by Agatha Frost
Fresh Linen Fraud
Claire’s Candles - Book 5
Agatha Frost
Contents
About This Book
Newsletter Signup
Also by Agatha Frost
Introduction from Agatha Frost
Pre-order the next adventure!
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
Afterword
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Also by Agatha Frost
Published by Pink Tree Publishing Limited in 2021
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Pink Tree Publishing Limited.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For questions and comments about this book, please contact [email protected]
www.pinktreepublishing.com
www.agathafrost.com
About This Book
Released: March 30th 2021
Words: 46,000
Series: Book 5 - Claire’s Candles
Language: British English
Standalone: Yes
Cliff-hanger: No
You can’t choose your family. Because if Claire Harris had a choice, her maternal grandmother – not-so-affectionately known as Mean Moreen – certainly wouldn’t have made the cut. Nor would she have received an invitation to the party celebrating Claire’s mum Janet’s forty years of service at the Northash Post Office.
However, after a disturbing conversation with her boss, Eryk Kowalski, Janet calls off the party at the last minute, leaving Claire (and half the village) wondering what’s happened. When Eryk is killed in a supposedly random burglary the next morning, gossiping tongues begin to wag all over town.
As Claire hunts for the truth that will absolve her mother of any wrongdoing, she discovers that while her family might have its moments – and its Mean Moreens – they’re positively angelic compared to some of Northash’s other residents.
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Also by Agatha Frost
Claire’s Candles
1. Vanilla Bean Vengeance
2. Black Cherry Betrayal
3. Coconut Milk Casualty
4. Rose Petal Revenge
5. Fresh Linen Fraud (NEW!)
6. Toffee Apple Torment (PRE-ORDER!)
Peridale Cafe
1. Pancakes and Corpses
2. Lemonade and Lies
3. Doughnuts and Deception
4. Chocolate Cake and Chaos
5. Shortbread and Sorrow
6. Espresso and Evil
7. Macarons and Mayhem
8. Fruit Cake and Fear
9. Birthday Cake and Bodies
10. Gingerbread and Ghosts
11.Cupcakes and Casualties
12. Blueberry Muffins and Misfortune
13. Ice Cream and Incidents
14. Champagne and Catastrophes
15. Wedding Cake and Woes
16. Red Velvet and Revenge
17. Vegetables and Vengeance
18. Cheesecake and Confusion
19. Brownies and Bloodshed
20. Cocktails and Cowardice
21. Profiteroles and Poison (NEW!)
22. Scones and Scandal (PRE-ORDER!)
Other
The Agatha Frost Winter Anthology
Peridale Cafe Book 1-10
Peridale Cafe Book 11-20
Claire’s Candles Book 1-3
Introduction from Agatha Frost
Hello there! Welcome to another installment of my Claire’s Candles Cozy Mystery series! If this is a return visit to Northash, welcome back, and if this is your first visit, welcome! Since this is the fifth book in a series with overlapping subplots, I recommend staring with the first book in the series, Vanilla Bean Vengeance, although the mystery in this story can be enjoyed as a standalone (and I never leave a mystery hanging).
Another note: I am British, and Claire’s Candles is set in the North West of England. Depending on where you live, you may come across words/phrases you don’t understand, or might think are spelt wrong (we love throwing the ‘u’ into words like ‘colour’). If that’s the case, I hope you enjoy experiencing something a little different, although I believe that anyone speaking any variety of English will be able to enjoy this book, and isn’t reading all about learning?
Please, enjoy! And when you’re finished, don’t forget to leave a review on Amazon (they help, a lot), and to check out my other series, Peridale Cafe, which has over 20 cozy adventures for you to enjoy!
Pre-order the next adventure!
The next and 6th book in the series, TOFFEE APPLE TORMENT, is coming August 31st 2021! Pre-order your next cozy adventure with Claire on Amazon!
Chapter One
Claire’s mother had on her ‘everything is fine’ face. The perfected expression might convincingly deflect untrained eyes, but Claire had caused it enough times to recognise that clenched jaw and toothless smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. As recently as last weekend, Janet had sustained the look at a Women’s Institute party for close to four hours after Claire dared to make a slightly off-colour joke.
Even after thirty-five years, the look still mildly frustrated Claire, but she’d learned to find the humour in how polar opposite she and her mother were when it came to levels of filter. Once they were alone, the look nearly always dropped with a hefty sigh and a pointed “Why did you have to say that?”
Claire could cope with that.
Laughing it off was easy enough.
But seeing that look when they were alone – and knowing she hadn’t caused it with an ill-timed joke about Boris Johnson walking into a Berlin bar – was a different beast entirely.
Seated 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, but she couldn’t control the shaking like she could the smile.
Tonight, everything was not fine.
Unable to watch the unrelenting 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 backing, an unsure but genuine smile breaking through the heavier than usual makeup.
“Tricky little things.” Janet forced a laugh a
s unconvincing as her patented look, handing Claire the matching stud. “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 stopped when she noticed, clenching her hands in her lap. Her right leg bounced up and down.
“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, guest list, 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 are 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.
“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 imagination.
“Make up a room at once,” Moreen demanded, thrusting the bag into Claire’s chest. “Janet, I sincerely do not know what possessed you to think I would 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 it was the only thing keeping her upright. “There’s never been an issue before.”
“That was 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!”
Though an accurate description of Fergus Ferguson, Moreen’s complaints 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 are wearing a great deal 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 reverted to its previously 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 it again,” he said, immediately refilling his glass and two others. “We’ve avoided this since Christmas 1997. 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 the drink 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 blond 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?”
