Chapter 28
June saw Clara’s face change and immediately set down the ribbon she had been cutting.
“No,” June said.
Clara put the phone on speaker.
Celeste’s voice filled the back room of Porter Blooms, smooth as poured cream and twice as difficult to clean up.
“Clara,” she said. “I believe you have something that belongs to my family.”
Danner, seated at June’s worktable with a cup of coffee she had forgotten to drink, lifted one finger for silence.
Clara kept her voice steady. “You will have to be more specific. Your family has been claiming other people’s property for generations.”
June mouthed, Excellent.
Celeste did not rise to it. “The bank envelope.”
“It is with the police.”
“Copies, perhaps. Originals move faster than warrants when people are frightened.”
Danner’s expression sharpened.
Clara looked at Rowan, who stood near the rear door. He shook his head once.
Do not engage.
Clara engaged.
“What do you want?”
“I want to end this before more people are hurt.”
“That sounds noble. Did you practice?”
A pause.
When Celeste spoke again, the polish had thinned. “I have the first tape.”
The room went still.
Danner’s eyes locked on Clara.
“The full tape is evidence,” Clara said.
“There were copies,” Celeste said. “Evelyn was not the only clever woman in Magnolia Cove.”
Rowan stepped closer to the table.
Celeste continued, “Come to Magnolia Inn. Alone. Bring whatever Evelyn left in Box 317. I will give you the tape, and then you can decide whether your mother was worth destroying what remains of this town.”
Clara’s hand tightened around the phone.
“Destroying the town,” she said. “That is a lot to put on one daughter.”
“Truth is heavy. Women like Evelyn always made other people carry it.”
Clara glanced at Bea, who had gone pale beside the flower cooler.
“Where at the inn?”
“The kitchen. Where Evelyn liked to arrange her little dramas.”
“Why alone?”
“Because I am tired of badges, lawyers, and florists with opinions.”
June lifted both hands, offended and proud.
Celeste’s voice lowered. “You have one hour. If I see Danner, Hale, or anyone else, the tape burns.”
The call ended.
For three seconds, no one spoke.
Then June said, “For the record, I do have opinions.”
Danner stood. “We set the operation.”
“No,” Rowan said.
Everyone looked at him.
He was looking only at Clara.
Danner’s voice cooled. “Detective Hale.”
“She is not bait.”
“I am bait,” Clara said.
His gaze snapped to her.
“I am,” she said. “That does not mean I am helpless.”
“It means she has selected you because she thinks you are emotionally vulnerable and easier to manipulate,” Rowan said.
June raised a finger. “Which is rude but not inaccurate.”
Clara ignored her. “Celeste wants the evidence. She wants to know what we have, what we copied, and whether the tape has anything she missed. She called because she is scared.”
Danner nodded. “And scared people make mistakes.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “They also shoot.”
“That is why I will not be alone,” Clara said. “She only needs to think I am.”
The argument lasted nine minutes.
Clara gave recorded consent, Moira objected for the record, and Danner documented every objection before approving the wire.
Rowan lost because Danner outranked him and Clara refused to be reasonable in any direction that resembled surrender. Moira provided the decoy envelope. Danner provided the wire. June provided a black cardigan because, according to her, no woman should walk into a trap with unflattering shoulders.
At 7:12 p.m., Clara stood in Magnolia Inn’s kitchen with a fake bank envelope in her purse and a microphone taped beneath her blouse.
The house smelled faintly of smoke from the damaged east wing, lemon oil from Bea’s stubborn cleaning efforts, and rain moving in from the marsh.
Danner had officers positioned beyond the garden, at the service drive, and near the library hall. Rowan was assigned exterior backup because he was too close to Clara, too close to Thomas, and too likely to make one bad decision beautifully.
He had not liked that phrasing.
Clara had liked it less.
Still, before she entered the inn, he had caught her hand in the shadows beside the porch.
“Do not improvise,” he said.
“You know I cannot promise that.”
“Then promise me you will live long enough for me to be angry about it.”
She looked at him, at the fear he no longer bothered disguising.
“I promise.”
Now the kitchen clock ticked above Evelyn’s desk.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The back door opened.
Celeste stepped inside wearing black, practical shoes, and no jewelry but pearl earrings. Without diamonds and silk, she looked less like an heiress and more like the woman who made sure the heiress survived.
“You came,” Celeste said.
“You called.”
“Where is the envelope?”
“Where is the tape?”
Celeste smiled. “Still direct. Evelyn would approve.”
“Evelyn would have already searched your purse.”
“Evelyn overestimated herself.”
“She outmaneuvered you dead.”
The smile vanished.
There it was.
The real Celeste Ashford: not cold, not composed, but furious beneath twenty years of training.
“You think you have won because you found some papers in a bank box?” Celeste asked. “Paper can be discredited. Tapes can be damaged. Dead women can be made unreliable if the right men describe them properly.”
“And if the right women keep records?”
“Women are remembered according to who survives them.”
Clara stepped toward the table. “Then you should have paid closer attention to which women Evelyn taught.”
Celeste’s gaze moved over her face.
For a moment, Clara thought she saw something like envy there.
Then Celeste held out one hand. “The envelope.”
Clara removed the decoy from her purse and placed it on the table.
Celeste did not touch it.
“Open it.”
“Afraid of paper cuts?”
“Afraid of Whitaker tricks.”
“Reasonable.”
Clara opened the envelope and spread the copied pages across the table: transfer records, deposit entries, Claire Hale’s ledger pages, Evelyn’s initials key.
Celeste’s face gave away nothing until Clara placed the photocopy of Susannah Ashford’s statement on top.
Then one hand curled.
“My mother was ill,” Celeste said.
“She was afraid.”
“She was weak.”
“No,” Clara said. “She tried to leave.”
Celeste leaned forward. “You know nothing about being raised by Edward Ashford.”
“Maybe not. But I know what he made of you.”
The back door opened again.
Clara turned before she could stop herself.
Graham Ashford stepped into the kitchen with a gun in his hand.
Celeste closed her eyes once.
Not surprise.
Disgust.
“Graham,” she said. “I told you to stay away.”
He smiled at Clara.
“Family never listens.”
And he raised the gun.