Dishing the Dirt

by M C Beaton

  When her detectives had left, Agatha discovered that Mrs. Freedman received quite a lot of phone calls. She longed to shout at callers to get off the line, but business was business, and so she settled down to take notes about missing pets, adulterous husbands and all the other bread and butter cases the agency dealt with. By three in the afternoon, she felt cross and hungry. She ordered a pizza to be delivered while she made herself yet another cup of black coffee.

  Agatha had her mouth full of pizza when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Yes, may I help you?” she said, although because her mouth was full of pizza, it sounded more like, “Is, may elp yi.”

  “I would like to speak to Agatha Raisin.” It was Mark. Agatha spat out her mouthful of pizza on the office floor.

  “Mark!” she cooed. “It is Mark, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Agatha. I wondered whether you would like to join me for dinner tonight?”

  “That would be lovely,” said Agatha. “What time and where?”

  “The George. At eight o’clock?”

  “Lovely. I’ll see you there.”

  She had just replaced the receiver when Charles strode into the office.

  “What are you doing here?” snapped Agatha.

  “Why so hostile? Had a boring lunch with a cousin and thought I’d drop in on you.”

  “Well, I’m busy, so drop out.”

  Charles stared at the floor beside Agatha’s desk. “Have you been sick?”

  “No, it was too hot. I’ll clean it up. I’m sorry, Charles, but I really am too busy.”

  “Who is he?” asked Charles.

  “Who what?”

  “You’ve got that travel bag of yours beside the desk, which usually means you plan to change into something slinky for a date. Good thing you didn’t vomit pizza on it.”

  “You’re talking rubbish. Oh, clear off. You make my head ache.”

  “Well, don’t come crying to me if he turns out to be a rat.”

  Charles strolled off. Agatha cleaned the mess off the floor. The afternoon dragged on. Then one by one her detectives returned with their reports.

  “I don’t think any of this stuff warrants overtime,” said Agatha. “So you can all go home.”

  * * *

  “She’s got a date,” said Toni as she walked down the stairs from the office with Simon. “Any idea who it might be?”

  “Not a clue. Anyway, whoever it is ought to be warned that our murderer might bump him off. Sometimes I think this murderer is out there, watching Agatha, and enjoying the fact that she hasn’t got any idea who he is.”

  “I wonder if we should follow her, just to make sure she is safe,” said Toni.

  Simon laughed. “You would think we were talking about a wayward adolescent. She wouldn’t thank us for interfering.”

  * * *

  Agatha was ten minutes late arriving at the George. She had put on heavy make-up, wiped it off, tried again, decided that it was too little, and just as she decided she was happy with the result, a blob of mascara fell on her cheek and she had to start all over again.

  She was wearing a scarlet chiffon jersey dress with a low neckline and scarlet red high-heeled shoes. A diamond pendant and little diamond earrings completed the ensemble.

  Mark Dretter rose to meet her and Agatha suddenly felt very overdressed. The long French windows at the end of the restaurant were wide open because the evening was warm and humid. Mark was wearing a blue-and-white-checked shirt open at the neck. But he said, “You look magnificent.”

  “I had to deal with a very posh client before I came here,” lied Agatha.

  “Let’s choose something to eat,” said Mark, “and then you can tell me how you are getting on.”

  Agatha’s bearlike eyes suddenly bored into him. “So that you can report to Gwen?”

  He looked hurt. “Do you credit any man who invites you out for dinner as having an ulterior motive?”

  “In my line of work, I’m suspicious of everyone,” said Agatha. “Sorry.”

  “Never mind. What are you going to have to eat?”

  Agatha had a healthy appetite but sadly knew that anything fattening seemed to go straight to her waistline. On the other hand, she told herself, she could start dieting the next day.

  She ordered avocado stuffed with shrimp as a starter to be followed by steak and a baked potato. Mark said he would have the same and ordered a bottle of Macon to go with the meal.

  “I can’t help remembering having a meal here with David Herythe,” said Agatha, “and then he ended up murdered. I hope I am not putting you in danger.”

  He laughed. “My sister is a security freak. My cottage has steel shutters on the downstairs windows, a CCTV camera over the door and burglar alarms back and front. Still, when you think about it, the murderer must have been following you. Just think. Might even be in this restaurant.”

  Agatha looked around the dining room. “They all look ordinary,” she said. “Mind you, it’s only after a murderer is caught that people say, look at those evil, staring eyes, or something like that, when in fact the murderer could be someone you would pass in the street without a second glance.”

  “Perhaps this murderer has given up,” said Mark. “Have you got over that attempt on your life?”

  “Of course,” said Agatha, clasping her hands, which had begun to tremble, on her lap.

  She privately thought that she would never forget Justin’s attack. Her life had been threatened before and she had got over it quickly. Maybe she was suffering from an accumulation of attacks. Maybe she should get married and forget about being a detective. Maybe Dubai would be fun. She could play the hostess with the mostest at embassy parties. Would she have to wear a print dress and a large hat?

  “Hullo!” said Mark. “I think you forgot I was here.”

  Agatha threw him a flirtatious look. “Now how could I forget such a handsome man?”

  He smiled. “Easily, I should think. Why do you suspect Gwen?”

  “Because her son, the baker, was serving up people in meat pies. There were the two of them living in that bakery. Don’t tell me she didn’t know what was going on.”

  “Mother love can be blind. Also, she wouldn’t have the strength. For example, you said that Tremund had been knocked on the head and pushed in the canal.”

  “I think it would be easy for such as Gwen Simple to enchant some man so that he would murder for her.”

  “But you told me the police had bugged her phone. She hasn’t let anything slip. In fact, she leads a blameless life. Do eat your food. We’ve plenty of time to talk.”

  When she had finished her first course, Agatha said, “But you did think it might be a village murder and that the police are wasting their time looking at the Chicago end of the business.”

  “Just a feeling. Murder on such a scale would make anyone think it should be someplace like Birmingham rather than an English village. Anyway, what do you really know of that cleaner of yours?”

  “Doris? Honest as the day is long.”

  “And Mrs. Tweedy?”

  “She may be a bitch but she’s pretty old.”

  “I bet there’s someone in Carsely you haven’t even thought of.”

  “I can’t believe that,” said Agatha. “Jill had consulting rooms in Mircester before she moved to the village. I wonder why she moved. More suckers to be found in a large town.”

  “Maybe one of her Mircester clients threatened her,” said Mark. “Maybe that’s why she moved. Oh, here’s the steak.”

  Agatha was a fast eater. Mark, on the other hand, carefully cut off small pieces of steak one at a time and chewed them thoroughly before dissecting another bit.

  “I’m tired of talking about murder,” said Agatha. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell,” he said, lifting a tiny piece of baked potato to his mouth. “Boring clerical work mostly. I might retire. There’s a neighbour of yours called James Lacey. Writes books, doesn’t he?”

 
“Yes, he’s my ex.”

  “Didn’t work out?”

  “Obviously,” said Agatha curtly.

  “Well, I could do that. Write books, I mean.”

  “You’d need a private income.”

  “I have that.”

  Agatha’s dream of Dubai faded. It wouldn’t be the same, love in a cottage. She’d tried that with James.

  “Could you possibly introduce me to James Lacey?”

  “Yes, I can do that.” Agatha was suddenly tired of his company. “Look, if we skip dessert and coffee, we can go now and catch him before he goes to bed.”

  * * *

  As Mark talked enthusiastically to James about his ambition to write a book, Agatha gathered that Mark wanted to write any sort of book without knowing whether it was to be fiction or nonfiction. James found out that Mark’s favourite reading was spy stories and suggested he could write one based on his experiences in Dubai. Agatha began to think there was something almost schoolboyish about Mark.

  At last she yawned and said she had to go to bed. Mark reluctantly left with her and walked her to her cottage next door. To her irritation, Agatha recognised Charles’s car.

  “Are you going to invite me in?” asked Mark.

  “Not tonight. I’m tired.”

  “We must do this again. I’ll phone you.” He kissed her warmly on both cheeks.

  Agatha let herself into her cottage. Charles was asleep on the sofa with the cats on his lap. She glared at him and then went up to bed.

  Would she really need to be in love with a man to get married to him? Mark was easy company. She paused. Where was the murderer now? Was she putting Mark in danger? And what about Charles and James? What about herself?

  She opened her bedroom window and leaned out. A squat dark figure was just hurrying out of the lane. Agatha felt a spasm of pure dread. Whoever it was hadn’t been walking a dog. There were only two cottages in Lilac Lane, her own and James’s, and the lane ended at a field.

  She rushed downstairs and shook Charles awake. “There was someone out in the lane,” she said.

  Charles straightened up, spilling cats onto the floor. “So what?”

  “So what reason does anyone have for coming along here?”

  He got to his feet. “I’ll go and have a look.”

  “No!” screamed Agatha, hanging on to him. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  He grinned. “This is so sudden.” He planted a kiss on her nose. “I’ll be careful.”

  Charles slipped on his shoes and went out into the lane. The air was damp and close and there was no moon. He ran lightly to the end of the lane. There was a streetlight at the corner. But it appeared the whole of Carsely had gone to sleep. Charles returned slowly to Agatha’s cottage. He was worried about her. He had known Agatha to cope with murder and mayhem before and she always came bouncing back from every fright as good as new. But these murders were getting to her. She should get away on holiday and forget about the whole thing.

  A pattering in the leaves of the lilac tree at the gate made him look up. Rain was beginning to fall.

  “Anything?” demanded Agatha as he walked in.

  “Nothing. Go to bed. You should go away somewhere, Aggie, and forget about the whole business. You’re becoming a nervous wreck.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I nail this bastard,” said Agatha.

  “Well, go to bed and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  * * *

  The grey, drizzly morning had a calming effect on Agatha. Horrors somehow seemed worse in bright sunlight. Charles was already up and on his way out. “Maybe see you later,” he said.

  Agatha had sometimes thought she might tell him she was turning the spare room into an office because she did not like the cavalier way he came and went in her life, but, she reminded herself, he had saved her life.

  She decided to forget about the murders for the time being and concentrate on the work in hand. It was a busy week and the staff all worked hard. Agatha realised with delight that she would finally be able to give everyone a bonus and that news, delivered to her staff on Friday evening, was greeted with a great cheer. Agatha often worked on Saturdays with one other member of her staff, but decided that this time, as part of the celebration, they should all have the week-end off.

  Agatha was sure Charles would have disappeared again. She did not want to be alone and planned to leave her cottage and walk up to the pub. But as she arrived, she saw Roy Silver’s car parked outside her door. She often viewed her former employee as an irritation. He was asleep at the wheel. She rapped on the window and he came awake with a start.

  When he got out of the car, Agatha noticed that, for Roy, he was more soberly dressed than usual, wearing a business suit, but with a white shirt open at the neck, revealing enough gold chains to make an Indian woman’s dowry.

  “You’ve got to help me,” he said as soon as he was out of the car.

  “Come inside and tell me all about it,” said Agatha. She wondered for a moment if Mark would phone and reminded herself she was not really interested in him.

  The rain had stopped but the garden was still soaked. They sat in the living room. Roy asked for a vodka and tonic and Agatha helped herself to a gin and tonic.

  “Now,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I was to handle the Leman account, you know, the Paris perfume people. Big promotion for their new perfume, Passion. Pedman gave it to that conniving bitch Maisie Byles.” Pedman was Roy’s boss.

  “The wonderful world of public relations,” said Agatha. “I’m glad to be out of it. Who the hell is Maisie Byles?”

  “She only joined a month ago. Came from our rivals, JIG Publicity. Smarmed all over Mr. Pedman from day one.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Rabbity. Protruding eyes and big teeth.”

  “So how has she managed to charm Pedman?”

  She found out the date of his little son’s birthday and brought in a present. She offered to babysit when his babysitter let him down.”

  “JIG Publicity is a big powerful firm,” said Agatha. “Why did she leave?”

  “Don’t know. She sneers at me.”

  “I’ve got a contact at JIG,” said Agatha. “I’ll see if I’ve got his home number.”

  She went to her desk, pulled out a drawer and lifted out a bulging address book.

  “You must be the only person to still use an address book,” commented Roy.

  “Old numbers,” said Agatha curtly. “Now what was his name? Maybe it’s under JIG. Ah, here we are. Duncan Macgregor. Scottish as malt whisky. I’ll phone him.”

  She rang a number and waited. Then she said, “No reply. I’ll try his mobile.”

  This time Duncan answered. After the preliminary pleasantries, Agatha said, “What can you tell me about Maisie Byles?”

  Roy waited impatiently, wishing he could hear what Duncan was saying.

  At last, he heard Agatha say, “That’s interesting. I’ll bet Pedman didn’t know anything about that.”

  She began to talk about her detective work, obviously in answer to Duncan’s questions. Finally she rang off.

  Agatha sat down and took a gulp of her drink and then said, “Maisie Byles left before she was pushed. She was handling Happytot baby formula. The silly cow went on her Facebook page and said that all mothers should be forced to breast-feed. Furious people at Happytot. JIG lost the account. Going to sack her but she cried and cried and said she had an invalid mother to support so instead they suggested she find other employment.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Roy. “Do you think she has an invalid mother?”

  “Not for a moment,” said Agatha.

  “So what do we do?” asked Roy.

  “I’ll send Pedman an e-mail and tell him all about it. If I do, are you sure you’ll get the account?”

  “Yes, it was initially offered to me but Maisie piped up and said surely it would be better if the account were handled by a woman.�
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  “Okay, help yourself to another drink while I send this e-mail.”

  Agatha typed out an e-mail and sent it off.

  “He always checks his e-mails, even at week-ends,” said Roy. “Maybe he’ll contact me.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Agatha.

  “So what’s been happening in Murderville?” asked Roy.

  “Quiet at the moment. I’m still sure Gwen Simple is behind it. Maybe she confessed to Jill Davent that she had helped her son with those murders.”

  “Oh, the Sweeney Todd case?”

  “That’s the one. Finish your drink and let’s walk up to the pub and get something to eat. I don’t feel like cooking.”

  “When did you ever cook, Agatha? You nuke everything in the microwave.”

  “Don’t be rude. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The pub was full inside but the tables and chairs outside had been wiped dry so they sat there and studied the menus, both finally settling for “sea fresh cod in golden crispy batter with hand-cut chips, mange tout and rocket from our own garden.”

  “They don’t have a garden,” said Agatha. “I hate rocket. Nasty, spidery vegetable.”

  Agatha lit a cigarette and blew smoke up towards the grey sky.

  “Still smoking,” said Roy. “It’s so old-fashioned, Agatha.”

  “I suppose Maisie will now get the sack,” said Agatha. “I must admit, that’s a bit on my conscience.”

  “Don’t worry. The cunning bitch insisted on a year’s contract so Pedman is stuck with her. What if he’s so enamoured of her that he does nothing?”

  “He’ll listen to me,” said Agatha. “He’ll be furious. He’ll think the whole PR world is laughing at him. You know how hypersensitive he is.” In the past, after she had sold her agency, Agatha had done PR work on a freelance basis for Pedman.

  When their food arrived, Agatha noticed that the chips were the usual frozen ones. Between bites of food, she began to fret about the murders.

  Said Roy, “Doris Simpson was one of her clients. Maybe she noticed another client, someone not on your list.”