by Agatha Frost
“Yes.” Claire tried to gulp again, but the moisture evaporated. “I’m turning it into a candle shop. I make homemade candles, and—”
“I didn’t ask for your life story, girl.” Opal turned, and this time her eyes looked up at Claire’s face; they didn’t quite meet her eyes, which was somehow more unsettling than if they had. “I opened that tearoom in 1938.”
“I – I didn’t know that.”
“How old are you, girl?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Hmmm.” Opal’s non-existent lips pursed into a deep crease. “I inherited Starfall when I was forty, and at that age, I knew to respect my elders .”
Claire glanced at Diane, wondering what she had said or done. Diane shook her head like she didn’t know. Perhaps the woman wasn’t as sharp as she’d given her credit for? Either way, Claire wasn’t about to aggravate her landlord, not now of all times.
“It seems odd,” Opal said out of nowhere, her voice slightly softer, “that I should have received all those postcards if Jane was up there as long as they’re claiming.” She glanced away from Claire. “Diane? I’m ready to sleep.”
Diane hurried over, practically pushing Claire out of the way and in the direction of the door. Happy to oblige, Claire left the room, relieved to find herself bathed in the natural daylight streaming through the domed glass window in the ceiling over the grand stairs.
Assuming Em would have returned to the kitchen, Claire retraced her footsteps. This time, she made sure to take a side of the staircase with a bannister, which made lighter work of the descent. Once in the hallway, she walked behind the staircase and back into the kitchen to find Em engaged in the most human thing Claire had seen her do yet: crying.
“Sometimes meditation will only get you so far,” Em said, giving Claire a wink as she wiped her tears away. “When I heard about you solving the mystery behind that poor woman’s death at the factory, I knew my assumptions about you were correct. You have a pure aura, Claire.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” Claire returned the wink. “I really am sorry for your loss.”
Em nodded, lips tightly compressed. “Me too.”
Claire sat across the table from Em, and this time, she was the one to reach out and grab her hand. Em’s smile let Claire know she appreciated the gesture. The two of them sat there, holding hands and smiling at one another until a mother screaming at her child in the park outside made them both laugh.
“I’m sorrier for how long all of this has been going on without any of us being any the wiser.” Em flipped their hands so she was the one clutching again, and she wrapped both of hers around Claire’s one. Her tattooed touch was warm and gentle; if she believed in auras, she was sure Em’s was a kind one. “I didn’t bring up the factory flippantly. Your family sacrificed a great deal to settle the truth.” She paused as if momentarily uncertain whether to speak. “Which is why I want your help.” A frown appeared between her brows as she glanced down at their clasped hands. “Given how well it was covered up, I fear only someone close could have done this to my mother. And, to be quite frank, I also fear that the local constabulary is too friendly with too many people to ruffle the feathers necessary to find the truth and free my mother’s spirit from the torment of injustice.”
Em paused, glancing around the room as though Jane’s anguished spirit was protesting her injustice around them.
Without Em needing to ask, Claire knew the question.
She already had an answer.
“I’ll help you.” Claire clenched Em’s hand hard, sharing in her smile. “I’ll help you figure out what happened to your mother. Let’s face it, I have nothing better to do, do I? And I’m pretty invested in helping your mother’s soul rest, too, when it comes down to it.”
“Then it’s settled.” Em let out a sigh of relief. “I knew you’d help me, Claire. I’ve always seen the light in you. Shall we leave?”
Claire stood quickly. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I hate very little in this world,” Em said as she stood, her gaze drifting across the ceiling above, “but I hate the energy in this house. It clouds my third eye like no other.”
“Is that what that feeling is?” Claire joined Em in looking up at the ceiling. “Then consider my third eye clouded too.”
CHAPTER FIVE
T he next afternoon, Claire found herself in the shed at the bottom of the garden with her father. Perched precariously on the tiny plant pot in the corner, she watched Alan re-pot cactuses.
“Why the banana?” she asked as he wrapped a yellow skin around the small cactus. “Has Mum thrown away your gloves again for being ‘too mucky’?”
“Probably.” He chuckled. “Banana skin can withstand the pressure of the needles. Saves me having to pluck them out of my gloves for the next time.”
“You’re so wise.”
Alan winked over his shoulder, bringing an instant smile to her face. Despite the blue sky visible through the shed’s tiny, filthy window, she still felt as grey as the rain clouds of the day before.
The pressure of heavy stones filled her chest every time she remembered what had happened. Sitting on the plant pot watching her father work in his shed calmed her more than anything, just as it had done since she was a child. The plant pot had been in the same spot in the corner, unmoved for decades, just for her.
“I think I’m going to look into this,” Claire said as casually as she could muster, “for Em’s sake.”
“Of course.” Alan smiled over his shoulder this time, but it wasn’t quite a happy one. “I wouldn’t expect any less of you, little one. Your kindness and inquisitiveness come as no surprise to me.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
Alan sighed and pulled off his glasses. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag and spun in his old office chair to face her.
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my reservations.” He took her hands in his. “Especially after last time.”
Alan’s reference to her solving the factory murders made Claire tense up. She’d been curious to know if Uncle Pat had attempted to reach out to his older brother from behind his prison bars. She hadn’t dared ask, but the question was suddenly on the tip of her tongue.
As though he could sense it, Alan spun back to continue bedding the tiny cactus into its new home. The door opened, and Janet crammed herself inside – a rare occurrence. Claire swallowed her question about Uncle Pat. She’d never been gladder for her mother’s interruption.
“I know what you’re doing!” Janet cried, slightly hunched away from the ceiling, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Thinking you can sneak off in here to discuss things like you always do! You’re not leaving me out of this like you did the last time.”
“You actively disapproved of our investigation at every turn,” Claire reminded her mother as she climbed over her legs to shimmy to the other side of the shed. “And you didn’t even like Nicola.”
“That is true.” Janet perched herself between a rusty old filing cabinet and a stack of empty plant pots. “Oh, Alan! Must you keep everything so—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” He held a finger up in the air, pulling his glasses off once again. “May I remind you of our deal, my love? The secret to our happy marriage is that I let you keep the cottage in a permanent show home state with your devotion to cleaning and bi-annual redecorating because, for whatever reason, that’s what makes you happy. I live to make you happy, my dear. I only have one small condition.”
“I know, but—”
“A fair condition.”
“Yes, it’s fair.” Janet wafted her finger around. “It’s just, it would still be your shed with fewer cobwebs and a little less dust.”
Claire chuckled and said, “It adds character.”
“She gets it.” Alan clicked his fingers and pointed at Claire. “Sometimes, a little dirt is just what you need.”
“What I need?” Janet’s eyes scanned the shed, finding new things for her to grima
ce at. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Nobody needs to live like Stig of the Dump!” She stiffened even more, her bottom hovering an inch above the plant pot. “So, are you?”
“Are we what?” Claire replied.
“Don’t play simple, Claire, it doesn’t suit you.” Janet rolled her eyes. “You spent the whole day with that Emma yesterday. I know what you’re up to. You’re sticking your nose in again, aren’t you?”
“Em asked me to.”
“Believe it or not, dear,” Janet said, pausing to fiddle with her watch, “I’m all for it.”
“What?” Alan and Claire replied simultaneously.
“Hark at you two.” She inhaled deeply, wide eyes on her watch. “And yes, I think it’s a good idea. Finally, you clearly have a natural aptitude for something other than making candles, and considering how long it took, it might as well be put to good use.”
“And just like that, my life’s achievements are scrubbed off the record,” Claire said to her father, before looking to her mother. “You really know how to make the backhand of your compliments sting, don’t you, Mother?”
“Don’t start, Claire.” She sniffed and looked away from her watch, eyes going to the dirty window. “What do you think, Alan?”
“He thinks it’s a bad idea.” Claire held her hand out to her father. “Pinch it for me, will you?” Alan pinched the back of Claire’s hand without hesitation; the pain shot down her arm. “Yep, real. Just wanted to check I hadn’t slipped into the Twilight Zone.”
“What are you waffling about, Claire?” Janet puffed and finally looked at her. “Are you trying to insinuate that I’m never in your corner and your father is? I’m always in your corner, dear, I’m just . . .”
“The devil on my shoulder?”
“The voice of reason.” Janet’s face reddened as though she were about to burst. “I don’t want to play your silly word games right now, Claire. I’m only saying, I’m glad you’re taking up the case because I don’t trust DI Ramsbottom to find his feet, never mind the twisted monster who did that to poor Jane.” Her expression softened, and she looked down at the dusty floorboards before adding, “I want to help in any way I can.”
Claire’s defence mechanism would usually fire back with a zingy quip so she could have the last laugh over her mother’s unique observations, but she stopped herself. Her mother’s gaze on the floorboards was a pained one, and clearly not because of the amount of dirt collected there.
Alan grabbed Janet’s hand, and she quickly switched on her polite smile like nothing had happened. Claire wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not that she had never mastered her mother’s skill of suppressing emotion like it was an Olympic sport.
“You can help,” Claire said, her voice purposefully soft. “DI Ramsbottom said they traced one of Jane’s final movements to the post office the night before she was due to leave. Do you remember that?”
“Of course.” Janet nodded. “I knew it was going to be the last time I saw her; I just didn’t realise how final that would be. She came in right as I was closing up to draw out the rest of her pension before her flight in the morning. Said it had been on her list all day, but she kept forgetting. You know what her memory was getting like towards the end.”
“Could remember your order and your birthday like her life depended on it until late last year,” Alan said with a fond smile. “I think we all noticed, but no one said anything. It’s not a kind thing to point out to someone of Jane’s age. When she finally announced her retirement at The Hesketh Arms on New Year’s Eve, I think we all let out a collective sigh of relief.”
“I walked her to her front door after I closed the post office,” Janet continued, her fingers nervously fiddling with the buttons on her cardigan. “We said our goodbyes and parted ways.” Her hand drifted to her mouth. “Oh, God. You don’t suppose I was the last person to see her?”
“The person who killed her holds that title,” Alan said calmly and firmly.
“Did you notice anything strange?” Claire asked. “Did she seem agitated at all?”
“Not in the slightest.” Her brow furrowed. “I hate to say it, but she seemed the most relaxed I’d ever seen her. All she could talk about was how ready she was to leave and enjoy some years under the sun. She was so excited, which is why . . .”
Janet’s voice trailed off as she sat up straight.
“What?” Claire prompted.
“Well, she seemed fine to me,” Janet said, eyes vacant as they ventured deeper into her memory, “but she said her tummy felt a little uneasy. She swore it felt like she was coming down with food poisoning, but I thought it was probably just her nerves.”
“But you said she seemed relaxed,” Alan pointed out.
“She did.” Janet’s finger tapped against her chin. “Maybe she went up to the attic to get something before she left and dropped dead of food poisoning?”
“One possible theory,” Alan agreed.
They sat in silence for a moment. Possible, perhaps, but it didn’t feel correct.
“Even if that was the case,” Claire said, “how did she get locked up there? Those attic doors aren’t the ones that spring up on their own. Someone had to have shut it behind her. And locked it.”
“Good observation, little one.” Alan nodded, his smile proud. “How she died is supplementary to who left her there, and to find that out, you need to figure out the why.”
“I need to establish a timeline,” Claire thought aloud. “Figure out what Jane did in the days up to her death, and more importantly, the hours between Mum leaving her at the tearoom and the time she was supposed to leave the next day.” She looked at her father. “Is that right, Dad?”
“It’s exactly what I’d do.” Alan was obviously conflicted. “You really were paying attention all of those years I was in the police, weren’t you?”
“Apparently so, not that I realised it. Osmosis, I guess.”
“I think we all were,” Janet added, “because I know one of you is about to suggest we start with those closest to Janet and work outwards from there.”
“Taken directly from my mouth,” Alan said with a laugh. “I wasn’t aware I brought so much of my work home with me.”
Even though her father had always spent a considerable amount of time in his shed, he’d spent just as much with his nose buried in case notes. Claire fondly remembered the days she’d climb into his lap, and he’d tell her what he was investigating. As much as he’d smoothed down the sharp edges of the stories, he always made a point to never hide the reality of the hardships people could go through; she was grateful for it.
“I can’t stand this place a moment longer,” Janet said as she walked to the door with measured steps and a bowed head. “There is no reason we can’t continue this conversation in the more civilised kitchen.”
Claire and Alan glanced at each other before standing. She passed him his cane before he could forget it, and they followed Janet up the stepping-stone path to the back door.
Her father had been tending to the garden for decades, and it showed. Like Starfall Park, every flower, bush, and tree was perfectly designed to complement each other.
“You’re already in with Em,” Janet pointed out as she pulled open the back door. “Wipe your feet. I’ve just mopped.”
“You’ve always ‘just mopped’,” Claire said as she dragged her slippers across the doormat.
“If you always wiped your feet before coming in,” she whispered into Claire’s ear, “I wouldn’t have to.”
While Alan made his way up the path, Claire settled at the dining room table and continued sticking labels on the vanilla candle jars she’d yet to box.
Most of her time at the factory had been spent on the label station, so her technique was perfect. She glanced down into the cardboard box of rejects under the table. Only five of what had to be hundreds of candles hadn’t met her standards.
“What was Em and Jane’s relationship like?” Claire asked, her hands automa
tically peeling off the next sticker as she glanced at her mother, still waiting by the door for Alan to catch up. “I know Jane wasn’t happy about Em not taking over the tearoom, but I don’t really know much more than that.”
“I think that’s all there is to know,” Janet said as she helped Alan over the doorstep. “The older Emma got, the weirder she became, and the more she drifted away from her mother. When Em told Jane she wasn’t going to take the café after all, it drove a wedge between them.”
“After all?”
“Oh, Em was in line to take over the café for years!” Janet hurried around the counter and resumed cleaning the oven. “Honestly, Claire! If you’re going to make candles in the middle of the night, try not to leave such a mess! I noticed the little splatters of red wax everywhere when I came down this morning! Scared me half to death.”
“Sorry, I thought I’d got it all.” Claire leaned over to the sideboard to pick up one of the six dark-red candles she had made in the early hours with only the under-cabinet lighting to guide her. She inhaled the mouth-wateringly sweet scent. “Black cherry. Jane once told me it was her favourite flavour, so I guessed it would be her favourite scent too. Since she always gave me a free cake when it was my birthday, I made her one every year when it was her turn. She’d talk about it all year and joke that she was savouring it.” She placed the candle back and sighed. “I don’t know why I made them. I thought it would help.”
“Did it?” Alan asked as he sat across from her. “Help, I mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Claire gave them one last look before turning back to her stickers and saying in her mother’s direction, “When did Em ever want to take over the café?”
“Oh, I think you were still a little girl when they had their big bust-up.” Janet sprayed bleach against the backsplash tiles. After the candles, the scent was extra horrid. “Jane groomed Emma to take over the café from the second she was born, apparently. She worked weekends from quite a young age, and she went fulltime nearly the same day she left school. It was always obvious her heart wasn’t really in it. Even when she looked, well, normal, we all knew Emma was a wild child.”