Stroke of Death

by Agatha Frost

  Liz flashed back to those first weeks back at work after Lewis’ death. She had grown so tired of everyone asking her if she was okay, she had learned to hide her emotions; it did not mean she did not cry herself to sleep every night for months. That woman felt like someone she had once known in a dream, but the feeling could come flooding back in an instant when her mind wandered there. Simon seemed to notice her grief flash across her face because he stood up, his eyes filled with concern. Liz smiled, as she had when she was a detective; it was still easier to pretend it had never happened.

  “Stay here,” Simon said as he walked around the table. “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “Are you sure?” Liz said, swallowing the lump in her throat as she re-joined the present day.

  “Sometimes these things mean more coming from another man,” Simon said before kissing her on the cheek, his calloused hand cupping her cheek the way she loved. “Trust me on this one.”

  Liz did not argue. The reason Simon had been so easy to fall in love with was that he was always surprising her. She would think Simon was one thing, and he would show himself to be the complete opposite. He kept her on her toes, revealing his soul like a delicate flower blossoming ever so slowly over a long spring afternoon.

  Liz finished off the last of her wine as she stared at a stern-looking portrait of a man above the fireplace. She wondered if he was a great ancestor of the Monroe family or another dreary piece Katelyn had picked. Looking down into her empty glass, she wondered how much wine she had enjoyed. It felt like only two, but then she remembered that Daniel had topped up her glass to the brim between each course, making it almost impossible to calculate how much alcohol she had consumed. Either way, the urge to use the bathroom overtook her.

  Ditching the glass on the table, she hobbled towards the kitchen, stopping in her tracks when she saw Simon comforting Christopher as he sobbed on his shoulder. It warmed her heart too much to interrupt them for the sake of her bladder. Doubling back to the hallway, she peered up the long staircase, and then back into the sitting room.

  “It’s a bathroom,” she mumbled to herself as she headed for the bottom of the stairs. “How hard can it be to find?”

  She hurried up the staircase, hardly paying attention to the formal family pictures lining the wall. When she reached the landing, she was relieved to see the bathroom right ahead, its door open and inviting.

  Minutes later, Liz was feeling a lot better. As she washed her hands, she stared at her reflection in the mirror and blinked, the alcohol sneaking up on her. As she dried her hands on a fluffy towel monogrammed with ‘C.M’, she decided it was time to leave. She was sure after Christopher regained his composure and realised what he had done, he would not want his guests to stick around.

  With a relieved bladder and clean hands, Liz left the bathroom. She made her way to the top of the staircase, but an Australian accent caught her attention from the next room. Through a small gap, she could see the back of Lizzie’s curls, and a mobile phone pressed to her ear.

  “I hate it here,” Lizzie cried, not caring about her guests downstairs. “No! I don’t care about the arrangement anymore. I thought I could do this, but I can’t! I want to come home. Daddy! Please! You don’t understand how awful it is here.”

  Lizzie turned around, locking eyes with Liz. Her lips stopped moving, and she closed the door, not without giving Liz one last stern look for the evening. Knowing she had heard more than enough, Liz hurried back downstairs, ready to share her eavesdropping with Christopher.

  As she reached the hallway, the doorbell chimed, echoing in every corner. When Christopher did not rush to answer, she turned to the door, wondering who could be calling so late at night. Realising if she did not answer no one would, she hurried forward and opened the door.

  “It’s freezing out here!” an old woman with crispy white curls exclaimed as she dumped a bag in Liz’s arms. “What took you so long?”

  The woman marched into the house, a fur scarf around her neck and leather gloves on her hands. A short, plump man with a hunched back followed with a lumbering walk, his head of wispy yellow hair pointed at the ground.

  “Terribly sorry about her,” the man said in a bumbling voice as he also dumped his bag in Liz’s arms. “She’s not herself when she travels.”

  Both of them shrugged off their coats before tossing them over the bags that they had forced on Liz. She looked down at them, wondering if she had transfigured into a hat stand.

  “Are you going to stand there?” the woman snapped, her eyes wide as she stared through Liz. “Where is my son?”

  “Be nice, Constance!”

  “Oh, would you be quiet, Phillip?” she cried, turning her gaze to the little man. “The staff are paid to do as we please, and I want to see my son.”

  “I’m not ‘staff’,” Liz said as she let the bags and coats drop out of her arms and onto the wooden floorboards with a thud. “And if you’re talking about Christopher, he’s in the kitchen.”

  Constance, who could only be Christopher’s mother, looked Liz up and down as though she had witnessed a dog standing on its hind legs and talking for the first time. Philip, the little old man, smiled his apologies at Liz as he shuffled past her to shut the front door. Both of them looked like they had stepped out of a high-class restaurant instead of an aeroplane.

  Christopher must have heard, or at least sensed, his parents’ arrival because he hurried into the hallway, a confused smile on his face, which was unable to disguise his puffy eyes.

  “Mother!” he exclaimed. “Father! What are you doing here?”

  “We’re here for the funeral, of course,” Constance said with a roll of her eyes. “Your sister couldn’t have died in summer, could she? I’m frozen to my bare bones. She always was difficult.”

  “Constance!” Philip said through gritted teeth. “Enough of that!”

  “Don’t ‘Constance’ me!” she snapped back. “I’ve had to sit for twenty-two hours in business class because you didn’t book first.”

  “For the last time, they were fully booked,” he replied with a roll of his eyes, letting Liz know he had said the same line twenty times an hour for the last twenty-two. “There was nothing I could do.”

  “There never is,” Constance said through tight lips, spinning on the spot when Simon followed Christopher into the hallway. “Ah! You, there! Take our bags up to our room. We’ll take the master with the sea view on the third floor.”

  “He’s not staff, either,” Liz said, folding her arms. “C’mon, Simon. We should go.”

  Constance spun and looked at Liz like the walking and talking dog had started juggling while balancing on a unicycle. Christopher scooped up their bags, flashing her an apologetic smile.

  “Have you been crying, boy?” Constance asked, gripping Christopher’s cheeks with one hand as he passed. “Your eyes are swollen.”

  “Allergies, mother,” he lied before hurrying up the stairs. “Katelyn’s dogs are here.”

  As though they knew they were needed, the three Pomeranians rushed into the room. Constance shrieked, and Philip fell over, only catching himself with the sideboard. Liz had to stifle her laughter as the jet-black Pomeranian jumped up at Constance, his nails plucking holes in her tights.

  Leaving the dogs to terrorise Christopher’s parents, Liz and Simon slipped out of the townhouse into the cool air. They stared out at the dark water for a moment as the lighthouse scanned for boats.

  “Well, they’re more despicable than I remembered,” Simon announced as they walked down to the street. “I’m even more grateful for my own parents.”

  “I’m not surprised Christopher is like he is,” Liz whispered as she looked back at the front door as they set off home. “In fact, I’m surprised he’s not even worse. How was he in the kitchen?”

  “Oh, you know,” Simon replied, his eyes darting away from Liz. “The usual. We talked. You were right about him not being so bad, I’ve never seen it before. I don’t thin
k we’re going to be best friends, but he’s alright, I guess.”

  “I’m glad you think that,” Liz said, clutching Simon’s arm even tighter as they turned the corner, leaving ‘The Posh End’ behind. “Because I overheard something, and I need your help stopping this wedding.”

  10

  “You’d think at my age I’d know how to do my tie,” Simon said as he looked down at the messy knot he had created. “Mum has usually intervened by now.”

  “Come here,” Liz said with a chuckle, untying the knot to start again. “Cross, wrap, pull, and tug. There. Perfect, if I do say so myself. Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a week.”

  “Teach a man to fish, and he’ll create an empire on the Scarlet Cove coastline, putting all the smaller companies out of business,” Simon said with a smirk. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

  “I was in the police for fifteen years, dear,” Liz said, returning his smile. “They teach you on your first day.”

  “Really?”

  “Can’t get the badge without it,” Liz said with a wink. “You look handsome in a suit.”

  Simon turned to the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe in Liz’s bedroom at the farm. He tugged at the tight collar before fastening the jacket.

  “Give me wellingtons and a fleece any day,” he said as he ruffled his waxed hair. “You look beautiful, though.”

  It was the day of Katelyn’s funeral, and Liz had opted for the same black dress she had worn at the ill-fated dinner party. A black cardigan over her shoulders and a neat up-do switched up the look, taking it from glamorous to functional.

  “Can we do a jigsaw?” Ellie asked, popping her head around the bedroom door. “Please, Liz.”

  “We’re going to a funeral,” Simon explained, the word making him uncomfortable. “But we’ll be back later.”

  Liz knew Simon did not want to go to the funeral; he had been surprised when Christopher had asked him to cater the wake, and had not been able to say no.

  “What’s a funeral?” Ellie asked, pushing open the door and walking inside.

  Simon and Liz shared awkward glances before Liz bent down to be level with Ellie. She had always been the one to work with children when on murder cases, mainly because her superior officers, who were usually all men, assumed she possessed the skill because she was a woman. Liz was not so sure, but she had done it enough times to know what she was doing.

  “Have you ever had a pet?” Liz asked after clearing her throat. “A pet that isn’t here anymore?

  “Do you remember Goldie?” Simon interrupted. “And when you found him floating in his fish tank?”

  Ellie nodded, her youthful eyes fixed on Liz.

  “Well, Goldie went to heaven, and sometimes that happens to people too.”

  “But we flushed him down the toilet,” Ellie said. “To be with the other fish in the sewer. That’s what Dad said.”

  Liz looked uncomfortably up at Simon who could only offer a shrug.

  “Not like Goldie then,” Liz said, turning her attention back to Ellie. “How about the farm animals? Have any of them gone – Simon, help me out here.”

  “We send the old chickens to be made into chicken nuggets,” Ellie exclaimed.

  “Okay,” Liz said. “I can work with that. When chickens get old and die, they become chicken nuggets, and when people die, they float up to heaven to live in the clouds. We have funerals to say goodbye to them. They’re sort of like a party to celebrate a life.”

  “So, the opposite of a birthday party?” Ellie asked with a wrinkle in her nose. “Will I have one?”

  “Not for a long, long, long time, kiddo,” Simon said, ruffling her hair. “Most people get very, very old before they go to heaven.”

  Ellie did not seem too daunted by the prospect of death. Liz knew intelligent children like Ellie seemed to grasp the concept a lot better than others.

  “Is it sad?” Ellie asked.

  “It can be sad,” Liz said, knowing honesty was the best policy. “But it can also be a happy time to remember that person.”

  “Will you be sad?” Ellie asked, looking deep into Liz’s eyes. “I don’t want you to be sad.”

  “I won’t be sad,” Liz replied. “I’m going to support a friend, and he will be sad. So, I will be there to give him a hug and a tissue if he needs one.”

  Ellie wrapped her arms around Liz’s neck and squeezed tightly before letting go with a smile.

  “Now you’re all charged up with hugs,” Ellie said. “I’ll go and start the edges of the jigsaw. We’ll finish it when you get back.”

  “You can count on that,” Liz said with a wink before ruffling Ellie’s hair.

  Ellie turned around and skipped out of the room, leaving them alone once again.

  “You handled that well,” Simon said as Liz stood back up. “My heart dropped when she asked that question.”

  “Kids like adults who tell the truth,” Liz said as she pulled her phone from her small black handbag. “We should set off. There’s nothing worse than turning up late for a funeral.”

  “If anyone asks, you were getting charged up on hugs,” Simon whispered with a grin before kissing her on the cheek. “Let’s walk. I could do with the fresh air.”

  The walk to St. Andrews Church was a pleasant one. Despite the dark clouds on the horizon, the rain held off, and the February chill was warming up thanks to the impending start of March. Liz could not wait for spring to start; she needed the fresh season.

  They arrived at the church fifteen minutes early, but the place was already packed out; Liz was not surprised. Funerals in Scarlet Cove seemed to be public events. It did not matter who the person was, they were always well attended. Over her police years, she had been to plenty of funerals where she could count the guests on one hand.

  They walked into the grounds, smiling as they went. Liz spotted her art group standing in front of the church. She was surprised to see that Trevor was not there, and even more surprised to see that Catherine was. Debbie and Catherine seemed to be purposefully standing on opposite sides of the group, not that any of them were talking to each other. Liz set off towards the group, but when Nancy caught her eyes, she walked away.

  “When are you going to make up?” Simon whispered, his arm tight around Liz’s. “I’m stuck in the middle of you two.”

  “Soon,” Liz said. “I promise.”

  Liz tagged onto the end of the group next to Debbie. She wanted to ask how things were with Raphael but decided to wait until later in the day when they could be alone. She looked along the line to Lance. From the distant gaze in his eyes, as he stared at the ground, Liz guessed he had already helped himself to some gin.

  “Are you okay, Lance?” Liz whispered, hoping to catch his eye.

  “I’m fine,” he said without looking up. “Absolutely fine.”

  Debbie rested a hand on his shoulder, looking as though she was about to say something reassuring, but he walked off before she had her chance.

  “Makes you wonder how long any of us have left,” Debbie said when Lance was out of earshot before nodding at the row of houses opposite the church. “I live across the road, and I have to look at this graveyard every day. Any one of us could be here next.”

  “I guess,” Simon said, a wrinkle in his brow. “Except Katelyn was murdered, so it’s hardly an everyday occurrence, is it?”

  Catherine fiddled with the collar of her blouse, her lips pursed tightly as she glanced at Debbie. Liz wondered if she was standing with them due to a lack of other options. Liz looked around the church grounds, noticing the detective who had interviewed her after finding Katelyn’s body. He was nearing retirement age, but he looked completely out of his depth. From the way he was looking around the grounds as though he was in the middle of a bad dream, she could tell he was no closer to catching the murderer. It had always been a running joke in the city that the smaller towns could not handle the more serious cases because their detectives were old and fat from year
s of sitting behind desks investigating stolen bikes and noise complaints.

  “She’s here,” Catherine said drily as she nodded towards the road. “Here we go.”

  Liz averted her gaze to the funeral cars making their way towards the church. Silence fell on the chattering crowd, and heads immediately bowed. The hearse pulled up first, the coffin inside devoid of the usual floral sentiments. There was a single wreath on the lid, but none of the usual displays of ‘DAUGHTER’ or ‘SISTER’.

  The second, and last funeral car pulled up next. Christopher stepped out first with Lizzie by his side. She looked stylish in a simple black dress and pinned back hair, while Christopher looked like his usual self in a suit. Liz tried to remember if she had ever seen Christopher out of a suit, but the image did not present itself.

  His parents were both dressed head to toe in black, a dramatic mesh veil covering half of Constance’s crispy white hair. Philip’s shirt was crinkled, and his tie was not quite tight around his collar. He looked as though he had attempted to oil down his wispy blonde hair, but it fluttered in the gentle breeze.

  “Let’s get this over and done with,” Constance exclaimed through pursed lips. “The hysterics aren’t good for my health.”

  With Christopher’s help, five other suited men, who appeared to have been provided by the funeral home, pulled Katelyn’s coffin out of the hearse. The sea of people parted, making a gap for Katelyn to make her way to her service. Her parents walked behind, their eyes on the ground, and Lizzie trailed after them, looking as though she was suppressing a yawn.

  When Katelyn was inside, they began filtering into the church. Liz and Simon held back for a moment, as did Lance, who looked like he had not decided if he was going inside or not.

  When Liz walked into the church, she was momentarily taken aback by the choice of flowers. Blood red roses surrounded a formal portrait of Katelyn in the middle of the centre aisle.