Dishing the Dirt

“How are you getting on with that ledger of accounts?” asked Agatha. She did not want to say her copy was missing, knowing that the police would not appreciate her actions.

“Don’t seem to lead anywhere,” said Bill. “But an awful lot of the entries are old. The ink’s faded. There are very few new ones.”

“Any news from America? I’ll bet Jill was blackmailing one of her clients.”

“It’s been a laborious task checking everyone from America, particularly those with addresses in Chicago and the photos and stuff you found, but so far, nothing sinister. Not one of the men the Chicago police contacted would claim they were being blackmailed and there are ones with the wallets said they had had their pocket picked in some bar, anywhere but at the hotel. They’re all married, you see.”

Agatha clutched her shiny hair. “It could be anyone and we don’t have a clue,” she wailed. “I’m going to freshen up.”

*

“I’m losing it,” said Agatha to her bathroom mirror. “It’s never affected me like this before. Get a grip!”

The day was humid and close. She showered and changed into a cool linen sheath and sandals and repaired her make-up.

The doorbell rang as she was descending the stairs. “I’ll get it,” she called.

“No you won’t,” said Bill, rushing to her side. “You don’t know who is out there.” Agatha stood back while he opened the door. She blinked. A young Adonis stood there with the watery sunlight gilding his blond hair. “I’m Justin Nichols,” he said.

“Come in,” said Bill. “This is Agatha Raisin. I am Detective Sergeant Bill Wong.”

“Where’s Phil Marshall?” asked Agatha.

“He dropped me off and went back to the office,” said Justin.

Justin followed them into the kitchen, where the others were sitting around the table. Agatha made the introductions, urged him to sit down, took a chair herself and stared at him. His hair was naturally wavy. His skin was white and his eyes, an intense blue with thick lashes. He was wearing an open-necked shirt as blue as his eyes. He was slim but athletic-looking.

“How old are you?” asked Agatha.

“Twenty-five.”

“But Ruby Carson was in her early forties. Was your father much older than Ruby when he married her?”

“Yes, he was fifty-five. I’m his only child. Mother had only been dead—she died of cancer—for two years when he met Ruby. She was only nineteen then. He was so much in love with her. But she up and divorced him two years later. He was devastated. He still obsesses about her and has commissioned me to employ you, Mrs. Raisin.”

“What do you do, Mr. Nichols?” asked Alice Peterson.

“I’m a computer programmer. I’m freelance and I am taking a break between contracts. Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Someone bugged my cottage,” said Agatha, ignoring a warning signal from Bill. “Would you have the know-how?”

“No,” he said innocently, “but I’m sure if I studied how to do it, I could manage, but why would I?”

“Did you like Mrs. Carson?” asked Bill.

“I thought she was a selfish, ambitious woman,” he said. “But I’d do anything for my father. I resisted at first, asking why I should employ some village detective woman, but he persisted. Mind you, I did not expect to find you so attractive, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Please call me Agatha.” Her eyes were shining.

Surely not, thought Charles. He’s much too young. Maybe it’s just Agatha’s maternal instinct.

“When was the divorce?” asked Bill.

“Years ago. Ruby was in sales and marketing and she suddenly announced she was going to join the police force. That was when she became insanely ambitious. All she would talk about was how she was going to be police commissioner one day. Dad hardly ever saw her. But the divorce hit him hard.”

“What does your father do?”

“He’s the managing director of Superfoods. That’s how he met Ruby. She was doing the marketing for them.”

Agatha suddenly wished they would all leave. “If you follow me into the office,” she said, “I’ll draw up the contracts.”