The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [38]
When they were seated, he went on, “I do feel sorry for Crystal. All this scrimping and saving is getting to her.”
“You could get a job,” said Charles.
George goggled at him. “No one will employ me at my age.”
“You’re only … what? Forty-four?”
“Forty-five. And where could I work?”
“Tesco’s supermarket at Stow are always advertising for staff.”
“My dear fellow, can you see me on the till? Crystal would die of shame.”
“They need people at supermarkets to stack the shelves. Or what about these all-night garages? They’re always looking for someone. It would pay your grocery bills. Doesn’t your daughter help out?”
“Felicity has expensive tastes. T really don’t think she has anything left over at the end of the month.” “What is she doing again?” “Working as personal assistant to some couturier.” “Where?”
“In Paris, where else? Rue Saint-Honore.” “Which couture house?”
“You do ask a lot of questions. Thierry Duval. Have you seen his fashions? Weird. Saw them on the telly. And the way the models have to walk these days. Just as if they’d wet their knickers.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Last Christmas. She came over. Seems to enjoy the work.” “I’d like to see a photograph of her.” “What’s all this interest in Felicity? She’s too young for you, Charles.”
Charles’s eyes swivelled around the room and came to rest on a studio photograph of a beautiful blonde. She had been photographed looking straight at the camera and leaning on her hands, a la Princess Di.
He pointed. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Yes, so what? Honestly, old man, you’ve changed. Can’t remember you firing questions at one the whole bloody time.”
“Sorry,” said Charles and began to chatter lightly about people they both knew, lacing it with enough scurrilous gossip that George forgot about all those strange questions and looked sorry when Charles said he had to leave.
Agatha was lucky in that the police, sure that Harrison Peterson’s death had been a suicide, had not ordered an intensive forensic search of the room and the stairs leading to it. By the time they got around to it, the room and the stairs had been scrubbed clean and the room itself had a new tenant. She had been worried about their footprints on the stairs or a stray one of her hairs somewhere in the room.
Emma was being singularly sweet to Agatha that morning. Agatha must never guess what she, Emma, had planned for her, although she reminded herself from time to time that it was only a fantasy to dispel her jealousy and rage.
Charles came into the office during the morning and gave Agatha his report of Felicity Felliet. He had decided not to bother explaining to Emma why he was still around. “Paris, again,” said Agatha. “I wonder what she was doing the night of the party.”
“We could run over and ask her. Plane there, plane back. One day should do it.”
Emma dug her newly painted fingernails into her hands. The pair of them in romantic Paris!
“What about tomorrow?” asked Agatha.
“It’ll need to be the day after. I’m hosting the village fete at the house. Anyway, what now?”
“I think we should try to catch Bill Wong. See if he can tell us anything more. What are you doing, Emma? What about that missing cat, Biggies?”
“Just about to go out on it,” said Emma.
Bill Wong saw them in one of the interviewing rooms. “I hope you have something to tell me,” he said. “I’m not supposed to help private detectives.”
“We heard a rumour that Harrison Peterson’s death was murder,” said Agatha.
“Nothing’s in the papers yet,” said Bill. “Where did you hear that?”
“I can’t tell you that, Bill.”
“Then I can’t tell you anything either.”
“Probably because you don’t know anything,” said Charles.
“Look.” Bill surveyed both of them. “Wilkes happened to be around when I got the message that you wanted to see me. He told me to get rid of you, fast. On the other hand, I’ll be in the Wheat-sheaf at lunch-time.”
“See you there. Come along, Charles.”
As Emma trudged around the streets of Mircester, looking for the missing Biggies, she turned over