Chapter 9 — The Councilwomans Smile
By Thursday afternoon, Clara had learned that grief did not stop town meetings.
Neither did murder.
At six forty-five, the council chamber was already packed.
Farmers stood along the walls. Shop owners occupied every chair. Residents who normally couldn't agree on the weather were united by one thing:
They didn't want Dean Harlow's company taking over Main Street.
Clara sat beside Roz near the front.
Across the room, the town council arranged itself behind a long wooden table.
And in the center sat Delphine Ashworth.
Clara had known Delphine for years.
Everyone had.
Delphine had organized charity drives, chaired the summer festival committee, and once personally delivered soup to Clara when she'd been sick with the flu.
She was the kind of woman who remembered birthdays.
The kind who remembered children's names.
The kind who could make disagreement sound like friendship.
Tonight, she wore a cream blouse beneath a dark green jacket.
Around her neck was a patterned scarf.
Deep burgundy.
Gold.
Small cream-colored flowers woven through the fabric.
Clara noticed it because Delphine had worn it before.
Many times.
Delphine tapped the microphone.
“Before we begin tonight's agenda, I believe we owe a moment of silence.”
The room quieted.
“For Dean Harlow.”
Clara lowered her eyes.
The silence lasted thirty seconds.
Then Delphine spoke again.
“Whatever our disagreements with Mr. Harlow, no one deserves to die the way he did.”
Several people murmured agreement.
Clara looked at her.
Delphine's expression was solemn.
Perfectly solemn.
Almost too perfect.
She continued.
“We must not allow tragedy to divide this community further.”
Roz leaned toward Clara.
“She practiced that.”
Clara whispered back.
“Probably.”
“You saw it too?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You made the face.”
“What face?”
“The raisins-in-cinnamon-roll face.”
Clara nearly smiled.
At the table, Delphine continued.
“The emergency rezoning proposal deserves careful consideration, not emotional reaction.”
A man near the back called out.
“His company killed the town!”
Delphine raised a hand.
“Please.”
Her voice remained gentle.
“We don't know that the redevelopment proposal had anything to do with Mr. Harlow's death.”
Clara felt a chill.
Of course they didn't.
But Delphine said it with such certainty.
As though she'd already decided.
The meeting moved on.
One business owner after another spoke.
Bennett Marsh spoke about losing local suppliers.
A fisherman complained about parking.
Margery Quinn stood and delivered a ten-minute speech about the difference between preservation and commercialization, during which she referred to "soulless corporate nonsense" three times.
Roz whispered:
“She rehearsed too.”
Clara whispered:
“Definitely.”
Then Clara's name was called.
She stood.
Her hands were cold.
“I'm speaking as the owner of Whitfield's Sweet Shop.”
She looked at the council.
“My grandmother opened that bakery forty-two years ago. She built it because she believed a town wasn't made of buildings. It was made of people who knew each other.”
The room went quiet.
“Harlow's company offered me money for my building.”
A few people shifted.
“I refused.”
She took a breath.
“I don't want a staged version of Thistlewood Bay. I don't want a corporate imitation of the place where I grew up.”
Applause broke out.
Clara continued.
“But I also don't want Dean Harlow's death to become an excuse for decisions made out of fear or anger.”
Delphine watched her carefully.
That surprised Clara.
“I want the council to consider what happens to the people who actually live here.”
More applause.
Clara sat down.
Roz squeezed her hand.
“Well done.”
Delphine leaned toward the microphone.
“Thank you, Clara.”
The words were warm.
The smile was warmer.
Clara couldn't explain why she disliked it.
She told herself she was simply tired.
After the meeting, people crowded around the exits.
Clara was halfway to the door when Delphine approached.
“Clara.”
She turned.
Delphine smiled.
“You spoke beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
“You're handling everything remarkably well.”
Clara hesitated.
“I don't feel like I am.”
Delphine touched her arm.
“I know.”
Her perfume reached Clara.
Floral.
Sweet.
Familiar.
Clara froze.
For half a second, the council chamber disappeared.
She was back in the cooler.
Cold air.
Chocolate frosting.
The body.
And that same scent.
Clara blinked.
Delphine noticed.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You look pale.”
“I'm fine.”
Delphine smiled.
“It's been an awful week.”
Clara nodded.
“Your scarf is beautiful.”
Delphine glanced down.
“Oh, this old thing?”
She laughed softly.
“I've had it for years.”
Clara studied the pattern.
“Flowers?”
“Forget-me-nots.”
“Pretty.”
“My mother gave it to me.”
Delphine adjusted it around her neck.
Clara caught the scent again.
There was no mistaking it.
The same floral perfume.
But then again—
Half the women in Thistlewood Bay probably wore something from the same department store.
It wasn't evidence.
It wasn't even suspicious.
It was perfume.
Clara forced herself to relax.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I think I'm just remembering the cooler.”
Delphine's smile faltered.
Only for an instant.
Then it returned.
“I can't imagine what that must have been like.”
Neither could Clara.
She watched Delphine walk away.
The scarf moved gently across her shoulders.
Clara stood there.
Something bothered her.
She didn't know what.
“Clara.”
She turned.
Marcus Cross stood near the hallway.
He looked tired.
His tie was loosened.
His jacket hung open.
“You have a talent for finding me.”
“I wasn't looking for you.”
“Of course not.”
Roz appeared behind Clara.
“Detective.”
“Roz.”
She smiled.
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Coffee?”
“I'll pass.”
“Suit yourself.”
Roz wandered toward the exit.
Clara stayed.
Cross lowered his voice.
“You need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Following leads.”
“I've only spoken to people.”
“You've visited Bennett.”
Clara froze.
“Who told you?”
“Bennett.”
“He told you?”
“He told me you came by.”
Clara looked away.
“And Fiona?”
Cross nodded.
“She called me.”
“Oh.”
“You're not subtle.”
“I wasn't trying to be.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
Clara folded her arms.
“I have a right to know what's happening.”
“You have a right to know what we're prepared to tell you.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
Cross's expression softened.
“But you're not a police officer.”
“I know.”
“You're a witness.”
“I know.”
“And potentially a suspect.”
Clara's jaw tightened.
“You really like reminding me of that.”
“I need you to understand the seriousness of what you're doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Snooping around people connected to a homicide.”
“I haven't threatened anyone.”
“You don't have to.”
Cross stepped closer.
“If someone decides you're interfering with an investigation, you could create legal problems for yourself.”
“Obstruction?”
“Among other things.”
Clara stared at him.
“You think I'd obstruct justice?”
“I think you're scared.”
“I am.”
“And I think you want answers.”
“Yes.”
“And that's exactly what makes this dangerous.”
Clara looked down.
Cross's voice softened.
“Let us do our job.”
She nodded reluctantly.
“All right.”
He studied her.
“Promise me.”
Clara hesitated.
“I'll try.”
“That isn't a promise.”
“It's the best you're getting.”
For the first time that evening, Cross smiled.
Barely.
“Good night, Clara.”
“Good night.”
He walked away.
Clara watched him disappear through the doorway.
Then she remembered Delphine's perfume.
Her stomach tightened.
Coincidence.
It had to be.
When Clara returned home, Clove was waiting.
He sat on the windowsill.
The moment she opened the door, he walked toward her.
“Hello.”
Clove ignored her greeting.
He marched straight toward the bakery stairs.
Clara followed.
“What now?”
He entered the bakery.
The shop was dark.
She turned on the lights.
Clove walked directly toward the office.
Clara stopped.
The police had cleared the room earlier that day.
Most of the bakery was back to normal.
But the office still looked untouched.
Clove jumped onto the chair.
Then reached toward the ledger drawer.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
“Clove.”
He continued.
“Enough.”
Scratch.
Clara walked over.
There was now a tiny tear in the wood where his claws had been working.
“What are you doing?”
Clove looked at her.
Then scratched again.
Clara sighed.
“There's nothing interesting in there.”
Clove disagreed.
Obviously.
She reached for the drawer.
Then stopped.
Cross's warning echoed in her head.
Stop snooping.
Let us do our job.
Clara looked at the drawer.
Then at Clove.
“No.”
The cat stared at her.
“I mean it.”
He scratched once more.
“Clove.”
He finally jumped down.
But instead of leaving, he sat beside the drawer.
Waiting.
Clara shook her head.
“You're impossible.”
She turned off the office light.
An hour later, Clara sat in her kitchen with a cup of tea.
She tried to think about anything except the murder.
The festival.
The cake.
The bakery.
Tomorrow's orders.
But her mind kept circling back.
Bennett.
Fiona.
Theo.
Delphine.
Gideon.
Margery.
Six people.
Six secrets.
And one dead man.
She remembered Delphine's expression when Harlow's name came up.
She remembered the perfume.
The scarf.
The way the councilwoman had said:
We don't know that the redevelopment proposal had anything to do with Mr. Harlow's death.
Clara frowned.
That wasn't strange.
It was exactly what a council member should say.
She was being ridiculous.
She stood.
“No more investigating.”
Clove appeared in the doorway.
Clara pointed at him.
“And you are not allowed to investigate either.”
Clove blinked.
She smiled despite herself.
“Good.”
She went upstairs.
Behind her, the bakery remained silent.
But in the office, moonlight fell across the wooden drawer.
The tiny tear in the wood was barely visible.
Clara hadn't noticed it.
Not yet.
And she certainly hadn't noticed that Clove had stopped scratching.
He was simply sitting beside the drawer.
Listening.
Waiting.
As if he knew that something inside mattered.
Something Clara wasn't ready to see.
Something Dean Harlow had left behind.
Something that would soon change everything.