The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [64]
“I hear a forensic team are back at your cottage. What happened?”
So Agatha told her, and when she had finished, Mrs. Bloxby said, “I would have thought Bill Wong might have noticed the burglar alarm wasn’t on.”
“No reason to,” sighed Agatha. “I never think about other people’s alarm systems, so why should he?”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. 1 can’t think. But I’ve a feeling that whoever is behind this won’t stop now. I keep going over and over it. Maybe I do know something that’s frightened whoever. If only I could think what. My neck’s rigid with tension and I feel like shit. Sorry. I know you don’t like bad language.”
“Because I’m a vicar’s wife? Nonsense. I hear much worse every day. Besides, have you noticed it’s a must in every American action film—two men, one black, one white, leap in front of an exploding building, shouting, ’Oh, sh-i-t!’ I think you should go for a massage. There’s marvellous man in Stow called Richard Rasdall. He could give you a relaxing massage. I’ll phone him if you like.”
“Might be a good idea. I’m not doing anything else and I’ve a pain in the neck, which is exactly what the police think I am. Oh, Lord, they’re probably phoning the hotel asking me to go to police headquarters and make a statement.”
“Go to Richard first and then you’ll feel more up to it.”
Mrs. Bloxby went into the vicarage to phone. Agatha suddenly wished she could stay in this pleasant garden among the late roses forever. The world outside was an ugly, threatening place.
The vicar’s wife returned and said, “He can take you in half an hour. If you leave now, you’ll make it easily provided you can find a parking place.”
“Where do I go?”
“If you get a place in the parking spot at the market cross,you walk up past Lloyd’s bank as if you’re going to the church. There’s sweetie shop called The Honey Pot. It’s in there.”
“In a sweetie shop!”
“He works upstairs. You’ll meet his wife, Lyn. Such a nice pretty woman. Lovely family.”
As Agatha drove to Stow-on-the Wold, she noticed the sun had gone in and the day was becoming as dark as her mood. At the back car-park by the market cross, cars were circling around like so many prowling metal animals searching for places. Agatha saw that a woman was about to reverse into a place and quickly drove straight into it.
She sat there with the windows up and switched on the radio for a few moments to drown out the yells of frustration from the woman driver. Then she got out, feeling suddenly stiff and old and beaten.
Agatha trudged up to The Honey Pot and went inside.
ELEVEN
AGATHA stood just inside the door and looked around. The little shop was bathed in a golden light. There were glass shelves of delicious-looking chocolates, other shelves with little bags of Cotswold fudge, boxes of biscuits, and toys. But there were also little “fairy” dresses for small girls: magical creations which looked as if they had been made out of gossamer. And the shoes! Tiny sparkling sequinned shoes, shoes such as Dorothy wore in The Wizard of Oz.
What would it be like, wondered Agatha, to be a little girl whose parents were so loving, so indulgent, so proud of their child’s looks that they would buy her one of those beautiful dresses?
“Are you Mrs. Raisin?”
Agatha focused on the woman standing behind the small counter. “I’m Lyn Rasdall,” she said. “You’ve come to see Richard, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “This place looks like something out of Harry Potter.”
“Mrs. Raisin!”
A tall, handsome man with deep-set eyes had appeared at the back of the shop. “I’m Richard.”
“Hullo,” said Agatha. “Where do 1 go?”
“Up the stairs,” said Richard, “and get on board. First door on the left. Take all your clothes off except your knickers and cover yourself with the towel.”
Agatha went upstairs and found herself in a large bathroom with a massage table in the centre. Soft music was playing and scented candles were burning on a sideboard.
She took off