The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [35]
Agatha was just turning to stare at him in surprise when the door opened. A tall blonde woman answered the door. She was wearing tight jeans and a white shirt tied round her trim waist. Her beautiful, expressionless face was half hidden by a wing of her hair.
“Is Mrs. Peterson at home?”
“I am Mrs. Peterson, or was. What do you want?”
Agatha handed over her card. “We are investigating the murder of your husband.”
“Murder! But I was told it was suicide!”
“Please, may we come in? I am Agatha Raisin and this is Sir Charles Fraith. We’ll tell you all about it.”
She nodded and turned away. They followed her through a kitchen and into a long airy room at the back. Agatha was amazed. From the outside, the cottage looked as if it would not have any significant space at all. The room had obviously been extended out to take space from the long garden at the back.
It was tastefully furnished, a mixture of modern and some good antiques.
Joyce sat in an armchair by the open French windows. A gentle breeze floated in, bringing with it the scent of late roses from the garden. Charles and Agatha sat on a sofa opposite her.
She did not ask any questions, simply waited in silence.
Agatha explained how they had found out about the sleeping pills. Still, Joyce said nothing.
“Why weren’t you invited to your son’s engagement party?” asked Charles.
“I was invited but I preferred not to go. Much as I love my son, he said some unforgivable things when I divorced his father. I met the Laggat-Brown female once. Detestable woman. Jason crawls to her. Cassandra is all right, but silly and empty-headed.”
“Why did you divorce your husband?” asked Agatha.
“Why not? You mean I should have stood by a jailbird? He was charged with not only insider trading but pocketing money from clients’ accounts. Then there was another woman.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But I checked his credit-card bills one day. There was a diamond necklace from Asprey’s, hotels and meals in Paris, perfume, clothes, all that. When I challenged him, he said the Paris trips were business and the presents were for clients. I was going to divorce him even if he hadn’t gone to prison. Prison simply made the divorce proceedings easier.”
“Did he know Mr. Laggat-Brown?” asked Charles.
“If he did, he never mentioned it.”
“What kind of man was your husband?”
The room was growing dark and there came a faint rumble of thunder in the distance.
“When I met him, he was very charming. A high-flyer. I like the good things of life. Then I had Jason. He was such a darling little boy.”
“You must have been married very young,” said Charles.
“I was eighteen. I wanted to keep the boy at home, but by the time he was eight, Harrison insisted he was sent away to prep school and then Winchester. He began to change. Very much his father’s boy. Little time for me.”
A sudden puff of wind lifted the wing of hair back from her face, and in the lamplight they saw her cheek was marred by a large bruise.
“That’s a nasty bruise,” said Charles.
“Silly of me,” she said. “I didn’t notice a cupboard door in the kitchen was open and walked right into it.”
There came the rattle of a key in the front door and a man’s voice called, “Joyce!”
“In here, dear.”
A tall man carrying a briefcase walked into the room. He was well-built and tanned with very light grey eyes. He was wearing a well-cut business suit.
“Mark, these people are detectives. They say that Harrison was murdered.”
Those eyes of his, as cold as chips of ice, fastened on Agatha and Charles. “You’re not the police, so get out of here.”
“But Mark—”
“Shut up. You two. Out!”
“You’d better go.” Joyce’s voice sounded weary.
Agatha turned in the doorway. “You have my card. If there’s anything I can do …”
“Just go.”
“Isn’t it amazing,” said Charles as they hurried to the car-park just as fat drops of rain were beginning to fall. “They marry one bastard, then as soon as they’re free, they marry another. I’ll never understand women.”
“I’ve just remembered something.” Agatha slid into the passenger seat. “I forgot to leave Roy a key. That’s why