by Agatha Frost
“Mr Kowalski is downstairs.” Claire only looked at her mother. “He wants to talk to you.”
Janet surprised Claire by not immediately grabbing the opportunity to escape with both hands and rushing out of the room. She hesitated by the dressing table before leaving, no shred of relief on her face.
“Kowalski?” Moreen barked, her bony fingers clutching the gold bedpost as she rose from the mattress. “What sort of name is that?”
“He’s Polish.”
“Polish?”
“Polish,” Claire repeated. “As in, from Poland?”
“Don’t backchat, girl.”
Already knowing where the conversation was likely to go, Claire fled the instant Moreen turned to check her bound-up hair in the mirror. Her grandmother’s white hair reached the bottom of her back, though Claire seldom saw it out of the uniform bun at the nape of Moreen’s neck.
As she snuck back downstairs, she saw Eryk’s back as he pulled the door closed behind him. She ducked in time to see her mother clutching the mantlepiece in the sitting room, her head lowered. A split second later, Janet shook out her blow-dried hair in the mirror, and the ‘everything is fine’ smile switched on again at full force.
“What was that about?” Claire leaned against the doorframe. “I’m guessing he didn’t suddenly offer to pay for the party?”
“Nothing.” Janet replied quickly, her breathing unsteady behind the smile. “Go home and get changed. The party starts in twenty minutes, and we can’t be late.”
Claire looked down at her hip-hugging black cigarette trousers and maroon blouse with a slight peplum flare, wondering what was wrong with them. She’d had her friend, Sally, help her pick out the outfit, precisely to avoid having the inevitable quarrel about her fashion choices today of all days.
“This is what I’m wearing.”
“Fine.” Janet pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’ll do, I suppose.”
“Mum?” Claire asked softly. “Are you okay? What did Eryk—”
“I’m fine, Claire!” Janet cried, manic eyes at odds with the fake smile. “I’m fine.”
“Janet?” Moreen thundered from upstairs. “These bed sheets simply will not do.”
Janet exhaled and mounted the bottom step, though she didn’t make it any further. As she clutched the bannister, her smile vanished and mascara-tinged tears left tracks on her shiny cheeks.
“Mum?”
“Cancel the party,” she said in a low voice, pulling out her diamond studs and letting them drop onto the carpet.
“Janet?” Alan hobbled down the hallway with his cane, Greta behind him. “What’s happened? What did Eryk—”
“Cancel the party!” she cried, glaring at them through a mask of ruined makeup. “Cancel it. Cancel it right now!”
Leaving her earrings behind, Janet hurried upstairs. The master bedroom door slammed, and the key twisted in the lock.
“What was that about?” Greta whispered. “She’s been sending out invitations for this party for weeks. Half the village will be there.”
“I’ll call The Hesketh Arms,” Alan said with a sigh, already limping to the hallway phone. “I think it’s best we give her some space.”
While her father lied on the phone about food poisoning, and Moreen’s demands went unanswered, Claire plucked the diamond studs from the carpet. She’d never seen her mother’s ‘everything is fine’ veneer so completely shatter – not even after her own father’s death.
What had Eryk said?
And why tonight of all nights?
CHAPTER TWO
Y ears of working on the Warton Candle Factory’s production line had turned Claire into a natural early riser. Weekday or weekend, her eyes usually sprang open at seven on the dot.
One year ago, she’d have awoken in her parents’ house with a groan. Mornings started with a half-asleep shower, followed by her mother’s constant wittering over a slice of toast. After her last gulp of cold coffee, she’d bomb up steep Warton Lane, rain or shine. At least three times a week, she barely made it on time. Every so often, she had waded through the field behind her house as a muddy shortcut, much to Ian Baron’s fist-shaking anger.
Claire’s mad morning rush, her mother called it.
When the rushes were the maddest, they could sour Claire’s day before it had a chance to get going.
She hated mornings.
At least, she used to.
Unless she’d had one too many pints after work with Damon the night before, most mornings started with a smile these days. Waking up with her two cats, Sid and Domino, in her cosy flat, conveniently positioned above her candle shop, had that effect on her. Seventeen years grinding away as an anonymous cog at the factory had made Claire forget how pleasant mornings could be.
These days, she took pleasure in the quiet hours before the square came to life, especially now they were in the middle of summer. Most mornings, she’d go down to the shop with the cats an hour before opening to prepare for the day. In between sips of hot coffee, she’d straighten every label while singing badly to throwback songs on Heart Radio.
No candle factory.
No mad rush.
No comments from her mother.
What better way to start a day?
But on this Saturday, Claire awoke full of dread for the first time in recent memory. Even though there was no mad rush to be had, she couldn’t manage a smile. Thoughts of her mother consumed her.
Claire dragged herself out of bed, and after the cats were fed, the three of them trundled downstairs. Lit by the dust-illuminating morning glow through the windows, Claire worked on her new candle formula in the shop’s back room. Sid curled up in a warm spot, and Domino busied herself with the important business of knocking packing peanuts off the counter.
Claire had been dithering about the next star candle, but now she knew what it had to be.
Fresh linen.
Her mother’s favourite.
A refreshing powdery scent with the right balance of floral and citrus notes would be a great seller. She had a basic fresh linen scent she’d developed before first opening, but she wanted these to have the best fresh linen scent ever to greet a nostril.
“Someone’s been busy this morning!” Damon announced after letting himself in and flicking on the overhead light. “Bonkers experiments?”
“You know me.” Claire dropped another pipette of lemon citrus into the mix before offering it to Damon. “What’s this smell like?”
“Like my mum’s washed my clothes.”
“Then I’m getting there.” She added another drop of white musk. “Just need to get it to where it smells like my mum washed my clothes.”
“How’s she doing? Half the village was at the pub when Malcolm announced she had food poisoning.”
After finally giving up and leaving her parents’ house when her mother wouldn’t open the bedroom door, Claire had seen the busy pub across the square first-hand. She’d almost gone in to show her face on Janet’s behalf, but unlike her mother, she’d never mastered her ‘everything is fine’ smile.
“It’s not food poisoning.”
“Oh, good.” Damon reached into a bag and pulled out two dustpan-lid-sized breakfast sandwiches. “Do you want egg and bacon or bacon and egg?”
“You spoil me with choices.”
Claire didn’t miss working at the factory, but in those first few months that she’d run the shop alone, she had missed her partner in crime. For fifteen of her seventeen years, she’d worked alongside Damon on the production line. Thankfully, Damon bit off her hand when she offered him a job at the shop. Two weeks of having Damon by her side again, and there was nothing left to miss at the factory.
“If it’s not food poisoning,” Damon muttered through a ketchup-soaked mouthful, “what could have possibly made your mother pull out at the last minute? She’s talked about nothing else lately.”
“I wish I knew,” she replied, walking over to her beloved bean-grinding coffee m
achine. “Eryk turned up when she was getting ready and said something.”
“What?”
“No idea, but it made her snap. Told us to cancel the party and locked herself in her bedroom. She even ignored Grandmother Moreen. I thought she was going to have a heart attack from the shock of my mother not bowing to her every demand.”
“Another visit from Mean Moreen already?” He shuddered. “She scares me.”
“I think she means to.” Claire put the first cup in place after the machine finished its rinse cycle. “What could your boss say to you that’s so terrible you cancel your fortieth anniversary party?”
“You’re my boss, and we’re nearer our fortnight anniversary than fortieth, but I suppose one thing comes to mind.” He dabbed the ketchup from the corners of his lips. “I’ve never been fired, but how did you feel when Graham gave you the sack from the factory?”
“If I’d had a party planned, I would have cancelled it,” she said. “I don’t think I would have taken the plunge to open this place if it hadn’t happened, so it worked out for the best in the end, but it was devastating at the time.”
“There’s an easy way to tell.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the left wall. “Post office should be open by now. Your mum has worked there every Saturday since before either of us were born. She’s not the type to pull a sickie.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“You haven’t just hired me for my looks.” He winked as he pushed up his glasses. “Go and have a look while I get this place opened up.”
Claire handed the finished coffee to Damon and added a second cup. She hit the double espresso button before grabbing her light blue denim jacket off the wall.
Given Saturday’s early close and it being the last chance to use the post office before Monday, Claire was aware how busy it would be, so she left through the back door.
In the cobbled alley behind her shop’s row, the warm sun prickled her skin, promising another busy day at Claire’s Candles.
She pushed on the rickety blue back gate that led into the yard behind the post office at the end of the row, two doors down. Usually it swung in, but today, it didn’t budge. Had someone finally fixed the broken lock her mother had been complaining about for months? She gave it another push, and it opened half an inch. The lock was still rotted out.
She peered through the gap and gave the door another shove. Plastic bags rustled in a tall black wheelie bin. Her mother never would have blocked the exit like that unless she wanted to keep Claire out. Then again, she wouldn’t have known Claire would come through the back.
Through the gap, the shadows shifted.
“Mum, if that’s you, it’s Claire,” she called through the wood. “Leo? Mr Kowalski?”
Doubting if she’d seen anything at all, she stepped back. She wasn’t about to ram the gate down to check, and she certainly wasn’t going to scale the wall.
Taking the shortcut around the side of the post office, she pulled out her phone and called one of her most-used contacts.
“Hello?” said Claire’s father on the other end.
“It’s me,” she said. “How’s Mum? Is she talking yet?”
“Sort of,” he whispered back. “I didn’t see her all night. I kipped in the second guest bedroom. Woke up just in time to see her go out this morning.”
“So, she has come to work?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “She told me she was going for a walk. Tried going with her, but I couldn’t get my shoes on quick enough. It didn’t even look like she’d brushed her hair, and she left without opening the curtains or making the bed. Any other time and I’d say it was refreshing, but you know what your mother is like. I’m worried about her.”
“Me too,” Claire replied. “How long has she been out?”
“An hour?” he suggested. “Do you think I should go looking for her? I thought she’d be back by now.”
“She’ll come back,” Claire said, looking around the small crowd gathered in front of the post office for any sight of her mother. “Do you think there’s a chance she’s been fired?”
“I didn’t want to say it, but what else could it be? I’d better go, little one,” he whispered over the sound of Moreen screaming for him in the background. “Your grandmother has me waiting on her hand and foot, and she doesn’t seem rushed to catch her train home.”
Claire hung up and approached the dozen or so people waiting outside the post office. The square was growing busy as shops, including Claire’s Candles, opened for the day. Still, the concentration outside the post office wasn’t average, even for a Saturday.
“Get in line, love,” an old woman called to Claire, hooking her thumb down the back. “Some of us have been waiting for ages.”
“It should be open,” she said, almost to herself.
“Well, it’s not,” another woman barked. “Back of the line. I’ve got a cheque to cash in.”
Claire gave the door a single shove to confirm it was locked. The large bay windows were hidden entirely behind vinyl, and the sea of posters in the door window obscured the view inside. Like in the yard, she thought she saw movement but didn’t dare linger in case the mob turned on her.
“Not open,” Claire said as she walked into her shop. “Oh, hi, Ryan.”
Ryan turned around, the hazy morning sun lighting up his freckles and red hair. Like most days, he was in his gym clothes.
“Morning, Claire,” he said, lifting a large bouquet of orange and yellow flowers off the counter. “You look nice.”
Despite what was going on, the mere sight of Ryan brought a smile to Claire’s face. Friends since childhood, they were a month into their ‘let’s see how things go’ romantic trial.
“One for you,” he said, pulling apart two normal-sized bouquets, “and one for your mother. Tell her Amelia spent ages picking them out. We’re all sending our best. Hope the food poisoning isn’t too bad.”
“They’re beautiful.” Claire accepted the bouquet and a kiss on the cheek. “You scared of my mother, Ryan?”
“It’s not food poisoning,” Damon said as he walked in with a box of vanilla candle jars. “Drama.”
“A little,” Ryan answered Claire, following Damon with his eyes. “And it’s not? That’s what Malcolm said at the pub.”
“To cut a short story even shorter, she’s upset, and I don’t know why. And to make it worse, my grandmother is in town.”
“Mean Moreen?” Ryan’s brows shot up. “She’s still alive?”
“No, but we thought it would be nice to dig her up for the party.” Claire slapped him with the flowers. “Of course she’s alive. That much venom coursing through her veins has practically pickled her. She’ll be here with Cher and the cockroaches, you watch.”
“Is she just as bad?”
“Oh, no.” Claire shook her head. “She’s worse.”
“Remember that time she caught us scoffing crisps in your dad’s shed,” Ryan asked, his freckled cheeks tingeing red, “and made us do laps of the garden?”
“Was that the time I threw up or you threw up?” she asked, laughing more than she’d done at the time. “We went upstairs and finished our crisps both times.”
“Your grandmother is crackers,” Damon said, stocking the shelves.
“No, she’s an educator of physical education,” she mimicked her best Mean Moreen voice. “How dare any of you be fat in my presence!”
“Not so much him these days.” Damon nodded at Ryan.
“I’ve gained a few pounds actually,” he replied, patting his washboard stomach over his tight gym vest. “Had chippy twice this week.”
“I had chippy twice yesterday.” Damon fiddled with his glasses. “But keep it up, Ryan, and you might get your body fat percentage up to around three percent before the end of the—”
An air-cracking bang cut Damon off. The echo shuddered through the square, and everyone outside came to a silent halt.
“Was that a car backing up?”
asked Ryan, walking over to the window.
“Sounded more like a firework.” Damon pushed himself up off his knees. “Which direction did that come from? Can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Those bloody kids,” said Claire. “They’ve been letting them off in the back alley at all hours.”
She marched through the back door for the second time and ripped open her yard’s gate, ready to give the teenagers a piece of her mind. They always ran off before she had the chance, and she wouldn’t miss her opportunity today.
She popped her head into the alley: no kids and no fireworks. The owner of the greengrocers on one side of her and the chippy on the other were doing the same. They all nodded to each other before pulling back.
“No fireworks,” she said as she returned to the store.
“Why doesn’t this feel right?” Damon whispered. “It’s so quiet out there.”
Claire joined them at the window behind her latest display of summer scents. The whisperers seemed hesitant to resume their early morning shopping as worried eyes scanned the square.
A woman’s shrill scream sliced through the silence. The post office crowd fluttered away from the door like ripples after a dropped stone in a pond. Chaos took over the nothingness, and the square returned to animation as if someone had hit play after an extended pause.
Claire rested the bouquets of flowers on the basket of cherry wax melts and followed the chaos outside. The crowd ebbed and flowed around a single source, and for the third time that morning, Claire spotted movement through the gaps in the bystanders.
On the pavement outside the post office, Eryk Kowalski dropped to his knees. Even with both hands clutching his stomach, blood poured from his midsection like jam through a strainer.
Silence fell again as Eryk doubled back on himself, his hands slipping away from the wound.
“We’ve been burgled!” cried Leo, stumbling through the door sporting a shiny black eye. “They shot him.”
“Dad!” a young man cried, pushing past Leo. “Someone do something!”
Claire stepped back into Ryan’s arms as phones appeared from pockets. The man who reached the operator and asked for an ambulance – though it was clearly too late for that – was the first person to speak.
