by Agatha Frost
“But you were there.” Sally leaned back in her chair and rested the glass against her chest. “I still can’t believe you went into Starfall House and met Opal Jones. The Opal Jones, the grand ice queen of Starfall herself. It’s crazy. So few people can say that.”
“Well, she was everything we always thought, only worse,” Claire whispered. “I’ve always been a little scared of her, you know. As a kid, I’d stand on the hill behind the roses and watch her staring through that window over the door. I thought she was a ghost the first time I saw her.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “It anticlimactic that she just drifted off in her sleep like that.”
“And was it definitely natural causes?”
“That’s what the doctor seemed to think when he looked her over.” She gulped the wine. “She just looked like she was asleep.”
“You saw her?” Sally quickly topped up Claire’s glass. “Crikey, mate, you’re going to need counselling after all.”
“I didn’t have much choice.” She thanked Sally for the top up with a smile. “Em insisted on seeing her grandmother one last time, and whether she realised it or not, she didn’t let go of my hand. I was hardly going to yank it away, was I? Her grandmother had just died.”
“What even happened?”
“Diane went up to give Opal her rag pudding and chips,” she said. “She opened the curtains and set everything up, thinking Opal was asleep. Said Opal sometimes took a while coming around after her afternoon nap, but she’d usually wake up by the time Diane finished. Diane tried to wake her, and when Opal didn’t respond, she flicked on the bedside lamp and saw her.”
Sally shuddered, as did Claire. She could still see Opal’s pale and waxy face, expressionless, her mouth slightly parted, in the strip of light leaking through the open curtains.
Before they could discuss the topic further, the doorbell rang. Sally quickly gulped down more wine as she stood. The doorbell rang a second time.
“That’ll be Fiona,” Sally grumbled as she hurried around the table. “She’s one of those psychos who just keeps ringing until you answer.” The doorbell rang a third time, making Sally’s eyes roll as she walked backwards through the door. “Just play along, okay? She’s more likely to be nice if she thinks you’re going to buy something.”
“Buy something?” Claire whispered, topping up her glass again.
Sally showed Fiona into the dining room. Fiona smiled tightly at Claire before looking through the glass-panelled double doors to the sitting room and dumping a square black bag onto the table.
“Is it just the two of you?” she asked as she unzipped the bag. “I thought you said there’d be a good crowd tonight.”
“Oh, some had to cancel.” Sally shrugged at Claire behind Fiona’s back; Claire bit into her bottom lip to stop herself laughing. “Amy is in traffic, and she’s bringing a ton of people.”
“Amy, who?”
“Amy . . .” Sally said, pausing to look down into her glass as she hurried to resume her seat at the head of the table. “Winehouse. Old school friend.”
“Oh, okay.” Fiona seemed eased by the promise of more victims. “Well, I can always get things set up.” She slapped her hands together and looked around. “Where do you want me?”
“In here’s fine.”
“Mind if I use the bathroom to freshen up first?” Fiona hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “I came straight from my last viewing.”
“Sure.” Sally wafted her hand into the hall. “You know where it is.”
Claire and Sally let out sighs of relief when Fiona locked herself in the bathroom. Claire slapped Sally across the arm with the back of her hand.
“Amy Winehouse?” Claire whispered. “Of all the names! How much of that did you drink before I got here?”
“I panicked!” Sally drank more. “I had to tell her there’d be a good crowd willing to spend, or she wouldn’t have come!”
“This better not be what I think it is.” Claire’s cheeks reddened. “The last time I came to your house for one of those parties, I went home with a bag of things I didn’t feel comfortable showing my mother.”
“I thought you showed her everything?”
“Oh, I did.” Claire smirked. “I knew it would make her feel even more uncomfortable than me, and that’s always worth a good laugh.” The bathroom door unlocked. “You better think of something quick. She’s expecting Amy Winehouse back from the dead with a coachload of people.”
Fiona hurried in, smelling of sweet perfume. A fresh coat of red lipstick gave her more of a saleswoman vibe than she’d been sporting when she entered as an estate agent.
“Bad news.” Sally patted her phone and turned down her bottom lip. “Amy can’t make it. They’re stuck on the M65. Huge pileup, apparently. Can’t get through.”
“Oh.” Fiona sighed. “I just came that way. It was clear.”
“Just happened.” Sally glanced at Claire as though begging for help; Claire sipped her wine and remained silent. “Why don’t you give us your pitch, anyway? Claire was just telling me how eager she is to buy something.”
Claire saw the cogs in Fiona’s brain whir, no doubt trying to weigh if giving her sales pitch for whatever pyramid scheme was in her bag was worth the effort. Claire gave her an encouraging smile, prompting Fiona to throw down the flap of the bag; Claire let out a sigh of relief.
“Essential Health Essential Oils!” she announced, presenting the display of little bottles on neat little pedestals inside the display bag. “The finest oils of the best quality, and at the lowest possible prices.”
Claire tuned out while Fiona gave her speech. While she wasn’t too convinced of the healing powers Fiona was focussing on, she’d recently bulk bought almost every kind of essential oil for her candle making. She loved throwing them in with the fragrance oils to really help pack a punch. The lavender candle she’d recently developed had been helping her drift off to sleep – or at least it had before she found the body in the attic.
“So, that’s pretty much it!” Fiona clapped her hands together after fifteen minutes of non-stop talking. “Now it’s time for the demonstration. Sally, what troubles you?”
“Hmm?” Sally sat up straight, clearly having also tuned out; her wine was almost finished for a second time. “Oh, what troubles me? Don’t suppose you have anything in there for marriage troubles?”
“Essential Health Essential Oils have recently launched their brand new ‘Stress Relief’ formula,” Fiona explained as she pulled out a bottle from the demonstration stand. “It includes lavender, rose, and ylang-ylang – and because it’s an Essential Health Essential Oils oil, it is truly the finest you’re going to find at this price point.”
“Give us a sniff,” Sally said, reaching across the table. “I could do with all the stress-relieving I can get right now.”
“Me too.” Claire nodded. “I’ll have a go.”
Fiona pulled out two bottles labelled ‘demonstration’, unscrewed their caps, and slid them across the table. Claire wafted hers under her nose; the lavender was comfortingly familiar. Sally, on the other hand, held a finger against one nostril and inhaled with the other. She choked and coughed so aggressively she sounded like a barking dog.
“You’re not supposed to snort them!” Claire slapped her arm, dragging the bottle down. “Bloody hell, Sally!”
“Sorry.” She coughed, wincing before glugging more wine. “The last time someone slid a small brown bottle at me, I was in a gay bar.”
Fiona went to laugh, but her eyes darted down at something on one of the chairs. The smile faded from her lips, and she cocked her head before pulling out the chair entirely. A deep line creased between her brows, and she yanked the police bag from Claire’s handbag.
“Where did this come from?” she demanded, shaking the bag at them. “Where did you get these?”
“The police gave them to me,” Claire explained, feeling as confused as Sally looked. “They were in Jane’s attic. Have you seen them b
efore?”
Without asking, Fiona ripped open the bag and pulled out the records. She discarded the keys and spread the vinyls across the table, running her fingers over the different jazz titles.
“I knew it,” Fiona said, almost to herself. “These were my father’s favourite records. He took them everywhere.” Her eyes darted up at Claire. “You said the police had these?”
Claire nodded. “Are you sure they’re your father’s?”
“Look.” She picked one up – Billie Holiday’s Blue Moon – and pointed to a yellow circular sticker with ‘EB’ written in the corner. “Eric Brindle. My dad was funny like that. He labelled everything.” She glanced up at the ceiling and let out a sigh of relief. “Surely this finally proves it?”
“Proves what?” Sally asked.
“That Jane killed my father!” She tugged one of the records from its sleeve. “If he’d just left and gone into hiding like the police want to pretend, he would have taken these with him. They were his most precious items. He wouldn’t even go on holiday without them. Why would Jane have them?”
“Because she was married to him?” Sally grunted as she uncorked another bottle. “Sorry, Fiona. Do you want a glass?”
Fiona looked from the bottle to the oils, and then to the records.
“You were never going to buy anything, were you?” Fiona huffed as she snatched back the bottles. “I should have known something fishy was going on when I saw that you were here.” She glared at Claire on ‘you’ before continuing to pack up her bag. “I saw you with Em the other day. She, of all people, has a cheek thinking I’m the crazy one around here.”
“Oi!” Sally cried. “Don’t talk to my best friend like that!”
Fiona didn’t look as calm and collected now as she had when Ray shouted at her across the counter at the estate agents. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils expanded.
“Em doesn’t think you’re crazy,” Claire said, hoping to defuse the tension. “She’s just not so sure about your theory that her mother had something to do with your father’s disappearance.”
“It’s not a theory!” Fiona’s nostrils flared. “I didn’t come to talk about this. This is an ambush.”
“I only wanted to talk about the last time you saw Jane.” Claire stood. “Look, I’ll buy some of those stress oils.”
“Me too,” Sally said, already pulling out her purse. “Make mine five.”
“Yeah, same.”
“They’re £18.49 each,” Fiona replied without missing a beat. “Cash or card?”
Claire gulped. Her mental mathematics skills were not sufficient to figure out how much she’d just agreed to pay, but she knew it was more than she could afford. Despite having more in her bank than ever before, she’d actually figured out a budget for the first time to stop the shop going bankrupt before she had a chance to open the doors. There definitely wasn’t enough spare money for frivolous items, especially when she could make the same blend at home for a fraction of the cost.
“Don’t worry,” Sally whispered to Claire as she pulled a stack of purple notes from her purse, “I’ve got this. It’s been a good month for commission.”
After counting out the equivalent of half of Claire’s monthly rent for the shop, Sally slid the money across to Fiona, who pushed back two plastic bags with the company logo on the side.
“If you don’t mind,” Fiona said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “I’ll see myself out.”
Claire chased after her, catching up before Fiona had a chance to open the front door. Her hand was on the handle, but she turned, eyes lowered.
“I’m not trying to accuse you of anything,” Claire whispered, creeping forward in the dim hallway as the sun finally started to fall. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what happened to Jane, for Em’s sake. I know you don’t get along with her, but Em was your step-sister once, and that must count for something.”
Fiona inhaled deeply, her face etched with the same conflicted look as when she’d bumped into Em outside the estate agents. Even if it was only a tiny bit, deep down, Fiona still cared.
“What do you want to know?” she replied, briefly glancing up at Claire.
“Did you go to Jane’s leaving party?”
“I did.” She stiffened up. “I suppose you heard what happened since you’re asking about it. Not my finest moment, but we all make mistakes.” She glanced through the side window as the golden-orange light of the setting sun broke through a tree. “I didn’t feel comfortable about letting her leave before I’d said my piece, and as usual, she didn’t want to hear it. I waited until the party had almost finished, but it still caused a scene. Jane threw me out, and that was the last time I saw her.”
“That answers my next question,” Claire said, wracking her brain while Fiona was in a cooperative mood. “And your father? Everyone says he vanished into thin air.”
“That’s the image the police like to paint, but it’s not the truth,” she said, pausing to gulp hard. “The night he went missing, my father told me that he planned to leave Jane. It’s something I’ve never been able to prove and something Jane never admitted to.” She sighed. “There’s no way to prove it now, but he told me over a pint in The Park Inn that he was leaving Northash and he’d explain everything when he was settled.”
“And why are you so convinced that Jane killed him?”
“Because he went missing that night,” she said in a low voice, leaning in, her eyes locked on Claire’s, “and he wasn’t planning to leave for another four days. He told me he couldn’t go until he’d explained everything to Jane. I’ve tried to get it out of her over the years, but she wouldn’t admit to it. No matter how many times I went to the police, they never wanted to accept that sweet little Jane at the tearoom could have murdered her husband, but everyone who knows Jane knew she had a temper.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door. “Just like her mother. The village is well shot of the pair of them.”
“Did you know Opal?”
“No, but my father did.” She reached for the door handle. “For whatever reason, he liked Opal, even though they had awful rows about him wanting to use the observatory. For years, she wouldn’t let him.”
“Your father used the observatory?”
“Oh, he was up there every chance he got.” Fiona paused and smiled fondly. “Used to joke that being alone in the observatory was the only time he ever got to be himself.” She lowered her head and opened the door. “I miss him every day.”
“I am sorry,” Claire whispered, squeezing her shoulder. “Do you have any idea what your dad wanted to tell Jane?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t get it out of him. He said it was serious and would change everything, and that he knew how Jane would react.” Her eyes locked on Claire’s again. “He said Jane would kill him when she found out. He said it as a joke, but that’s too strange to be a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Claire didn’t want to agree or disagree for fear of feeding into or contradicting Fiona’s theory; after years of opposition, she didn’t seem to take too well to being challenged.
“Wait here,” Claire said, suddenly having a thought. “Two seconds.”
She returned to the dining room and gathered up the records. Sally was sipping her wine at the table, staring at what appeared to be a photograph.
“Here.” Claire handed the stack of records to Fiona, who was now outside on the doorstep. “They were your father’s, so they’re yours now. I want you to have them.”
“Thank you.” Fiona accepted them and clutched them against her chest. “Funny, I forgot they existed until today. Odd what the mind chooses to forget.”
Fiona turned and headed down the path. Rather than climbing into one of the cars, she surprised Claire by walking next door, up the garden path, and unlocking the door.
At the same time Fiona closed the door behind her, Paul pulled up into the driveway with the girls in the back. They unbuckled themselves from their car seats
and ran into the house, bypassing Claire entirely; they hadn’t been taken with her since her last disastrous attempt at babysitting.
Paul climbed out of the car, suit jacket and tie over his arm and white shirt open at the collar. He applied the ‘oh, you’re still here’ smile, and Claire returned it with the ‘I still haven’t forgiven you for abandoning my best friend with your two children to go travelling because of a midlife crisis’ one in return.
He nodded at her as he passed.
“Claire.”
She returned the nod.
“Paul.”
Claire lingered, waiting for Paul to get to the end of the hallway before following him in. She joined Sally at the table; her friend was still absorbed by the photograph. Cartoons played on the television in the sitting room, but the girls were both staring blankly at their individual tablet computers.
“Is there any wine left?” Paul called from the kitchen as cupboard doors opened and closed. “I’ve just had the will reading from hell.”
“Sorry.” Sally poured the last of the wine into her and Claire’s glasses, still squinting at the picture. “Just finished the last drop.”
“Seriously?” Paul walked into the dining room as he unbuttoned his cuffs. “I could have sworn I picked up two bottles yesterday.”
“Only one.” Sally shrugged, clutching her wine at her chest; Claire looked around, but Sally had already moved the first. “When you say will reading, you’re not talking about Starfall House, are you?”
Paul scanned the room as though certain his wife was lying. Given the surprisingly hostile vibe coming from Sally, it seemed she wanted him to know too.
“Yeah,” he replied, leaning against the sideboard as he folded his arms, relaxing a little. “Mrs Jones was always oddly specific about the will being read at the first opportunity. Since all the benefactors were already at the house, it felt like the best time.”
With his perfectly square hairline and even more squared jaw, Claire had always thought Paul was good-looking, but unfortunately, she knew Paul knew he was good-looking too.
