by Agatha Frost
Leaving Damon in the sitting room to ponder the question, Claire opened the bedroom door to find Sally still fast asleep with Sid and Domino curled up on either side of her. Claire retrieved the untouched coffee and replaced it with a fresh cup.
Chapter Six
Claire locked the front door to the shop ten minutes early. Though she didn’t make a habit of cutting the working day short, there hadn’t been a customer for over half an hour; she’d grown used to how slow and empty Mondays in the village could be.
“I think that’s everything sorted,” Damon announced from behind the counter, patting the stack of black binders he’d bought at lunchtime. “One for customer receipts and incomings, one for invoices and outgoings. I also double-checked that all the stock levels were correct on your system, and I went through your business emails and unsubscribed you from all the junk, of which there was an impressive amount considering how long you’ve been open.”
“You really didn’t have to spend one of your days off working here,” she said, “but I appreciate everything you’ve done. You know what I’m like with numbers. If only I had your calculator brain.”
“Keep it this way, and it’ll make your life twice as easy when tax season rolls around. A shoebox isn’t an effective place to cram all this stuff.” He gave her a sarcastic smile as he put the binders under the counter. “And I didn’t mind. Beats sitting at home waiting for updates from the hospital. I don’t even know why I bothered booking the whole week off. It’s not like I ever have anything to do when I’m not working.”
“Sure you do.”
“Like what?” he scoffed. “Play games and watch the same DVDs I’ve seen a hundred times? As much as I hate it at the factory, I might as well be breaking my back on the production line. I’d be making more than holiday pay.”
The same defeated air clung to Damon as when he’d called himself a loser in the hospital the day before. Though Claire and Damon shared similar self-deprecating senses of humour, there was no wink and nudge in what he was saying. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen Damon so down on himself. She hoped it was merely a symptom of the recent trauma, but if she was being honest, she’d felt this shift in her friend’s demeanour slowly creeping in ever since she’d left the factory.
“I had fun working with you today,” she said.
The smile she’d hoped for spread from ear to ear, lighting up Damon’s soft cherubic features.
“Yeah,” he agreed with a nod. “Me too, actually. Didn’t feel like work.”
Leaving Damon in the shop, Claire hurried upstairs. She quickly changed into some fresh clothes, applied a little make-up, spritzed on some perfume, and brushed her teeth. When she was satisfied that she was presentable, she went back downstairs and hoped Damon didn’t notice the changes; they weren’t for his benefit.
“You’ll never guess who’s back!” Sally cried, bursting into the shop and pacing around the circular rose petal candle display. “Paul! And he’s only gone and changed the locks to our house, of which I paid half, might I add! Changed them! Just like that. He of all people should know he can’t just do that. Oh, and that’s not the best bit.”
Sally pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and slapped it on the counter. The letterhead belonged to Watson Solicitors, a ten-second walk around the corner – and Paul’s workplace. Claire scanned the letter, though the legal mumbo jumbo was about as clear to her as it might’ve been while reading through glasses smothered in honey. She got the gist though, and it wasn’t good.
“He’s trying to divorce me!” Sally cried, slapping both hands on the counter before turning away, laughing bitterly from deep in her chest. “After all these years, he pulls this stunt. Can you believe it? He has the nerve to claim it’s my ‘unreasonable behaviour’ that’s caused the breakdown of our marriage.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Damon asked after reading over the letter. “A divorce, I mean.”
“Yes!” Sally seethed. “But I was going to divorce him. He’s the one who ruined our marriage, not me. My blood is boiling!” She took in Claire for the first time. “Are you on your way out?”
“Promised to help Ryan decorate,” she said, biting her bottom lip. “Return the favour, as it were. He did so much to help me with this place.” Reluctantly, she added, “I can stay?”
“No.” Sally shook her head, her rage calming. “There’s nothing I can do tonight, anyway. Am I alright to stick around here until I figure out the mess with the locks?”
“You don’t even need to ask.”
“Cheers, mate.” Sally ran her hands through her hair as she glanced through the wall. “Is the chippy still open? I need greasy carbs, and I need them now.”
After queuing in the busy Abbey Fryer fish and chip shop with Sally, Claire handed her the keys to the shop and flat, gave her a quick hug, and parted, each with a bag of food. On her way to Christ Church Square, Claire glanced through the front window of the B&B. Mark and Daniel were still there, facing their screens with their backs to the window. Claire wondered how long they planned to stick around in Northash.
Sandwiched behind Trinity Community Church, Christ Church Square was a quiet residential area in the village. More affordable than the cul-de-sacs and large detached dwellings elsewhere, the small, terraced cottages were desirable for those on a budget. Like most nice areas in Northash, rental houses rarely came on the market. After months of searching for a place while living at the B&B, Ryan had become the latest resident of the square almost entirely by accident.
“Claire?” Ryan, still in his loose-fitting shorts and tight white vest from his shift at the gym, arched a brow after opening the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Said I’d help with decorating, didn’t I?” She held up the bag, and added, “I come bearing chips.”
Ryan smiled, but he didn’t laugh. After coming up with the little joke on her walk over, she’d expected him to at least chortle. He also didn’t immediately step aside to welcome her in like he always did when she turned up.
“I probably should have called ahead,” she said, taking a step back. “Seems like a bad time.”
“No, no, it’s not.” He pushed his smile wider, but it wasn’t the natural dimple-inducing one she craved. “I forgot, that’s all. Didn’t think you’d be up for it after the weekend you had.”
“As my mother always says, there’s nothing more distracting than starting a job that needs doing.” She looked around the quiet square. “Are you going to let me in, or do I have to eat all these chips alone on a bench somewhere? I ordered enough for you and the kids, but it’s an obscene amount to eat alone.” She offered a weak smile. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t give it a good go, but chips are always better shared.”
Ryan’s dimples popped out in his cheeks, the strange tension he’d held in his brow and jaw softening a little. He stepped aside and let her in.
“I was just making dinner,” he explained as she followed him through to the kitchen at the end of the hall, “but a few chips on the side won’t hurt.”
Ryan resumed slicing up cooked chicken breast, throwing the dry-looking pieces into a large salad bowl. There were some croutons and chopped tomatoes, but it looked more like a side dish than a main. Claire supposed that was why Ryan was the chiselled Adonis of today and not the round dumpling he’d been when he left the village all those years ago. Claire still had her dumpling ways, but she’d also never figured out a way to say no to chips and yes to salad.
“Where are the kids?” she asked as she put the bags on the kitchen table.
“In their rooms,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. “Barely see them whenever we’re home. I think it will be a while before the novelty of having their own rooms wears off after sharing at the B&B for so long. Grab me some plates, will you?”
Claire pulled four mismatching plates from the cupboard and placed them next to Ryan’s salad bowl. She unwrapped one bundle of steaming salt and vinegar-
soaked chips, but decided she’d let Ryan divide them up. As expected, he barely put any on the side of his salad. When he went to shout the kids down for their dinner, she doubled hers up.
“Hi, Claire,” said Hugo as he walked in, a handheld games console in his hands.
“Hi, kiddo,” she replied. “Are you winning?”
“It’s Minecraft.”
“Okay?”
“You don’t win.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t ask,” Ryan said, ruffling his son’s red hair as he passed. “I don’t get it either.”
Amelia didn’t greet Claire, but she did offer a dead-eyed smile before taking her plate and going straight back up to her room. Hugo grabbed his meal and followed her up. Claire’s mother had never let her eat her dinner in her room as a kid, but Ryan’s mum, Paula, had always let him do whatever he wanted. Even though years had passed since Paula had succumbed to cancer, Claire still missed her; she was always the coolest of all her friends’ mothers.
“Down here,” Ryan mumbled through a mouthful of leaves as he opened the door to the cellar. “I made a start last night.”
Taking her plate with her, Claire followed him down the stone staircase to the door at the bottom. Not that long ago, she’d found a body hunched up against that same door, stabbed in the neck with Agnes’s knitting needle. Tossing a soggy chip into her mouth, she banished the image to the back of her mind. Being in the house was already strange enough, considering it had once belonged to her uncle.
“Heard anything from your uncle Pat lately?” Ryan asked as though he’d read her mind.
“He wrote me a letter,” she said. “I replied, but no visits since that mess with Agnes and the casino club. We’re taking things slowly. I can finally say his name around my dad without him freaking out, though. Not that we talk about him all the time, but it’s nice to have the skeleton of having a murderer in the family out of the closet.”
“You might not want to tell him what I’ve done in here,” he said as he opened the door. “Didn’t have much use for a casino.”
Ryan flicked on the light, and the changes were immediately obvious. He’d painted over the dark walls with a thin layer of white, and the roulette wheel and card table were nowhere to be seen. Built in secret by her uncle Pat after a fond visit to Vegas, the cellar casino had been the favourite haunt of a small group of amateur gamblers who played for a few quid here and there on quiet evenings. While technically illegal, the group had been harmless until Pat’s imprisonment. Without his leadership, the stakes had increased beyond anything anyone could control, and after gambling big and losing it all, Agnes had resorted to murder. Possibly, Pat’s earlier turn to homicide had inspired her; like him, she’d tried and failed to get away with her crimes.
No trace of that ugly history remained. Now, an easel stood proudly in the middle of the room, holding Ryan’s latest work in progress, a delicate portrait of Amelia. Bags of paints and brushes cluttered the floor, and boxes of flatpack drawers leant against the walls, waiting for assembly. Claire was reminded of the artsy mess that had always filled the cottage next door to her parents’ place when Ryan and Paula had lived there. Paula had passed her painting skills to her son all those years ago, but he’d only recently taken up the craft again. Claire had one of his recent works, a beautiful watercolour of the front of Claire’s Candles, hung on the wall behind the counter of her shop.
“Needs another layer of white,” he said flatly, gesturing around the room. Around a forkful of salad, he added, “And then I was thinking of doing the skirting a charcoal grey for some contrast. What do you think?”
“I think it sounds nice,” she replied, noticing that Ryan was avoiding looking her in the eyes. “I also think something is off with you.”
Ryan’s freckled cheeks flushed; he’d always been sensitive to blushing.
“Really?” he asked, picking up a chip and biting off the end. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “A feeling. It seemed like you didn’t want to see me when I turned up.”
“I-I’d never not want to see you.”
Claire’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach like a lead weight.
“So, you’re not mad at me for something?”
“Why would I be mad at you?” Ryan looked perplexed. “If anything, I’m – You know what, it’s nothing. I’m fine. I’m not mad at you. It’s been a weird weekend, that’s all. I’m fine.”
“Tell me you’re fine again.”
“But I am.”
Claire pursed her lips, not believing him. He might have lost his teenage shyness, but he’d never been able to hide his emotions. His face projected them as clearly as a film at the cinema. Usually, Claire could tell what film was playing, but this one was a mystery. If he was upset about his estranged wife still not getting in touch after fleeing with the only friend he’d made in Spain, she could tell. If he was missing his mother, she could tell. If he was struggling to juggle parenting and his role at the gym, she could tell. Since getting to know the adult Ryan, the way he expressed all those concerns had become obvious to her, but this new look on his face was one she had never seen before. He seemed . . . uncertain, or possibly nervous. As open as they’d always been with each other, she wasn’t sure if Ryan would tell her if she had upset him.
As much as she wanted to, Claire didn’t push the matter. After finishing their dinner, they poured out the white paint and got to work ridding the art studio of the last vestiges of dark green casino still shining through the patchy first coat. They started in opposite corners, working in silence until they met up again on the back wall.
“How’s Taron holding up?” Ryan asked, dunking his roller into the tray they now shared.
“He’s alive. There’s not much else to say at the moment.” She paused, wondering if she should reveal the next part. Deciding honesty might inspire Ryan to open up to her about whatever was clearly on his mind, she said, “I’m investigating what happened. So is Damon.”
“Investigating?”
“Sort of.” She shrugged. “Well, so far all we’ve done is ask some questions of people who don’t want to say much, but there’s definitely something going on with Damon’s group of internet friends.” She soaked the roller in paint and slapped it against the wall. “The three who bailed on Damon’s birthday are at the B&B. Rina, the woman I replaced in the group cosplay, has been straight-up lying to Damon about the strangest things. And the other two didn’t even seem that bothered about what happened.” She sighed heavily. “And don’t even get me started on Sean. He turned up in the end.”
“Is he okay?”
“Honestly, I can’t even say he is. He didn’t seem it, but Damon said that’s just how he is.” Claire picked up a handful of chips from the second batch she’d brought down. They’d gone slightly cold, but they were still soft. Ryan joined her this time; he’d barely touched the ones on his plate. “There’s all these divisions and splits within the group, and even Damon doesn’t seem to know the ins and outs. Everyone except Rina has admitted to being at the convention, but I’m pretty sure she was there.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Aside from a slight rivalry between Taron and Mark, there don’t seem to be any clear motives yet.” Claire pondered the question. “Mark seems most likely. The way he talked about his onetime friend genuinely shocked me. While Taron’s fighting for his life in hospital, Mark’s obsessed with becoming some online gamer celebrity. Even if you and I had a falling out of epic proportions, I’d like to think a knife through your stomach would smooth things out. I’d certainly still care.”
“We’d never fall out,” he said with a shrug, blushing. “We’ve never even had an argument.”
“That’s not quite true.” Claire winked. “Just so you know, I did say Blue.”
“Not this again!” Ryan dropped his roller into the tray. “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”
Cl
aire laughed, wondering how many years it had been since her first and only argument with Ryan. They’d been walking home from school after missing the bus, still wearing their PE kits after being forced to do the long run through the muddy fields surrounding their high school during the last period on a Friday. It had been a few weeks before Christmas because all the decorations were up across Northash. To distract them from the cold, Ryan had pointed to a passing man his mum knew and asked Claire to guess the name of his dog. The game went on for almost half an hour, until Ryan gave her the clue that the name was a colour. When she rattled through every colour she could think of, he’d objected by saying she’d ‘missed the most obvious one.’ Claire was sure she’d said ‘Blue’ second. By the time they reached the cul-de-sac, the jovial game had turned into a full-blown row; both were too stubborn and too full of hormones to back down. After slamming their front doors, they hadn’t seen each other again until getting on the bus on Monday morning, which, at the time, was an unheard of period of silence between them.
“I did say Blue,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m only saying.”
“Now you sound like your mother.” He grinned – possibly the first natural one since she’d arrived. “And you most definitely did not say Blue.”
“But what if we agree I did say Blue and leave this behind us once and for all?”
“So, now we’re playing into delusions?” Ryan picked up his roller and continued covering the last chunk of wall. “You didn’t say Blue.”
“Ryan?”
“What?”
“You have paint on your face.” Claire dipped her finger in the tray and ran a streak of white down his right cheek. “There.”
“Funny, that,” he replied, and without missing a beat, similarly decorated first her left cheek and then her right. “You have paint on your face too. Been meaning to point it out for ages.”
“Now I have to even you out.” She wiped paint on his other cheek and then poked a dot on the end of his nose. “You really are a messy painter. I thought you’d been taught better than this.”
