.
Then she saw the cake.
Or what was left of it.
The large display cake she'd prepared for the festival was on the floor, its tiers collapsed and smeared across the stainless-steel shelving.
Chocolate frosting streaked the tiles.
Peach-colored filling lay crushed beneath a fallen tray.
And beside it—
A man's shoe.
Clara stopped breathing.
“No.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
She stepped backward.
The cooler door swung wider.
Dean Harlow lay face-down on the floor.
His dark suit was unmistakable.
One arm was twisted beneath him.
His head was turned away.
There was no movement.
No breath.
Nothing.
Clara's knees weakened.
She grabbed the doorframe.
“No, no, no.”
Clove retreated farther down the hallway.
Clara couldn't move.
Her mind refused to understand what her eyes were seeing.
Dean Harlow had been alive last night.
He had stood right here.
He had spoken to her.
He had promised to return at ten.
She had watched him walk away.
And now—
Her eyes dropped to the floor.
Near Harlow's body lay the heavy ceramic cake stand.
The one Clara used for displaying her largest cakes.
The one she'd bought years ago with Grandmother.
There was a dark smear along its edge.
Clara's stomach lurched.
“Oh, God.”
She stumbled backward.
Her hand fumbled for her phone.
It slipped once.
She caught it.
Her fingers shook so badly she nearly dropped it again.
She dialed emergency services.
“Emergency services. What's your location?”
Clara opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
“Ma'am?”
“Whitfield's Sweet Shop.”
Her voice sounded impossibly small.
“Main Street. Thistlewood Bay.”
“What is the emergency?”
“There is a man.”
She swallowed.
“There's a man in my cooler.”
“Is he conscious?”
“I don't know.”
“Is he breathing?”
Clara looked toward the body.
“I—I don't think so.”
“Are you in danger?”
Clara looked at Clove.
Then at the open cooler.
“I don't know.”
“Leave the area and wait outside.”
Clara nodded even though the dispatcher couldn't see her.
“Yes.”
She backed away.
She didn't touch anything.
She couldn't.
Every instinct screamed at her to run.
Instead, she grabbed her cardigan from the hook, opened the back door, and stepped outside.
The cold morning air struck her face.
She stood on the sidewalk barefoot in her bakery shoes, phone pressed to her ear, staring through the window.
Within minutes, sirens appeared at the end of Main Street.
One police cruiser.
Then another.
An ambulance.
A third vehicle.
People began opening curtains.
Doors.
Windows.
Thistlewood Bay woke quickly when something interesting happened.
Clara barely noticed.
Two paramedics rushed into the bakery.
A uniformed officer followed.
“Miss Whitfield?”
“Yes.”
“Stay here, please.”
“I will.”
Her voice trembled.
The officer disappeared inside.
Clara wrapped her arms around herself.
Clove was still inside.
“Can someone get my cat?”
The officer looked at her.
“Your cat?”
“He's terrified.”
“We'll make sure he's safe.”
The paramedics emerged several minutes later.
Their faces told her everything.
One of them shook his head.
“I'm sorry.”
Clara closed her eyes.
The world seemed to tilt.
Dean Harlow was dead.
The man she'd argued with yesterday.
The man who had stood in her bakery last night.
The man who had promised to return at ten.
Dead.
Inside her cooler.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She flinched.
“Miss Whitfield?”
She opened her eyes.
A man stood beside her.
Late thirties, perhaps early forties.
Dark hair.
Dark coat.
Calm expression.
His badge was clipped neatly beneath his jacket.
“Detective Marcus Cross.”
Clara stared at him.
“Detective?”
He nodded.
“I've been assigned the case.”
Case.
The word felt enormous.
“You're sure he's dead?”
Cross's expression softened slightly.
“Yes.”
Clara looked away.
“Last night he was alive.”
Cross watched her carefully.
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After nine.”
“Can you give me the exact time?”
“I don't know.”
“Approximately?”
“Nine fifteen. Maybe nine twenty.”
Cross nodded.
“And what happened?”
“He came to the bakery.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed to talk.”
“About?”
Clara hesitated.
“The redevelopment project.”
Cross's eyes sharpened.
“Harlow's company?”
“Yes.”
“You've been involved in a dispute with him.”
It wasn't a question.
Clara swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“In public?”
Her stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
“Did you threaten him?”
Clara stared at the pavement.
“I was angry.”
“That wasn't my question.”
She looked at him.
“I told him he would regret making things difficult.”
Cross studied her face.
“And what did he say?”
“He told me to reconsider.”
“Then?”
“He came back here later.”
“And you argued again?”
“No.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“How long was he here?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you why he came?”
Clara hesitated.
“He said there were things happening with the redevelopment project that I didn't know about.”
“What things?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“Did he show you anything?”
“No.”
“Did he bring a briefcase?”
Clara's eyes flicked toward the bakery.
“Yes.”
Cross noticed.
“What was inside?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he leave with it?”
“I think so.”
Cross made a note.
“I think?”
“He had it when he came in.”
“Did you see him leave?”
“Yes.”
“And the briefcase?”
“I wasn't looking at it.”
Cross nodded slowly.
A uniformed officer approached him and whispered something.
Cross's eyes moved toward the bakery.
Then back to Clara.
“Miss Whitfield, I need to ask you something important.”
“All right.”
“When you found Harlow this morning, did you touch anything?”
“No.”
“The body?”
“No.”
“The cake stand?”
“No.”
“Anything inside the cooler?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked toward the bakery again.
“Because your fingerprints will probably be everywhere in there.”
Clara's stomach dropped.
“I own the bakery.”
“I understand.”
“My fingerprints are on everything.”
“I understand.”
“My cake stand—”
“Is yours.”
She looked at him.
Cross's voice remained calm.
Professional.
“I've been told there was an argument yesterday morning.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Of course.
The market.
The witnesses.
Her words.
The cake stand.
The cooler.
Everything seemed to point toward her.
“I didn't kill him.”
Cross didn't answer immediately.
“I haven't accused you.”
“But you think I did.”
“I think we have a dead man, a crime scene, and a number of unanswered questions.”
He paused.
“And right now, you're one of those questions.”
Clara felt a chill.
Not from the morning air.
From somewhere deeper.
Cross continued.
“You had a public dispute with the victim. He was found in your business. The apparent weapon belongs to you. You were the person who discovered the body.”
Clara's throat tightened.
“I know how it looks.”
“Yes.”
He didn't soften it.
That frightened her more than if he had.
Behind him, another officer entered the bakery.
“Detective.”
Cross turned.
“What?”
“We found something.”
Cross walked away.
Clara watched him disappear inside.
A moment later, she heard voices.
Then footsteps.
She looked toward the bakery window.
Clove was sitting behind the glass.
He was staring at her.
His crooked ear was still pinned back.
Clara raised one hand to the window.
“It's okay.”
Clove didn't move.
Cross emerged again.
His expression was unreadable.
“We'll need to secure the premises.”
“What about my business?”
“No one goes inside until the scene is processed.”
“But I have orders.”
“I'm sorry.”
“The festival is in three days.”
Cross looked at her.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Everyone in town knows.”
He paused.
Then something seemed to occur to him.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“When Harlow came last night, did he seem frightened?”
Clara remembered his face.
His loosened tie.
His briefcase.
His question.
Do you trust me?
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“I don't know.”
Cross waited.
“He said he didn't know who he could trust.”
The detective's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Did he say anyone's name?”
“No.”
“Not even one?”
“No.”
Cross wrote something down.
Then he looked toward the bakery.
“Did he leave anything behind?”
Clara shook her head.
“Not that I know of.”
She remembered the briefcase.
The letterhead.
The strange conversation.
The things he'd almost said.
“No.”
Cross nodded.
“I'll need a formal statement.”
Clara's chest tightened.
“Now?”
“Soon.”
She looked at the bakery.
At the windows.
At the familiar sign.
Her grandmother's name was nowhere on the building anymore.
But everything inside it carried her memory.
And now there was blood in the cooler.
Clara wrapped her arms around herself.
“I didn't kill him.”
Cross looked directly at her.
“I heard you.”
Then he turned back toward the bakery.
Clara followed his gaze.
For just a moment, something caught her attention.
A faint scent drifted through the open back door.
Floral.
Sweet.
Not roses.
Not lavender.
Something sharper.
Expensive perfume.
Clara frowned.
She had never smelled it in her bakery before.
It lingered for only a second before the cold morning air swallowed it.
She looked at Cross.
“Detective?”
He turned.
“What?”
“There was a smell.”
He waited.
“Perfume.”
Cross glanced toward the bakery.
“Whose?”
“I don't know.”
“Are you sure?”
Clara nodded.
“Yes.”
He made another note.
“Tell the crime-scene team.”
Clara looked toward the cooler.
She could still see the wreckage through the doorway.
Chocolate.
Peach.
White ceramic.
Dark suit.
And that strange floral scent.
She didn't know what it meant.
She didn't know who had left it behind.
She didn't know why Clove had refused to cross the cooler's threshold.
And she certainly didn't know why Dean Harlow had come to her bakery the night before asking whether she trusted him.
But as the police began sealing off Whitfield's Sweet Shop, Clara understood one terrible thing.
Whatever Dean Harlow had planned to tell her at ten o'clock that morning had died with him.
And somehow, impossibly, she was standing at the center of it.