Chapter 13 — The Scarf
The scarf was waiting beneath the display case.
Clara had no idea how long it had been there.
Long enough for Clove to become obsessed with it.
Long enough for Clara to stop asking why.
Long enough for the truth to sit within arm's reach while she worried about everything else.
She discovered it at ten thirty on Saturday morning.
The bakery was busy.
The Peach Festival was only two days away, and everyone in Thistlewood Bay seemed determined to buy enough pastries to survive an apocalypse.
Clara was boxing lemon tarts when she heard it.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
She looked down.
Clove's paw disappeared beneath the display case.
“Clove.”
Scratch.
“Not now.”
Scratch.
A customer laughed.
“Does he always do that?”
“Only when I'm busy.”
Clara bent slightly.
“What did you find?”
Clove looked up at her.
Then reached beneath the case again.
Clara sighed.
“Fine.”
She finished the customer's order, handed over the box, and waited until the woman left.
Then she crouched.
“Show me.”
Clove stretched his paw beneath the case.
Something moved.
Clara couldn't quite see it.
She reached under.
Her fingers touched fabric.
She pulled.
A scarf emerged.
Clara froze.
It was patterned in burgundy, gold, and cream.
Small flowers.
Her stomach dropped.
She knew that pattern.
She had seen it two nights ago.
Around Delphine Ashworth's neck.
“No.”
Clove sniffed the scarf.
Clara stared at it.
“No, no, no.”
She turned it over.
One edge was torn.
A loose thread hung from the fabric.
Clara's breathing slowed.
She remembered the cooler.
The floral perfume.
The cold air.
Harlow's body.
She remembered Delphine standing beside her at the council meeting.
The same perfume.
The same scarf.
It couldn't be coincidence.
Could it?
Clara looked toward the delivery door.
The scarf was long.
The tear was fresh.
She walked toward the back.
The door hinge caught slightly when she opened it.
There.
A tiny thread of burgundy fabric clung to the metal.
Clara's heart pounded.
She carefully removed it.
The thread matched the scarf.
Clove followed.
Clara crouched again.
“So that's what you smelled.”
Clove sniffed the hinge.
Then the scarf.
Then Clara's hand.
She looked at him.
“You've been dragging this around?”
Clove blinked.
She glanced back at the display case.
For days, Clove had been pawing beneath it.
She had assumed he wanted crumbs.
Or a mouse.
Or something else entirely cat-like.
Instead, he'd been batting the scarf farther and farther beneath the case.
Perhaps because the unfamiliar scent bothered him.
Perhaps because it was something new.
Perhaps because he simply wanted to play.
Clara didn't know.
But now she knew where the scarf had come from.
She knew what perfume had lingered in the cooler.
And she knew who wore both.
Delphine Ashworth.
Clara sat down on the floor.
The bakery noise seemed very far away.
“Why would she be there?”
Clove sat beside her.
Clara shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at the scarf again.
“That's not enough.”
The evidence was enough to make her suspicious.
It wasn't enough to accuse someone.
The thought of confronting Delphine made her stomach twist.
Delphine was respected.
Trusted.
Kind to everyone.
She had stood beside Clara after the murder.
She had publicly defended the bakery.
She had spoken at the council meeting about preserving the town.
And yet—
the scarf had been in Clara's bakery.
Near the delivery door.
The same place someone could have entered without being seen from Main Street.
Clara stood.
She put the scarf into a paper bag.
Then stopped.
She shouldn't touch it.
She should call Cross.
Immediately.
Her hand reached for her phone.
Then hesitated.
What would she say?
Detective, I found a scarf that looks like one Delphine Ashworth owns.
That wasn't enough.
It smells like her perfume.
Even worse.
And if she was wrong?
Clara imagined Delphine's face.
The disappointment.
The hurt.
The inevitable question:
How could you think that of me?
Clara couldn't bear it.
She put the phone away.
“I need more.”
Clove looked at her.
“I know.”
By eight that evening, Clara was sitting across from Marcus Cross at the Rusty Anchor.
She hadn't intended to invite him.
She had intended to come alone.
Then she'd walked into the diner, seen him sitting in a booth with a coffee, and somehow ended up across from him.
Roz had called it fate.
Clara called it bad decision-making.
The diner was nearly full.
Festival visitors crowded the booths.
Someone at the counter was arguing about peach pie.
A jukebox played softly in the corner.
Cross stirred his coffee.
“You look tired.”
“I am.”
“You're also distracted.”
“I have a lot on my mind.”
“Case?”
Clara hesitated.
“Yes.”
Cross leaned back.
“You find something?”
Clara looked at him.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Ask questions like you already know the answer.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She smiled.
Then pulled the paper bag from her purse.
Cross's expression changed.
“What is that?”
“I found it at the bakery.”
He didn't touch it.
“Where?”
“Under the display case.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
Clara looked down.
“I wasn't sure.”
“Sure of what?”
She opened the bag.
The scarf lay folded inside.
Cross's face became serious.
“Where exactly?”
“Clove had been batting at it.”
Cross looked up.
“Your cat?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“He'd been doing it for days.”
Cross examined the scarf without touching it.
“Did you see anyone wearing this?”
Clara swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Delphine.”
Cross didn't react.
At least, not visibly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“At the council meeting.”
“Was she wearing it the entire time?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
Clara frowned.
“Yes.”
Cross nodded.
“Anything else?”
“The perfume.”
His eyes met hers.
“The same scent from the cooler.”
That changed his expression.
“You're sure?”
“I think so.”
“Clara.”
“I smelled it twice.”
Cross sat back.
“That's more interesting.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Interesting?”
“Potentially.”
She watched him carefully.
“Do you think she did it?”
“I don't know.”
“That's it?”
“That is it.”
Clara exhaled.
“Why?”
“Because a scarf proves someone wore a scarf.”
“It was caught on the door.”
“That puts it at the bakery.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn't tell us when it got there.”
Clara frowned.
Cross continued.
“It could have been there before the murder.”
“I know.”
“It could have been caught on the door after the murder.”
“I know.”
“Someone else could have moved it.”
“I know.”
“And perfume?”
“Also not proof.”
“I know.”
Cross smiled slightly.
“You're learning.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I hate when you're right.”
“Most people do.”
They fell silent.
A waitress dropped two plates nearby.
Someone laughed.
Outside, a car horn sounded.
Clara looked at Cross.
“Why does it bother me so much?”
“What?”
“Delphine.”
He waited.
“She doesn't seem like someone who would do it.”
Cross's voice was quiet.
“Neither did Harlow's killer before we knew who they were.”
Clara looked down.
“I've known Delphine for years.”
“So?”
“So I trust her.”
Cross studied her.
“Do you?”
Clara opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
That question was harder than it should have been.
Cross leaned forward.
“Clara, trusting someone doesn't mean ignoring evidence.”
She looked at him.
“That's what my grandmother used to say.”
“Smart woman.”
“She was.”
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Something shifted.
Small.
Quiet.
Clara felt it before she understood it.
The warmth in the booth.
The closeness.
The way Cross's expression softened when he looked at her.
She looked away first.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“I don't know.”
He smiled.
“That's convenient.”
She laughed softly.
“You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
A waitress appeared.
“Anything else?”
Cross looked at Clara.
“Dessert?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
They both answered at once.
The waitress smiled.
“Chocolate cake?”
Clara groaned.
“Of course.”
Cross laughed.
“You're surrounded by it.”
“I'm beginning to think chocolate cake is haunting me.”
“Could be worse.”
She looked at him.
“How?”
“You could be surrounded by spreadsheets.”
“That would be terrible.”
Their dessert arrived.
For several minutes, they simply ate.
It was strangely peaceful.
Then Cross said:
“Tell me about the night Harlow died.”
Clara's fork stopped.
“What about it?”
“Every detail.”
“I already told you.”
“I know.”
“But?”
“But people remember things differently after trauma.”
Clara stared at the cake.
“He came back.”
“When?”
“After closing.”
“Was he carrying the briefcase?”
“Yes.”
“Did he seem frightened?”
“Agitated.”
“Did he say why?”
“He wanted to speak off the record.”
“About what?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he mention anyone?”
Clara hesitated.
“He asked me something strange.”
“What?”
She looked at Cross.
“He asked whether I trusted him.”
Cross's expression sharpened.
“Exactly what did he say?”
Clara repeated the question.
Cross sat quietly.
“That's important.”
“I know.”
“What did you say?”
“I brushed him off.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought he was trying to manipulate me.”
“And now?”
Clara looked at the scarf.
“Now I think he was trying to warn me.”
Cross nodded.
“Possibly.”
She hated that word.
Possibly.
Everything was possibly.
Nothing was certain.
Not yet.
When Clara returned to the bakery, the lights were off.
She unlocked the door.
Clove slipped inside.
He stopped immediately.
His ears turned toward the office.
Clara followed his gaze.
The ledger drawer.
Still closed.
She walked over.
Clove didn't scratch this time.
He simply sat.
Clara looked at him.
“What?”
Nothing.
She looked at the drawer.
Then at the scarf in her hand.
Delphine.
The envelope.
The perfume.
The scarf.
Harlow's question.
It was a pattern.
But Clara was afraid of what the pattern meant.
She didn't want to be the person who accused a good woman because two pieces of fabric and a scent happened to line up.
She wanted certainty.
She wanted proof.
She wanted someone else to tell her what to think.
But that was exactly the habit her grandmother had warned her about.
Keeping the peace.
Avoiding confrontation.
Smiling when she should speak.
Clara sighed.
“I'll tell Cross tomorrow.”
Clove blinked.
“I'm serious.”
He turned and walked toward the kitchen.
Clara smiled despite herself.
“Fine.”
She followed him.
Behind them, the office remained dark.
The scarf was sealed away.
The evidence was waiting.
And for the first time, Clara allowed herself to say the name aloud.
“Delphine.”
The word felt wrong.
That frightened her more than anything.