Agnes and the Hitman

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Crusie, Jennifer.

Agnes and the hitman / Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer. —1st ed.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36304-8 ISBN-10: 0-312-36304-4

Deb Cavanaugh
for keeping Bob sane,

Kim “Needles” Cardascia
for never breaking a sweat no matter what we came screaming to her for,

the
Cherries
and the
CherryBombs
for taking the trip with us,

our beta readers—
Brooke Chapman, Katy Cooper, Heidi Cullinan, Kari Hayes, Robin LaFevers, Corinna Lavitt, Chris Merrill,
and
Valerie Taylor
—for giving great feedback,

Richie Ducharme
for getting us the beach house,

John Karle
for never losing us on the road,

Russ Parsons,
who helped us with the food columnist background and who puts up with Jenny in general (well, he has to because she’s family, but she’s still grateful),

Doreen Thompson
for media training (Crusie-Mayer, He Wrote/She Wrote, romantic adventure, and uh ... ),

Charlie Verral
for once again providing us with our NYC home away from home,

Mollie Smith
for running our professional lives,

Jennifer Enderlin
for being the perfect editor,

and
Meg Ruley
for being the perfect agent.

It wasn’t easy.

“Look, Joey, Taylor’s not that bad.” Agnes cradled the phone between her chin and her shoulder, turned down her CD player, where the Dixie Chicks were doing a fine rendition of “Am I the Only One,” and then frowned over the tops of her fogged-up glasses at the raspberries, which were being annoying and uncooperative, much like Taylor lately. “He’s a terrific chef.”
Which is why I’m still with him.
“And he’s very sweet.”
When he has the time.
“And we’ve got a great future in this house together.”
Assuming he ever comes out here again.

Joey snorted his contempt, the sound exploding through the phone. “He shouldn’t leave you out there by yourself.”

“Hey, Brenda lived out here alone for years, and she did just fine,” Agnes said. “I’m as tough as Brenda. I can do that, too.”
Of course, Brenda sold me the house and beat feet for her yacht in the middle of a marina, but—

“Nah, there’s somethin’ wrong with a guy who leaves a sweetheart like you alone in a big house like that. You should find somebody else.”

“Yeah, like I have the time,” Agnes said, and then realized that wasn’t the right answer. “Not that I would. Taylor’s a great guy. And anyway, I like being alone.”
I’m used to it.
“He’s a mutt, Agnes,” Joey said.

Agnes took off her glasses and turned up the heat under the raspberries, which she knew was courting disaster, but it was late and she was tired of playing nice with fruit. “Come on, Joey. I don’t have time for this. I’m behind on my column, I’ve got—”

“And there’s Rhett,” Joey said. “How’s Rhett?”

“What?” Agnes said, thrown off stride. She stopped stirring her berries, which began to bubble, and looked down at her dog, draped over her feet like a moth-eaten brown overcoat, slobbering on the floor as he slept. “Rhett’s fine. Why? What have you heard?”

“He’s a fine healthy-lookin’ dog,” Joey said hastily. “He looked real good in his picture in the paper today.” He paused, his voice straining to be casual. “How come old Rhett was wearing that stupid collar in that picture?”

“Collar?” Agnes frowned at the phone. “It was just some junk jewelry—”

The oven timer buzzed, and she said, “Hold on,” put down the phone, and took the now madly bubbling berries off the heat. Rhett picked up his head and bayed, and she turned to see what he was upset about.

A guy with a gun stood in the doorway, the bottom half of his face covered with a red bandanna.

“I come for your dog,” he said, pointing the gun at Rhett, and Agnes said,
“No!”
and slung the raspberry pan at the guy, the hot syrup arcing out in front of it like napalm and catching him full in the face.

He screamed as the scalding fruit hit him and then dropped his gun to rip the bandanna away as Agnes stumbled to scoop up the pan and Rhett barreled into him, knocking him down so that he hit the back of his head on the marble counter by the wall and knocked off every cupcake she had cooling there before he collapsed into the doorway.

“God
damn
it”
Agnes said breathlessly, standing over him with her pan, her heart pounding.

The guy didn’t move, and Rhett began to hoover up cupcakes at the speed of light.

“Agnes?”
Joey shouted from the phone on the counter. “What the fuck,
Agnes?”

Agnes kicked the gun into the housekeeper’s room and peered at the guy, trying to catch her breath. When he didn’t move, she backed up to grab the phone off the counter. “Some guy just showed up here with a gun and tried to take Rhett,” she told Joey, breathing hard. “ But it’s okay, I’m not angry.”
Miserable little rat-faced jerk.

“Where is he?”

“On the floor, across the hall doorway. He knocked himself out. I have to—”

“Get the hell
out of there,”
Joey said, sounding like he was on the move.
“Take Rhett with you.”

“I can’t get out, the guy’s lying across the hall door. If I climb over him, he’ll come to and grab me. I have to call—”

“Get out the
back door—”

“I can’t, Doyle’s got it blocked with screen and boards. I have to hang up and call nine-one-one.”

“No,”
Joey said, and she heard the screen door to the diner slap shut on his end of the phone.
“No cops.
I’m comin’ over.”

“What do you mean,
no cops?
I—”

The dognapper stirred.

“Wait a minute.” Agnes put the phone on the counter and held the frying pan at the ready, hands shaking, as she craned her neck to look closer at the dognapper.

Young, just a teenager. Short. Skinny. Limp, dirty dark hair. Stupid, because if he’d had any brains, he’d have grabbed Rhett when he went out for his nightly pee. And now that he was unconscious, pretty harmless looking. She probably outweighed him by thirty pounds.

As she calmed down, she could hear Dr. Garvin’s voice in her head.

How are you feeling right now, Agnes?

Well, Dr. Garvin, I am feeling a little angry that this punk broke into the house with a gun and threatened my dog.

And how are you handling that anger, Agnes? I never touched him, I swear.
The boy opened his eyes.

“Don’t move.” Agnes held up her pan. “I’ve called the police,” she lied. “They’re coming for you. My dog is vicious, and you don’t want to cross me, either, especially with a frying pan; you have no
idea
what I can do with a frying pan.” She took a deep breath, and the kid glared at her, and she looked closer at his face, and winced at the lurid welts of singed skin where the raspberry had stuck. “That’s gotta hurt. Not that I care.”

He worked his battered jaw, and she held the frying pan higher as a threat.

“So, tell me, you little creep,” Agnes said,
“why were you trying to kill my dog?”

“I weren’t tryin’ to kill the dog,” the boy said, outraged. “I wouldn’t kill no
dog.”

“The gun, Creepoid,” Agnes said. “You pointed
a gun
at him.”

“I was just gonna
take
him,” the boy said. “There weren’t no call to get mean. I weren’t gonna hurt him. I wouldn’t hurt
nobody.”
He touched the sauce on his face and winced.

“No, you just broke into this house to terrorize me with a gun,” Agnes said. “That’s not hurting nobody, that’s victimizing
me.
Do I look like a victim to you? Huh? You wouldn’t have tried this crap on Brenda, would you?”

He frowned up at her, the raspberry sauce crinkling on his face. “Who’s Brenda?”

“Everybody knows who Brenda is,”
Agnes snapped.

She took a deep shuddering breath and reached for the phone again, and he rolled to his feet and lunged for her. She yelped and smacked him hard on the head with her pan, and he staggered, and then she hit him again, harder this time, just to make sure, and he fell back onto the floor, blood seeping down the side of his face, and lay still. She felt a
qualm about that, but not much, because it was self-defense. Brenda would be proud of her, he’d broken into her house and
she’d defended it, he’d scared
the hell
out of her and—

Violence is not the answer, Agnes.

That depends on the
question,
Dr.
Garvin.

—and she was not out of control, she was not angry, she was calm,
she was shaking, but she was perfectly fine, and anyway it was a nonstick pan, not cast iron, so she was fairly certain she hadn’t done any permanent damage.

Fingers crossed, anyway.

Beside him, Rhett collapsed, overcome by the number of cupcakes still on the floor.

“I
hate you,”
she said to the unconscious boy. Then she picked up her phone and said, “Joey?”

“Don’t
do anything, Agnes,”
Joey yelled, the sounds of traffic in the background.
“I’m on Route 17
.
I’m almost there.”

“That’s good,” Agnes said, realizing her voice was shaking, too. “He’s just a kid, Joey. He said he wasn’t trying to hurt anybody—”

The kid lunged to his feet, and Agnes screamed again and dropped the phone to swing the pan again, but this time he was ready for her, ducking under her arm and butting her in the stomach so that she said, “Oof!” and fell backward against the counter. He tried to backhand her, and she swung the pan again and hit him in the head, and then she couldn’t stop, she hit him over and over, and he yelled,
“Stop it!”
and grabbed for her while she swung at him, driving him back toward the hall door, screaming,
“Get out, get out, get out of this house, get out of this house!”
as he lurched back, and stepped in Rhett’s water dish and fell back against the wall and then
through
it, screaming.

Agnes froze, the frying pan raised over her head as he disappeared, and then the wall was solid again, and she heard a thud, and the screaming stopped, cut off.

She stood there with the pan over her head for a moment,

stunned, and then she lowered it slowly and clutched it to her chest, warm raspberry sauce and all, her heart beating like mad. She stared dumbfounded at the wall, waiting to see if he’d come rushing back through, like a ghost or something. When nothing happened, she went over and pushed cautiously with the pan on the place where the kid had disappeared.

It swung open and shut again, the hideous wallpaper that had covered it now torn along the straight edge of a doorframe.

“Oh,” Agnes said, caught between amazement that there’d been a swinging door behind the wallpaper and fear that there was also a crazed moron behind there.

“Agnes!”
Joey yelled on the phone.

Agnes took a deep breath and stepped back to the counter and picked it up. “What?”

“What the fuck happened?”

“There’s another door in my kitchen, right next to the hall door.” Agnes went back and pushed it open again, avoiding the rusted, broken nails that lined the doorway edge, and peered into the black void. “Huh.”

“Where’s the kid with the gun?”

“Good question.” Agnes dropped her skillet on the counter, yanked open the utility drawer by the door, and got out her flashlight. She turned it on, shoved the door open with her shoulder, and pointed it into the darkness.

“What are you doing?”
Joey yelled.

“I’m trying to see what’s behind this door. I didn’t even know it was
here.
Brenda never mentioned—”

“Agnes, you can explore that goddamn house later,”
Joey said. “Take Rhett and get the hell
out of there.”

“I don’t think the kid’s a problem anymore.” Agnes held the phone with one hand and peered down into the pool of light the flashlight cast on the floor below as Rhett came to join her, pressing close to her leg so he could peer, too. “He fell into a basement. I didn’t even know I
had
a basement back here. Brenda never said anything about one.

Did you know—?” She had been playing the light around the floor, and now she stopped as it hit the moron. “Uh-oh.”

“
What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

The boy was splayed out on what looked like a concrete floor, and he did not look good.

“I think he’s hurt. He’s definitely not moving.”

“Good,”
Joey said. “He fall down the stairs?”

“There are no stairs.” Agnes squinted down into the darkness as the light hit the boy’s face.