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Chapter 1
Chapter One: The Fall
The Harvest Market tasting event was supposed to be the warm heart of the season. The green bristled with striped tents, string lights, and a bright line of food stalls. Music drifted from the gazebo. The air carried the faint salt of Harbor Haven’s busy harbor and the fragrance of cinnamon, butter, and citrus.
Emma Finch stood by the raffle barrel near the judges’ table with a stack of tickets in one hand and a smile she’d practiced. Her aunt, Beatrice “Bee” Carpenter, had packed her best scones that morning at Bee’s Knees Tea Room: buttery triangles with an even glaze, sugar sparkling on top. Bee wore her apron with the embroidered teacup and had a tray balanced like some minor miracle.
Harold Pember, the food critic, had arrived with the careful gaze of a man who noticed every detail. He was smaller than his newspaper photos, his camera dangling, his sharp eyebrows lifted. He joked with the bakers and took notes. A crowd pressed closer as he raised a scone—the lavender-glazed one Bee had set aside for him—and took a bite.
He swallowed. His face changed.
It happened in a breath. His throat worked. He set the scone down, fumbled for his water, and knocked over a cup. The judges leaned forward. Someone asked if he was all right. Harold made a sound like a struggle and reached for his bag under the table.
Bee gasped, “He’s allergic—his EpiPen!”
Sheriff Cole Ramsey, broad-shouldered, moved through the crowd like a prow cutting through waves. “Make room!” he called. His voice brought a sudden hush.
Harold went down. Seconds stretched into a shape Emma would replay later. She clamped down on her panic and looked for something, anything. On the linen at his place sat a napkin. A smear of pale gold gleamed on the edge. Emma leaned in, and the scent rose up: honey. Not clover honey, not the sweet simple kind Bee kept for tea. This smelled like fields and perfume, sharp and floral.
Sheriff Ramsey was already crouched by Harold. “Call it in,” he said to his deputy. “EpiPen. Where’s his bag?”
They pulled the battered satchel up and unzipped it. The slot where an EpiPen would be had a faint dusting of yellow. Like pollen had rubbed off inside. The slot, the napkin, the smell that didn’t belong—Emma filed these facts away as people murmured, cried, and stepped back the way people do when they want to help but don’t know how.
Minutes later, despite the sheriff’s speed and the paramedics’ rush across the wet grass, Harold Pember lay still.
The sound of the harbor suddenly felt too loud. Gulls called. A vendor lowered his flame. A child started to cry. Emma felt the world tip, and then right itself. She turned to Bee. Her aunt’s hands were shaking so hard the sugar grit made a soft rain on the table.
“Bee,” Emma said, reaching for her. “It’s going to be okay.”
Bee’s eyes were wide. “He tasted my scone last. Emma—he tasted mine.”
Sheriff Ramsey stood. His face had gone hard and calm the way Emma had seen when he broke up a bar fight last winter. “No one leaves,” he said to the crowd. “We’re going to ask some questions. Please stay where you are.”
He looked at Bee. “Beatrice, I need you to come with me for a moment.”
Bee swallowed. “Of course.”
As he led her away, whispers spread like wind over tall grass. The word “allergy” rose and fell. The word “honey” drifted. Emma stood at the edge of the judges’ tent with her hand on the raffle barrel, and knew, in the clear way she knew the next book club pick two months out, that she would not let the story turn against her aunt without a fight.
She looked at the napkin again. Pale gold and lavender. Honey and something else. She leaned closer. The scent was lavender, woven into the sweetness. Not Bee’s kind. Not today.
Emma’s dog, Tug—a little mutt with terrier stubbornness and a splash of white on his nose—pressed against her shin. She bent enough to touch his head. “We’ll find the truth,” she told him, and then turned toward the sheriff’s questions.
