Claire's Candles Mystery 03 - Coconut Milk Casualty

by Agatha Frost

  Fingers wrapped around the cold doorknob, she twisted and pushed inwards, the candle guiding the way. The soft glow lit up the compact room, which looked far more professional than the simple round table and deck chairs she’d pictured based on Ste’s ‘card ring’ comments.

  “You’re kidding me,” Ryan said as he followed her in. “Why are we suddenly in Las Vegas?”

  Claire set the candle down in the middle of a table with cards from the last-played game still strewn about the surface. Once the flame settled, it illuminated a giant sign on the wall that, indeed, said, ‘Welcome to Las Vegas.’ A large, framed picture of two men posing in front of a mega-casino filled the opposite wall. The height difference between Pat, a short man like Claire’s father, and Nick, a giant by anyone’s standards, was almost comical. From the beaming grin on Nick’s face, she imagined Pat would be smiling too; someone had scratched his face out.

  “He talked about that Vegas holiday for years,” Claire said, drinking in every detail of her uncle’s passion project. “Every year he’d swear he was going to go back, ‘only when the money is right.’”

  “I guess this was one way to make that money,” Ryan said, grabbing the candle and taking it over to a roulette wheel in the corner. “This thing is covered in receipts. I think they’re from the bookies ‘round the corner from the gym.”

  Claire joined him in the corner and peered at the dozens of scrunched up betting slips.

  “They’re all dated the day before Nick died,” Ryan said quietly as he uncrumpled a few. “Some for hundreds. This one for almost a thousand. Lost on most of them by the looks of it.”

  “What’s going on down there?” Damon cried. “You’ve gone quiet.”

  “Ghost killed us,” Claire called back. “Come down. We need your brain.”

  Damon took the stairs at lightning speed, his thudding footsteps standing in place of the rumbling thunder they couldn’t hear below ground level.

  “Add all these up,” Claire said. “I bet it’s around five thousand.”

  Damon, ever the human calculator, only needed to scan each ticket briefly before moving to the next, his calm face showing no indication that he was doing mental arithmetic. Claire had never understood how easily her friend could add, subtract, and divide at will – especially without using his fingers and having his tongue sticking out as she’d have done in his place.

  “He spent £7553,” he said after dropping the last slip, “but I kept a running total of the winnings and, assuming he re-invested every penny he won over what was a long day betting on horses and dogs, his original spending money would come to £4987.”

  “Close enough.”

  “How did you know that?” Ryan asked.

  “Nick’s brother, Ste, said he gave him five thousand pounds not long before his brother died,” she revealed, picking up the candle and holding it up to the hollow of her uncle’s missing face. “Ste also said that Nick asked to borrow twelve thousand pounds.”

  “Oddly specific,” Damon pointed out, “almost like he owed someone twelve thousand pounds and was trying to make up the difference on the races.”

  “But he lost every penny of it?” Ryan fluttered his lips with a heavy breath. “No wonder the poor fella killed hims—”

  “He didn’t,” Claire cut in, realising the news hadn’t reached every corner of the village yet. “Ramsbottom has opened a murder case. Rope marks inconsistent with hanging. A debt of twelve thousand pounds is as good a motive as any.”

  “And I’ve found you a list of suspects,” Damon called from a small side table. “There’s a guestbook here, and there are four names listed as attending the last meeting.”

  “Please tell me my gran isn’t on there.”

  “No.” Damon glanced over his shoulder, nodded at Ryan, and said, “but your landlord is. Agnes, Gwyn, Joey, and Nick. It’s dated the day before he died.”

  “Agnes?” Ryan laughed. “Didn’t have her down as the gambling type. Might be worth talking to her to see what she knows?”

  Claire nodded, her gaze homing in on the candle as the overwhelmingly familiar scent filled the small room. While she’d been passionately developing what she referred to as ‘the best vanilla candle formula of all time’ earlier in the year, she’d given this prototype to her uncle. He’d always offered the best advice, had always been as focused on her dream of opening a candle shop as she was. Thinking back, he might have been the first person to whom she revealed that dream – probably over a pint of Hesketh Homebrew at the pub.

  “C’mon,” she said, picking up the candle. “Let’s go and wait for this storm to pass. There’s probably some biscuits or crisps in the—”

  Claire’s stopped abruptly, and all of them whipped around to look up at the low, exposed-beam ceiling. Fast footsteps banged across the creaky wood.

  “I knew this was a bad idea,” Damon whined, turning straight to the stairs. “I’m going to take my chances out in the—”

  Damon let out a high-pitched scream as electric purple lightning split the sky in two. The silhouette of a hunched figured hissed from the top of the stairs, its hair and tail standing on end.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “P ickles?” Claire called up the stairs, pushing past a trembling Damon. “I forgot my uncle had a cat.”

  “C-cat?” Damon cried, scrambling up the stairs on her heels. “It sounded like Usain Bolt himself sprinted across that floor.”

  “He’s a big cat.”

  Pickles, a large ginger shorthair, backed away from Claire. His head recoiled as he hissed again, his eyes as wide as saucers. How many days had it been since his last meal? Rather than trying to appease the cat with words or affection, Claire searched the cupboards. She came across two tins of tuna first. She popped the lids off, and Pickles launched onto the counter to bury his face in one before she had a chance to dump them into a bowl.

  “Poor thing must be starving,” she said, filling a dish with water. “Must be days since he’s eaten properly.” She set the water on the floor and dumped the second tin of tuna onto a saucer. After searching more cupboards, she found a box of biscuits and poured as many as would fit into another bowl. “Poor guy’s been forgotten about.”

  Leaving Pickles to fill his boots, they went through to the sitting room at the front of the cottage with the rest of the beer. In contrast to the highly polished cellar, the rest of the house was decorated as simply as could be: white walls, a grey sofa with a matching armchair, a coffee table, and a small television on a stand in the corner. With no rugs, cushions, pictures, or even a mirror, it definitely missed what her mother would call ‘a woman’s touch.’

  “Shame the power isn’t on,” Damon said, squatting to scan the DVDs on the shelf under the TV. “There’s some Doctor Who boxsets here. Didn’t know your uncle was a Whovian.”

  “A what?” Ryan laughed, dropping onto the left side of the sofa in a sprawl.

  “It’s a name for people who like Doctor Who,” Damon said in a quieter voice, his cheeks reddening. “It’s a bit silly, really, but it gets the job done.”

  “Sounds cool.” Ryan ripped another beer can from the plastic ring and tossed it to Damon. “I think my mum used to have some of the VHS tapes when I was a kid.”

  Damon sat in the armchair next to the window, and Claire took the right corner of the small, hard sofa. She had been trying to warm Damon up to the idea of hanging out with Ryan for a while, but Damon had insisted ‘guys like him’ – which she could only imagine meant guys with muscles – didn’t like men like him.

  While the storm raged on over the next few hours, they talked about anything and everything. The laughter only grew as they emptied the small cans of warm lager. Much to Claire’s relief, Damon loosened up, warming to Ryan. Despite his slightly intimidating bulky exterior these days, Ryan was (and had always been) one of those guys with whom it was incredibly easy to get along and, more importantly, laugh with. He’d never taken himself too seriously, and Claire was glad ad
ulthood hadn’t changed that as it had done for so many people she knew from her youth. A glance at social media told her all she needed to know about how cynical and judgemental her peers could be these days.

  “There he goes,” Claire said, nodding at Damon as his eyes fluttered shut, one hand still wrapped around the can balanced on his rising and falling stomach. “That’ll be him gone until one of us shakes him awake. He sleeps like the dead.”

  “He’s pretty cool.”

  “I’d glad you think so,” she replied, offering him a relieved smile. “He’s been a really good friend to me for a long time.”

  “Are you two . . .”

  Ryan’s voice drifted off before he sipped his beer, and he darted a suggestive glance at Damon.

  “You sound like my mother,” she said even as she shook her head. “We hit it off as friends too quickly to ever go there. I think it’s crossed everyone’s minds but ours. Why’d you ask?”

  “You really get on,” he said, smiling down into his drink. “You’re well-matched.”

  “Because we’re both fat?”

  He pursed his lips. “You know that’s not what I—”

  “I’m kidding,” she said with a wink. “We really get on, but we don’t see each other like that. I know it’s baffling for some people to grasp, but men and women can be friends.”

  “Like us.”

  Claire smiled her agreement, but her gaze fixed on the coffee table so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. After Ryan left, she had occasionally wondered if Damon was merely filling the gap Ryan left behind. Over the years, their friendship blossomed into something unique.

  She never fell in love with Damon.

  Not as she’d done with Ryan.

  Even on the day she watched Ryan drive away from the cul-de-sac without any intention of returning, she couldn’t bring herself to confess how she felt for him. Seventeen years later, she still struggled to acknowledge any potential feelings remaining – and perhaps transferring – from her teenage years. How could she? Between his divorce, his kids, his job, and living in a bed and breakfast, Ryan’s plate was full. He didn’t need another complication, so Claire kept her feelings to herself like she always had.

  “Storm seems to be calming down,” Ryan pointed out, breaking the silence before draining another can of beer. “Might be a good time to make a run for it.”

  Claire glanced at her phone. Somehow, it was already a little past eleven. She’d been yawning for the past half an hour but hadn’t wanted to move. Despite the location, it had been nice to sit in the cloud of vanilla from the flickering candle and talk with nothing but the sound of the storm. Sighing a little, she finished her second can and stood.

  “I’ll put some more water and biscuits down for Pickles until I figure out what to do with him.” She yawned and stretched. “Don’t suppose you want a cat?”

  “Amelia has been nagging for one since we moved here.” He stood and did a little stretching of his own. “Might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back at the B&B though.”

  “Still no luck?”

  “I viewed a place on the other side of the farm yesterday,” he said, crossing the room. “Well within my budget, but the entire place was covered in damp and stank like an old church.” His forehead puckered. “Might not have much choice soon. Jeanie is in our corner, but I get the feeling Agnes is chomping at the bit to see the back of us.” He stepped onto the bottom step and said, “Bathroom?”

  “First door on the left.”

  Pickles wasn’t in the kitchen, but he’d cleared most of the biscuits. She emptied out the rest of the box and topped up the water, leaving him enough to get through the next day at least. With two cats of her own and about to move into the small flat above her shop, Claire couldn’t take him, but she was determined to find him a good home. She made a mental note to let Sally know he was there.

  Thinking of Sally, she remembered the favour her friend had asked her. She looked around the kitchen and dining room for any signs of Uncle Pat’s belongings, but aside from the door in the corner, the living areas seemed very much communal and intentionally devoid of any individual personality. Without even realising she was doing it, she drifted upstairs in search of Pat’s bedroom.

  Though Claire wasn’t sure which bedroom her uncle had claimed, an open door soon answered her question. Even from the outside, she recognised that it was his room; it still smelt like the aftershave he used to wear. Pickles was curled up, fast asleep, in the middle of the neatly made bed. He opened one lazy eye as Claire pushed the door open, but he didn’t move from his comfy spot. On the dresser, over a dozen framed pictures huddled together.

  Next door, the toilet flushed.

  Claire reached out and picked up a picture of she and Uncle Pat on holiday in Gran Canaria, posed on a wall in front of the dark sea, faces shiny and tanned, wearing identical, relaxed smiles. Claire had been thirteen during that family holiday, and aside from her much shorter hair now, she barely looked different. Her memories of that specific holiday had always been fond. She even remembered the picture; it didn’t take much to conjure the image of her mother and father on the other side of the disposable wind-on camera.

  “Thought I heard someone come up,” Ryan said, wiping his damp hands down the back of his shorts. “Everything alright?”

  “Sally asked me to look through his stuff to see if I wanted to take anything,” she said, looking around the room. “It doesn’t feel right that I’m even in here, but. . .”

  Claire’s voice trailed off, and she clutched the picture to her chest, immediately angry at herself for feeling sympathetic towards her uncle. She returned it to the dresser and stepped back to take them all in. Her stomach lurched. Each picture included Uncle Pat and some combination of Claire, her father, her gran, and her mother. There were two more pictures from the Vegas trip with Nick (faces intact), but the rest were strictly family snaps from decades of memories.

  “I never questioned why my uncle tagged along for most of our family holidays,” she said, frowning deeply. “We were all he had. Isn’t it obvious? He never married, never had kids, but he always had us. Used to drive my mum crazy that he was always showing up, but I loved him being there. I loved him like he was my second . . .”

  She stopped herself and swallowed past the lump in her throat.

  “It’s alright, mate,” Ryan said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “There’s no rule book for how you’re supposed to feel.”

  “I wish there were,” she said, letting out a sigh. “I don’t think I can leave these to go in the skip. I know what he did was awful, but this was his life.” She looked down at the picture, and a single tear fell onto the glass – she wiped it away on her thigh immediately. “Beer’s making me all mushy. Just ignore me.”

  “He’s still your uncle,” Ryan said, squeezing even harder. “The memories you have are still real. Take them.”

  “What would I even do with them?”

  “Figure that out later.” He gave her a small hug with one arm. “If I could go back, I’d keep more of my mum’s stuff. I know it’s not the same situation, but you can’t run from the memories. Not in a village like this.” He let go and opened the bedroom door. “I’ll go and look for a bag while you figure out what you want to do.”

  Claire stared at the pictures for a minute before finally beginning to stack them. Most of the images were from the period after her birth, so even if she didn’t appear in one of the snaps from the many holidays, weddings, birthday parties, and Christmas mornings, she’d been in the room. Aside from the Nick pictures, there was only one she couldn’t claim to have witnessed, but she recognised it well. Dressed in pyjamas, Alan and Pat grinned with an arm around each other in front of a decorated tree on Christmas morning, 1966. A copy of the picture had lived on her parents’ mantlepiece until recently; she had no idea what her father had done with it.

  “Recognise this?” Ryan held up a gym bag as he returned. “I think this is the one Ni
ck had in the video.” He ripped it open to show her the contents. “Gym clothes, water bottle, deodorant, but no spray paint.”

  “He could have ditched it?”

  “Maybe.” He pulled out the can of deodorant and showed her the red cap. “You don’t think—”

  “That we added two and two together and came out with forty-seven?” she interrupted, taking the can from him to drop it. Even on the wooden floorboards, it clattered loudly like a can of paint would. “I didn’t want to believe my uncle when he said he didn’t put Nick up to ruining my shop the night before my launch, and I think this definitely is the beer talking, but I did. I believed him. I can’t help it, and that probably makes me a gullible fool, but I believed him.”

  Claire pulled the contents out of the gym bag and stuffed in the stack of frames before zipping it up.

  “If it wasn’t Nick,” Ryan said, looking around the empty room, “and your uncle wasn’t involved, who could have done it?”

  “You want to know the truth?” She gulped, locking eyes with Ryan. “I honestly have no idea. But whoever it is must really hate me.” She tossed the bag over her shoulder and left the room. “C’mon, let’s wake Damon and get out of here. I’ve seen enough.”

  AFTER VIOLENTLY SHAKING Damon to stir him from his slumber, they put their empty cans in the recycling bin under the sink. Once they’d returned the place to the state they found it, they crept out the front door.

  While the rain was still heavy, the wind had passed with the worst of the storm, so running away from Christ Church Square wasn’t as ferocious as running to it had been. When they reached the B&B, Damon split off in the direction of the village square after a quick hug.

  “Come in,” Ryan said, already guiding Claire up the stone steps to the front door. “I’m not having you run home in this. There should still be a couple of taxis driving around this time of night.”

  Once again soaked to the bone, Claire didn’t argue. They burst through the open front door to a chilling, high-pitched scream that made the inside no calmer than the outside. Pulling off her water-spotted glasses, Claire squinted up the stairs to the source of the noise. As she wiped the glass on the hem of the soaked, borrowed t-shirt, a black blob flew backwards up the stairs, thrashing and screaming.