Dishing the Dirt

Halfway through the meal, she remembered she was supposed to be detecting and asked Justin if his father had ever been in Chicago.

“I don’t know if he’s been in Chicago,” said Justin. “I know he went to a couple of conferences in America, but that was when Mother was still alive.”

“I think I had better meet your father,” said Agatha. “Would this evening be convenient?”

“I should think so. I’ll phone him when we’ve finished eating and set something up.”

When Justin left, he kissed Agatha on the cheek. He had phoned his father and he would expect them at six o’clock. Justin said he would collect Agatha from her office.

After he had left, Agatha’s hand involuntarily fluttered up to the cheek he had kissed. She felt suddenly lonely and old.

*

Reminding herself fiercely that any feelings she had for Justin were maternal, she forced herself not to change into something more glamorous. She called on Doris and gave her a new set of keys and the new code supplied by the locksmith, and set out for the office.

It was only when she arrived at the office that she realised the murderer could be someone in the crowds outside, watching to see who came and went. She phoned Justin and explained it would be safer if he just gave her directions to his home. Then she sadly opened a cupboard and took out a large box of disguises.

The frumpier the better, she thought. I must look like a worried client.

Before she changed, she took the precaution of phoning a car rental company and asked them to leave the car in the square and bring the keys and contract up to the office.

After she had paid for the car rental, she changed into a drab dress and flat shoes. On her head she put a plain dark wig that looked as if it had been badly permed. She stuffed pads in her cheeks and put on a pair of glasses. Leaning heavily on a stick, she eventually left the office, watched by a worried Mrs. Freedman.

The car was a new anonymous-looking black Ford. After studying the directions, she set off, with many nervous looks in the rearview mirror in case she was being followed.

The Nichols’ house turned out to be a large mansion on the edge of the town. A short gravelled drive led up to the house. Before she got out of the car, Agatha took the pads out of her cheeks and removed the glasses and wig. She carefully applied make-up and brushed her hair until it shone. She wriggled out of the dowdy frock, and was leaning over into the backseat to pick up her linen dress wearing only a brief lacy bra and knickers when a knock at the window made her jump. Justin was smiling in at her. Agatha lowered the window and said, “Get off with you and give me a moment. I’m just getting out of this disguise.”

Justin grinned. “I was just admiring the view.”

Cursing, Agatha slipped on her linen dress and a pair of high-heeled sandals, sprayed herself with La Vie Est Belle and walked up to the front door where Justin was waiting.

He kissed her warmly on the cheek. “You smell nice. Do come in. We’re in the garden.”

Although Agatha guessed the house had been built at the beginning of the twentieth century, the entrance hall looked dark and baronial. There were two suits of armour and beside them, two antique-looking carved chests. The floor was highly polished parquet with fine Oriental rugs placed like coloured islands across its expanse. Justin turned left and led her through a large drawing room. It somehow looked soulless, as if it had been put in the hands of an unimaginative interior designer. The carpet was mushroom-coloured, as was the velvet three-piece suite. An enormous flat screen TV dominated one wall. The coffee table had a glass showcase top holding a collection of medals. There were vases of silk flowers everywhere. French windows were open to the garden where a thickset grey-haired man sat at a table.