by Polly Holmes
She breathed a sigh of relief as the frothy hazelnut liquid slid down her throat and warmed her from the inside out. Her fizzled brain was starting to think normally again. “I’m sorry,” Clair said.
Charlotte’s brow creased.
Clair continued, swallowing a cup of humility as she spoke. “I’m sorry for snapping just now and I’m sorry I was so blasé when you were freaking out over the accusations against you.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Charlotte smiled warmly.
“On the positive, you did score a boyfriend out of the fiasco.”
Charlotte’s cheeks blossomed a rosy red. “I know, lucky me. Who knew Ashton Point’s wedding of the year could have been so disastrous and wonderful at the same time?” Clair couldn’t help but smile at her sister’s happiness. It had been Lincoln’s best man, Liam, who’d helped Charlotte clear her name, stealing her heart in the process.
Clair re-read the entire article from top to bottom, scrutinizing every word. She’d heard rumours about a curse but never taken much notice of it. Now she wished she had. “It pretty much says here in black and white that I murdered Mr Hapworth.”
“I guess, but people will know that it’s total garbage.”
“Will they?” Clair asked. “How are they going to know? It basically says that I planned the whole thing. Arranged the meeting late at night and deliberately had it at the mansion. It even says I was affected by some sort of curse. Either way, it makes me look guilty.” She paused taking a deep breath.
Her gaze fell on the journalist’s name. “What I don’t get is how Christina Jacobs knows so much about the events of last night. I mean, by the time I got back home from the police station it was after eleven. And it wasn’t like it was full of people. As far as I was aware, only Robert and Detective Anderson were on duty. Even Alison at the front desk had gone home.”
Charlotte pursed her lips. “I suppose she has her sneaky journalist ways of finding things out, and since she’s owned The Chronicle for over ten years, she probably knows a lot more about this town than we gave her credit for. She probably has secret contacts hiding in the most unusual places. Maybe we should have asked her about the Sweets mansion before making an offer.”
Clair shook her head. “Still, I’m going to find out how she found out this information so quickly. I can’t see Robert or Detective Anderson blabbing to her.” It was hard to control the frustration that mounted with every breath she took.
“This could get really ugly if it’s not handled properly,” Charlotte said. “The cyanide debacle was bad enough, now this. The business can only take so much before people start losing faith in us and we’ve worked too hard to let that happen.”
Clair clenched her fingers into tight fists as Charlotte’s words registered. Not to mention finding some extra money to make the first loan repayment. “I promise I will not let that happen. I did not do this horrible thing and if I have to prove it, I will. The sooner I get it sorted the better.”
“You have my vote of support,” Charlotte said in a hyped tone.
Clair leaned against the stone kitchen bench, looking at Charlotte, her brows creased in thought. She couldn’t help mulling over the missing object from the phone table.
“Is something wrong?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m not sure. When you did the final walk through of the house with me, did you notice what was on the phone table by the entrance to the formal lounge room?”
“I can’t say I did, I was in heaven admiring the commercial-sized kitchen. Why do you ask?”
“Well, last night while I was waiting for Robert to finish his phone call, I noticed there was a clean circle, void of dust. It was obvious something was missing.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “You don’t suppose it was the murder weapon?”
Clair nodded, but before she could answer, the buzz of the doorbell interrupted their conversation.
“What now?” Clair asked, throwing her hands up in the air, her eye catching the newspaper headline one more time. Please don’t be a nosy local, wanting more gossip, or worse, the local media.
Charlotte stood. “Want me to get it?”
Annoyance tightened Clair’s jaw. “No, I’ll get it. Can’t have people think I’m hiding behind my little sister when the going gets tough.”
Clair’s hand stilled on the door handle. Nervous knots welled in the pit of her stomach. Please don’t let me make a fool of myself.
Rolling her shoulders back, she opened the door. “Can I…” She froze when the man before her turned. Her words caught in the back of her throat.
If he’s the press, he can interview me any day.
She stood staring into the most gorgeous, deep, Mediterranean-blue eyes, masked only by a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses. His hair had just the right amount of messy for it to look like a model’s.
He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Clair McCorrson?”
Butterflies overtook her nerves. “Yes.”
He looked her up and down. Goosebumps assaulted every inch of her body under his heavy scrutiny. “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about James Hapworth?” His soft tone almost threw her, but Clair mentally cautioned herself.
Don’t be fooled by his good looks and debonair voice. “I’m sorry, you’ve caught me at a bad time and I’m not really up for giving an interview.”
His eyebrows went up in question. “Excuse me?”
With her focus regained, she folded her arms across her chest. Power and strength soared through her body. “I’m sorry, regardless of what’s printed in that silly paper. I’m extremely busy and I’m sure you’ll be able to source your information elsewhere.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” he said, his words full of sincerity.
“Really? So, you haven’t come to ask me what happened last night at the Sweets mansion?”
He shuffled on the spot and his nervous movements put her on edge. “Yes, I have, but I’m not from the media if that’s what you think.” He ran his hand through his dishevelled hair. “My name is Mason… Mason Hapworth. James Hapworth is…was my father.”
Clair’s jaw dropped and her blood turned to ice. Mason Hapworth? Clair tensed and pulled her gown tighter. “Oh.” She’d heard James had a son, but they didn’t exactly get on. Apparently, they hadn’t been able to stand the sight of each other and he’d left Ashton Point some years ago. At least, that’s what she’d heard on the town grapevine. Whenever she mentioned family, he’d always been hush-hush about his. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. The police informed me of my father’s death last night and I thought it only right to come and see for myself the woman they say is a person of interest in his murder,” he said, his gaze never leaving Clair’s.
“But it’s not true. I didn’t murder your father. It was all a terrible mistake.” Her hands grew clammy and she tried to keep her breath measured but she failed miserably. “Everything they printed was a lie.”
His brow creased. “Printed? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I drove down last night from Surfers Paradise and spoke to a Detective Anderson at the police station this morning.”
“Oh. I suppose he told you that it was all me, thanks to that stupid curse garbage. I’m sure that by now everyone in town is convinced I did it as well.”
“I’m not sure what curse you’re talking about. He informed me that he still hasn’t received the results of the autopsy, but they were questioning someone in relation to the incident. He refused to tell me any more information.” He paused and there was no mistaking the determination in his voice. “I know it’s been almost ten years since I’ve lived here, but it seems not much has changed. Once the gossip train gets hold of a story, it never lets it go.”
“It didn’t take long to find out who Detective Anderson was referring to. So, here I am to ask you face to face.” He took a step closer, his ocean-blue eyes holding her in a trance. “D
id you have anything to do with my father’s death?”
It felt like forever before she spoke. “No, no, no. I had absolutely nothing to do with your father’s death, I swear.” Will he believe me? “I can explain everything.”
“Explain?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “You were found alone, in an empty house standing over his bloodied body.”
“Yes, I was but…”
He stood there, his eyes drilling hers. “But what? What is there that you can explain that the police won’t be able to uncover in their investigation?”
“It really is all a simple misunderstanding.” She smiled, hoping to ease the growing tension. “A simple misunderstanding of wrong place, wrong time.”
He paused and his brow creased. “My father wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. I know he had enemies, but you don’t strike me as one.”
“I’m not. He was my settlement agent, that’s all. I swear.”
“You don’t look like someone who would take another’s life. Then again, I don’t know you,” he said hoarsely, then spun and walked away.
Clair froze as she watched his retreating figure. She rattled off the first word that popped into her mind. “Coffee.”
He stopped and turned at the high-pitched sound of her voice. “Excuse me?”
Clair’s voice shook. “You could get to know me and then you’ll have no reason to ever think I could do something as horrific as murder. I promise I won’t take up too much of your time and you did say you’d been traveling. If you’re anything like me when I travel, you must be in desperate need of caffeine. The good stuff.” She bit her bottom lip as she waited for his answer. One more supporter on her side couldn’t hurt.
His brow furrowed as if he were tossing her proposition around in his mind.
The corner of his lips turned up into a sheepish grin. “You’re right about one thing, I am in need of a good coffee. I guess I could hear your side of the story.”
She stepped back to hold the door open. “Please come in and I’ll explain everything over a hazelnut Nespresso.”
Mason smiled and advanced toward her, his muscular frame filling the doorway. He paused, his eyes pinning her back up against the wall. “Thank you, Clair.”
Clair sucked in a deep breath. The spicy scent of his aftershave caught her off guard. She shook her head. Far out, woman. Surely it hasn’t been that long since you’ve had a boyfriend. It dawned on her just how pathetic her love life really was. No wonder she was salivating over a perfect stranger. A stranger who had just lost his father no less. How callous can I be?
He paused and his gaze turned on her. “If you’d rather, we can always have coffee downtown at Tea 4 Two Café?”
Like I want more inquisitive, nosy people staring at me. Would they be staring because of the rumours or because they were wondering what a woman like me is doing out in public with a guy like you?
“No imposition at all.” She smiled. “I was just thinking what a shock it must have been when Detective Anderson called to tell you about your father.”
“Yes, you could say that.”
She closed the door and moved past him, holding her breath as she went. “Follow me, it’s this way to the kitchen.” He moved silently behind like a stealth cat marking his prey. Thank goodness Charlotte had made herself scarce. Clair cringed at the thought of explaining why she let a strange man into their house.
“Nice house,” he said, his words slicing the tense air. “Is it yours?”
Clair showed him where to sit while she busied herself with the coffee machine. She shook her head. “No, my parents. We moved here about three years ago to be close to my grandma. She was a very independent woman and after her second husband passed, she refused to leave her home just because she was getting old, so we came to her.”
“What was her name? Maybe I knew her,” Mason said fiddling with the salt and pepper shaker on the kitchen table.
“Betty, Betty Brookson,” Clair said as she placed a steaming coffee in front of him.
A warm smile spread across his face. “B1 and B2,” he said under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Horrified that her grandmother would be referred to as a character from a children’s television show. “You did not just compare my beautiful Grandmother to the Bananas-in-Pyjamas, did you?”
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you. I do remember her. She was the sweetest, kindest woman. I remember how happy she was married to Bob. They were inseparable. They coined the term B1 and B2. They were never apart. They even finished each other’s sentences.”
Clair shoved her hands on her hips, racking her brain for one instance when she’d heard her grandmother referred to as a banana. “Then how come I haven’t heard that term before? I’ve been living here for three years and no-one else has referred to them as B1 and B2.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know why. Maybe it was too long ago and people have forgotten, or once Bob passed, it wasn’t appropriate anymore.” He paused, a frown marring his expression. “I was sorry to hear about her passing last year.”
Clair’s chest suddenly felt like it was being squashed in a vice. Tears burned like acid in her eyes. The memory of her grandmother’s funeral was as sharp today as it had been twelve months ago. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I do miss her terribly. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. I lost my grandmother to old age. At least I got a chance to say goodbye, but losing your father the way you did must be just awful.” His face drained of colour and she could have kicked herself for being so insensitive.
“You can never really prepare yourself.” He paused and cleared his throat. “If you’re ready, I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened last night. And please, don’t leave anything out.”
Her tight chest was suddenly replaced by the growing lump in her throat. She licked her lips and dove head first into the same explanation she’d told Detective Anderson last night, barely taking a breath between sentences. By the time she finished her story, her head was pounding.
She sighed. “So, you see I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And this silly article.” Clair paused and slid the paper across the table. Her words continued to flow like a gushing creek while Mason read. “It practically says I’m a murderer which is just not true. Sure, it was my idea to meet at the house, but he chose the time. I did not have anything to do with your father’s death. I’m sure The Chronicle just enjoys printing false accusations about people.”
Anticipation bubbled inside Clair’s gut as he seemed to mull over her words, his eyes glued to the front page. Why didn’t he visit his father? “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why haven’t I ever seen you around town?”
He continued to read as he spoke, his voice emotionless. “My father and I didn’t exactly get on. I suppose it was easier to live separate lives. We were never close, less so after my mother passed. In fact, I couldn’t wait to move out as soon as I was old enough and could support myself. I’ve probably returned five or six times at the most, in the last ten years. Life was easier to communicate by email or phone.”
“Oh.”
A twinge of regret bellowed in the base of her chest. She’d been so focused on her own dramas the last time her parents visited, she’d practically ignored them. A situation she promised to remedy the next time they were in town. Her chest knotted just thinking about losing one of her parents. Maybe he could do with something stronger than coffee.
“From what you’ve told me, at this point, I’m not sure there is enough evidence to indicate that you had anything to do with my father’s death. Other than being as you say, ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time.’”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” Clair sighed with relief.
“I guess I’ll wait ’til the police have finished their investigation to make my final conclusions.”
“Not me,” Clair said shaking her head. “I intend to prove to everyone that I am an innocent victim in this tragedy.”
“What exactly do you mean?” he asked, concern etched in his brow.
She stood and placed his empty coffee cup into the dishwasher. “Exactly what I said. I intend to find the culprit, before I end up wearing prison greens ’til I’m old, grey, and wrinkly.”
Mason stood as if to protest, his chair scraping on the tiles. His words were interrupted by a rapid pounding thump on the front door. Charlotte appeared from the hallway, sliding her arms into a turquoise cotton pullover. “What on earth is that racket?” She paused, eyebrows raised, her gaze shooting from Clair to Mason then back again. “Oops, sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.”
“It’s like Grand Central Station around here this morning. Charlotte, this is Mason Hapworth, James Hapworth’s son. Mason, this is my younger sister, Charlotte.” The increasing racket at the front door was worse than kid’s day at the Royal Show. “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” Clair said.
She opened the door and paused. Detective Anderson stood on the other side, doing his best Sherlock Holmes impersonation. Robert was standing one step behind him and cleared his throat, shoving his notebook back in his trouser pocket. Judging by the looks on their faces, it wasn’t a social visit. Clair could almost hear her heart beating inside her ribcage as they stood there in silence waiting for her to speak. She nodded at each man. “Detective Anderson…Robert.”
“Morning, Clair. May we come in?” he asked.
“Of course. I’m not sure the reason for your visit, but I can’t tell you any more than I did last night,” she said, her anxiety growing by the second.
He pushed past her and headed toward the kitchen, stopping short when his gaze fell on Mason. “Mr Hapworth, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Mason said, his tone serious.
“Why the house call, Detective?” Charlotte asked, edging closer to Clair.
“I wish we were here under more pleasant circumstances,” he said. His words doubled the tension in the room. “Clair, do you know a man by the name of Roland Trent?”
