Vanilla Bean Vengeance (Claire's Candles Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Agatha Frost

  “Give them back,” she said sternly, “or I’ll call the police.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Yes, I will!”

  “Go on then.”

  “I will.”

  “Do it.”

  “I will.”

  “Do it now.”

  “Oh, you little—”

  “Can I help you?” A man’s voice from behind startled Claire. “Everything okay here?”

  Claire turned to the man. A typical gym-goer, by the looks of it. He was tall, and he wore a loose-fitting vest that showed his sculpted body through the sagging armholes. Claire had always wondered what it would feel like to be so comfortable with her body that she wouldn’t mind casually exposing large parts of it.

  “I’ve got this.” Claire reached into her handbag for her phone. “This is nothing the police can’t handle.”

  “Police?”

  “This little girl just shoplifted from my mother’s post office and won’t give the stuff back.” Claire tapped 999 onto the phone keypad. “Like I said, I’m sorting it.”

  “Claire?” The man ducked into her line of sight. “Claire Harris?”

  Claire’s eyes left the vest and went up to the man’s face. He had sandy hair and freckles like the two children, but she didn’t recognise him.

  “Do I know you?”

  Her finger lifted away from the green call button.

  “It’s me!” A grin spread across his face. “Ryan!”

  “Ryan?”

  “Ryan Tyler?” He frowned, his grin faltering. “It’s not been that long, has it?”

  The phone slid from Claire’s grip and bounced onto the foam mat. Hugo picked it up and held it out to Claire with a meek smile, to which Amelia rolled her eyes.

  “R-Ryan?” Claire accepted the phone and dropped it into her bag, her hands shaking out of control. “I – I didn’t recognise you.”

  Claire searched the man’s face for any trace of the boy who’d lived next door for the first eighteen years of her life. The double chin was completely gone; his once-round face was now angular. Well-groomed stubble covered a jaw cut so sharp it looked like it could split a diamond in two. His Kurt Cobain-style hair had been cut close to his head on the sides, with the top slightly longer and held in place with some wax.

  But the eyes.

  They had a scattering of faint lines around them, but there was no mistaking the apple green eyes Claire had always wished she had in place of her dull brown ones.

  “Is it true, Amelia?” Ryan walked up to the girl and held his hand out. “Did you steal from the shop?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “You still have chocolate around your mouth.” His voice was firm. “Hand them over now.”

  The girl huffed before she hitched her dress up and pulled out the half dozen chocolate bars she had managed to stuff down her shorts before Janet noticed her. She tossed them onto the floor at Claire’s feet, rolling her eyes again.

  “Apologise.”

  “Dad!”

  “Apologise!”

  “Sorry,” Amelia said, voice practically a whisper. “I was bored.”

  Ryan squatted down and picked up the chocolate bars, the thick muscles in his thighs straining under his shorts. He sprang up with minimal effort and handed them to Claire, nodding a gesture for them to talk somewhere else.

  “I’m really sorry about her,” Ryan whispered, glancing over his shoulder as they walked into the free weights section. “She hasn’t been the same since we moved back from Spain.”

  “Spain,” Claire stated, remembering with a nod. “You have kids.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you still at the cul-de-sac?”

  “I am.” She looked down at the chocolate, unsure of what to say. “I should get this lot back to my mum. She’ll send out a search party if I take any longer.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Nothing ever changes around here, does it?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s good to see you, Claire.” He rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. “See you around?”

  Claire nodded, unable to speak. Before she let the hundred and one questions tumble out of her mouth, she made for the exit, the chocolate cradled in her arm like a baby.

  Ryan was back in Northash. Considering everything else going on, Claire had no idea how to process the shock. Hurrying back to the post office, she hoped the pounding in her heart was from the surprise of seeing him, or at least from chasing the little thief, and nothing more.

  She had never told Ryan how hopelessly in love with him she’d been.

  Chapter Seven

  Later that evening, Claire was more than happy to hurry down the hallway to answer the door. She skipped the greetings and went straight to hugging Granny Greta, who always gave the best hugs.

  “That answers my first question,” Greta whispered into her ear, still clinging for dear life and rocking side to side. “It’s almost insulting to ask how you’re doing after everything I’ve been hearing.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Granny Greta is here now.” They pulled away from each other, and Greta cupped Claire’s face in her hands. “Despite it all, you’re looking well.”

  “Try telling that to my mother.”

  “Is she still on at you about your weight?”

  “When isn’t she?”

  “Hmmm.” Greta held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down; she was the only woman shorter than her that Claire had ever met. “You look like a healthy young woman to me, dear. If my son wasn’t married to your mother, I’d have given her a slap a long time ago.”

  Greta winked before kissing Claire on the cheek. She shrugged off her heavy coat and put it on the hook herself. Grandma Moreen, Claire’s mother’s mother and a less frequent visitor, always passed her coat to Claire like she was the staff, but not Greta. Even in her eighties, she still did as much for herself as she could.

  “What’s this I hear about you hounding my granddaughter about her weight again?” Greta walked straight up to Janet, hands on her hips, and glared at her as though there weren’t at least ten inches of height difference between them. “She’s built like a typical Harris woman. We don’t all need to be stretched out like you, dear, but that doesn’t mean you get to pass comment. She’s the spitting image of me at that age.”

  “Good evening to you too, Greta.” Claire’s mother barely turned away from the pot of Bolognese sauce she was stirring. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “I know where the kettle is.”

  While Greta set about making herself a cup of tea, Claire re-joined her father and Uncle Pat at the dining room table on the other side of the kitchen. They shared the same tight smile, more than used to their mother. Whenever they were together, it was hard to deny that they were brothers. Four years separated them, but with the same round faces, wide noses, bald heads, and glasses, they could have passed as twins.

  “You’d think they’d have warmed to each other by now,” Pat whispered to his older brother. “How long have you been married again?”

  “Forty-five years.”

  “Forty-five too long if you ask me,” Greta said as she joined them at the table with her tea, sitting next to Claire; her hand slipped under the table and gripped Claire’s, something she’d done since Claire was a child. “Cheek of the woman!”

  “I heard that,” Janet called over her shoulder.

  “I meant you to.”

  It had been like this for as long as Claire could remember. Janet and Greta had brief periods of peace, but they were never on the same page. They weren’t even in the same book. They were in different books of different series written in different centuries in different languages. Claire had always found it odd, especially since Greta could famously talk to anyone about everything, but Janet wasn’t included. They’d taken the frosty mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship to another level.

  “Play ni
ce, you two,” Claire’s father said, winking at Janet with the twinkle in his eyes he still had for her; he was immune to their bickering. “Considering what happened at the factory, we should all feel lucky to have our lives tonight. Any of us could go at any time.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Pat lifted his cup of tea in the air. “Trying times, indeed.”

  “I heard you saw it, dear.” Greta squeezed Claire’s hand. “How are you sleeping?”

  “Badly.”

  “Shot of whisky before bed will fix that.” She winked and patted Claire’s hand. “I once saw a poor fella get hit by the number four bus coming across from Downham. 1954, it was, and if I close my eyes, I can still see his head going all the way around as clear as day. Those things never leave you.”

  Claire didn’t need to close her eyes to see Nicola falling from the office window.

  “What are the police doing about all this?” Greta asked her eldest son after sipping her tea. “Those quotes in the paper made it sound like they didn’t know a thing.”

  “They don’t.” Alan sighed. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told Harry not to talk to the press when they don’t know anything. It makes them look inadequate.”

  “If that tumour hadn’t taken you out of action, you’d have caught them by now!” Greta let go of Claire’s hand and leaned forward, her finger stamping on the table. “You were the best DI this village has ever seen.”

  “But the tumour did take him out of action,” Claire’s mother said as she started to set the table around them. “Does everyone want garlic bread with their spaghetti Bolognese?”

  Greta twisted in her seat and stared up at her.

  “You know I don’t like Bolognese, Janet.”

  “I know, Greta.”

  “Now, now, you two,” Alan huffed. “Could you at least pretend to like each other for one night?”

  “No,” they replied in unison.

  Claire couldn’t help but laugh, and it didn’t take long for her uncle and father to join in. It was the first time she had laughed properly all week.

  As was usual on Monday evenings, Claire’s mother was the first to finish eating. She excused herself before everyone had finished and retired to the sitting room to get on with her cross-stitching. It wasn’t a written rule that she wasn’t to be followed, but nobody ever did.

  After the dishes were cleared away and loaded into the dishwasher, the lights were dimmed, and the whisky and crystal tumblers came out. Claire usually passed in favour of some wine, but tonight, she needed something stronger to take the edge off. She hadn’t been able to think clearly since bumping into Ryan Tyler for the first time in seventeen years.

  “So,” Greta said as she poured her own generous measure of whisky, “what are you thinking, Alan?”

  “About?”

  “Don’t play silly buggers.” Greta took a sip of her drink, barely phased by its strength. “I know you. Retired or not, you’re a detective through and through. You’ve always been the same way. Claire too. And me, for that matter. We’re seekers.”

  “What about me?” Pat asked, arching a brow. “Am I not a seeker?”

  “You’re more of a leader, dear.” Greta reached across the table and patted his hand. “A man of action. You’d be great at leading an army’s charge into battle, but your brother would be in the war room figuring out the moves.”

  “I can’t be mad at that.” Pat tossed his whisky back in one. “Not that I feel like much of a leader under Ben Warton. I tried talking to him on Saturday, and again today, but he won’t give me a minute of his time. Too busy, or so he says. Busy doing what, I don’t know. He’s going to run that factory to ruin. Sorry about your rota, Claire. I’m not going to let this stand.”

  “I appreciated the day off.” Claire lifted her glass before taking a sip; it burned all the way down in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It’s not like I didn’t want to move out of my parents’ any time soon.”

  “I don’t know what he’s playing at,” said Pat. “His father would be turning in his grave if he knew how quickly his two children had betrayed everything he stood for. It’s just as well he’s not around to see any of this. Poor fella would have died of a broken heart after what happened to Bilal, let alone the rest of the mess that’s happened since.”

  “So, Alan?” Greta prompted. “What are you thinking?”

  Claire’s father glanced at her. She could tell he was biting his tongue. She’d told him every detail she’d been able to learn so far, not that she’d found much. Whatever she’d imagined investigating to be like, the crucial information she’d hoped for certainly hadn’t landed in her lap yet. With each passing day, she was running out of steam.

  “I have some theories,” Alan started after tossing back the alcohol, his reaction as mute as his mother’s. “Claire’s got her old man’s brain, and she’s been listening out. Found some interesting leads, haven’t you, Claire, my dear?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” Claire felt her cheeks heat, so she forced down more whisky. “Before Nicola fell, I saw her kissing Jeff through the office window.”

  “Health and Safety Jeff?” asked Pat.

  “The very same.” Claire tossed back the last of the drink; a warm glow floated through her insides, and she suddenly saw the appeal. “Most days, I work with his wife, Belinda, on the labelling station. Jeff was kissing Nicola, and Nicola pulled away. That’s when I was outside. I went inside a couple of minutes later with Damon, my work friend, and … well, you know what happened next.”

  “And you didn’t see who pushed her?” Greta asked, topping up Claire’s glass. “Well, I’m assuming not, since no one’s behind bars.”

  “If only I’d looked up while she was falling,” Claire mused aloud. “Might have seen them. But I was too shocked to think.”

  “Surely, it was Jeff, then?” Pat reached across the table for the bottle. “If he was kissing Nicola right before?”

  “He’s the most obvious suspect,” Alan agreed. “Police seem to think so, at least, but he’s gone AWOL. Hasn’t been seen since Thursday, according to his wife. And she seems to know about the affair too, which puts her high up on the list. Do you remember the Johnny Jones case?”

  Greta nodded eagerly. “1977. Murdered by his wife, Linda, because she caught him in bed with her sister. Took a kitchen knife to his throat then and there.”

  “And she would have got the sister, too, if she hadn’t jumped through the bedroom window,” Alan added. “In her birthday suit, too. Broke both ankles, but the neighbours saw her and took her in. Didn’t stop Linda going looking for her, though. Knife in hand, covered in her husband’s blood, with a crazed look in her eyes according to eyewitnesses. Swung for the police when they showed up. Said in court she didn’t remember any of it.”

  “Nothing worse than a woman scorned.” Greta circled her finger around her tumbler. “Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same if I’d caught your father in bed with one of my sisters, God rest his soul.”

  “So, you think it’s the same thing here?” Pat asked.

  Alan tipped his head from side to side. “Could be. Seems plausible. But Belinda was in the factory at the time of the murder. Claire saw her there in the morning, and she could have easily gone down the fire escape unseen. Both have motive and opportunity, but Claire doesn’t seem to think Belinda could be to blame.”

  “You two friends?” Greta asked.

  “Work friends,” Claire corrected. “I like her, but I don’t really know her outside of the factory. I don’t think she did it, though. She was suspicious about the affair but didn’t seem certain. And why would she admit to being suspicious if she’d done it? Unless…”

  “Unless?” Pat prompted.

  “Well, she’d know who my dad is.” Claire looked at her father. “She might not know he’s retired. What if she purposefully tried to throw me off the scent?”

  Alan smiled proudly. “Now you’re thinking like a detective.”


  “Well, I think it was the brother,” Pat announced, screwing the lid back on the bottle after topping up his glass. “Ben Warton. He’s turned up out of nowhere, taken over, and is somehow doing a worse job than his sister!”

  “Ben Warton?” Greta’s brows scrunched together. “Where do I know that name from?”

  “2010,” said Alan. “Went down for attempted murder of his father, William. Switched his blood pressure pills for ecstasy and sent the poor guy to the verge of a heart attack.”

  “That’s right.” Greta swished her drink around. “I remember now. Wanted to inherit the factory, didn’t he? Guess he got what he wanted in the end. Should have just played the long game.”

  “It’s a solid motive.” Pat leaned in, his voice lowering. “Fresh out of prison brother kills sister to get the factory he always thought he was owed. It’s almost Shakespearian, don’t you think?”

  “It certainly makes sense.” Alan sipped his drink. “There’s just one problem.”

  Claire’s ears pricked up. She hadn’t heard her father speculate on Ben Warton’s possible involvement yet.

  “The police will prioritise anyone with a criminal record in a case like this,” Alan explained, gaze vanishing into the corner of the room. “Call it discrimination, call it what you like, but criminals are more likely to re-offend. We all know that. Ben Warton would have been pulled in for questioning the very second the police made the connection. I tried asking Harry, but he didn’t give much away. Truth be told, I think the man is embarrassed by how little they have to work on.”

  “So, it can’t have been Ben?” Claire prompted. “Because if he was involved, the police would have already found out?”

  “Maybe.” Alan tipped his head to the side. “That, or he’s got a solid alibi.”

  “And they’re not always true,” Greta said. “It’s not hard to get someone to lie for you if you have something on them. I convinced Mabel from bingo to lie to the police that time they caught me stealing from Marley’s Café.”

  “Mum…” Pat and Alan groaned at the same time.

  “It was just a teaspoon!” Greta rolled her eyes. “Well, give or take thirty since Jane’s Tearoom closed. You know I can’t resist slipping them up my sleeve, dear. It was a game I’d play with my dad when I was a girl. Some things stick with you. Marley figured out it was me, so he called the police to scare me.”