by M C Beaton
‘That’s a pretty harsh way of putting it,’ said Toni. ‘All I’m trying to say – well . . . it’s just that we’re not suited.’
‘Little girls like you need a good slap on the bottom.’ Before Toni quite realized what was happening, he had jerked her off her chair, over his knee, and had begun to spank her. She reached down between their bodies and grabbed his balls and squeezed as hard as she could. He screamed and threw her off and then rolled on to the floor.
At that very opportune moment, the door opened and Bill Wong walked in.
He helped Toni to her feet. ‘What happened? Did he assault you?’
‘He smacked my bottom because I said I didn’t want to see him any more.’
Bill hauled the still-squirming Paul to his feet and clipped handcuffs on him. He read him his rights and charged him with assault.
‘She attacked me!’ Paul howled.
‘Let’s just forget it,’ said Toni.
Bill looked at her. ‘He’s done it before and he will do it again. His ex-wife divorced him because of physical and mental cruelty. He broke her ribs on one occasion and her jaw on another. You know the score, Toni.’
‘Okay,’ said Toni. ‘Just take him away.’
‘Are you going to be all right? Is there anyone you could phone?’
‘No, I’ll be all right now,’ said Toni.
Agatha at that moment was telling Amy that she was going to Florida. ‘Isn’t your husband at home?’ she asked.
‘He should be here at any moment,’ said Amy nervously.
‘You seem on edge,’ said Agatha.
‘I keep wondering if whoever killed poor Gary might come after me.’
‘Only if they think you know something.’
The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be my Bunchie!’ cried Amy, leaping to her feet.
‘Doesn’t he have a key . . . ?’ began Agatha. But the door to the living room opened and Amy entered, followed by a small, square man. He was expensively dressed in grey worsted. He had oily brown hair, a florid face and a long clown’s mouth.
‘This is my Bunchie!’ cried Amy. ‘Good luck on your trip. Keep in touch.’
‘If I could just have a few words with your husband, please.’
‘Oh, now is not the time. My poor Bunchie is so tired.’
Somehow Agatha found herself propelled towards the door.
‘It’s all very odd,’ Agatha told the privet hedge outside. She settled into her car and drove off a little way down the street where she could still get a good view of the entrance to the house from the streetlamp outside. The cold was intense, but she did not feel like switching on the engine. I wonder if this Bunchie really is her husband, she thought. He didn’t have a door key.
After an hour, the door opened and Bunchie appeared. He scuttled into a black BMW and set off. Agatha followed him. He drove through Mircester and out to the northern end of the town where there were large villas set back from the road.
Agatha got out of her car and walked slowly along. He walked up the path of one of the villas, took out keys and unlocked the door. A child’s voice could be heard crying shrilly, ‘Mummy, Daddy’s home!’
Now, thought Agatha, retreating to her car, either Amy is on the game or dear Bunchie is a bigamist. If I tell Bill, he’ll put a watch on the house and then call her in for questioning. Amy’s paying me and I need the money. Expose Amy and I won’t get any. But if I continue to watch Amy, there might be some connection there to her ex-husband’s murder.
Her plans for choosing some disguise to pretend she had actually gone to Florida while keeping a watch on Amy’s house were nearly sabotaged by a letter arriving in the morning post that declared she had been appointed as one of the nominees for the award of Mircester’s Woman of the Year.
Agatha glowed. She must slim. She must book a series of nonsurgical face-lifts. But after looking more closely at the invitation, she realized it was not due to take place until June. And usually the nominees for Woman of the Year were announced the year before. The choice of her name looked a bit last minute. She must find out the names of the other nominees.
But in the meantime, it was back to business.
Heavily disguised, Agatha drove into Mircester and checked the electoral roll for the address where she had followed the man who had left Amy’s. To her amazement, opposite the address was the name Mr T. Richards. So it looked as if he was a bigamist! But she could not confront him. She had phoned Amy earlier and had told her that she was about to board a flight to Miami.
Agatha called Bill on his mobile. A sleepy voice answered her and said crossly, ‘You woke me up.’
Agatha looked at her watch. ‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning.’
‘And I’ve been working all night,’ said Bill. ‘What is it?’
‘Can I come round and see you? I have some important news.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m in diguise.’
Fifteen minutes later, Mrs Wong opened the door to a woman with heavy black hair and plump cheeks, wrapped in several layers of clothing and wearing large glasses.
‘We’re not buying,’ she said. The door began to close.
Bill appeared behind his mother, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘I know who this is. It is you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on in.’
Mrs Wong retreated, angrily muttering about folks who wouldn’t let her boy sleep.
Bill led the way into the living room. ‘It’s a good disguise, Agatha. Out with it. I’m so tired, your information better be good.’
Agatha told him what she had found out about Richards.
Bill listened in amazement. ‘How did he think he would get away with it in the middle of a murder inquiry? Good work. We’ll pull him in.’
‘And you’ll keep me up to date on anything you find out?’ asked Agatha anxiously.
‘You have my word. Did Toni tell you I arrested Paul Finlay?’
‘No, she never said a word. What happened?’
Bill told her.
‘Why on earth didn’t Toni tell me?’ wondered Agatha.
‘Perhaps she feels you are too interested in her private life, Agatha.’
Agatha thought dismally of Simon in Afghanistan and blushed. Bill surveyed her in amazement. He could not remember ever having seen Agatha blush before.
By the end of another week, Agatha was tired of her surveillance of both Richards and Amy and driving in disguise to wait for long hours at a time outside their respective houses. Tom Richards spent most of his evenings and nights with Amy and only about two with his children.
It was therefore with relief that she hailed Bill Wong, who was waiting for her at the end of what seemed to Agatha like a very long week of waiting.
‘Come in,’ said Agatha, ‘and tell me, please, that I can get rid of this disguise. The wig’s so heavy, and these pads in my cheeks make me feel like a chipmunk.’
‘They also make you sound drunk,’ said Bill, following her into the kitchen. ‘Make me a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Agatha plugged in the percolator after tearing off her wig and clawing the pads out of her cheeks. ‘I can’t wait,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Start talking.’
‘Tom Richards was divorced amicably from his wife a year ago. He married Amy six months later. She begged for a makeover, face-lift, the works, so he sent her to Los Angeles. She was never in Florida. Asked why she had made up this fairy tale about this Art Mackenzie, it turns out she’s a bit of a fantasist, and it was all in a plot she had seen in some soap opera over there. Asked why she had lied, she said that if she had said that she had asked poor Bunchie to pay up so much money for her cosmetic surgery, it would make her look grasping and vain. Thanks.’
He took a mug of coffee from Agatha. ‘Richards supports her story, and yes, he did pay for everything.’
Agatha sat down beside him and nursed a cup of coffee. One c
at, Hodge, climbed on Bill’s lap, and the other, Boswell, tried to lie across his head. He gently lifted both of them on to the floor.
‘Something’s wrong here,’ said Agatha. ‘You didn’t tell her that I had spilled the beans?’
‘No, we told her we had been checking up on her marital status, that the FBI in Florida had no records of an Art Mackenzie, and she came out with the truth.’
‘There’s something wrong here.’ Agatha lit a cigarette. ‘It’s like this. The one thing I believe that Amy told me is that Beech abused her. She said her father had beaten her. She said she liked masterful men. I wonder if the face-lift was really her idea, or was Richards being controlling and manipulating. I wonder whether he tried to get his ex to get a face-lift. Then the money from the divorce from Beech. She said he paid her a generous amount. I wonder if he paid her in cash. I’d like to speak to the former Mrs Richards.’
‘It’s a bit far-fetched, Agatha. I mean, he may not look like much, but he’s very, very rich. Rich men can usually get themselves arm candy easily enough.’
‘Pig! Pig!’ said Agatha.
‘Are you insulting . . . ?’
‘No, no. The pig whatsit.’
‘Oh, Pygmalion.’
‘That’s the chap.’
‘No, you’re getting a bit carried away. He seems to dote on her.’
‘But she showed me a photo of herself before the face-lift. She wasn’t even pretty.’
‘I’d backpedal for a bit,’ said Bill. ‘Don’t want you blundering around in the middle of a police investigation.’
Agatha bristled. ‘She’s paying me to find out who killed Gary, and I need the money. That’s a point. Money. Beech evidently paid her generously to give him a divorce. Now where does a mere plod get the money to be generous to anyone?’
‘We’re looking into that. His bank balance only contained a few hundred pounds, but Detective Constable Alice Peterson pointed out when we visited Gary’s home that it held some expensive antiques. We traced the antiques dealer. Yes, Gary bought several expensive pieces of furniture and paid cash. So he was up to something on the side.’
‘Maybe he targeted people the whole time and charged them with this and that and then took bribes.’
‘No, I don’t think so. He delighted in getting people into court.’
Bill had just left when Toni arrived. ‘I want a word with you, Mrs Raisin,’ she said.
‘Come in,’ said Agatha. ‘What’s up?’
Toni marched straight through to the kitchen and slammed a wedding invitation down on the table. ‘This is what’s up, you interfering old bag.’
Agatha read the invitation. Lance Corporal Simon Black was to wed Sergeant Susan Crispin in Mircester Abbey on June the tenth.
‘So?’ demanded Agatha. ‘What the hell has this to do with me?’
‘This letter that came with the invitation.’ Toni handed her an airmail.
Agatha read: ‘Dear Toni, I would like you to come to my wedding because I have fond memories of the work we did together. I would have married you then, but Agatha told me you were too young and to go away and think about it for three years. I couldn’t bear to go on snubbing you and seeing you hurt. So I joined the army. Luckily I met Susie, who’s the girl for me, so maybe Agatha was right all along not to trust me. Love, Simon.’
‘Thanks to your interference, he could be blown up out there,’ said Toni. ‘I am eighteen years old, not a child. Do not interfere in my life again. Oh, and take a month’s notice.’
Agatha sank down into a chair as Toni stormed out.
‘Anyone home?’ came Charles’s voice.
‘Oh, do walk in and stamp all over my feelings,’ howled Agatha, and burst into tears.
Charles waited until Agatha had finished crying and said gently, ‘I saw Toni driving off like a bat out of hell. Has she found out about Simon?’
Agatha sniffed miserably. ‘She forgot these.’ She pushed the wedding invitation and the letter in front of him.
Charles read both carefully. ‘I see.’
‘And she’s given a month’s notice.’
‘You shouldn’t have interfered.’
‘I know, I know. It wasn’t all selfish. It wasn’t all because I didn’t want to lose a good detective. But there was something unstable about Simon. I sensed it.’
‘You should have let her find out for herself.’
‘What about Paul Finlay? If I hadn’t found out from Bill he was a wife beater and if Bill hadn’t gone round to her flat, she would not have been rescued from a beating.’
‘Didn’t she try to defend herself?’
‘Well, yes,’ admitted Agatha. ‘She grabbed him by the balls.’
‘Toni can fight her own battles. She’s been taking classes in judo. I think maybe Bill arrived in the nick of time to rescue Paul.’
‘What about the time that creep took her to Paris and she begged me for help? Who got her out of that mess? Me! That’s who. She’s just going to lurch from one hopeless man to another.’
‘Like you, Aggie.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Your first husband was a drunk, your second husband is a coldhearted confirmed bachelor type, and you nearly married a control freak and I had to come and rescue you.’
‘That’s different.’
‘It’s not. Oh, let’s not quarrel. How are you going to get Toni to stay?’
‘Try giving her the top jobs and nothing else. Keep out of her way.’
The next day in the office, Agatha greeted her staff breezily as if nothing had happened. ‘Toni,’ she said, ‘I want you to give whatever jobs you have to Patrick and Phil. I’ve got a big one for you. Let me outline the case to date.’
They all listened intently. When Agatha had finished, she said, ‘Toni, I want you to go and see the first Mrs Richards. Try to find out if Richards wanted her to have a face-lift. I’m working on the theory that he might be a nasty, manipulative man.’
‘Give me the address,’ said Toni.
Agatha handed it to her. ‘I’m going to type out what I’ve just told all of you so it can be checked on the computer at any time. Patrick, if you have any spare time today, I want you to get on to your old police contacts and find out if they have any suggestions how Beech could have been making money on the side.’
Toni gathered up her belongings and left the office. Agatha looked wistful as she watched her go.
Toni felt emotionally numb as she drove in the direction of the Richardses’ villa. She pushed out of her mind all the times Agatha had come to her rescue, beginning with saving her from her alcoholic brother and finding her a flat and a job.
The Richardses’ home was an imposing villa screened from the road by a thick thorn hedge and a stone wall. She opened the gate and walked up a short gravel drive to the front door.
A woman answered the door, a fairly elderly woman wearing an old-fashioned floral apron. ‘Mrs Richards?’
‘No, I’m just the cleaner. Her’s out.’
‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘Around the time the children get out o’ school.’
‘Is there anywhere in Mircester I might find her?’
‘Her might be at that new health bar for lunch. Rubbish, I calls it. Pay a fortune for a bit o’ lettuce.’
Toni thanked her and left. She knew where the health bar was. A chill wind was blowing from the northeast, and lowering clouds threatened snow. What a day for rabbit food, thought Toni. More like a day for soup and steak and kidney pie. Her stomach rumbled.
She had been so upset over Simon’s wedding that she only had a cup of coffee for breakfast.
She parked in the main square and, bending her head before the rising wind, picked her way gingerly through the rapidly freezing slush to Barry Wynd, where she knew the health bar was located. She cursed the weather, which seemed to be involved in a vicious cycle of thaw and freeze.
The bar was called Green Happiness. The windows we
re steamed up, so Toni could not see who was inside. She pushed open the door and went in. There were very few customers. The people of Mircester preferred cholesterol and loads of it.
A sullen waitress with a bad case of acne approached Toni after she had taken a table in the corner, facing the door. Toni looked at the menu and ordered vegetable soup, to be followed by cauliflower and cheese and a glass of an elderberry drink.
To her relief, the soup was accompanied by bread rolls and butter. She looked around. Two women, quite elderly, were sitting by the window. The only other customer apart from Toni herself was a severe-looking man with glasses and a long beard.
The door opened just as Toni was finishing her meal with a cup of dandelion coffee. The woman who entered was tall and dressed in pseudocountry wear: a Barbour worn over a cashmere sweater and corduroy knee breeches, thick woollen stockings and stout brogues. She had a long, mild face that reminded Toni of a sheep. The rings on her fingers were many and sparkled in the light.
When she called over the waitress and gave her order, her voice was revealed as coming from someone who was trying desperately to sound posh, and failing. The other customers had left. Now there was only Toni and what she hoped was Mrs Richards.
She smiled vaguely in Toni’s direction. Toni boldly rose and went to join her.
‘I thought I recognized you,’ said Toni. ‘Are you Mrs Richards?’
‘I was. If you’re from the press, you want the present wife.’
A small dessert bowl of a salad consisting mostly of bean sprouts was placed in front of Mrs Richards.
‘I’m not from the press,’ said Toni. ‘Excuse me, but on this freezing day, is that all you’re going to eat?’
‘Yes. My ex-husband says I have to watch my figure.’
‘What’s it got to do with him?’ asked Toni. ‘He’s your ex.’
‘He’s the father of our children, and I rely on him for maintenance. Now, go away.’
‘I am a detective,’ said Toni, passing over her card. ‘Now, our agency is supposed to be working for the present Mrs Richards, but I feel there is something very odd about her.’
‘Nothing odder than common little slut.’
‘Why don’t we discuss this over lunch?’