Claire's Candles Mystery 03 - Coconut Milk Casualty Read online

  “We’re just going for a quiet drink at the pub, okay?” Ryan said firmly, pausing on the corner before they entered the square. “Everyone will be there, and they’re all going to be staring directly at you. Crack, and they’ll see it. You need to muster all the acting skills that come with a D in GCSE drama.”

  “I’ll try my best.” She cracked her knuckles as she twisted her neck side to side. “Mr Jenkins will wish he cast me as Little Red Riding Hood in the Year Ten play.”

  “Who did you end up playing?”

  “One of the three little pigs.”

  “In Red Riding Hood?”

  “It was remixed,” she said. “I’d rather not go into it. I’m still scarred from opening night. I forgot my lines and—”

  “Your costume caught on one of the wooden trees,” he said, his eyes lighting up as he slapped her on the arm with the back of his hand, “and you pulled down half the set!”

  “Like I said,” she said, cheeks flushing crimson, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Linking arms again, they entered the village’s central square. The setting sun bled orange into the sky over The Hesketh Arms. The clock tower in the centre let them know it was twenty-five minutes to eight. The shops were long since closed; even the gym Ryan managed only stayed open until half-past six. The lack of shops to browse or weights to lift, however, didn’t mean the square was empty. The beer garden in front of The Hesketh Arms was packed out in the warm, twilit evening, and Claire imagined the garden at the rear, next to the canal, was even busier.

  Amongst the faces, Claire spotted two of her closest friends: Sally, an estate agent she’d known as long as Ryan, and Damon, whom she’d worked alongside in the Warton Candle Factory for years until she was unceremoniously fired earlier in the year.

  “Not much of a surprise,” Claire muttered as she waved.

  Sally spotted her and returned a hand, but with none of the vigour expected for such an occasion. It took Claire a moment to realise Sally and Damon, while next to each other, were both staring silently into the square in the same direction.

  Claire followed their eyelines directly to her shop, Claire’s Candles, where she found her mother and father, and Granny Greta. Em, another of her friends and one of Ryan’s colleagues at the gym, was also there. Unlike Sally and Damon, they weren’t standing around staring.

  “Come on!” cried Claire’s mother, Janet, dunking a brush into a soapy mop bucket before slapping it against the panelled bay window. While it certainly wasn’t odd to see her mother cleaning things, she never did so while wearing the navy-blue pantsuit reserved for special occasions. “She’s going to be here any second, and it’s not coming off!”

  Em caught Claire’s eye and cleared her throat. Janet let the brush drop and stepped aside, letting Claire see why her father had implored Ryan to delay her at the B&B. Red paint, smeared like blood, covered the front of her shop, spreading from the far edge of the window and past the door before spilling onto Wilson’s Green Grocer’s on one side and The Abbey Fryer fish and chip shop on the other.

  Claire slipped away from Ryan and walked closer, and Em met her halfway. The yoga instructor wrapped her hand tight around Claire’s and squeezed with all her might. Granny Greta turned, her nails in her mouth—a bad habit in times of stress that she’d passed on to Claire. Her father, Alan nudged Janet, and they looked at her with a shared apology in their eyes.

  Claire wanted to speak, to ask what had happened, but it became apparent when she reached the road directly in front of her shop.

  The paint wasn’t smeared at all.

  It was very intentional.

  A single word sprayed in red.

  CONGRATULATIONS.

  CHAPTER TWO

  T he next morning, alone in the flat above the shop, Claire peeled back the net curtain in the front window. The long hand of the clock tower ticked a minute closer to nine.

  Eight minutes until her life changed forever.

  Biting her lip, Claire let out a quivering breath as she peered at the tops of the heads gathered by the front door. Considering the string of bad luck that had followed the shop as of late, she was surprised to see anyone at all, let alone a small crowd.

  “Claire?” her mother called up the staircase. “It’s almost time.”

  Turning away from the window, Claire crossed the box-cluttered flat to the small bathroom. Flicking on the light in the salmon-coloured restroom, she glanced at the hatch in the ceiling. The position of the attic door was strange, but no stranger than what she’d found up there. On the day Sally handed over the keys, a foul smell had taken them up to the attic, where they’d found the body of Jane Brindle, the former occupant of the shop and the flat.

  There’d been a time not long before discovering Jane’s body when Claire’s most significant worry had been finding the money to secure the shop. Still, as it turned out, that had been the easiest part. As though uncovering a crime scene wasn’t enough, the fuse box exploded less than a week after solving the murderous plot that had left Jane’s body in the attic.

  When the electrician came in to fix the box, he found the family of mice that had chewed through the wires and caused the explosion. The entire downstairs needed a full re-wiring, destroying Claire’s decorating in the process. Then, the same day she finished patching up the paintwork after the plasterer left, a bad storm blew half the tiles off the roof.

  Each roadblock had been challenging to deal with, but seventeen years stagnating on the production line in the local candle factory had awoken a determination within her. Her mother claimed Claire was cursed, but Claire didn’t believe in such things. After all, as bad as her luck seemed to be, the various misfortunes were all merely happening around her, not to her.

  Until the graffiti.

  Pushing any thought of curses to the back of her mind, she stepped into the bathroom and assessed her reflection in the mirror. She’d had her thin, mousy bob freshly cut to her jaw last week, and had even picked up some new plastic clear-frame glasses at her latest eye appointment two days ago. Thankfully, her comically bad eyesight hadn’t worsened (for another year at least).

  “Little one?” This call came from her father.

  “One second.”

  Claire took a final look in the mirror. She dusted off the last of the crumbs from the rushed bacon sandwich she’d wolfed down at her parents’ cottage before hurrying down to the shop to finish the final preparations. She left the bathroom and flicked off the light before walking slowly down the dark, narrow staircase, equally thrilled and terrified that the moment was so close after so much waiting.

  In the kitchen filled with the stock that didn’t fit on the shelves, her mother and father greeted her with identical frozen, uncertain smiles. Granny Greta was behind them, her Yorkshire Terrier, Spud, at her feet. Her smile, at least, was more relaxed and supportive.

  Janet gave her outfit a quick scan. For one of the few times in Claire’s life, she didn’t comment, despite spending much of the last fortnight trying to drag Claire to Marks & Spencer’s to buy clothes that ‘looked the part,’ whatever that meant. After briefly toying with the idea of wearing a uniform, Claire had plumbed for a dark-green, scoop-neck t-shirt with slightly rolled sleeves and a pair of ripped, fitted grey jeans, both purchased from the local second-hand shop. Since hers was the name above the door, she intended to kick things off by simply being herself. Besides, she’d spent seventeen years shackled to the awful uniforms at the factory.

  “It’s not too late, you know,” Janet said, dragging Claire out of sight of the open doorway. “They’ll all come back next week. You don’t have to do this.”

  “They’ll understand,” Alan added.

  “The graffiti is gone,” Claire reminded them, pushing forward her brightest smile. “Your pressure washer made sure of that.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Greta shuffled forward with Spud and gave Claire a little hug. “You’re a Harris woman, and we don’t back down to bullies!
It was probably just some kids messing around.” She glanced at Janet. “Your advert in the paper probably cottoned them on to the opening.”

  Claire crouched to stroke Spud, and he immediately began nibbling her fingers. She didn’t mind though; she’d rather be out of the firing line that happened whenever her mother and grandmother were in the same room.

  “Oh, it would be my fault,” Janet snapped, throwing her hands up before planting them solidly on her narrow hips. “It’s not just about the graffiti, Greta. It’s clearly a threat! A message! What if someone wants to . . . wants to . . . kill—”

  “That’s more than enough, Janet!” Greta’s voice boomed from her short, broad frame, a finger firm in her daughter-in-law’s face. “You’re going to get the poor girl worked up, and for what? She’s already made up her mind!” She peered around Janet. “What do you say, Alan?”

  “Claire, your mother is right,” he said, his weary gaze on the floor. “I don’t feel comfortable with this. If it were anyone else, I’d say the same things. A couple more days, and DI Ramsbottom and the team might have a chance to get to the bottom of it.”

  “The only thing DI Ramsbottom can get to the bottom of is a bag of crisps,” said Greta, shaking her head. “Claire, what do you want? If you want to close – rather, not open – I’ll clear everyone off in seconds. Just say the word.”

  Leaving Spud to chase his tail, Claire walked over to the doorway. The mere sight of her ready-and-waiting shop sent a tingle down her spine. She hadn’t been able to see them from her vantage point in the flat above, but Sally and Damon were at the very front of the crowd, staring quietly in opposite directions. Much as she wanted them to get along, she still hadn’t figured out a way to bring two of her closest friends closer. Still, they were both there to support her, making the thought of facing the crowd an easier one.

  Beyond them, two uniformed police officers were loitering by the clock tower. They could have been on break, but Claire wouldn’t have been surprised if her father had asked them to watch out. Detective Inspector Alan Harris might have retired, but he still had enough respect at the station to make something happen with one phone call. He’d never admit to it, so she wouldn’t ask, but just seeing their uniforms eased her mind further.

  “We’ve all waited a long time for this day,” Claire said, her voice firm. “I’m opening.”

  “Good girl!” Greta clapped.

  “But they could be out there right now!” Janet peered around the edge of the doorway. “Waiting to pounce on you at any moment! Oh, Claire. Who have you upset?”

  “Don’t blame the girl, Janet!” Greta shook her head. “Honestly, you don’t half know how to put your foot in it.”

  “It’s fine, Gran,” Claire said, eager to avoid more bickering. “I was up half the night trying to answer that question, and I couldn’t come up with anything. I also decided it doesn’t matter. Not today, at least.”

  “But it’s not just—”

  “Mother.” Claire rested a hand on Janet’s shoulder. “This is my dream, remember? I’m opening that door in” – she paused and tilted her head to look at her mother’s wristwatch – “three minutes, and if a sniper is waiting in the clock tower to shoot me down, so be it.”

  “Claire!” Janet cried, slapping her arm. “You mustn’t joke about such things!”

  But Claire’s bad-taste joke made Alan chuckle, which caused Janet to join in. Claire was glad of a little laughter after such a serious twelve or so hours. Alan pulled them both into a hug, and there they remained until a frenzied knocking at the front door pulled Claire away.

  “Come on, mate!” Sally called through the front door, her phone up to the glass. “It’s nine!”

  Claire’s stomach lurched, and, for a moment, she thought she might throw up. But as she steadied herself, a wide, authentic smile connected from ear to ear. She looked around for Granny Greta, but she seemed to have slipped out the slightly open back door while Claire had been enveloped in a parental hug.

  Leaving her parents alone in the kitchen, Claire walked through the doorway and into the shop. Before heading straight to the door, she rested her hands on the counter and took in her hard work.

  The walls were cool grey with matching linoleum wood flooring, a perfect backdrop for her candles. Jars of all shapes, sizes, and colours lined the walls on the flatpack shelves Ryan had helped assemble, backlit by warm LED strip lighting. In the centre, a large, circular display unit made of natural wood – a second-hand find from Em – featured the first ‘Star Candle of the Month.’

  Claire’s father had helped her assemble the simple counter – albeit without the instructions. The front panel was supposed to be a sparkling, glossy white instead of exposed raw chipboard. Still, by the time any of them realised their mistake, Claire had already grown fond of the contrast. A flatscreen electric till took up half the counter, preloaded with her stock levels and ready to keep track of her inventory. It had a drawer for petty cash, and was connected to her phone for card transactions – Sally’s suggestion; they used a similar system at the estate agents up the road where she worked. In the bay window, distressed wooden boxes of all heights taken from the local butcher’s thanks to Damon’s father being the owner, displayed a dozen of the summer scents ready for the season’s official start the following day.

  To Claire, it was as perfect as it was ever going to get. Despite how much bad luck had been thrown her way, she was ready to share her dream with the village she loved.

  She walked over to the door.

  She flipped the sign.

  She twisted the lock.

  Focusing on Sally and Damon through the glass, she opened Claire’s Candles for the first time. Behind her, a champagne cork flew at the ceiling, and the small crowd gave a little cheer.

  “About time, I’d say!” Sally applauded. “Congratulations, mate. You actually pulled this—”

  Sally’s voice trailed off, and she pressed to the side as Granny Greta forced her way over the threshold, Spud in her arms.

  “There was no way I wasn’t going to be your shop’s first customer!” she announced, patting Claire’s cheek as she passed. “And don’t let anyone near that till until I’ve filled my basket. I’m going to be your first paying customer too!”

  The crowd chuckled, clearly amused by Claire’s gran’s antics.

  “Figured it out?” Sally asked quietly in her ear as she gave her a quick hug.

  Claire shook her head but couldn’t linger on the question.

  One by one, the waiting crowd loaded into the shop, each person offering congratulations. Some even bore gifts. Damon gave her a card signed by everyone at the factory, but he had to get to a shift so he couldn’t stay. Marley and Eugene from the café around the corner gave her a bouquet of red roses, Theresa and Malcolm from the pub offered a bottle of champagne, Walter and Wendy from the greengrocer’s next door settled a fruit basket on the counter, and more than a handful of people gave her cards echoing their verbal congratulations.

  While her mother and father mingled and handed out flutes of champagne, Claire positioned herself by the counter and observed her full shop. At present, most of her customers were her fellow shopkeepers showing their support, but that didn’t stop them filling their baskets. Each time someone picked a candle off the shelf and inhaled deeply, Claire’s chest tingled. Even if they put it back, the excitement remained.

  “They all smell divine, Claire,” Greta said as she dumped a full basket on the counter. “Ring me up, and don’t forget the receipt!”

  Thanks to Sally teaching her how to use the system over several bottles of red wine the previous weekend, Claire whizzed through the six candles her gran had chosen with ease and loaded them straight into a brown paper bag with a black flame emblem printed on the side. Greta insisted Claire charge her full price, but she tapped ‘Friends and Family Discount’ anyway, which took the price down to just above what it cost Claire to make the candles.

  “I love my new
bank card,” Greta said as she tapped it against the small card portal on the counter. “No more fiddly PINs! I could never get used to them after the switch from signing. But this! One tap and I’m away.”

  The machine printed out the first receipt. Claire ripped it off with a satisfying tear and joked, “Receipt okay in the bag, madame?”

  “I think it will be.” Greta winked playfully before leaning in and saying, “I’m so proud of you, you know. I always knew you’d get here.”

  “Thanks, Gran,” she said, returning the smile. “I’m proud of myself.”

  Greta and Spud were the first to leave. Before long, a small queue formed at the counter. Claire rang them through with ease, only having to call on Sally once to show her how to delete an item she accidentally scanned twice.

  Once Sally had to leave to get to a house viewing, and Janet left for her shift in the post office two doors down, Claire noticed she was no longer serving her fellow shopkeepers, but real customers. Claire didn’t know if they’d come for the opening or just wandered in, but by lunchtime, half the shelves were bare. Before she had a chance to figure out how she was going to fill them while manning the counter, her father emerged from the kitchen, pushing a box with his good foot. He began restocking the central ‘Star Candle of the Month’ display with jars of her latest summery coconut milk creation.

  Though Marley and Eugene’s café would be packed by noon, the lunch hour gave Claire’s shop room to breathe. The steady flow of the morning dwindled to only a couple of casual browsers. She’d planned to use any downtime to restock, but her father had almost finished filling the last few gaps in the popular vanilla row.

  “You’ve taken to this like a duck to water,” Alan said, patting her on the shoulder as he kicked an empty cardboard box along the floor into the kitchen. “I knew you would.”

  Claire glanced out the window. The two police officers hadn’t budged from the clock tower all morning. They’d long since stopped trying to look like they weren’t on watch and now actively stared directly at, and only at, Claire’s Candles. And as much as she loved having her father with her on such a special day, she didn’t think his persistent presence was by accident. He rarely spent much time away from his potting shed at the bottom of the garden these days. Not since a brain tumour forced him to retire from the force, and the removal of which caused nerve damage, giving a limp on his left side.