The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [65]
“On board?” called Richard from outside the door.
“Yes,” said Agatha.
The massage started with her feet. Agatha lay there and fretted while Richard told her about his work in Bosnia, treating unfortunate women who had been tortured and raped as part of his work for the Healing Hands Society.
“I’ve been so stressed out about a case I’ve been working on,” said Agatha. “I’m a private detective. Somehow it all started when I was in Paris during that heat wave.”
“So I hear. I had a Frenchwoman here after the summer. Recovering alcoholic. Said she could hardly get to her reunions or whatever they call AA meetings over there.”
Gradually Agatha began to relax. When she turned over and he began to work on her back, she could feel all her troubles melting away. Her brain felt calm and rested. Bits of the case floated in and out of her head. Paris. The visit and meeting Phyllis Hepper chattering on about some handsome drunkard who’d got sober. Reunion! Jeremy Laggat-Brown had said to the hotel reception that he was going to a reunion, not to see friends or anything like that, but to a reunion. Felicity Felliet. Jeremy had a la-di-da blonde secretary. Her mind suddenly seemed to take a great leap. Supposing, just supposing, that Jeremy had found some drunk or recovering alcoholic who looked enough like him to take his place. Perhaps even a hardened alcoholic would stay dry for the short time necessary for the impersonation if the money was enough. If not a drunk, then someone else who looked like him. And wait a bit. There was something else. Charles had spoken to Jeremy in French. Jeremy had said he didn’t understand him because Charles’s French was atrocious. But, thought Agatha, with another mental jolt, Charles’s French was surely excellent. The French police didn’t have the slightest trouble in understanding him.
“What’s up?” asked Richard. “You’ve gone all tense.”
Agatha turned over and sat up. “I’ve got to get out of here!”
“I haven’t finished.”
“No, got to go. Must go.”
Richard dived out of the room as a half-naked Agatha tumbled off the table and began scrabbling into her clothes.
When she ran down the stairs, he was standing with his wife in the shop. “How much?” asked Agatha.
“Fifteen pounds.”
The business woman in Agatha came to the fore. “Is that because you didn’t finish?”
“No, that’s my fee.”
“My dear man, it’s too little.” Agatha fished the exact money out of her wallet and fled out of the shop.
“What was up with her?” asked Lyn.
“Blessed if I know,” said Richard. “I think she’s a sandwich short of a picnic.”
Agatha drove to the hotel and checked out. The police had left several messages asking her to report to headquarters.
She then set off for Barfield House.
Gustav answered the door. “He’s ill,” he said, “and doesn’t want visitors.”
“Charles!” shouted Agatha at the top of her voice as the door began to close in her face.
“Who is it, Gustav?” came Charles’s voice.
Gustav cast a look of loathing at Agatha and said reluctantly, “Mrs. Raisin.”
“Show her in.”
“Push off, Gustav,” snarled Agatha, edging past him.
“I’m in the study,” called Charles.
Agatha walked in. “I told Gustav to phone you and tell you I was ill,” grumbled Charles.
“Oh, it was Gustav, was it? The message I got from the temp was that you had called with the message you didn’t want to see me, nothing else.”
“She probably got it wrong. Most of these temps are hopeless.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, listen!”
Agatha told him first about the latest attempt on her life. Then she said, “This is very important. You addressed Jeremy in French in the restaurant. What did you say?”
“I said he had better stop romancing you if he wanted to be reconciled with his ex-wife. He pretended not to understand me.”
“I don’t think he was pretending. Listen to this.”
Agatha outlined all her new ideas. “You’re forgetting one thing,” said Charles. “It was his own daughter who got the death threat. It was his own daughter