by Agatha Frost
At her dressing table, Janet seemed to be using every ounce of her energy to keep up the smile. She stared stiffly at her reflection washed in the setting sun’s golden glow. Her trembling fingers fiddled with a diamond stud that defied attachment to her left earlobe for what felt like days. When anyone else would have huffed and given up, Janet tried to keep up the act; she couldn’t control the shaking like she could the smile.
Tonight, everything was not fine.
Unable to watch the continuous struggle, Claire pushed off the edge of her parents’ perfectly made bed and took the stud. The thin post slipped through its target with ease. Janet passed Claire the small silver back, an unsure but genuine smile breaking through the heavier than usual makeup.
“Tricky little things.” Janet forced a laugh as unconvincing as her patented look, passing Claire the matching stud for the other side. “Is this all too much?”
“You look lovely.”
“I’m not used to seeing myself like this.” She fluffed up her bouncy, blowed-out hair, gaze still fixed on the mirror. “Found the girl on the internet. She was the only one with pictures of people my age. Fifty pounds for hair and makeup, and she was in and out in an hour.” Raising her brows, she turned from side to side, checking out her reflection in the August evening glow once the second diamond stud was in. “Are you sure my cheeks aren’t too shiny? I look sweaty.”
“I think that’s the look these days.” Claire laughed, gripping her mother’s shoulders as she ducked to meet her gaze in the mirror. “You look beautiful.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.” Claire squeezed. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” Janet pushed out another uncertain laugh.
Claire watched her mother’s frantic fingers fumbling with an eyebrow pencil with the compulsion of someone quitting cigarettes. Janet looked down and stopped, clenching her hands together in her lap. Her right leg started to bounce.
“Maybe I am nervous,” Janet admitted with a sigh, relaxing into the chair. “Forty years.”
“Which is why you deserve this party tonight,” Claire assured her through the mirror. “Forty years working at the post office is an achievement.”
“Such a long time.” She pulled her skin taut at the temples. “I don’t remember getting this old. I was only a girl when I started. Worked under Mrs Webster. She’s dead now.” She let go and her face dropped back to its natural state. “And then there was Mr Evans. He’s dead now too.” Frowning, she poked at the lines between her brows. “I suppose it’ll be me soon.”
“Where’s all this come from? You’ve been excited about this party for months.”
“I have,” she said. “I am. I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
“It’s not those women’s magazines, is it?” Claire glanced at the neat, colourful stack on the bedside table. “I’ve told you to stop wasting your time with them. They only exist to make you feel bad about yourself.”
"They have some interesting articles, I’ll have you know." Janet narrowed her eyes on Claire through the mirror. “But no, it’s nothing to do with them. Two weeks ago, I was in the café with your father, talking about plans for the party. The buffet, guestlist, that sort of thing, and Eugene Cropper, of all people, decided to dispense his opinion, not that anyone asked for it.”
“And I guarantee he was probably joking,” Claire said, trying to laugh it off. “You know what Eugene is like. He’s theatrical, that’s all. I bet you a fiver he was just pulling your leg.”
“That’s what your father said.”
“What did Eugene say exactly?”
“That I had to be clinically insane to have worked at the same place for forty sodding years, and yes, I’m paraphrasing.” Janet turned around in her chair. “What if he’s right? I’m only a few years shy of cashing my pension. I’ve let myself get old without ever trying anything else. What if…”
Janet’s voice trailed off, her gaze going to the bedroom door as floorboards creaked on the landing. The door opened, and Grandmother Moreen walked in, a weekend bag in the crook of her arm. One sour scan of the room was all it took for the evening warmth to take on a winter chill.
“Mother.” Janet immediately rose. “What are you—”
“Was that you I just heard wasting your breath bemoaning getting old?” Moreen’s jarringly refined voice grated like nails down a chalkboard. “Are you arrogant enough to believe the facts of life need not apply to you?”
“Mother, I—”
“Don’t backchat, girl.” Moreen’s callous stare snapped on Claire, giving a cutting dart up and down. “I see you’re very much the same, Claire.”
Moreen never needed to say the word ‘fat’; it was always expertly implied. Once an ‘educator of physical education’ at a private all girls’ grammar school, Moreen’s obsession with weight was never far from the sharp tip of her tongue. Claire had always been grateful her grandmother’s retirement had spared her the horror of being one of her students – not that she’d have passed the entry exams for grammar school.
“It’s nice to see you, Grandmother,” Claire lied, her voice as sickly sweet as she could muster. “You look well.”
Moreen grumbled in her throat as though the remark were an insult. She strode across the room, her high-necked, floor-grazing black dress clinging to a body still as slender as a girl’s, even at ninety. Her advancing years only made her look more like the Victorian ghoul of Claire’s childhood imagination.
“Make me up a room at once,” Moreen demanded, thrusting the bag into Claire’s chest. “Janet, I sincerely have no idea what possessed you to think I would want to stay at the bed and breakfast.”
Slightly winded, Claire watched her mother’s dithering lips struggle to find words. This was the nightmare scenario they’d been avoiding for years.
“B-but you always stay at the b-bed and breakfast,” Janet stuttered, clinging to the back of the chair as though to keep upright. “There’s never been an issue before.”
"That’s when two normal sisters ran the establishment,” Moreen cried, her scratchy voice rising with every word, “not some eccentric dandy who fancies himself a madcap inventor!”
As accurate as this description of Fergus Ferguson was, these were the same reasons the new owner of the B&B amused Claire. She wouldn’t waste her breath informing her grandmother that one of those ‘normal’ sisters was now in prison for murdering two men, and the other had fled the village under a cloud of shame.
“Claire?” Moreen stiffened. “Must I repeat myself?”
As much as she loathed allowing her grandmother to think she had any control over her, going along to get along was always the tactic when something brought Moreen to Northash. Once safely behind her grandmother’s back, Claire offered her mother a look somewhere between support and apology. Janet sank into her dressing table chair.
“You’re wearing an awful lot of makeup, Janet,” Moreen said as Claire left. “You look sweaty. Have you been…”
Claire dumped the bag next door. The room, once Claire’s childhood bedroom – and more recently, her adult bedroom while between homes for an extended period – had been reset to its previous pristine guestroom condition. Thanks to her mother’s insistence that all guest bedrooms be made up to hotel standards for this exact situation, Claire merely left the room and crept downstairs.
After checking the sitting room, she found her father and her much nicer paternal grandmother, Greta, hiding in the corner of the open-plan kitchen and dining room by the drinks cabinet.
“Crikey!” Greta jumped, hand on her chest. “I thought you were her. Did you escape unscathed?”
“Just about.” Claire glanced up at the ceiling as she joined them. “I feel awful for leaving Mum up there.”
“You can’t help her now.” Alan twisted open the cap of a new bottle of whisky. “That weekend bag she had with her? Please tell me she isn’t..."
“Oh, she is.”
> Alan’s shaky hands spilled whisky around the glass before finally pouring in enough. He tossed it back with a sharp swallow, followed by a jiggle of his cheeks.
“I can’t do this again,” he said, immediately refilling his glass and two others. “We’ve avoided this since Christmas 2006. Why’s she not gone to the B&B?”
“New ownership isn’t up to snuff.”
“Oh, that’s typical Mean Moreen.” Greta scowled up at the ceiling, accepting her glass. “Nothing is good enough for her. You know, I might just give her a piece of my mind.”
“Mother…”
“She needs it.” Greta sipped the whisky. “Oh, Alan, this is awful. Have you switched to the cheap stuff?”
“Same as I always buy.”
Claire took a sip. She wasn’t the biggest whisky fan at the best of times, but it was somewhat of a family tradition, at least on the Harris side. She could usually stomach it, but she choked and let this mouthful dribble back into the glass.
“What is that?” She cleared her throat with a cough. “That’s foul.”
“Honestly, it’s the same stuff I always get.” Alan picked up the bottle and showed them the familiar label. “Must have been a dodgy batch. I’ll take it back to—”
The doorbell sang out, cutting Alan off. Claire gratefully set down her glass and left the kitchen. No visitor could be as bad as the one already upstairs.
She opened the door to Eryk Kowalski, the owner of the post office. With his pale blonde hair, milky skin, and washed-out blue eyes, she’d always found him striking, though his charismatic smile was nowhere to be seen tonight.
“Is your mother home?” Eryk asked, looking around her. “I need to talk to her.”
“She’s upstairs with my grandmother,” Claire said, opening the door fully. “I’m sure she’d be grateful for the distraction.” She laughed, but Eryk didn’t crack a smile. “Why don’t you wait in the lounge while I fetch her?”
Eryk stepped into the sitting room, nodding curtly to Alan, clutching his house cane in the kitchen doorway. Her father looked to her as though to ask, ‘what’s he doing here?’, to which she shrugged. Climbing the stairs, she watched Eryk pace in front of the fireplace, his hands behind his back.
“She is seeing someone,” she heard her mother say in a forced hushed tone once she was in the hallway. “Do you remember Paula who used to live next door? Her son, Ryan. They were close as children.”
“That ginger lump of a lad?” Moreen replied. “That makes sense. I always told you to be stricter with Claire. I can’t believe you let her get to that size. No wonder she isn’t married. At her age, that’s frankly—”
Claire cleared her throat; unfortunately, it was a conversation she’d heard countless times. She tried not to let the words fester, but she’d be lying if she denied the sting of her grandmother’s assessments, especially since Claire was as happy right now as she’d ever been.
“Mr Kowalski is downstairs.” Claire only looked at her mother. “He wants to talk to you.”
Janet surprised Claire by not immediately grabbing the opportunity to escape with both hands and rushing out of the room. She hesitated by the dressing table before leaving, no shred of relief on her face.
“Kowalski?” Moreen barked, her bony fingers pushing herself up from the mattress with the gold bedpost. “What sort of name is that?”
“He’s Polish.”
“Polish?”
“Polish,” she repeated. “As in, from Poland?”
“Don’t backchat, girl.”
Knowing where the conversation was likely to go, Claire used the opportunity of Moreen checking her bound-up hair in the mirror to flee. Claire knew her grandmother’s white hair reached down to the bottom of her back, though she seldom saw it out of its uniform bun at the nape of her neck.
As she snuck back downstairs, she saw Eryk pull the front door closed behind him. She ducked in time to see her mother clutching the mantlepiece in the sitting room, her head lowered. A split second later, Janet shook out her blow-dried hair in the mirror, and the ‘everything is fine’ smile switched on again at full force.
“What was that about?” Claire asked, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m guessing he didn’t suddenly offer to pay for the party?”
“Nothing,” Janet replied quickly, her breathing unsteady behind the smile. “Go home and get changed. The party starts in twenty minutes, and we can’t be late.”
Claire looked down at her hip-hugging black cigarette trousers and maroon blouse with a slight peplum flare at the hips, wondering what was wrong with it. She’d had her friend, Sally, help her pick it out, not wanting the inevitable quarrel about her fashion choices to happen today of all days.
“This is what I’m wearing.”
“Fine.” Janet pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’ll do, I suppose.”
“Mum?” Claire asked softly. “Are you okay? What did Eryk—”
“I’m fine, Claire!” Janet cried, manic eyes at odds with the fake smile. “I’m fine.”
“Janet?” Moreen thundered from upstairs. “These bed sheets simply won’t do.”
Janet exhaled and mounted the bottom step, though she didn’t make it any further. Clutching the bannister, the smile vanished as mascara-tinged tears tumbled down her shiny cheeks.
“Mum?”
“Cancel the party,” she said in a low voice, pulling out her diamond studs and letting them drop onto the carpet.
“Janet?” Alan hobbled down the hallway with his cane, Greta behind him. “What’s happened? What did Eryk—”
“Cancel the party!” she cried, glaring at them through a mask of ruined makeup. “Cancel it. Cancel it right now!”
Leaving her earrings, Janet hurried upstairs. The master bedroom door slammed, and the key twisted in the lock.
“What was that about?” Greta whispered. “She’s been sending out invitations for this party for weeks. Half the village is going to be there.”
“I’ll call The Hesketh Arms,” Alan said with a sigh, already limping to the hallway phone. “I think it’s best we give her some space.”
While her father lied on the phone about food poisoning, and Moreen’s demands went unanswered, Claire plucked the diamond studs from the carpet. She’d never seen her mother’s ‘everything is fine’ veneer so completely shatter.
What had Eryk said?
And why tonight of all nights?
Find out what happens next on March 23rd 2021! PRE-ORDER your copy of FRESH LINEN FRAUD now!
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
About This Book
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Prologue - Murder on the Christmas Express
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
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Also by Agatha Frost