by M C Beaton
‘And you didn’t even phone me? You let her get out of the office before I arrived?’
Phil smoothed his silver hair and said quietly, ‘She’s waiting for you at her home address. We thought we’d wait until you arrived.’
‘And why aren’t you all out working?’
‘It’s such good news,’ said Patrick, looking more like a tired bloodhound than ever. ‘Toni wanted us all to wait until we told you. Gary’s wife is now a Mrs Richards, married to a supermarket owner. She’s prepared to pay a lot.’
Agatha felt mean and petty. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was good of all of you to wait for me. Do you know why she wants to find the murderer of her ex? If she divorced him, she can’t care that much about who killed him.’
‘Get this,’ said Toni excitedly. ‘He divorced her!’
‘Give me the address and I’ll get round there,’ said Agatha, putting on her coat.
Mrs Richards lived in a large villa in the better part of town. Snow began to fall again in feathery flakes, swirling hypnotically in front of Agatha’s eyes as she drove up the short drive and parked her car.
I should have asked how much she’s paying, thought Agatha. She rang the bell and listened to the dulcet tones of the Westminster chimes.
The door opened. Agatha blinked. ‘Is Mrs Richards at home?’
‘I’m Mrs Richards. You can call me Amy. You’re Agatha Raisin?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Come in.’
Amy Richards was a petite blonde with a genuine tan and a perfect figure. She had a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes. When she let Agatha into a living room on the ground floor and the white light from the snow outside fell on Amy’s face, Agatha realized that she was older than she looked and that she’d probably had a face-lift. It was because of Amy’s eyes. Clever plastic surgery can restore an appearance of youth, but nothing changes the expression of age and experience in the eyes. She was wearing a blue cashmere sweater, the exact colour of her eyes – no, not her eyes, thought Agatha, her contact lenses – and form-fitting grey cashmere trousers over ankle boots with high heels.
‘Take a pew,’ said Amy in a soft Gloucestershire accent. ‘Drinkie?’
‘Nothing,’ said Agatha. She pulled a notebook out of her capacious handbag. ‘I was amazed to learn that your husband divorced you. Why?’
‘I think there was someone else.’
Agatha looked at the vision in front of her and then thought of the squat and ugly Beech.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ she said. ‘I saw your ex when he gave me a ticket. Hardly an Adonis.’
‘Wait. I want to show you something.’
Amy left the room and returned after a few minutes with a photograph, which she handed to Agatha. ‘That’s me and Gary on our wedding day.’
The Amy in the photograph was small and plump, with brown hair and teeth that stuck out. ‘I was hardly a beauty,’ she said.
‘How did the transformation take place? Was it due to your present husband?’
‘No, it was like this. Gary was mean. He used to beat me. But I did love him. I’ve always fallen for masterful men. But he gave me a good lot of money in the divorce settlement. I was that broke up, I went to Florida on a holiday. The airline had made a mistake with my booking, so as a compensation, they upgraded me to first class. I met this businessman, Art, ever so kind he was. His wife had just dumped him. He was going to finalize the divorce when he got to Miami. I told him all about Gary and he said, “Get a makeover and let him see what he’s been missing.” I said that surely it cost a lot of money.
‘He said he would fund it, but I had to meet up with him afterwards and go with him to meet his ex-wife because he wanted to make her jealous.’
‘What was his full name?’
‘Art Mackenzie the Third. He said he was in hedge funds. I thought he meant he was a gardener. He tried to explain, but I couldn’t understand it.’
‘What puzzles me is why he just didn’t buy the services of some beauty in Florida.’
‘He said I reminded him of his mother.’
Stark, raving bonkers, thought Agatha. But she prompted, ‘Go on.’
‘Well, it took over three months and I had the works. He must have spent a fortune on me. When I was finished, he said he was delighted, so I said, “When do we meet your wife?” He said, not yet. But he said I should do some work for him. He said he ran a big escort agency and some Arabs were coming to town. He said all I had to do was act pretty and see they had plenty of drinks in their penthouse suite. He had changed. Before I started all the cosmetic surgery and that, he cried a lot and said I was a comfort to him. But afterwards, he had gone sort of hard and businesslike and kept rabbiting on about how much I had cost him.
‘Well, I was pretty green but not that green, and I knew he wanted me to do some whoring for him. I felt sick. I was sitting in this hotel lounge, crying, because I had no money to get a plane home.’
‘You could have gone to the British consul,’ said Agatha.
Her eyes widened. ‘I never thought of that. I’d never been out of England before. But that was when I met Bunchie.’
‘Who’s Bunchie?’
‘Mr Richards. His name is really Tom, but I call him Bunchie. It’s a pet name. Anyway, he came up to me and asked what was the matter, and the minute I heard his English voice, I cried even harder. He said I should go to the police, but I said they’d think I was nothing more than a tart for taking his money in the first place and they might arrest me for prostitution. So he said he had to catch the plane home, and do you know, when he said he lived in Mircester, I thought, There really is a God, cos I’d been praying ever so hard. And he said he’d take me with him. We got married two weeks after we got back.’
‘Have you considered,’ said Agatha, ‘that this Art may have come to England looking for you and taken his spite out on Gary?’
She bit her collagen-enhanced lips. ‘I dunno.’
‘What does your husband think about paying my agency to find out what happened to Beech? I mean, it’s nothing to do with him.’
‘Oh, he’d do anything for me. He’s got oodles of money and gives me a very generous allowance, which is just as well, because I suppose I’ll have to pay to send you to Florida.’
‘Let’s get back to your marriage to Gary. How did you meet?’
‘He came into the supermarket regular like, to buy his beer. Then he asked me out. He took me to all the best places. Fair bowled off my feet, I was.’
‘Did you never worry where he got the money from? Surely you must have known that a copper’s pay doesn’t amount to all that much?’
‘I asked once and he took his belt to me and told me not to ask questions again.’
‘My dear girl, why didn’t you leave him?’
‘Well, Dad used to beat me something awful. I thought it was something that men did. Then Gary started to stay out all night, and I thought there was someone else. One night when he was asleep, I got the key to his desk and began to search it, looking for love letters. He caught me. Broke my ribs, he did. Then he said he was getting rid of me and he’d be generous if I just got the hell out.’
‘Let me see if I have this right. This man beat you, abused you, divorced you, and you still want to find out what happened to him?’
‘I have to know. I think it was something to do with that other woman.’
‘But you have no proof there was another woman.’
‘Well, several times when the phone rang and I answered it, whoever it was just hung up.’
‘Have you told the police about the man in Florida?’
‘I didn’t like to. Didn’t want to sound like a tart.’
Agatha thought quickly. She really ought to urge her to go to the police. The FBI in Florida would surely ferret out this Art Mackenzie, if that really was his name. Was Amy as naïve as she seemed?
‘I want this Art made to suffer,’ said Amy. ‘Have you ever had cosmeti
c surgery? Silly me. Of course you haven’t. Well, it’s damn painful, and what with getting my teeth straightened and the liposuction and all that, I’d like to get a bit of my own back.’
‘I still wonder why he picked you,’ said Agatha. ‘He could have found plenty of pretty girls in Florida without having to go to all the expense of making them over.’
‘I do think he loved me for a bit,’ said Amy. ‘And do you know, when he showed me a picture of his mother, I did look a bit like her.’
‘Well,’ said Agatha, looking out of the window at the freezing day outside, ‘I may as well start with Florida. You will be billed for all expenses plus a daily fee.’
‘Oh, yes, your Mrs Freedman told me that and got me to sign the papers.’
‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea if I talked to your husband as well?’
‘He’s awfully busy.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He owns Richards Supermarkets.’
Agatha recognized the name. The supermarkets were all over the country.
‘Let me think this over,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll get in touch with you soon.’
Agatha called a meeting of her staff early that evening and told them what she had learned from the former Mrs Beech.
‘Lucky you,’ said Toni. ‘I wouldn’t mind going to Florida.’
‘I may as well see if there’s any connection between this Art person and Beech. There’s not much can be done here at the moment that the police can’t. Did Amy say anything about telling the police about the prostitution racket?’
‘No, not a thing,’ said Patrick. ‘She said she’d been on holiday in Florida and that’s where she met her new husband. I never heard that she’d mentioned this fellow Art.’
‘It all seems a bit coincidental,’ said Toni. ‘I mean, how fortunate this Richards turned up at the right moment to rescue her and comes from Mircester as well.’
‘What if the whole thing is a pack of lies?’ said Phil. ‘I mean, you do have a reputation, Agatha.’
‘Reputation for what?’ demanded Agatha furiously.
‘For being a good detective,’ said Phil. ‘She’s no doubt read in the papers or heard from the police about you finding the body. So the best way to keep you close is to hire you. Even better, if she simply used the divorce money to go to Florida for plastic surgery, it’s a good excuse to get out of the country and off the case.’
‘And,’ put in Patrick, ‘this Richards may be involved in the murder. She was definitely out of the country, but where was he? I think you should wait here for a bit, Agatha.’
The wind howled round the old building, and sleet pattered against the windows.
‘I’m going,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll visit her again this evening and see if I can catch her with Bunchie.’
‘Who’s Bunchie?’ asked Toni.
‘It’s her pet name for him. Talking about pets, how’s Paul?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Toni primly.
‘Seeing a lot of him?’
‘Has this anything to do with the agency?’ asked Toni angrily.
‘Well, no, but—’
‘So mind your own business.’
‘May I remind you, Mizz Gilmour, that you are speaking to your employer?’
‘But not my mother.’ Toni slammed out of the office.
‘You asked for that,’ said Phil. ‘Leave the girl alone or she might marry Paul to spite you.’
Agatha sat alone in the office after the others had left, wondering whether it was really worthwhile going to Florida or had Amy been spinning some tale. Forget Florida, she suddenly thought. Perhaps it was a ruse to get her out of the country. Surely the answer to Beech’s death lay in the Cotswolds. Uneasy thoughts about young Simon Black also troubled her mind. What if he was killed in Afghanistan? The names of the dead were now well publicized. Had Toni been falling in love with him? Why on earth had she interfered? A nasty little conscience was reminding her that Toni was not her daughter, and even if she were, she should stop interfering in the girl’s life.
She gave herself a shake. Let the police handle the Florida end. She put on her coat and went out into the biting cold and made her way to police headquarters, where she informed the desk that she had important news for Inspector Wilkes.
She was eventually ushered through into an interview room. ‘What is it now?’ asked Wilkes wearily.
Agatha told him everything she had learned from Amy Richards, consulting a sheaf of notes from time to time.
When she had finished, Wilkes surveyed her cynically. ‘I would have thought, from past experience, that you would have kept this information to yourself, particularly as the woman has engaged your services.’
‘I cannot quite believe the Florida story, or about the fortuitous meeting with Richards. I think, for some reason, she wants me out of the way.’
‘You being the great detective, who if left here would solve a case the police can’t?’
‘Something like that,’ mumbled Agatha.
‘Well, at least you are showing some sense at last. Wait there.’
So Agatha waited, longing for a cigarette, tracing patterns on the scarred table in front of her with one fingernail.
At last Wilkes came back with Detective Constable Alice Peterson. He switched on a tape recorder and took Agatha all through her story again. When she had finished, he asked, ‘Did Mrs Richards ask you not to tell the police any of this?’
‘Not exactly. I know she didn’t want me to tell you in case you thought she was some sort of tart. Please, for my sake, go easy on her. I need this contract.’
‘It’s not as if we owe you any favours,’ said Wilkes.
‘You do,’ said Agatha. ‘Think of all the times I’ve helped you out.’
Wilkes sighed. ‘We’ll be as tactful as possible. We will say we’ve traced her recent movements courtesy of the FBI and take it from there.’
And with that, Agatha had to be content.
Chapter Four
Agatha arrived back at her cottage to find Bill Wong waiting for her. ‘I’ve been hanging around for ages,’ complained Bill, seated in the kitchen with one cat round his neck and another on his lap. Agatha was glad to find the heat was back on.
After explaining that she had been at police headquarters and why, Agatha asked, ‘Why are you here? Any more questions?’
‘No, I haven’t heard about your latest, but I have heard about Paul Finlay.’
‘What?’
‘He was married until two years ago. His wife divorced him on grounds of cruelty. She got custody of their two children.’
‘Was it mental cruelty, or physical cruelty?’
‘Both.’
Agatha covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m in bad trouble.’
‘You’re in bad trouble? What about Toni? We’ve got to warn her.’
‘Yes, yes. It’s not only that. I’ve done a bad thing.’
‘Again?’
‘It’s not funny. Young Simon Black who worked for me was keen on Toni. She’s too young to get married, Bill!’
‘And you didn’t want to lose a good detective,’ said Bill cynically.
‘I told Simon to wait three years and then I wouldn’t stand in his way. He joined the army and he’s now in Afghanistan.’
‘Agatha, are you sure your jealousy of Toni doesn’t make you think up these horrible plots?’
‘No, no. I care for the girl. There was something unstable about Simon.’
‘Then let’s hope anyway he doesn’t die a hero. Tell me the latest.’
Agatha glanced at her watch. ‘I hope to visit Amy this evening. I’d better go. I want her to think I’m off to Florida and then I’ll go underground.’
‘She’ll see you around.’
‘I’ll disguise myself. But I must get a look at this husband of hers. What are we going to do about Toni?’
‘I’ll go right now and see her. I’ve got the evening off.’
�
��Don’t tell her about Simon!’
‘No, I think that’s up to you.’
Paul Finlay mounted the narrow stairs to Toni’s flat with a feeling of excitement. He felt the fact she had asked him for dinner and had said she had something important to tell him was propitious in the least. Toni was all he desired: young, pretty and surely malleable. A woman’s duty was to support her husband at all times and agree with him.
He had never been in Toni’s flat before and expected dolls on the sofa and posters of pop groups on the walls. But although it was small, it was furnished in excellent taste. Bookshelves on one wall were full of paperbacks and hardbacks. Two framed prints decorated the opposite wall, a Paul Klee and a Cotswold landscape by an artist he did not recognize. A round table was set at the window.
‘Hello, Paul,’ said Toni nervously. ‘Want a drink before dinner?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Beer or wine.’
‘Wine will be fine. What’s that?’ He took the bottle from her. ‘My dear innocent – Blockley Merlot!’ Blockley was a village near Moreton-in-Marsh.
‘It’s a local company who imports it and bottles it. Have you been to the village store in Blockley? It’s fabulous, all the things they have there. Charles says this wine is very good.’
‘I’ll stick to beer,’ said Paul ungraciously.
Toni shrugged. She opened a bottle of beer and poured him a glass. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a faded T-shirt.
‘I thought this was to be an occasion,’ said Paul, surveying her clothes.
‘Rather a sad one,’ said Toni. ‘Do sit down.’
He sat down on a two-seater sofa and patted the space beside him, but Toni drew up a hard chair and sat opposite. Toni had been out on only two dates with him since the murder. On each occasion, he had lectured her on the dangers of her job when he was not pontificating about the importance of his own. Toni wondered what she had ever seen in him. Maybe a psychiatrist would say she had been looking for a substitute father.
‘It’s like this, Paul,’ she said. ‘I am devoted to my job and I haven’t got time to go out on dates.’
His face became distorted with fury. ‘Are you dumping me?’
