The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [11]
They went to a Chinese restaurant near the agency. Agatha avoided the crispy seaweed, knowing that it had an unfortunate way of sticking to her teeth or finding its way down her clothes.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Agatha, determined to be polite, although she wasn’t very interested in anything Emma might have to say.
Emma described her work at the Ministry of Defence, making it sound much more glamorous that it had actually been. When Emma had finished, Agatha said, “You’ve been doing a great job so far. I think we’ll make a good team.”
After lunch, Emma went back to the office, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction.
Agatha began to feel rather superfluous. Posing as an office phone cleaner, Douglas had bugged Mr. Benington’s phone, and Sammy was waiting outside the offices in his car, armed with camera, ready to follow Benington when he left work.
She returned to the office. “I think, as you’ve proved so useful at detecting,” said Agatha, “I may as well hire a girl just to do the phones.”
“What about Miss Simms?” asked Emma, referring to Carsely’s unmarried mother who was secretary of the ladies’ society.
“Hasn’t she got a gentleman friend?” asked Agatha.
“I think she’s between fellows at the moment. What is her first name? I find it very odd that none of the ladies in the village ever use anyone’s first name.”
“I think it’s Kylie,” said Agatha. “It’s a tradition. Mrs. Bloxby is a great friend, but I always call her Mrs. Bloxby. Tell you what, you go now and see her. Tell her I’ll pay her off the books. No need to get into insurance stamps or social security.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“So what?” said Agatha. “Money is melting away, day in and day out.”
Miss Simms, reflected Emma half an hour later, as she sat in the neat living room of Miss Simms’s council house, favoured a tarty style of old-fashioned dress. No crop tops or studs. Spiky high heels, long hair dyed blonde, short straight skirt rucked up to show a frilly scarlet petticoat, little white blouse with a black shoelace tie at the neck.
“That’s ever so kind of you,” said Miss Simms.
“You can type and take shorthand and ail that?” asked Emma.
“Oh, yes; computers, too.”
“When did you last work?”
Miss Simms creased her smooth brow in thought. “Reckon it was last year. Boss of a soft furnishing business.”
“And how long did you work for him?”
Miss Simms giggled. “Just the one day. He said I was too pretty to work and I’d be better off at home so that he could … er… see me when he wanted.”
“And what happened?”
“Just broke up. He was married, see. I don’t like to keep the married ones away from their wives for too long. How are you getting along with our Mrs. Raisin?”
“Very well”
“Got a heart of gold,” said Miss Simms. “What brought you to Carsely?”
Emma told again her highly embroidered tale, but somehow, although Miss Simms uttered the occasional “dear me,” she did not seem overly impressed. A silly little girl, thought Emma, disappointed. Wish I hadn’t recommended her.
When Emma had finished talking, Miss Simms said, “I’ll just get a jacket and come into the office with you. May as well find out where everything is.”
Agatha fiddled with a paper clip and looked round her new office. There was her own desk, a large pseudo-Georgian affair with two seats in front of it for clients. Against one wall was a sofa facing a low coffee table with neatly arranged magazines. Against the other wall was the desk she had ordered for Emma and two filing cabinets. She had been considering ordering another desk and computer if Miss Simms took the job, but decided it would be better if Miss Simms used Emma’s desk and Emma could wait on the sofa.
It was an old building with thick beams on the ceiling and a mullioned window overlooking the narrow street below.
She had placed advertisements for The Raisin Detective Agency—”all calls discreetly dealt with—video and electronic surveillance”—but hardly anyone seemed to be rushing to employ her services.
Agatha heard