Chapter 12 — Margery’s Ledger
The bell above Quinn's General Store had sounded the same for forty years.
A thin, cheerful chime.
Clara remembered it from childhood.
She remembered pushing through the door beside her grandmother, reaching for peppermint sticks while Grandma argued with Margery over the price of flour.
She remembered the wooden floors.
The dusty jars of buttons.
The shelves that seemed to contain everything a person could possibly need and several things nobody could possibly need.
Today, none of it felt comforting.
Clara stepped inside.
The bell chimed.
Margery looked up from behind the counter.
“Well.”
Clara smiled.
“Hello, Margery.”
“You've got the look.”
“What look?”
“The look your grandmother used to get when she was about to ask me something I didn't want to answer.”
Clara's smile faded.
“I need to ask you about Dean Harlow.”
Margery's hands stopped moving.
“Of course you do.”
She closed the ledger in front of her.
“Come into the back.”
Clara followed.
Clove trotted behind them.
Margery looked down.
“Well, there's my little thief.”
Clove walked directly past her.
Clara stared.
“That's unusual.”
Margery smiled.
“He's pretending he doesn't remember me.”
Clove jumped onto an old wooden chair and sat.
Margery scratched beneath his chin.
He immediately began purring.
Clara watched.
Clove had known Margery practically his entire life.
He'd slept in her store as a kitten when Clara's grandmother was working late.
He'd stolen sausage from Margery's lunch.
He'd once knocked over an entire display of canned peaches.
Margery had forgiven him.
Apparently, nothing had changed.
“You two are still friends,” Clara said.
Margery looked at her.
“Why wouldn't we be?”
Clara shrugged.
“No reason.”
Margery's eyes narrowed.
“You're wondering whether I killed Harlow.”
Clara didn't answer.
Margery sighed.
“Sit.”
They sat at the small table in the back room.
The general store hummed beyond the door.
An old refrigerator rattled.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
Margery folded her hands.
“You want to know where I was the night Dean died.”
“Yes.”
“I was here.”
“At the store?”
“Yes.”
“Until what time?”
“Nearly ten.”
“Alone?”
Margery looked away.
“Yes.”
Clara felt a familiar tightening in her chest.
“That isn't much of an alibi.”
“No.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Probably not.”
“Margery.”
The older woman sighed.
“I walked home after ten.”
“That's all?”
“What else do you want?”
“The truth.”
Margery's eyes sharpened.
“You've been listening to too many detectives.”
“Maybe.”
“Then listen carefully.”
Margery leaned forward.
“Dean Harlow was not the first Harlow to come to Thistlewood Bay believing he could take whatever he wanted.”
Clara frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“His grandfather.”
Margery's expression hardened.
“Edward Harlow.”
“I've heard the name.”
“Of course you have.”
She looked toward the old shelves.
“Your grandmother knew the whole story.”
“What story?”
Margery was silent for a moment.
Then she said:
“Land.”
Clara waited.
“Sixty years ago, my father owned a strip of land near the harbor.”
“The old cannery?”
“Before the cannery.”
Margery's voice became distant.
“It was family land. Passed down through generations.”
“What happened?”
“Harlow's grandfather wanted it.”
“And?”
“He offered my father money.”
“Was it a fair offer?”
Margery laughed.
“No.”
Clara had never heard her laugh like that.
There was no humor in it.
“My father refused.”
“So Harlow bought it anyway?”
“Not exactly.”
Margery opened an old cabinet.
Inside were yellowed papers.
She pulled out a ledger.
Clara leaned closer.
“What is that?”
“The original property record.”
Margery placed it on the table.
“The Harlows convinced a county clerk that my father's signature was on a transfer agreement.”
Clara stared.
“Forged?”
“That's what my father said.”
“Was it proven?”
“No.”
Margery's mouth tightened.
“By the time anyone looked closely, the land had changed hands twice.”
Clara looked at the ledger.
“And you blamed the Harlow family.”
“I blamed the person who did it.”
“Dean?”
“No.”
Margery's eyes met hers.
“His grandfather.”
Clara exhaled.
“So Dean inherited the grudge.”
“I suppose he inherited many things.”
“Did you hate him?”
Margery didn't answer immediately.
Finally:
“I hated what his name represented.”
Clara understood the distinction.
Mostly.
“Did you threaten him?”
“No.”
“Argue with him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three days before he died.”
“What about?”
“The harbor property.”
“Harlow wanted it?”
“His company wanted everything.”
Margery shook her head.
“Shops. Warehouses. Restaurants. The pier.”
“And the bakery.”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“He offered me money.”
“How much?”
“Enough to make a sensible woman consider it.”
“Did you?”
Margery smiled bitterly.
“No.”
Clara studied her.
“You didn't want the money?”
“I wanted him to understand something.”
“What?”
“That this town isn't a collection of properties.”
Margery's voice softened.
“It's people's lives.”
Clara thought of her grandmother.
It was exactly what she had said at the council meeting.
“What did you tell him?”
“That if he tried to take the harbor, he'd have to go through me.”
Clara's stomach tightened.
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It was.”
Margery didn't flinch.
“But not a threat of murder.”
Clara nodded slowly.
“Where were you when Harlow died?”
“I told you.”
“Here.”
“Yes.”
“Until ten.”
“Yes.”
“And you walked home alone.”
“Yes.”
Clara stared at the old woman.
Margery's expression didn't change.
There was something unsettling about her calmness.
“You understand why I have to ask.”
“Yes.”
“Because of your history.”
“Yes.”
“And because you have no real alibi.”
Margery smiled faintly.
“You're becoming very good at this.”
“I don't want to be.”
“I know.”
Clove suddenly jumped from the chair.
He walked over to Margery.
Then sat at her feet.
Margery looked down.
“Still taking sides, are you?”
Clove rubbed against her leg.
Clara watched carefully.
The cat wasn't frightened.
Wasn't wary.
Wasn't hiding.
He acted exactly as he always had.
Normal.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Clara remembered Gideon.
Clove had hidden from him.
Bennett had made him curious.
Fiona hadn't interested him at all.
Theo had earned immediate affection.
Margery received familiarity.
Clara wasn't sure what any of it meant.
But she was beginning to understand what it didn't mean.
Cats weren't lie detectors.
Clove couldn't tell her who had killed Harlow.
He could only react to what he smelled, heard, remembered, or felt.
Still, she couldn't help watching him.
Margery smiled.
“Your grandmother said that cat had better instincts than most people.”
Clara laughed softly.
“She may have been right.”
Margery reached beneath the counter and produced a small glass jar.
“Speaking of your grandmother.”
Clara looked at it.
“What is that?”
“Peach preserves.”
“You made them?”
“Last summer.”
Margery unscrewed the lid.
The smell was bright and sweet.
Peaches.
Sugar.
A hint of spice.
Clara immediately thought of chocolate.
“The festival cake.”
Margery nodded.
“Your grandmother used peach preserves with chocolate.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Margery smiled.
“You know the recipe you remember.”
She pushed the jar toward Clara.
“Your grandmother's original version had a little cinnamon and lemon zest.”
Clara stared.
“Lemon?”
“And just enough salt to keep the sweetness from becoming heavy.”
Clara's mind jumped immediately to Theo.
Orange zest.
Peach preserve.
Salt.
Now lemon.
She pulled out her notebook.
“Tell me everything.”
Margery laughed.
“There she is.”
“Please.”
“All right.”
Margery leaned back.
“For every cup of peaches, she used three-quarters of a cup of sugar. A squeeze of lemon. Tiny pinch of cinnamon.”
Clara wrote quickly.
“Anything else?”
“Don't cook it too long.”
“Why?”
“It turns into candy.”
Clara nodded.
“And she used it between the layers?”
“Only a thin spread.”
“With chocolate?”
“With chocolate.”
Clara looked down at her notes.
Attempt five suddenly seemed less finished than she'd thought.
But it also seemed closer.
Much closer.
She closed the notebook.
“Thank you.”
Margery waved a hand.
“Take the jar.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“Margery—”
“Your grandmother gave me half a dozen jars over the years. Consider this one repayment.”
Clara smiled.
“Thank you.”
Margery looked at her.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“Don't let what happened to Dean make you forget who you are.”
Clara's smile faded.
“What do you mean?”
“Your grandmother never backed away from a difficult truth.”
“I do.”
“Yes.”
Margery's voice softened.
“You always try to make everyone comfortable.”
Clara looked down.
“She thought that was your weakness.”
Clara swallowed.
“What did she think I should do?”
“Speak plainly.”
Clara smiled sadly.
“Sounds familiar.”
“It was one of her favorite complaints.”
Clove jumped onto the table.
He sniffed the peach jar.
Margery laughed.
“No.”
Clove sniffed again.
“Absolutely not.”
He looked offended.
Clara picked up the jar.
“Come on.”
As they left the store, Clara glanced back.
Margery was watching her.
There was something in the older woman's expression that Clara couldn't read.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Something older.
Something connected to a history Clara barely understood.
Outside, the afternoon wind carried the smell of salt from the harbor.
Clara held the jar of preserves against her chest.
Roz waited beside the car.
“Well?”
Clara climbed in.
“She has motive.”
Roz's eyebrows rose.
“Of course she does.”
“And a terrible alibi.”
“Of course she does.”
“And a decades-old feud with the Harlows.”
Roz sighed.
“So she's either the killer or the most dramatic innocent woman in New England.”
Clara smiled.
“Probably both.”
She looked through the window at Margery's store.
Clove was sitting in his carrier.
Completely relaxed.
Clara remembered how he had behaved inside.
No fear.
No hiding.
Nothing unusual.
She glanced at Roz.
“Clove doesn't think she's dangerous.”
Roz looked at her.
“Your cat thinks everyone is either furniture or food.”
“Not Theo.”
“True.”
Clara thought about that.
Then shook her head.
“No. I can't use him that way.”
“Use him how?”
“As evidence.”
Roz nodded.
“Good.”
Clara looked down at the peach jar.
“At least he has good taste.”
That evening, Clara stood in the bakery kitchen.
The festival cake sat in front of her.
She opened Margery's jar.
The peach preserve smelled like summer.
She spread a thin layer across the chocolate cake.
A little cinnamon.
A touch of lemon zest.
A pinch of salt.
Then chocolate frosting.
She assembled the layers carefully.
When she finally cut a slice, she tasted it.
Clara closed her eyes.
Better.
Not perfect.
But better.
The chocolate was still rich.
The peach cut through it.
The lemon lifted everything.
And the salt kept the sweetness from becoming overwhelming.
She smiled.
“Grandma.”
Clove sat on the floor watching her.
“What do you think?”
He yawned.
Clara laughed.
“Very helpful.”
She looked at the cake again.
Then at her notes.
Six suspects.
A hidden envelope.
Money.
A secret deal.
A dead man who had apparently been collecting insurance against everyone around him.
And now an old land dispute.
The case was becoming a maze.
But Clara was beginning to understand something.
People weren't simply lying about Harlow.
They were lying about themselves.
What they had done.
What they feared.
What they stood to lose.
And maybe—
what Harlow had known.
Clara covered the cake.
She turned off the kitchen lights.
As she headed toward the office, Clove followed.
For once, he didn't stop at the ledger drawer.
He simply walked past it.
Clara glanced back.
The drawer remained closed.
She wondered what else it might contain.
Then she remembered Cross's warning.
No more snooping.
Not tonight.
She locked the office.
And went home with the taste of peach, chocolate, and lemon still lingering on her tongue.
Tomorrow, she would bake again.
And somewhere between the first bite and the last clue, she suspected the truth was waiting.