Chapter 6 — Hardware and Hard Feelings
The police tape came down at eight-thirty the following morning.
Clara watched from across Main Street as an officer removed it from the bakery door.
She should have felt relieved.
Instead, she felt strangely exposed.
Whitfield's Sweet Shop looked exactly the same from the outside.
White paint.
Gold lettering.
Flower boxes beneath the windows.
The familiar brass bell.
But Clara knew what was waiting inside.
A cooler she didn't want to open.
A cake stand she didn't want to see.
A memory she couldn't shake.
And questions.
So many questions.
“You're staring.”
Clara turned.
Roz stood beside her holding two coffees.
“I know.”
“Drink.”
Clara accepted the cup.
“Thank you.”
Roz looked toward the bakery.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
She hooked her arm through Clara's.
“Let's go interrogate someone.”
“We're not interrogating anyone.”
“Questioning.”
“No.”
“Chatting aggressively.”
“Roz.”
“Fine. Shopping.”
Clara sighed.
They crossed Main Street.
Clove followed in his carrier.
He had objected to the arrangement loudly.
Unfortunately for him, Clara had decided she didn't want to leave him alone in the bakery after everything that had happened.
“You could have stayed upstairs,” Clara told him.
A muffled growl came from the carrier.
“I know.”
Another growl.
“You're not helping.”
Roz glanced down.
“Is he glaring at me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
They reached Marsh Hardware.
Bennett Marsh's store had been on Main Street longer than almost anything except the bakery and the church.
The front windows were crowded with everything from paintbrushes to fishing hooks.
A hand-painted sign read:
MARSH HARDWARE — IF WE DON'T HAVE IT, YOU DON'T NEED IT
Roz pushed open the door.
A bell rang.
Bennett looked up from behind the counter.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” Clara said.
His eyes went immediately to the carrier.
“You bringing a cat shopping?”
“Emotional support.”
Bennett snorted.
“Looks more like legal representation.”
Clove stared at him through the mesh.
“See?” Roz said. “He's already suspicious.”
Bennett laughed.
It was the first relaxed sound Clara had heard from him.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
“I need a replacement hinge,” Clara said.
“For what?”
“Back door.”
Bennett reached beneath the counter.
“Left or right?”
“Right.”
He produced a small metal package.
Clara paid for it.
Bennett pushed the receipt toward her.
“There.”
“Thanks.”
She slipped it into her bag.
Neither woman moved.
Bennett noticed.
“You didn't come here for a hinge.”
Clara looked at Roz.
Roz looked at Clara.
Bennett sighed.
“I suppose everyone is a detective now.”
“We're not investigating,” Clara said.
“That's what detectives say before they start investigating.”
Roz smiled.
“Exactly.”
Bennett folded his arms.
“What do you want to know?”
Clara took a breath.
“About Dean Harlow.”
His expression hardened immediately.
“What about him?”
“You argued with him the morning before he died.”
Bennett's jaw tightened.
“He was trying to buy my store.”
“I know.”
“Then you know why I was angry.”
“Were you still here that morning?”
“Yes.”
“After the argument?”
“Until lunch.”
“Where did you go?”
“Home.”
“What time?”
“About twelve.”
Clara glanced at Roz.
Roz didn't say anything.
Bennett noticed.
“You think I killed him.”
“No.”
“You're asking whether I have an alibi.”
Clara hesitated.
“Yes.”
Bennett laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
He walked around the counter.
“Come here.”
He led them toward the back of the store.
Shelves were stacked with lumber, plumbing supplies, paint tins, screws, nails, electrical fittings.
Bennett stopped near a desk.
“Look.”
He pulled out a folder.
Bank notices.
Invoices.
Overdue statements.
Clara didn't need to read every page.
She understood.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough.”
He shoved the papers back into the folder.
“Harlow's company squeezed my suppliers. They offered them contracts I couldn't match. Prices so low they couldn't possibly be making money.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To force me out.”
“And then buy the building.”
Bennett nodded.
“Exactly.”
Clara felt a familiar anger rise.
“Did Harlow tell you that?”
“He didn't have to.”
Bennett leaned against the desk.
“He wanted this entire street.”
“Why?”
“Tourists.”
Clara frowned.
“He wants to turn Main Street into some kind of staged village. Fake historic storefronts. Corporate restaurants. Souvenir shops.”
“Heritage village,” Roz said.
Bennett snorted.
“That's the pretty name.”
“What would happen to your store?”
“I'd be gone.”
“And you?”
“I'd figure something out.”
His voice was flat.
Clara understood.
“You hated him.”
“Yes.”
“Enough to kill him?”
Bennett stared at her.
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Then more quietly:
“I wanted him stopped.”
He looked toward the front windows.
“I didn't want him dead.”
Clara believed him.
At least, she wanted to.
“Where were you when he died?”
“Home.”
“Anyone with you?”
“No.”
Clara's stomach tightened.
“So you don't have an alibi.”
Bennett's face hardened.
“I suppose I don't.”
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For asking.”
“Don't be.”
He sighed.
“You need to find out who did this.”
Clara looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because whoever killed Harlow is going to leave the rest of us to deal with the mess.”
That sounded more like fear than guilt.
Clove suddenly scratched at the carrier door.
Clara glanced down.
“What's wrong?”
The cat was staring toward the back entrance.
Bennett followed his gaze.
“Cat sees a ghost?”
“Usually a moth.”
Clara opened the carrier.
Clove stepped out cautiously.
He sniffed the floor.
Then walked toward the back door.
“Clove.”
He ignored her.
He stopped beneath the doorframe.
Something blue was caught on a rough piece of wood.
Clove pawed at it.
Clara crouched.
A small scrap of blue fabric had snagged on the hinge.
She looked at Bennett.
“Was this here before?”
He frowned.
“No idea.”
Clara reached for it.
Clove batted it away.
“Really?”
He pawed it again.
Roz crouched beside her.
“Looks like clothing.”
Clara picked it up carefully.
Dark blue.
Coarse fabric.
Possibly wool.
“Could be anything,” Bennett said.
“Probably is,” Clara replied.
Clove sniffed it.
Then sneezed.
Roz grinned.
“Well, the detective has spoken.”
Clara rolled her eyes.
But she couldn't help noticing something.
Clove wasn't reacting to the fabric itself.
He kept sniffing around the door.
Clara leaned closer.
There was a faint smell on the wood.
Something earthy.
Metallic.
And beneath it, something she couldn't identify.
She remembered the cooler.
The floral perfume.
Clara straightened.
“Do you wear cologne?” she asked Bennett.
He blinked.
“What?”
“Perfume. Cologne.”
“No.”
“Any strong cleaning products back here?”
“Oil. Solvents. Paint.”
“Anything floral?”
Bennett laughed.
“Not unless you count my wife's air freshener.”
“Never mind.”
Clara placed the scrap into a paper bag she found near the counter.
Bennett looked at her.
“You really are investigating.”
“No.”
“You just collected evidence.”
“I collected a piece of cloth.”
“That's evidence.”
Clara sighed.
“Fine.”
Roz smiled.
“I knew we'd get there.”
Clara glared at her.
Clove wandered back toward the carrier.
He glanced once at the blue fabric.
Then lost interest.
That bothered Clara more than if he'd kept staring at it.
Whatever scent had caught his attention was apparently gone.
She closed the paper bag.
“Thank you, Bennett.”
He nodded.
As they turned toward the door, he called after her.
“Clara.”
She looked back.
“If you find out who did it…”
He hesitated.
“Make sure you know why.”
She nodded.
Outside, the morning sun had brightened.
Roz waited until the door closed.
“Well?”
Clara looked at the paper bag.
“Dead end.”
“Probably.”
“And we learned nothing.”
“Except Bennett has no alibi.”
“That's something.”
Roz looked at Clove.
“And your cat has developed an interest in crime-scene fabric.”
“He probably smelled something.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
Clara looked down at the carrier.
Clove was curled inside it, eyes half-closed.
Then Clara remembered the cooler.
The strange floral scent.
She thought about how Clove had refused to enter.
“He notices smells,” she said.
Roz shrugged.
“Cats notice everything.”
Clara looked toward Main Street.
“Maybe I should too.”
Back at the bakery, Clara opened the windows.
Fresh air moved through the shop.
She didn't want the smell of the cooler lingering.
She scrubbed counters.
Wiped shelves.
Cleaned the coffee machine.
Anything to feel normal again.
Eventually, she found herself standing beside the refrigerator.
She opened the recipe notebook.
The page for the competition cake was covered with corrections.
Attempt one.
Attempt two.
Attempt three.
Clara looked at the last version.
It was close.
Very close.
But something was missing.
She picked up a peach.
Turned it in her hands.
Then looked at the chocolate batter she'd prepared for the afternoon.
“What if I stop trying to make them separate?”
Clara cut the peach.
Its fragrance filled the kitchen.
She imagined dark chocolate with bright peach preserve.
A little less sugar.
A touch of salt.
Maybe a thin layer of peach compote between the cakes.
Something warm.
Something unexpected.
Something that tasted like summer.
She smiled.
“That could work.”
Clove jumped onto the counter.
Clara looked at him.
“No.”
He stared.
“You've already contributed enough today.”
Clove blinked.
She laughed.
For a moment, everything felt almost normal.
Then she looked through the bakery window.
Across the street, the town's festival banner moved in the breeze.
Three days.
The festival would begin in three days.
And somewhere among the stalls, shops, council offices, and quiet back rooms of Thistlewood Bay was a person who had wanted Dean Harlow dead badly enough to make it happen.
Clara closed the recipe notebook.
The chocolate and peach combination suddenly seemed less like a baking problem.
It felt like a clue.
Darkness and sweetness.
Heat and bitterness.
Two things that shouldn't work together.
But sometimes did.
She looked down at Clove.
“Peach and chocolate.”
He yawned.
“I'll take that as approval.”
Clara smiled.
Then she returned to the kitchen, unaware that the little scrap of blue fabric she'd collected at Marsh Hardware would lead nowhere.
At least, not yet.
But it had taught her something important.
Clove noticed scents.
He noticed textures.
He noticed changes in routine.
And maybe Clara needed to start noticing them too.