Dishing the Dirt

Agatha phoned her and said she would do it provided nothing came up to stop her attending. She was just wondering how to pass the rest of the day. She was sick and tired of studying all her notes on the murder cases.

There was a ring at the door. Agatha carefully looked through the spy hole first and saw Toni standing outside. She opened the door. “Come in. What brings you?” asked Agatha.

“Just a social call,” said Toni. “I’m tired of going out on dates just to go out on dates, if you know what I mean. I hear you’ve got a new man in your life. Had dinner at the George.”

“Oh, Mark Dretter. He’s very handsome and I can’t understand why I don’t find him attractive. Want coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

The doorbell rang again. “Help yourself,” said Agatha, “while I see who’s at the door.”

It was Bill Wong. “What’s happened?” demanded Agatha.

“Nothing,” said Bill. “It’s my day off and I thought I would look you up.”

“Come into the kitchen. Toni’s just arrived.”

There was another ring at the doorbell. “If that’s Simon, don’t answer it,” said Toni sharply. “He’s started following me around again.”

“Your car’s outside and mine,” said Agatha. “If it is him, I’ll need to let him in.”

But it was Phil Marshall. “I thought I’d see how you were bearing up,” he said.

“Come in. Bill and Toni are in the kitchen.”

Agatha reflected that nothing ever seemed to ruffle Phil. His gentle face and silver hair worked wonders at interviews. People always felt safe with him.

Toni made him a mug of coffee. “No breakthrough on the murders yet?” Phil asked Bill.

“Not a thing. What about you, Agatha?”

“Nothing.”

“Wilkes had a mad hope we could pin all the murders on Justin and get the press off our backs, but at the time of Tremund’s murder, for example, Justin was up in London working for a large company.”

“What about Gwen Simple?” asked Agatha.

“Sorry. Nothing there. We’re not even checking her phone calls now. Besides, she’s alibied up to the hilt.”

“I never thought she would murder people herself, but get someone to do it for her,” said Agatha.

“Like her latest beau?”

“Who’s that?” asked Agatha.

“A chap called Mark Dretter. Squeaky clean. On leave from the embassy in Dubai.”

“He’s not her beau,” said Agatha. “He’s been trying to help me with some detective work.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Bill. “They go everywhere together.”

Agatha’s face darkened. Had Mark only befriended her so that he could report to Gwen how she was getting on with trying to solve the murders?

“Anyway,” she said huffily, “he’s got some mad idea it might be someone in this village.”

“Are there any weirdos in this village, Agatha?” asked Bill.

“Not that I know of. One cross-dresser but that’s nothing these days.”

“Oh, Bob Dell,” said Phil. “It’s odd. He wanted me to enlarge a photo of his niece. I often do some photo work for people in the village. I phoned him and said I was coming with it. I knocked and knocked but there was no reply.”

“Did you see anyone around?” asked Agatha.

“Just some big old chap on a bike.”

“I’m worried,” said Agatha. “I’m going up there. He didn’t strike me as the sort of man to ask you to bring the photo and then not answer the door.”

“I’ll go,” said Bill.

“I’ll come with you,” insisted Agatha. “The rest of you stay here.”

*

“I’m sure we must be worrying about nothing,” said Bill as he and Agatha hurried in the direction of Bob’s home.

“All I would do is worry for the rest of the day,” said Agatha stubbornly.

Glebe Street looked innocent and quiet. Agatha rang the bell beside the door of Bob’s villa. There was no reply. “Phil said something about knocking,” said Bill. “Maybe the bell doesn’t work.”

He hammered on the door.

A little breeze rustled through a clematis beside the door and then died away.

“See if you can open the door,” urged Agatha.

Bill tried the doorknob. “Locked,” he said.