The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [54]
He smiled into her eyes, but Agatha remembered Patrick’s warning and so she lied. “They wouldn’t tell me.”
“And where were you for the last few days? I called several times.”
“I stayed at some hotel with Charles. I didn’t want to go home while the house was crawling with forensic people. Then the press usually come round in swarms.”
“So you don’t know who the man was?”
“No.”
“You’d never seen him before?” His eyes teased her. “Not a rejected lover, hey?”
Agatha smiled. “Nothing like that.” What was Charles doing? Had she been so very rude to him? “Bugger rocket,” she said, poking at the green mound on her plate.
He looked startled.
“Sorry,” said Agatha. “I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud. Rocket’s not my favourite vegetable.”
“I heard you were in Paris when the murder took place. What took you there?”
“I needed a break and Charles wanted to look up an old friend’s daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
Agatha began to feel a tinge of unease. “I don’t know because we never saw her. The police hauled us in and that was that. Never mind the dreadful murder. Let’s talk about something else. Are you going to the funeral?”
“No, I’ve got to work. Might be away for a bit.”
“Are you reconciled with your wife?”
“Pretty much. But only for Cassandra’s sake. She wants us to be together. But it’ll be a marriage in name only.” He smiled at her again. “We’ll be able to see a lot of each other.”
“I don’t date men if their living with their exes,” said Agatha.
He laughed. “You are now.”
“But that’s different. You’re part of a case I’m working on.” “I thought you weren’t working on it.” “As I said, not at the moment. And you are the ex-husband of a client.”
He took her hand. “And is that all?”
He was extremely handsome and possibly, if she had not been worrying about the absent Charles, she might have succumbed to his charm. But she drew her hand away gently and said, “I’m not in the mood for a flirtation at the moment, Jeremy. This murder and all has frightened me out of my wits. You do see that.”
“Of course, of course.” He began to talk about other things and then drove her home.
Agatha said goodbye to him on the doorstep. He tried to kiss her on the lips, but she turned her face so that the kiss fell on her cheek.
Once inside, she decided to phone Roy.
“You seem to be having a hairy time, sweetie,” he said. “Want me to come down?”
“Oh, would you?” Agatha was suddenly flooded with gratitude.
“I’ve got a few days owing. I’ll be down tomorrow. There’s a train gets in at Moreton around twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
Agatha then phoned Charles’s number. Gustav answered the phone. “Who’s calling?” he asked in reply to her demand to speak to Charles.
“Agatha Raisin.”
Gustav promptly rang off and Agatha gazed at the phone in a fury.
She was just about to turn away when the phone rang. Agatha answered it with a cautious “Yes.”
“It’s Mrs. Bloxby here. Someone in the village said you were back. Are you on your own or is Charles there?”
“I’m on my own. Charles has left.”
“I think I should pack a bag and spend the night with you.”
Agatha was just opening her mouth to say that would be wonderful when she heard the vicar’s voice grumbling in the background, “Honestly, Margaret, you’re running yourself ragged. That Raisin female is old enough to look after herself.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mrs. Bloxby. She covered the receiver with her hand, but Agatha could hear faint sounds of an altercation.
When Mrs. Bloxby came back on the phone, Agatha said hurriedly, “I’m really all right. Honestly. Roy’s coming tomorrow to stay.”
“If you’re sure …”
“Absolutely.”
The day before, the owner of the Sea View bed-and-breakfast—a view of the sea was only possible if one walked one hundred yards down the road—was becoming nervous about one of her guests.
This Mrs. Elder was a good customer and paid cash, but she had begun to talk to herself—not out loud, but her lips were constantly moving and her eyes glaring. The owner, Mrs. Blythe, was a widow and wished she had a man around to advise her. The holiday season was