by M C Beaton
Agatha went into her study and logged onto her computer. She opened the file that held all her old journalist contacts. Then she switched off and picked up the phone and called Deirdre Dunn, top woman’s editor on The Bugle. To her relief, Deirdre was working late.
“What is it, Agatha?” asked Deirdre. “I thought you were into the detective business.”
“I am. But I want you to do me a favour and knock a perfume called Green Desire.”
“Why should I?”
“Remember I accidentally found out you were having an affair with the Foreign Secretary, Peter Branson?”
“Do you have to rake that up?”
“Only if necessary.”
“All right, you old whore. What am I supposed to do?”
“Take this down.”
Twenty minutes later, Agatha returned to the sitting room. “All fixed,” she said cheerfully.
“What is?” demanded Roy.
“Deirdre Dunn is putting a piece in the Sunday edition of the Bugle, saying that Green Desire is one crap perfume, despite the brilliant public relations work of one Roy Silver, who the thankless Betty Clapp betrayed her lack of business acumen by firing at the last minute and exchanging for someone with considerably less experience. She’s also sending her assistant out into the streets to do a vox pop, spraying people with the stuff and asking them what they think of it. She’ll only print the bad comments. Deirdre has great power. The stuffs doomed. Revenge is thine.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Agatha. How did you persuade Deirdre?”
“Oh, we go back a long way. We’re great friends.”
Roy looked at Agatha uneasily. Deirdre, all skeletal elegance and cut-glass voice, had once said to him that if Agatha ever died, she would cheerfully piss on her grave.
“Will it work?” he asked.
“Trust me.”
“Well, thanks, Aggie. How can I repay you?”
“Just don’t stay too long.”
Agatha came down to the kitchen the next morning to find a plate of fresh croissants on the table and Roy, sitting reading the newspapers.
“Where did you get the croissants?” she asked.
“The village shop. Some woman in the village has started making them. I’ve made coffee.”
Agatha opened the back door and let her cats out to play. She poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down at the table and lit a cigarette.
“Must you?” asked Roy, flapping his hands.
“Yes, so shut up.” Agatha saw she had left Mrs. Tamworthy’s letter lying on the table. She handed it to Roy. “Read that and tell me what you think about it.”
Roy read it carefully. “She sounds mad.”
“She might not be. I might read about her death in the newspapers and feel guilty.”
“It’s a nice day,” said Roy. The morning mist was lifting. Agatha’s cats, Hodge and Boswell, were chasing each other over the lawn. “We could both go over and talk to her.”
“Wouldn’t do any harm,” said Agatha. “That way we’ll find out whether she’s bonkers or not.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: ea2c6a04-e012-4c82-b396-20f3581b6898
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 15.9.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.67, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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