by M C Beaton
In answer to Agatha’s query, the receptionist said their public relations officer would be glad to take them around and show them the facilities. Agatha stifled a yawn as they moved from treatment room to treatment room and then studied health food menus. Then Agatha caught a glimpse of George’s blonde, now dressed in a white overall, going into one of the rooms. “Who is that?” she asked. “I think I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
“Oh, that’s Gilda Brenson, one of our masseuses.”
“No, I don’t know her. But is she good?”
“The best. But I fear we might soon be losing her. Gilda is getting married and her future husband is going to set her up in a clinic of her own. Now, if you will just follow me, I will show you our gym …”
At the end of the tour, Agatha said brightly, “It all looks splendid. I shall probably book in for a week before Christmas. But I wonder if I could ask a favour? I really could do with a massage. I would gladly pay you for Gilda’s services if she has a free appointment this morning.”
“Come to the reception desk with me and I’ll see what we can do.”
The receptionist said that Gilda would be free in half an hour, so Agatha and Toni settled down to wait.
Agatha saw a reflection of herself in a mirror opposite where they were sitting. Her skirt was creased and she had a ladder in one leg of her tights. Beside her reflection, Toni glowed with youth and health.
At last, Agatha was ushered into the massage room and told to remove her clothes and lie on the massage table. She winced as she climbed on.
“Trouble with your hip?” asked Gilda.
“No,” said Agatha defiantly. “Nothing up with me at all.” She did not want to admit to having arthritis even to herself.
Gilda was indeed good at her job. Agatha nearly fell asleep but remembered in time why she was there.
“I hear you will shortly be leaving,” said Agatha.
“Yes. I am going to be married and then my fiance says he will set me up in a clinic of my own. There is a good location near the centre of Oxford.”
“That will be expensive,” commented Agatha. “You are lucky to be marrying such a rich man. What does he do for a living?”
“He is a very successful architect.”
“Have you known him a long time?”
“For a few years. He wanted to marry me before, but I always refused. I told him, I need a business of my own for security.”
Agatha fell silent, her brain whirring. Why was George courting rich women? Did he plan to get them so enamoured with him that they would invest in this clinic? A few years? Was he courting her while his wife was alive? She decided she must try to secure another date with George and see if he suggested anything like that. She did not want to ask Gilda any more questions in case she became suspicious. Agatha knew she would have to pay by credit card. She did not have enough cash with her. She could only hope Gilda would not be curious enough to ask at reception for her name. Fortunately, in booking her in, the receptionist had not asked for her name because it was an on-the-spot arrangement.
After the session was over, Agatha paid at the desk and then reluctantly asked Toni to drive her back to Mircester because she was feeling exhausted.
Toni said she was happy to go to work for the rest of the day. Agatha lied and said she had something to check up on, all the while planning to head straight home and go to bed.
When she awoke, she decided to try to get in touch with George.
_____________
George Selby sounded at first surprised and then delighted when Agatha invited him out to dinner that evening.
Agatha had chosen Mircester’s most expensive restaurant, Henri’s, for dinner. She hoped the atmosphere of discreet lighting and tables set well apart would set the scene for an intimate conversation, and she cynically guessed that the price of the dishes on the menu would endear her to George.
She brushed her thick brown hair until it shone and made up her face carefully. The evening was not warm enough for a summer dress, so she chose to wear one of rich gold fine jersey, flattering to her figure.
Agatha drove wearing flat heels, changed into a pair of stilettos in Mircester car park and tottered towards the restaurant.
George was already there, and her heart gave a treacherous little flutter when she saw him. She hoped he would turn out to be a really fine person after all. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit, white shirt, and silk tie. Those magnetic green eyes of his lit up when he saw her.
“Your invitation came as a nice surprise,” he said when she sat down. “You are looking very well. What’s this in aid of?”
Agatha fluttered false eyelashes, hoping they would not fall off. “I should have thought asking a handsome man to dinner would not need any explanation,” she said. “Do choose something nice to eat.”
“Shall I choose for both of us?”
Something unholy flickered across Agatha’s bearlike eyes and then she forced a smile.
“Go ahead.”
As she had expected, he started to order the most expensive items on the menu—a dozen oysters each to begin, followed by tournedos Rossini. He ordered a bottle of white wine to go with the oysters and a vintage claret to accompany the steak.
“Now, do tell me about yourself,” said Agatha. “We’ve never really had a chance to talk properly. I’m afraid that last time I did all the talking.”
“Oh, business is very successful,” said George. “I’ve been working hard.”
“I find clever investment is a good idea,” said Agatha. “I mean, it is better to use money to make money rather than leaving it to just lie in the bank.”
“Exactly!” beamed George. “Here are our oysters.”
Agatha fortunately liked oysters, but she could have sworn that George did not. She guessed he was eating them because he thought it the sophisticated thing to do. He was certainly washing them down with a large amount of wine, which suited Agatha, who wanted to keep a clear head. She suddenly wondered if he came from a poor background.
“You were talking about investments,” said George. He had swallowed the last of his oysters with a look on his face reminiscent of a child taking medicine.
“Yes.”
“I have something that might interest you.”
“Do go on.”
“I have a friend who is starting her own beauty salon in Oxford.” George leaned his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on Agatha’s face. “The thing is this. Beauty salons used to be only for the rich, but now there is more money around, all sorts of ordinary people want massage, tanning and non-surgical facelifts. It can’t fail.”
“Sounds good. What is the name of this friend?”
“Why?”
“Simple question.”
“Gilda Brenson.”
“So what is she selling? Shares? If it’s not up and running, she can hardly have floated the salon as a company on the stock market.”
“No, the offer would be this. You would get two per cent of the net profits.”
“Now, that’s not good. I would only be interested in two per cent of the gross. How much would you want me to invest?”
George took a deep breath. He leaned across the table and took Agatha’s hand in his. The tournedos arrived. George scowled. “This came too quickly,” he said. “I don’t like it when it comes too quickly. It looks as if it’s been precooked and just waiting in the kitchen.”
“Looks great to me,” said Agatha cheerfully. “Why don’t we eat it first and discuss businesses afterwards? And I can’t eat while you’re holding my hand.”
“Oh, right.”
George proceeded to eat and drink quickly. Between bites, Agatha talked about the weather and the disastrous results of the flooding. When she had finished eating and had embarked on yet another flooding story, George interrupted her by asking eagerly, “So, you would be interested?”
“In what?”
“In investing in this salon?”
“Go away and give us a break,” snapped George. He turned his gaze back on Agatha. “Well?”
“How much?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, nothing much. Seventy-five thousand pounds.”
“That is actually a lot of money.”
“Come on, Agatha. It’s a great chance for you to make money.” Again he took her hand. “I can see a future for us,” he breathed.
“Together?”
“Why not?”
“And what would Gilda have to say about us being together?”
“Agatha, Agatha, my darling. Poor old Gilda is just a business associate.”
Agatha withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gilda is your fiancee, is she not?”
His mouth fell open.
“You’ve a bit of pureed spinach on your teeth,” commented Agatha. “It matches your eyes.”
He scrubbed his front teeth furiously with his napkin. “How did you know Gilda was my fiancee?”
“I’m a detective. I detect. And you interest me an awful lot. I think you’re in debt and the fair Gilda won’t marry you until you produce the goods. Did you get Sybilla to push your wife downstairs?”
Agatha had read in books of people’s faces going black with fury. Now she knew what the writers meant.
“No, I did not murder my wife,” hissed George. “You are a malicious old trout.”
“Now we’ve settled that,” said Agatha. “What about pudding?”
“Screw the pudding and you!”
George thrust his chair back, stood up and stormed out of the restaurant.
I might have done something dangerous, thought Agatha and called for the bill.
_____________
When she entered her cottage, carrying her stiletto shoes, she found Charles in the living room, sitting with her cats and watching television.
“Hot date?” asked Charles lazily. “Those eyelashes are a bit much.”
“I’ve been out for dinner with George Selby. Let me tell you what’s been going on.”
Charles switched off the television and listened carefully. When Agatha had finished, Charles said, “How could you do such a stupid thing? If the man really is a murderer, he’ll come after you.”
“It’s a risk I have to take,” said Agatha. “Aren’t looks so misleading? I don’t think he’ll come after me. Too obvious.”
“If he charmed Sybilla into bumping off his wife, he may get this Gilda to drop by one night and strangle you.”
“Now I’m at dead slow and stop,” said Agatha, sinking down on the sofa beside him.
“What are all those boxes of photos doing on the floor?”
“I phoned Toni before I went to sleep today and told her to go back to the vicarage and collect them. We didn’t really have time to look at them thoroughly.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Someone in former photos whose face doesn’t fit.”
“Aha! Some sinister face holding a dagger.”
“Something like that.”
“So you don’t think it’s a local?”
“Not any more. I can’t think any of them would do it. I’m going to bed.”
“What’s the programme for tomorrow?”
“Office, I suppose. What about you?”
“I feel like a lazy day. I’ll take a look at those photos for you. Did you find anything during the first search?”
“Yes. Maggie Tubby is in one of them, gazing adoringly at George. She’s got money. He took her for lunch yesterday and gave her a passionate kiss. I know what I’ll do tomorrow. I’ll pay a call on Maggie and tell her about George’s fiancee.”
“If she’s promised to invest money and you make her pull back, then dear George is really going to feel murderous. I’ll come with you.”
Chapter Nine
SHE MAY HAVE PULLED OUT ALREADY,” said Agatha as she parked in front of Maggie’s cottage. “I told Phyllis George had already been romancing me, went and listened outside their back garden and learned that George had previously tried his scam on with Phyllis and that’s when she told him Maggie had the money.”
“Let’s see the reaction anyway,” said Charles. “She’s probably still in love with him.”
“Why?”
“Obsession dies hard, doesn’t it, Aggie? Heard from James?”
“Do shut up and ring the bell.”
Maggie herself answered the door. “What is it now?” she demanded.
“May we come in?” asked Agatha.
“No.”
“Well, I may as well shout it on the doorstep. It’s about George.”
Maggie hesitated. Then she said reluctantly, “Come in, but just for a moment.”
They followed her through to her shed in the garden. “I was working,” said Maggie. She turned and faced them outside the shed door. “What is it?”
“I’ve found out that George Selby is engaged to a certain masseuse called Gilda Brenson. She won’t marry him unless he buys her a clinic in Oxford, so he’s been trying to get money out of us to fund it.”
Maggie put out a hand and leaned on the shed door. Her normally rosy cheeks had turned pale.
“It can’t be true.”
“I’m afraid it is. Did you give him any money?”
“Two hundred thousand,” said Maggie in a hoarse whisper. “He promised to marry me. I’ll kill him.”
“Don’t do that,” said Charles. “There’s been enough killing already.”
“Why don’t you tell the vicar about it?” suggested Agatha. “It may be that George has tried to get his hands on some of the money from the fête.”
“Just leave,” said Maggie. “Leave now.”
Toni received a text from Harry. “In Turkey. Back in week. Want to see u.”
Steeling herself, Toni texted back, “Don’t want see u. Got boyfriend.”
And I hope that’s that, she thought.
Her doorbell rang. At least it can’t be Harry, thought Toni, going to answer it. It was her friend Sharon.
“Feel like going to see the Living Legends?” she asked.
“I thought you were going with Simon.” Simon was Sharon’s boyfriend.
“He’s dumped me, that’s what.”
“Never!”
“Yeah. Got me to get tickets and then told me he was going with Cheryl, her with the big boobs and the nose ring.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Toni, thinking that a pop concert might be a good antidote to the feelings of inadequacy engendered in her by Harry.
While Charles went back to Agatha’s cottage to look at the old photographs, Agatha went to her office to find a local reporter, Harriet Winry, waiting for her. Harriet was a thin, bespectacled girl with bad skin and lank hair. What she lacked in looks she made up for with enthusiasm for her job.
“Nothing to report,” said Agatha curtly. “Get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”
“What about that business at Comfrey Magna?” asked Harriet.
“Still investigating. Now, go away … Wait a minute. I might have a little bit of news for you, nothing much.”
“What is it?”
“Handsome widower George Selby is engaged to gorgeous masseuse Gilda Brenson. Not much, but it’d make a nice item for the local gossip column. A photo of Gilda might be worth it. She is very glamorous. Works at Bartley’s Health Farm. She’ll be leaving shortly because George is going to set her up with her own salon. To this end, he’s been begging his wealthy female friends to invest in the salon.”
“Thanks, Agatha. Might make a nice little piece.”
Agatha grinned. “Just what I thought.”
Harriet left and Phil Marshall arrived carrying his camera bag. “I think I’ve got enough on that divorce case,” he said. “What now?”
“We’d better get over to Herry’s shoe factory. They say someone’s been pinching their designs and they want us to investigate.”
The managing director of the shoe company, Jimmy Binter, talked to them in the boardroom. “It’s the second time Comfort Shoes has stolen our designs. We do a line which specializes in wide fittings.”
“When did the first one happen?” asked Agatha
“Last spring. One of our models appeared in their spring catalogue, and now another of our latest models is featured in their autumn catalogue.”
“How many do you employ?”
“It’s a small company. Forty on the work force, two designers and four salesmen.”
“I need a list of their names.”
“I have it right here.”
Agatha studied the list and then said, “Mark off the names who started work before, say, last November.”
“I’ll call our personnel manager, Mrs. Goody. She’ll help you.”
“Where is the catalogue printed?”
“At Jones Printers in Mircester. But whoever stole the designs for the shoes wouldn’t work at the printer’s. The shoe featured in the spring catalogue was copied exactly. Someone would need the original design.”
Mrs. Goody arrived and ticked off the names and addresses of the employees who had started work last autumn.
Agatha busily took notes and then stood up. “I’ll get back to you. Give me a spring and an autumn catalogue.”
Outside the factory, Phil said, “What do you plan to do?”
“There’s a new designer, Carry Wilks, taken on last year. She’s our best bet. Let’s check where she lives. If she lives with her parents, it’ll slow things up. But if I remember rightly, it’s block of flats, one of those tower blocks out on the Evesham road.”
Agatha drove steadily, smoking and blowing smoke around the car. Phil coughed crossly and opened a window.
“Here we are,” said Agatha. “She lives in number thirty-four. I hope it isn’t too high up because often the lifts in these places are broken.”
The lift was, indeed, broken. Agatha felt her hip getting worse as she mounted the smelly stone staircase. Phil seemed to take the stairs as easily as a teenager.
“Here we are, thirty-four.” Agatha rang the bell. A child wailed from a nearby apartment and a rising wind moaned around the building.
