Chapter 17 — The Peach Festival Opens
By nine o'clock Monday morning, Thistlewood Bay had decided to pretend nothing terrible had happened.
That was the peculiar magic of festivals.
Bunting stretched from one side of Main Street to the other.
Peach-colored ribbons fluttered from lampposts.
The harbor smelled of salt, sunscreen, and fried dough.
Children ran between market stalls with sticky fingers.
Someone had put a brass band near the courthouse, and they were playing loudly enough to make the windows of Whitfield's Sweet Shop tremble.
Clara stood behind the bakery counter and watched the town come alive.
For a moment, she almost believed everything was normal.
Then she remembered Dean Harlow.
The cooler.
The cake stand.
The envelope.
Delphine.
Her stomach tightened.
Clove sat inside his carrier beneath the counter.
He hated the carrier.
He hated crowds.
He hated brass bands.
Most of all, he hated being told where he was going.
His yellow eyes stared accusingly through the metal door.
“I know,” Clara whispered.
Clove blinked.
“I don't want you here either.”
He gave a low, offended growl.
“I need moral support.”
The growl became louder.
“Fine. Emotional support.”
Clove turned his back.
Clara smiled despite herself.
“You're very dramatic.”
A familiar voice came from behind her.
“That's rich coming from you.”
Clara turned.
Roz stood there holding two coffees and wearing a ridiculous peach-colored hat.
Clara stared.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
Roz adjusted the brim.
“The festival committee said festive attire was encouraged.”
“You look like a peach exploded.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn't a compliment.”
“I took it as one.”
Roz handed her a coffee.
Clara accepted it.
“Any news?”
Roz's smile disappeared.
“Cross is still working on the records.”
“And Delphine?”
“Walking around like she owns the place.”
Clara looked through the window.
Across the street, Delphine Ashworth was greeting festival volunteers.
Perfect hair.
Perfect posture.
Perfect smile.
And around her neck—
the scarf.
The same burgundy, gold, and cream pattern.
Clara's fingers tightened around her coffee.
Roz followed her gaze.
“That's the scarf?”
“Yes.”
“And you're sure?”
“Yes.”
Roz's voice lowered.
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
Roz stared.
“Nothing?”
“Not yet.”
“Clara.”
“I said not yet.”
She took a sip.
“Cross needs evidence.”
Roz nodded reluctantly.
“Fine.”
Then she pointed toward the carrier.
“And that?”
Clove's paw emerged through the door.
“That's Clove.”
“I know that's Clove.”
“He insisted on coming.”
Roz stared at the cat.
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
The baking competition was set up behind the community hall.
Six long tables stood beneath a white canvas tent.
Judges moved from station to station.
Spectators crowded behind the rope.
The smell was incredible.
Peach cobbler.
Butter cookies.
Cinnamon rolls.
Caramel.
Vanilla.
Chocolate.
Clara carried her cake carefully.
She had baked the layers before sunrise.
Three layers of deep chocolate cake.
A thin spread of peach preserves between each.
Chocolate ganache.
Then a final layer of dark chocolate frosting.
She had added Margery's lemon and cinnamon touch.
Her grandmother's original technique.
And her own instincts.
It wasn't just a recipe anymore.
It was a conversation across generations.
Clara set the cake on the assigned table.
She stepped back.
For the first time, she allowed herself to admire it.
The surface was smooth.
The chocolate deep and glossy.
Small curls of chocolate decorated the top.
Peach slices rested around the edge like little golden petals.
Roz appeared beside her.
“Well?”
Clara nodded.
“I think this is it.”
“The one?”
“The one.”
Clove yowled from beneath the table.
Clara looked down.
“You're not judging.”
Another yowl.
“Please stop embarrassing me.”
Roz laughed.
“I think he wants cake.”
“He always wants cake.”
Clara crouched.
“You can't eat chocolate.”
Clove stared at her.
“You know that.”
He stared harder.
“Don't manipulate me.”
His tail flicked.
“It's not going to work.”
It worked.
Clara gave him a tiny piece of plain peach from her pocket.
Clove accepted it with dignity.
Roz shook her head.
“You're hopeless.”
“Apparently.”
A shadow fell across the table.
Clara looked up.
Delphine.
“Clara.”
Her smile was warm.
Almost.
“Your cake looks beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Delphine glanced at it.
“Chocolate and peach?”
“Yes.”
“Bold combination.”
“My grandmother used peaches with chocolate.”
“How lovely.”
Delphine's eyes met hers.
For one second, the smile disappeared.
Then it returned.
“I hope the festival gives you something positive to focus on.”
Clara felt the muscles in her shoulders tighten.
“I'm trying.”
Delphine nodded.
“I know this has been difficult.”
“Very.”
“I can't imagine how frightening it must be to have your name dragged through the mud.”
Clara studied her.
“You're right.”
Delphine reached out and touched her arm.
“Just remember that people will talk.”
Clara looked at the hand.
Then at the scarf.
“I've noticed.”
Delphine's fingers withdrew.
“I'll see you at the judging.”
She walked away.
Clara watched her go.
Roz appeared beside her.
“She knows.”
Clara turned.
“What?”
“She knows you're watching her.”
Clara shook her head.
“Or you're imagining things.”
“Maybe.”
Clara looked at the scarf again.
“No.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“She knows something.”
At noon, a crowd gathered near the hardware stall.
Bennett Marsh stood beside a delivery truck, arguing with a festival volunteer about where his display should go.
Clara and Roz approached.
Bennett spotted them.
“Don't tell me you're investigating me again.”
“I'm not.”
“Good.”
He sighed.
“Because I've had enough.”
Clara smiled.
“Actually, I wanted to tell you something.”
“What?”
Cross approached from behind them.
“Your delivery records checked out.”
Bennett stared.
“My what?”
“The morning Harlow was killed,” Cross said. “You were making deliveries.”
Bennett's expression changed.
“You found them?”
“Your driver kept electronic timestamps.”
Bennett let out a breath.
“So I'm cleared?”
“As far as that part of the investigation is concerned.”
Bennett looked at Clara.
“Good.”
Then he shook his head.
“I hated that man.”
“We know.”
“I wanted him gone.”
“We know.”
“But I didn't kill him.”
Clara nodded.
“I believe you.”
Bennett looked uncomfortable.
“Thanks.”
He turned toward his hardware display.
“Now buy something.”
Roz laughed.
Fiona arrived shortly afterward.
She looked as though she'd spent the entire morning arguing with herself.
She approached Clara slowly.
“I need to tell you something.”
Clara's stomach tightened.
“All right.”
Fiona glanced at Roz.
“Privately.”
They moved behind the bakery's temporary festival stall.
Fiona took a breath.
“The post.”
Clara went still.
“What about it?”
“I wrote it.”
Roz's expression hardened.
“You what?”
“I didn't mean for it to become what it became.”
“You accused Clara of murder.”
“I didn't say she killed him.”
“You implied it.”
Fiona lowered her head.
“I was scared.”
Clara looked at her.
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
Fiona's voice shook.
“The deal with Harlow. My debts. My business partner finding out. The fact that I couldn't pay what I owed.”
She wiped her eyes.
“When Dean died, the deal disappeared.”
Clara remembered.
“So you panicked.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought if people looked at me, they wouldn't look at you.”
Fiona nodded.
“I was wrong.”
Clara studied her.
“You lied about your whereabouts.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was embarrassed.”
Fiona swallowed.
“I wasn't with Dean. I wasn't anywhere near the bakery. But I knew if people found out about the deal, they'd think I killed him because I had something to lose.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
Fiona looked at her.
“I did.”
Silence.
Clara felt the anger she'd carried for days.
But beneath it was something else.
Understanding.
Fear made people ugly sometimes.
Not murderous.
Just frightened.
“I forgive you,” Clara said.
Fiona looked stunned.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were scared.”
Clara paused.
“But don't ever do that to me again.”
“I won't.”
“And if you know anything else?”
Fiona nodded immediately.
“I'll tell you.”
Clara smiled.
“Good.”
Fiona hesitated.
“Actually…”
“What?”
“I want to help.”
Clara raised an eyebrow.
“How?”
“Whatever happens with the festival. Whatever happens with Harlow. If there's anything I know, I'll tell you.”
Clara nodded.
“Then we're allies.”
Fiona smiled.
“Allies.”
They shook hands.
Roz watched them.
“Well,” she said, “this is unexpectedly wholesome.”
Fiona laughed.
“Don't ruin it.”
A sudden crash came from the tent.
Clara turned.
“Clove?”
Roz's eyes widened.
“Please tell me that wasn't your cat.”
Another crash.
Then a furious yowl.
Clara ran.
Clove had somehow escaped his carrier.
He was under the judging table.
A volunteer was trying to catch him.
Clove darted left.
The volunteer went right.
Clove darted right.
The volunteer nearly fell over.
“Clove!”
The cat froze.
He looked at Clara.
She crouched.
“Come here.”
He didn't move.
“Clove.”
His ears flattened.
“Please.”
He disappeared beneath a tablecloth.
Roz covered her mouth.
“I'm sorry.”
“This isn't funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
Clara crawled beneath the table.
“Come on.”
Clove backed farther away.
“You're making this much harder than it needs to be.”
He hissed.
“You hate festivals that much?”
A loud cheer erupted nearby.
Clove shot out like a furry missile.
“Clove!”
He raced between two chairs.
Clara chased him.
People laughed.
Someone clapped.
A child shouted, “Go, kitty!”
Clara finally cornered him behind the community tent.
She scooped him up.
Clove immediately buried his face against her shoulder.
“You're ridiculous.”
He purred.
“You caused all this.”
More purring.
Clara sighed.
“Fine.”
She carried him into an empty storage tent.
“Stay here.”
Clove looked at her.
“You'll be safe.”
He curled into a chair.
Clara pointed at him.
“Don't move.”
His eyes closed.
Roz appeared at the entrance.
“Is he contained?”
“For now.”
“Good.”
Clara looked toward the festival.
The laughter and music seemed almost surreal.
For a few minutes, she'd forgotten about murder.
Then she saw Delphine across the grounds.
Watching her.
The smile on Delphine's face was gone.
Clara's amusement vanished.
The judges approached at one thirty.
Clara stood beside her cake.
Her heart hammered.
One judge cut the first slice.
The knife passed through the layers cleanly.
Chocolate.
Peach.
Chocolate.
The judges tasted it.
One closed her eyes.
Another nodded slowly.
Clara didn't breathe.
Finally, the head judge smiled.
“Interesting.”
Clara almost laughed.
“Interesting good?”
“Very good.”
Relief washed over her.
She looked at the cake.
Her grandmother's recipe.
Margery's preserves.
Her own adjustments.
Everything she'd been carrying had somehow ended up inside it.
Not the murder.
Not the fear.
But the things that mattered.
Family.
Home.
Memory.
Persistence.
The head judge made notes.
Clara stepped back.
Then she saw Cross at the edge of the crowd.
He wasn't smiling.
He was looking toward Delphine.
Clara followed his gaze.
Delphine stood alone near the council tent.
Her hand was gripping her scarf.
Tightly.
Too tightly.
Clara's pulse quickened.
Cross caught her eye.
He gave the smallest shake of his head.
Not yet.
Clara nodded.
She understood.
They needed the rest.
The evidence.
The confession.
The truth.
The festival continued around them.
Music played.
Children laughed.
Peaches were sold by the basket.
And beneath all that cheerful noise, Clara knew the final piece was still waiting.
Somewhere.
She just had to find it.
Clove poked his head out of the storage tent.
Clara looked at him.
He stared back.
Then he vanished again.
She smiled.
Even now, he wanted nothing to do with the festival.
But he had brought her here.
And somehow, Clara suspected, he wasn't finished helping her notice what everyone else had missed.