Chapter 6
Room-Temperature Eggs
Recipe Tip: Cold eggs seize the butter. Patience.
Tessa had always thought patience was overrated.
Her grandmother disagreed.
"Patience," Grandma used to say, "isn't waiting around doing nothing. It's knowing when rushing will ruin what you're making."
At the time, Tessa had assumed she was talking about pastry.
Now, standing outside Bertie Pruitt's workshop on a gray Friday morning, Tessa wondered whether her grandmother had been talking about everything else.
The shed leaned slightly to the left.
Not enough to collapse.
Just enough to look suspicious.
A crooked sign hung above the door:
PRUITT METALWORKS
One letter was missing.
Tessa knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again.
"Mr. Pruitt?"
Something crashed inside.
Then a voice shouted, "Go away."
Tessa looked at Pretzel.
Pretzel looked at the door.
"We've come to ask questions."
"Go away."
"About Garrick Thorne."
Silence.
Then the door opened three inches.
A pair of suspicious blue eyes appeared.
"What do you want?"
"Bertie Pruitt?"
"Who's asking?"
"Tessa Bramwell."
The door opened another inch.
"The baker."
"Yes."
"I know who you are."
Tessa raised an eyebrow.
"Everyone seems to."
Bertie's face tightened.
"What do you want?"
"I'd like to talk about Garrick."
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Something softer.
Something wounded.
He opened the door.
"Come in."
The workshop smelled of hot metal, sawdust, and machine oil.
Tessa stepped inside.
Pretzel followed.
Bertie noticed the cat.
"That's a big animal."
"He thinks he's small."
Pretzel walked past him without acknowledgment.
Bertie almost smiled.
Almost.
The workshop was chaos.
Metal scraps covered one wall.
Tools hung from hooks.
Half-finished blades lay on benches.
Sketches were pinned everywhere.
Tessa stopped.
There were dozens of drawings.
Knife handles.
Blade profiles.
Etching patterns.
Some looked extraordinarily familiar.
"Garrick's designs?"
Bertie's jaw tightened.
"Some of them."
"You said he stole them."
"He did."
Tessa looked at the sketches.
"When?"
"Years ago."
"And you stayed?"
Bertie gave a bitter laugh.
"That's the part nobody understands."
"Why did you?"
He looked toward a workbench.
"Garrick was a bastard."
Tessa waited.
"But he taught me everything."
His voice softened.
"He took me in when I was nineteen. I didn't know how to hold a file properly. He taught me how to listen to metal."
"Listen?"
"Every blade tells you when you're pushing too hard."
Bertie picked up a half-finished knife.
"Feel this."
Tessa hesitated.
He handed it to her.
The handle was smooth.
Warm.
Balanced.
She understood immediately.
"This is beautiful."
Bertie nodded.
"Garrick could make things like that."
"You sound proud of him."
"I am."
"Even though he stole your designs?"
His expression hardened.
"People can hurt you and still be people you love."
Tessa said nothing.
Bertie put the knife down.
"He wasn't good at saying things."
"Neither are most people who make knives."
A faint smile crossed his face.
Then disappeared.
Tessa pulled out her notebook.
"I found a ledger."
Bertie's eyes sharpened.
"Garrick's?"
"Yes."
"What was in it?"
"Serial numbers."
He looked away.
"Did you recognize them?"
"Some."
"Why?"
Bertie hesitated.
"Because I made some of the knives."
Tessa stared.
"For Garrick?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Bertie walked toward a cabinet.
He opened it.
Inside were wrapped blades.
Several had no markings.
He took one out.
"This is a homage."
Tessa frowned.
"A what?"
"A knife made in another maker's style."
"Garrick's style?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Bertie shrugged.
"People like his work."
"Who paid you?"
His fingers tightened around the knife.
"A buyer."
"Name?"
"No."
Tessa studied him.
"You made knives for someone for cash."
"Yes."
"Without Garrick's permission."
"Yes."
"And you won't tell me who bought them."
"No."
"Why?"
Bertie looked at her.
"Because I gave my word."
Tessa sighed.
"You understand you're talking about a murder investigation."
"I understand."
"You could be protecting someone who killed Garrick."
Bertie's jaw flexed.
"I didn't kill him."
"I didn't say you did."
"But you thought it."
Tessa couldn't deny it.
Bertie turned away.
"He wasn't my enemy."
"Even after everything?"
"No."
He looked at the sketches.
"He was the closest thing I had to a father."
The words surprised Tessa.
She lowered her notebook.
For a moment, the workshop seemed quieter.
Then Pretzel hissed.
Tessa turned.
The cat had disappeared beneath a workbench.
"Of course."
She crouched.
"Come out."
Something scraped across the floor.
Pretzel backed out.
A leather glove hung from his teeth.
Tessa stared.
Bertie went pale.
"Where did he get that?"
Pretzel dropped it.
Tessa picked it up.
The leather was dark and worn.
There was a small stain near the thumb.
She held it out.
"Is it yours?"
Bertie didn't answer.
"Bertie?"
He took it.
His expression tightened.
"Yes."
"Why was it under the bench?"
"I don't know."
"You work here."
"Yes."
"Then you should."
He stared at the glove.
"I lost it."
"When?"
He hesitated.
"Wednesday."
Tessa's heartbeat quickened.
"Where?"
"At the forge."
She went still.
"You were at Garrick's forge Wednesday?"
Bertie looked up.
"Yes."
"What time?"
"Evening."
"Why?"
"I had to talk to him."
"About your designs?"
"Among other things."
"Did you see him alive?"
Bertie looked away.
"Yes."
"When?"
"About seven."
"Did you argue?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone see you?"
"I don't know."
Tessa wrote quickly.
"What happened after you left?"
Bertie said nothing.
"Bertie."
He rubbed his forehead.
"I left."
"Where did you go?"
"Home."
"Anyone with you?"
"No."
Tessa lowered the notebook.
"That isn't an alibi."
"I know."
Pretzel circled her feet.
Tessa looked at him.
Then back at Bertie.
"You made homage knives for someone."
"Yes."
"Someone who paid you cash."
"Yes."
"Someone Garrick may not have known about."
Bertie said nothing.
"Was the buyer connected to the charity auctions?"
His eyes flickered.
Tessa noticed.
"You know something."
"I know enough to stay out of it."
"That isn't an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Tessa closed her notebook.
She was halfway to the door when she stopped.
"Bertie?"
He looked at her.
"Did Garrick know about the buyer?"
Bertie stared at the floor.
"No."
Tessa nodded.
"Thank you."
She walked outside.
Pretzel followed.
The cold air hit her face.
She took a deep breath.
The glove bothered her.
So did Bertie's refusal.
So did the way he'd spoken about Garrick.
Anger would have been easy.
Hatred would have made sense.
But Bertie's grief had looked real.
Painfully real.
Tessa glanced down at Pretzel.
"You like him?"
Pretzel sat.
He looked back at the workshop.
Then at Tessa.
Then he sneezed.
"That's not helpful."
She started toward the car.
Behind her, the workshop door opened.
"Bramwell."
Tessa turned.
Bertie stood in the doorway.
His face was unreadable.
"You didn't hear this from me."
"What?"
"The buyer."
Tessa waited.
Bertie looked toward the road.
"I shouldn't tell you."
"Probably not."
"But if you're looking into Garrick's death..."
He stopped.
Tessa held her breath.
"Who bought the knives?"
Bertie shook his head.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because if I'm wrong about what happened, I'll ruin someone."
"And if you're right?"
Bertie's eyes darkened.
"Then whoever bought those knives has more to lose than money."
He closed the door.
Tessa stood in the road.
Pretzel pressed against her ankle.
She looked at the workshop.
The leather glove.
The forged knives.
The secret buyer.
And the missing name.
For the first time, Tessa wondered whether Garrick's murder had anything to do with the knife he had refused to make for her.
Maybe the knives weren't just part of the mystery.
Maybe they were the reason for it.
She opened the car door.
Pretzel jumped inside.
Tessa followed.
She started the engine.
Then stopped.
"Bertie."
She looked back at the workshop.
"You made knives for someone."
No answer.
"For cash."
Still nothing.
"And you're protecting them."
The workshop remained silent.
Tessa drove away.
She had come looking for Garrick's former apprentice.
She had found a grieving protégé, a stolen design, a suspicious glove, and a secret buyer.
But she still didn't know the one thing that mattered.
Who had paid Bertie to copy Garrick's knives?
And why was Bertie so afraid to say the name?