Dishing the Dirt (12 page)

“It’s been a laborious task checking everyone from America, particularly those with addresses in Chicago and the photos and stuff you found, but so far, nothing sinister. Not one of the men the Chicago police contacted would claim they were being blackmailed and there are ones with the wallets said they had had their pocket picked in some bar, anywhere but at the hotel. They’re all married, you see.”

Agatha clutched her shiny hair. “It could be anyone and we don’t have a clue,” she wailed. “I’m going to freshen up.”

*   *   *

“I’m losing it,” said Agatha to her bathroom mirror. “It’s never affected me like this before. Get a grip!”

The day was humid and close. She showered and changed into a cool linen sheath and sandals and repaired her make-up.

The doorbell rang as she was descending the stairs. “I’ll get it,” she called.

“No you won’t,” said Bill, rushing to her side. “You don’t know who is out there.” Agatha stood back while he opened the door. She blinked. A young Adonis stood there with the watery sunlight gilding his blond hair. “I’m Justin Nichols,” he said.

“Come in,” said Bill. “This is Agatha Raisin. I am Detective Sergeant Bill Wong.”

“Where’s Phil Marshall?” asked Agatha.

“He dropped me off and went back to the office,” said Justin.

Justin followed them into the kitchen, where the others were sitting around the table. Agatha made the introductions, urged him to sit down, took a chair herself and stared at him. His hair was naturally wavy. His skin was white and his eyes, an intense blue with thick lashes. He was wearing an open-necked shirt as blue as his eyes. He was slim but athletic-looking.

“How old are you?” asked Agatha.

“Twenty-five.”

“But Ruby Carson was in her early forties. Was your father much older than Ruby when he married her?”

“Yes, he was fifty-five. I’m his only child. Mother had only been dead—she died of cancer—for two years when he met Ruby. She was only nineteen then. He was so much in love with her. But she up and divorced him two years later. He was devastated. He still obsesses about her and has commissioned me to employ you, Mrs. Raisin.”

“What do you do, Mr. Nichols?” asked Alice Peterson.

“I’m a computer programmer. I’m freelance and I am taking a break between contracts. Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Someone bugged my cottage,” said Agatha, ignoring a warning signal from Bill. “Would you have the know-how?”

“No,” he said innocently, “but I’m sure if I studied how to do it, I could manage, but why would I?”

“Did you like Mrs. Carson?” asked Bill.

“I thought she was a selfish, ambitious woman,” he said. “But I’d do anything for my father. I resisted at first, asking why I should employ some village detective woman, but he persisted. Mind you, I did not expect to find you so attractive, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Please call me Agatha.” Her eyes were shining.

Surely not, thought Charles. He’s much too young. Maybe it’s just Agatha’s maternal instinct.

“When was the divorce?” asked Bill.

“Years ago. Ruby was in sales and marketing and she suddenly announced she was going to join the police force. That was when she became insanely ambitious. All she would talk about was how she was going to be police commissioner one day. Dad hardly ever saw her. But the divorce hit him hard.”

“What does your father do?”

“He’s the managing director of Superfoods. That’s how he met Ruby. She was doing the marketing for them.”

Agatha suddenly wished they would all leave. “If you follow me into the office,” she said, “I’ll draw up the contracts.”

“Your secretary has already done that,” said Justin.

“Look here,” said Bill severely. “You are putting yourself in danger, young man. It is not only Mrs. Carson who has been murdered but other people as well! Whoever the murderer is, he seems to delight in getting rid of anyone who might help find out who he is. I strongly advise you to tear up the contracts and tell your father it is much too dangerous.”

“I don’t see why,” said Justin. “I mean, I gather you’ve removed the bugs so no one will know Agatha is detecting on my behalf.”

“Well, I’ve warned you,” said Bill. “We’ll be in touch, Agatha.”

“I’d better go, too,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “My husband will be wondering what has happened to me.”

Agatha looked hopefully at Charles. “I’d better be off as well,” he said. He had planned to stay, but, after all, the beautiful young man would certainly not be romantically interested in Agatha, and his presence might take Agatha’s mind off her fears.

“Simon,” said Agatha, “you’d better get on with that missing teenager case.”

After Charles and Simon had gone, Agatha said reluctantly, “Leave it with me, Justin. Let me have your phone numbers and address. I’d better talk to your father as well.”

She had planned to invite him to lunch but remembered in time that she had to wait at home for the locksmith and to have the code on the burglar alarm changed.

“It’s lovely here,” said Justin with a smile. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of one of these old thatched cottages. Look, the rain has stopped.”

“I’ll be going now,” called Doris from the hall.

Agatha rose to her feet and went to say goodbye.

When she returned, the kitchen was empty. She found Justin sitting at the table in the garden with the cats on his lap. “It’s so quiet here,” he said.

“I’m hungry,” said Agatha. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Italian food okay?”

“Marvellous.”

Agatha went in and phoned a local Italian restaurant that did deliveries and ordered two portions of escalope Milanese with salads and a bottle of Valpolicella.

She was just about to join him in the garden when the doorbell rang. Agatha peered through the peephole and saw Toni’s pretty face looking back at her.

No, she thought. One look at Toni and he’ll forget I even exist. She returned to the garden.

Agatha had never been attracted to younger men before. She guiltily remembered having a crush on that beautiful schoolteacher in Winter Parva, the one murdered by Gwen’s son. Before she had always considered women who fell for men, just because of their looks, slightly … well … common. Yes, James was handsome but the same age as she was herself. Maybe Justin was gay. That was the trouble with beautiful men, they usually were.

A shadow fell across her. She swung round. Justin was looking at her quizzically. “Who was at the door?”

“I didn’t open it,” said Agatha. “Some salesman. I’ve ordered lunch. Should be here soon. Let’s enjoy the garden.”

*   *   *

Toni phoned Simon on his mobile. “Agatha’s not answering the door. Is she all right?”

“That beautiful young man I phoned you about. I think our Agatha’s smitten, so she won’t want you around.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Toni.

“That’s our Agatha,” said Simon.

*   *   *

As Agatha talked about her previous cases, she decided that the attraction she felt for Justin was maternal. Sometimes, infrequently, she thought it would have been nice to have children. She had felt strong maternal feelings for Toni, but that had unfortunately left her trying to manipulate the girl’s life until she had backed off. So feeling much more comfortable, she chatted until the food arrived and they moved back into the kitchen.

Halfway through the meal, she remembered she was supposed to be detecting and asked Justin if his father had ever been in Chicago.

“I don’t know if he’s been in Chicago,” said Justin. “I know he went to a couple of conferences in America, but that was when Mother was still alive.”

“I think I had better meet your father,” said Agatha. “Would this evening be convenient?”

“I should think so. I’ll phone him when we’ve finished eating and set something up.”

When Justin left, he kissed Agatha on the cheek. He had phoned his father and he would expect them at six o’clock. Justin said he would collect Agatha from her office.

After he had left, Agatha’s hand involuntarily fluttered up to the cheek he had kissed. She felt suddenly lonely and old.

*   *   *

Reminding herself fiercely that any feelings she had for Justin were maternal, she forced herself not to change into something more glamorous. She called on Doris and gave her a new set of keys and the new code supplied by the locksmith, and set out for the office.

It was only when she arrived at the office that she realised the murderer could be someone in the crowds outside, watching to see who came and went. She phoned Justin and explained it would be safer if he just gave her directions to his home. Then she sadly opened a cupboard and took out a large box of disguises.

The frumpier the better, she thought. I must look like a worried client.

Before she changed, she took the precaution of phoning a car rental company and asked them to leave the car in the square and bring the keys and contract up to the office.

After she had paid for the car rental, she changed into a drab dress and flat shoes. On her head she put a plain dark wig that looked as if it had been badly permed. She stuffed pads in her cheeks and put on a pair of glasses. Leaning heavily on a stick, she eventually left the office, watched by a worried Mrs. Freedman.

The car was a new anonymous-looking black Ford. After studying the directions, she set off, with many nervous looks in the rearview mirror in case she was being followed.

The Nichols’ house turned out to be a large mansion on the edge of the town. A short gravelled drive led up to the house. Before she got out of the car, Agatha took the pads out of her cheeks and removed the glasses and wig. She carefully applied make-up and brushed her hair until it shone. She wriggled out of the dowdy frock, and was leaning over into the backseat to pick up her linen dress wearing only a brief lacy bra and knickers when a knock at the window made her jump. Justin was smiling in at her. Agatha lowered the window and said, “Get off with you and give me a moment. I’m just getting out of this disguise.”

Justin grinned. “I was just admiring the view.”

Cursing, Agatha slipped on her linen dress and a pair of high-heeled sandals, sprayed herself with La Vie Est Belle and walked up to the front door where Justin was waiting.

He kissed her warmly on the cheek. “You smell nice. Do come in. We’re in the garden.”

Although Agatha guessed the house had been built at the beginning of the twentieth century, the entrance hall looked dark and baronial. There were two suits of armour and beside them, two antique-looking carved chests. The floor was highly polished parquet with fine Oriental rugs placed like coloured islands across its expanse. Justin turned left and led her through a large drawing room. It somehow looked soulless, as if it had been put in the hands of an unimaginative interior designer. The carpet was mushroom-coloured, as was the velvet three-piece suite. An enormous flat screen TV dominated one wall. The coffee table had a glass showcase top holding a collection of medals. There were vases of silk flowers everywhere. French windows were open to the garden where a thickset grey-haired man sat at a table.

The air outside was heavy with the smell of roses. It was a magnificent garden with a smooth green lawn bordered by roses of every colour.

Mr. Nichols rose to meet her. He had once been a handsome man, Agatha guessed, but he now had one of those boozer’s faces which looked as if the features had been blurred. His nose was thick and open-pored, his eyes a faded blue crisscrossed with red veins. He had a large drink on the table in front of him which smelled of vodka. Poor Justin, thought Agatha. Alcoholics will drink vodka, believing it has no smell.

Mr. Nichols had a potbelly, straining at the belt of his trousers.

He stood up and shook Agatha’s hand. “Can Justin get you a drink?”

“It’s all right. I’m driving,” said Agatha. “But I wouldn’t mind a black coffee.”

“Justin,” he ordered, “tell Mrs. Frint to make a pot of coffee and bring some biscuits as well. Now, I must find out who murdered poor Ruby. I still think about her a lot. I mean, I always hoped she would come back to me.”

“You mean even after she walked out on you, you still have strong feelings for her?”

“I love her,” he said.

“First I must warn you, Mr. Nichols, that there is a dangerous murderer out there. By employing me, you may put yourself in danger. This killer managed to get into my cottage and bug it. Is Mrs. Frint your housekeeper?”

“Yes, excellent lady.”

“Then she must be told not to let anyone in the house—telephone, water, gas, anything like that even though whoever may seem to be carrying the right identification.”

The watery, red-veined eyes of the perpetual drinker looked at Agatha with all the pleading of a beaten dog. “Find who killed my Ruby,” he said.

*   *   *

Justin escorted Agatha out. He paused on the doorstep. “What about meeting for dinner one night so you can let me know if you have found anything?”

Agatha looked into those blue eyes and felt herself weaken. “We’d better meet somewhere pretty out of the way,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want the murderer coming after you.”

“What about tomorrow night? There’s the Black Bear in Moreton. Safe. Lots of people around. I could meet you there at eight o’clock.”

Agatha’s longing to have dinner with Justin fought with a dark image of murdered Herythe. Her longing won.

“All right,” she said cautiously. “I’ll make sure I’m not followed.”

Chapter Eight

Agatha left the office early the following day, planning to spend time getting ready for the dinner with Justin. Of course, he was too young to fancy her, and surely she was too old to develop feelings for such a young man.

And yet, when she let herself into her cottage and found Charles in the kitchen, she was furious. “How did you get in?” she raged.

“Doris lent me her keys. She’s worried about you being alone and so am I.”

“Well, that’s good of you,” said Agatha, mollified. “But I’m going out this evening and I don’t want you around when I get back.”