by M C Beaton
“And where is Jimmy’s Bar on Peach Tree.”
“That’s just one block behind the motel.”
“Great.”
“Look, lady, if you goin’ to need me tomorrow, you’d best fix a time, see. I cain’t afford to sit around waiting for a fare.”
“Pick me up at nine in the morning.”
_______
The motel was clean and efficient. Agatha unpacked a few belongings from her overnight case. She was feeling dizzy with jet lag. She turned her alarm clock back five hours to set it to American time. Then she telephoned Patrick.
“Don’t tell anyone, Patrick, but I’m in America. Have you got any notes of the Courtney murder with you?”
“Got them somewhere here.”
“Tom Courtney’s sister’s alibi is someone called Harriet Temple. You didn’t manage to get an address out of the police?”
“Can’t remember. Hang on.”
Agatha waited impatiently. Outside on the freeway, the traffic swished past like some great mechanical ocean. At last Patrick came back on the phone. “Got it. Harriet Temple . . . got a pen?”
“Yes.”
“Divorcée. Address, Camden Court, Apartment 5, Number 252. Didn’t get a phone number.”
“Thanks, Patrick. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”
Agatha showered and changed into a cool shirtwaist dress and then went out to look for Jimmy’s Bar.
As the driver had said, it was indeed only one block from the hotel, a red flashing light above the door proclaiming Jimmy’s into the still, dark evening air.
Agatha opened the door and went in. There were a few men at the bar and some men and women seated in red imitation leather booths along one wall.
She sat down in one of the booths which afforded a good look at the door. It was exactly eight o’ clock.
Then Agatha realised there was no waiter service. She went up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Budweiser. “May I have a glass, please?”
She braced herself for the usual sort of are-you-English questions but the barman looked too tired to waste time on starting a conversation. “I’ll be having a Bud as well,” said a voice at her elbow. Agatha turned and saw Sally. She paid for the drinks and led the way over to one of the booths.
“So what you want of me?” asked Sally.
“I thought you might have an idea if Mrs. Courtney had any enemies.”
“Can’t right say she could’ve had any. See, hardly anyone was allowed in her house, and that’s a fact. Didn’t like to take your money for nothin’ but maybe you’d like to see these. Miz Bairns asked me to burn ’em and I clean forgot. Old family photos. Might help.”
Agatha took out her wallet and handed over a couple of hundred. She knew she probably didn’t have to pay anything for them but there was a beaten-down weariness in Sally’s brown face that went to her heart.
“Why do you stay in such a job?” asked Agatha.
“Pay’s good. But with this money you just done give me I’m off back home to Atlanta in the morning. I’d rather go back to waiting table than work for her. Been only there three weeks. She follows me around like a cat. Looks for dirt. Crazy about dirt she is. She pays me end of the week, which is tomorrow. I’ll collect that and then leave her a note. Now, I best get back.”
“Who worked for her before you?”
“Don’t rightly know. I know she’s only lived there a couple o’ months.”
Agatha thanked her and wished her luck. She put the album in her briefcase. Now, she thought, as she headed back to the hotel, let’s see why Amy was so keen to have this lot burned.
Agatha found to her surprise that there was a bowl of fruit and a bottle of sparkling wine on the bedside table. A note read, “With compliments.”
Now that’s nice, thought Agatha. How odd that such a functional type of roadside motel should go to such a courtesy.
She picked up the phone and got through to reception. “I just want to thank you for the fruit and wine,” she said.
“We didn’t give no fruit or wine to your room, ma’am. It’s Mizz Raisin, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you got an admirer.”
Agatha slowly replaced the receiver. If by any chance the wine was drugged, she could pour some off, then pretend to be asleep and see if anyone came into the room.
On the other hand, that someone might kill her. She did not want to go to the police because it would take ages waiting for the contents of the wine bottle to be analysed, the American police would contact Mircester, who would no doubt be furious at her interfering in their investigation.
She went downstairs to reception and said to the clerk. “I’m expecting a friend to arrive from England late tonight. May I book another room?”
“Sure, just fill up the form. There’s one along the corridor from you. That do?”
“Fine.”
Agatha returned to her room and poured half the bottle of wine down the toilet after rinsing some of it around in a glass.
She made up the bed to look as if someone were asleep in it, finally placing a wig she kept for travelling stuffed with newspapers on the pillow. She opened the bedside drawer and took out a copy of the Gideon Bible and put it in her briefcase in the place of the photo album.
Then she went out, locking the door and letting herself into the extra room she had booked.
Agatha lay down on the bed and prepared to wait. But she was exhausted and jet-lagged and soon fell asleep, not waking until four in the morning.
She went out and walked slowly along to her old room. There wasn’t any sign of forced entry. She unlocked the door and switched on the light. All seemed to be as she had left it but for one thing. The briefcase was gone. Gripped by panic, she packed up her few belongings, emptied out the wine in case one of the maids should drink it, went downstairs, paid her bills and phoned her taxi driver.
He grumbled a bit at being called out in the middle of the night but agreed to come.
When the cab arrived, she told the driver to take her to any large five-star hotel in the centre of the city.
He dropped her outside the Hilton Garden Inn. As Agatha stumbled wearily out of the cab, her handbag opened and the contents spilled onto the pavement. The driver helped her gather up the contents, including a packet of cigarettes. “You won’t be needing those,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Hotel’s proud of the fact you can’t do no smoking anywhere inside.”
“Oh, snakes and bastards,” howled Agatha. “Take me somewhere where I can smoke.”
He drove her a few blocks to a boutique hotel called the The Cloche. “Wait there,” ordered Agatha. “I want a look at this place first.”
The entrance hall was all mahogany and brass. Yes, said the night porter, he had a smoking room available. Agatha went out and paid off the taxi and then followed the porter, who was carrying her bag inside. The price was steep but the room she was ushered into was large and comfortable and boasted a small sitting room.
With a sigh of pleasure, she lit a cigarette, realising she had not had one since leaving England. It tasted foul. Agatha studied the packet with narrowed eyes in case the cigarettes should turn out to be the contraband sweepings off some Chinese factory floor, but everything seemed correct. “Rats!” she said to uncaring walls and went to bed instead, not waking until noon.
After showering and dressing, she ordered coffee and sandwiches and sat down to inspect the photograph album. She stared, puzzled, at various photographs. Someone appeared to have been cut out of quite a lot of them. There was Tom with his arm around someone who had been snipped out of the photograph; the same thing had been done to several of the others. There were a few of Miriam with her husbands on her wedding days.
“None of Amy,” said Agatha to the coffee pot. “I wonder why.”
When she had finished her light lunch, she phoned her taxi driver. When she gave him the address of Camden Court, he looked puzzle
d. “Don’t you know it?” she asked impatiently.
“Sure, but you now being in this classy hotel and wanting to go to a place like Camden Court set me back a bit for a moment.”
“Why?”
“Bit out of town in the projects.”
“I’ve got to get there.”
“Okay, lady. You’re the boss.”
Curious, very curious, thought Agatha. What is a frigid, rich queen like Amy doing with a pal in the projects? You’d think the very sight of a cockroach would make that sterile bitch faint.
The projects were not as insalubrious as Agatha had feared. She found number five and knocked at the door. The door was opened by a tall, tired-looking motherly woman with a bad perm and swollen ankles showing above scuffed slippers.
“Harriet Temple?” asked Agatha.
“I ain’t buying.”
“And I’m not selling. I am a private enquiry agent working for Mr. Tom Courtney.”
“Mr. Courtney? You’d best come in.”
Agatha walked through to a cluttered living room. The furniture was shabby but there was an expensive flat-screen TV on one wall.
“I gather Mrs. Bairns stayed with you at the time of her mother’s murder?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you an old friend of Mrs. Bairns?”
“Used to be. My husband was a doctor but he lost his license and was sent to prison for supplying drugs. Still Amy would visit from time to time. She bought me that TV there. Right generous.”
“This may seem odd, but do you have any photographs of Mrs. Bairns?”
Harriet laughed. “Amy asked me that, too. I only had the few and I gave them to her. Mind you, I kept the one of my wedding ’cause she was my maid of honour. I didn’t want to let go of that one.”
“May I see it?”
“I’ll get it.
She came back with a framed photo and handed it to Agatha. “Where is Amy?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, of course she had all that cosmetic surgery. That’s her.”
Agatha stared in amazement. Amy could almost have been her brother in drag. “Are she and Tom twins?”
“Yes, fraternal. Mind you, it wasn’t only her appearance that got changed. She just wasn’t the same old Amy. Fussed about bugs and infections the whole time. Of course, she and Tom were always a bit like that.”
Agatha sat silently and then said slowly, “Do you have a passport?”
“You know, Amy asked me that. I said I hadn’t. So she said maybe she’d take me on a trip somewhere to make up for my man being in prison. Gave me that TV. She said if I gave her my birth certificate and everything, she’d fix it up for me. But I never heard no more about it. I want to see her—it must have been after she got all that cosmetic work and, I swear to God, I’ve never seen such a change in anyone.
“Didn’t even ask me to sit down. Said she had her position in local society to think of, and having a friend whose husband was a criminal wouldn’t do her any good. She asked me not to come back. I was so hurt I went home and cried my eyes out.”
Agatha took a small powerful camera out of her handbag. “If I could just photograph that picture?”
“Well, I promised Amy I’d got rid of all of them . . . but what the hell? She isn’t a friend anymore. Go ahead.”
“You gave her an alibi for the time of her mother’s murder. Did she really stay with you?”
“Of course,” said Harriet. “I’m not a liar. Now, do you mind just getting out?”
A day later, Inspector Wilkes walked into Mircester police headquarters to be told by the desk sergeant that Mrs. Raisin was waiting to speak to him. Wilkes swung round. Fast asleep on a hard plastic chair was Agatha Raisin. Her mouth was open and she was snoring gently.
“Tell her I’m still out,” said Wilkes curtly.
“Sir, she said something about having solved the murder of Mrs. Courtney.”
Wilkes scowled horribly. He hated to admit that Agatha had helped him in the past. But he decided he’d better wake her up and hear what she had to say. He shook her by the shoulder. As Agatha blinked up at him, he demanded, “What’s all this about you having solved the murder?”
“Get me a strong black coffee and I’ll tell you all about it,” said Agatha.
Fortunately for Agatha, Sergeant Collins was out on a job, so it was Bill Wong who sat with Wilkes as Agatha began her story. She described how Amy Courtney had changed her appearance drastically but that before that she had been a mirror image of her twin, Tom. Agatha theorised that it was Amy dressed as Tom who had gone to the Cayman Islands, that Harriet had been heavily bribed to say that Amy was staying with her, and that Amy had given Tom Harriet’s birth certificate and all necessary details. Tom had made himself up as a woman and secured a passport in Harriet’s name, flown to London and murdered his mother for her money.
“This is all very far-fetched,” said Wilkes.
“I bet you didn’t check to see if someone called Harriet Temple had entered the country,” said Agatha.
“But why would this Harriet Temple continue to lie?”
“Check the airport and then ask her. If she thinks she’s in danger of being accused of murder, she’ll soon tell you. And I think Amy got all that cosmetic surgery in time for any police questions just in case someone should notice the likeness to her brother. But why should they? The murder was in England in a village where there is still an unsolved murder. She was just covering all the bases.”
“Well, keep away from Tom Courtney and that village until we check this out.”
Agatha called on Mrs. Bloxby that evening to tell her the latest news. “Do you really think they would go to such elaborate lengths?” asked the vicar’s wife.
“Yes, I do. There’s evidently a great deal of money involved. And what better place to commit a murder than in some small English village that already has had one?”
“You don’t think that the murder of Sunday was to set the scene?” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“No, I have a feeling that the murder of Grudge Sunday had nothing to do with the Courtney murder. Where is Tom Courtney? Does anyone know?”
“Yes, he called this morning looking for you. Said he was off to the States for a few days.”
“I’d better tell Wilkes. If he is guilty, he might make a run for it and Harriet Temple may need protection.”
“Use our phone.”
“I thought your phone was the sole property of your husband.”
“Oh, Alf won’t mind.”
Mrs. Bloxby went off to her husband’s study. Agatha grinned as she could hear the vicar’s voice raised in anger. “This is not a detective agency and yet you involve yourself in that woman and her folly.”
Agatha took out her own phone and dialled Wilkes. She was told curtly that he was too busy to speak to her.
“Sod them all,” said Agatha. “I’m taking my jet lag home to bed.”
The first thing she saw when she drove up outside her cottage was the crumpled figure of Toni sitting on her doorstep.
Agatha hurried out of her car. “Toni, my dear. What is the matter?”
“It’s Sharon. She’s disappeared.”
“Oh, no. Come in.”
“Where have you been?” wailed Toni.
“I’ve been in the States. Come through to the kitchen and tell me about Sharon.”
“She came round to my flat a few days ago and said you’d fired her and she wanted a place to say. Honestly, I couldn’t bear the thought of her mess again so I said she’d best go. She burst into tears. Why did you fire her?”
“I accused her of being on drugs. She told me to sod the job and a few choice insults and stormed off.”
“I’ve gone looking for her round the clubs,” said Toni. “She’s been hanging around with a lot of bikers. They’re bad news. There’s one in particular, Jazz Belter, and he’s ancient!”
“How ancient?”
“In his forties.”
Agatha winced.
“Toni, I’ll give Sharon her job back again but she’s got to get herself cleaned up.”
“But I can’t find her!”
“Have you told the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Make some coffee, will you? I’ll phone them right away. Wait a minute! Surely her parents have reported her missing?”
“No, she told them she was living with me.”
“I’ll call Bill.”
Bill was at the station and listened to Agatha’s story about the missing Sharon.
“She’s been found,” said Bill in a quiet voice.
“Oh, that’s great. Poor Toni’s been going out of her mind with—”
“Agatha! Listen! Sharon’s dead.”
“How? When?”
“She was found a few hours ago. She had been stabbed and strung up on a lamp post on a back street. Her mouth was stuffed with grass. I know some of the bikers, went to school with a few. Said Sharon had been drinking and drugging and bragging how she was really working undercover. Her boyfriend, Jazz Belter, had just dumped her and it’s thought she was trying to scare him.”
“Who did it?”
“We’re looking for Jazz at the moment.”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
“You can’t do anything. Get a good night’s sleep.”
Toni looked at Agatha white-faced as Agatha slowly replaced the receiver.
Agatha told her the story. Toni began to cry, dismal, wracking sobs shaking her whole body.
Agatha flapped hopelessly around her, wondering what to do. I should hug her or something, she thought. Then she went through to the sitting room and called Mrs. Bloxby, who said she would be around immediately.
Agatha walked up and down the garden fifteen minutes later, smoking furiously, while Mrs. Bloxby, the expert comforter, got to work. Agatha could hear the vicar’s wife’s soothing voice through the open kitchen door.
“Of course her death has nothing to do with you, Toni. It wasn’t your fault that she started taking drugs and got into bad company. Everyone feels guilty when someone close to them dies, wondering this way and that if they could have done anything. Now, dry your eyes. No, don’t drink coffee. Drink this hot sweet tea. So much better for shock. You gather up your things. You’re coming home with me for the night.”
