by M C Beaton
Roy drove up, got out, opened the boot and dragged out a large suitcase.
“Going somewhere on holiday?” asked Agatha.
“Here, if you’ll have me, sweetie.”
“Roy, wait a minute. This is a bit of an imposition.”
To her horror, Roy burst into tears. His thin body in his Armani suit shook with sobs, and tears trickled down through his designer stubble.
“Bring that case in,” ordered Agatha, “and I’ll fix you a stiff drink.”
She told him to leave his case in the hall, led the way into the sitting room, and poured him a strong measure of brandy from the drinks trolley. “Here, get that down you,” she ordered. “Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve. There’s a box of tissues on the table.”
Roy sank down onto the sofa. He blew his nose vigorously, took a swig of brandy, and then stared miserably into space.
Agatha joined him on the sofa. “Now, then, out with it.”
“It’s been an Irish nightmare,” said Roy. “I’m all broken up. I’ve handled nasty drug-ridden pop groups and prima donna models but never anything like this.”
“Who’s producing the stuff? The IRA?”
“No, it’s a Dublin fashion house called Colleen Donnelly. They decided to launch into the perfume market. They wanted it pushed as a ‘family’ perfume, the sort of thing you could give to your old granny. So the publicity shots were taken in various front parlours out in the bogs with gran, mam, dad, and the kids. It’s been going on for months. I am awash with tea and boredom. I thought if I had to listen to someone’s uncle stand in front of the fire and sing ‘Danny Boy’ just one more time I would scream.”
“Should have been a joy to promote,” said Agatha. “Sounds as if it would lend itself to some good photos for the glossies.”
“Oh, I got them a good show. It’s not that. It’s Colleen Donnelly herself. She isn’t Irish. She’s from Manchester. Real name, Betty Clap.”
“You can see why she’d want to change her name.”
“She’s a bitch. She’s the worst bitch I’ve ever worked for and that includes you, Aggie.”
“Here, wait just one minute …”
“Sorry. She turned up the whole time, jeering at me in front of the camera crew and everyone, calling me a wimp and a half man. I told the boss, Mr. Pedman, but he said it was a big launch and to stick with it. Then just before the final big launch party, she phoned the agency and asked for another public relations officer. She said … she said, she was sick of dealing with a twittering idiot. He sent Mary Hartley.”
“Who’s she?”
“Some cow who’s jealous of me and has always been trying to steal my accounts. I’m a failure. I can’t bear it. I had holiday owing so I just took off in the car and I found myself driving towards you.”
“Have you got a bottle of the stuff with you?”
Roy fished in his pocket and pulled put a green glass bottle with a gold stopper. Agatha took off the top and sprayed a little on her wrist.
“It’s lousy, Roy.”
“But it’ll get good publicity and all because of me and Mary will take the credit.”
Agatha handed him the television remote control. “You sit there and finish your drink and watch something silly. I’ll see what I can do.”
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.”
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
