Home > Hot to Trot (Agatha Raisin #31)(7)

Hot to Trot (Agatha Raisin #31)(7)
Author: M. C. Beaton

“We can wait for him to come out,” said Agatha, “or we can try to get a look at what’s going on inside.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We could knock on the front door posing as market researchers,” Agatha said, producing an official-looking clipboard from the footwell, “though I doubt our man is going to come to the door.”

“Mrs. Chadwick might,” said Toni, “but it’s not her we need to photograph.”

“I’ve seen houses like these before,” Agatha reasoned, “and I know the layout. Ground floor is the garage, with a kitchen/diner and living room at the back opening onto a garden area. First floor has a small bedroom at the front, a couple of bathrooms, and master bedroom at the rear. Top floor has a couple of attic bedrooms and another bathroom.”

“We can assume, then, that they’ll head for the master bedroom at the back.”

“Let’s go take a look!”

They walked up a service access path at the side of the building, picking their way through a scattering of builders’ rubble and broken, discarded tools, evidence of the houses’ recent completion. Toni led the way, using a carefully shielded torch to light the clutter at their feet. A high fence ran back from the rear of the building, and looking up, they could see that the only light at the back of the house was in the window of the master bedroom.

“We can’t see a thing through that window from this angle,” whispered Toni.

“No,” Agatha agreed, “but we could use that.” She pointed to a rickety ladder lying amid the builders’ rubbish. Making as little noise as possible, they dragged it to the side of the building and leaned it gently against the wall.

“I’m going up,” said Agatha, slinging the camera strap over her shoulder. “If I can squint round the corner, I should be able to see something and get a shot.”

“Be careful, Agatha. It doesn’t look very sturdy.”

“It’ll be fine as long as you hold on to it and check where I’m putting my feet.”

Agatha made her way steadily up the ladder, thankful that she had worn shoes with sensible, although not entirely flat, heels. Halfway up, with her feet higher than her head would normally be, she began feeling nervous and looked down. Toni was gazing out into the street.

“Toni!” she hissed. “You’re supposed to be watching where I put my feet!”

“But if I look up, I can see right up your skirt…”

“You won’t see anything up there that you can’t see on a rack in Marks and Spencer!”

“Yes, but on the rack it’s not quite so … animated!”

Agatha tutted and climbed higher. Once she was level with the window, she gingerly poked her head round the corner. She had only a partial view of the room through the window, and through an open fanlight she could hear music playing—a country rock riff—and a plaintive voice singing “Saddle Up the Palomino.” Then Mrs. Sheraton Chadwick strode into view. She looked to be in her early thirties and was wearing a black velvet riding helmet, black jacket with a jewelled horse brooch, white jodhpurs and gleaming black leather riding boots. She was tapping a riding crop against her thigh, a thin smile on her face.

Before Agatha lost sight of her, she distinctly heard the words, “Who’s been a naughty little pony then?” And the response: “Bring it on, baby—I’m hot to trot!”

As she leaned farther over to try to see more, the ladder creaked and wobbled, and she felt the urgent need to have her feet firmly on solid ground. She made her way quickly back down and turned to talk to Toni just as the ladder toppled over sideways, landing with a mighty crash amongst the builders’ rubble.

“What was that? Who’s out there?” Mrs. Chadwick had flung open a rear window. “George—fetch the shotgun!”

“Snakes and bastards!” Agatha squeaked. “RUN!”

They bolted for the car.

 

 

Chapter Two


“I’m sorry, Chris, I just don’t feel like going out to dinner tonight. I don’t think I would be very good with lots of people around … I know that, but you’ll have your friends there, and you’ll be back before you know it. We can do something then, I promise … Yes, lunch would be great. You can tell me all about it then. Have a good trip. Bye.” Agatha replaced the telephone handset in its cradle and slumped onto the sofa. Her two cats, Hodge and Bos-well, leapt up beside her and launched into a purring contest, competing for her attention. She gently stroked both of them and they curled up on either side of her.

Chris Firkin was a very nice, kind, gentle man—and very good-looking. She was rather fond of him, and he was very keen on her. I may never find another one like him, she thought. What am I doing? He wanted to cheer me up, but I don’t really want cheering up. He wanted to talk to me, but I don’t really want to talk. He wanted to … well, one of his marathon stints in the bedroom was definitely out of the question. Gaspingly good under the right circumstances, but tonight was not the night. It was a shame that he was about to jet off on business, but Agatha simply couldn’t face the impromptu get-together with friends that night.

She sat alone. It was early evening and growing dark, but her cosy cottage living room was lit by just one barely adequate table lamp. The gloom suited her mood. She was wearing a shocking-pink fluffy onesie. The one-piece pyjama garment had been bought in a post-lunch gin-fuelled shopping frenzy. Most of what she had bought, Agatha knew, would go to a charity shop after a single wearing, perhaps even box-fresh. The retail therapy had not helped to lift her spirits but the onesie was soft and comforting. She plucked at the cotton fabric of one sleeve and promised herself that she would bin it tomorrow.

The doorbell rang. She decided to ignore it. Then came a tap at the front window and the handsome face of James Lacey, her next-door neighbour and ex-husband, peered in.

“Come on, Aggie,” he called. “I know you’re in there. Thought you might like a bit of company.”

He held up a bottle of Sancerre and two glasses.

“I’ll be right there, James!” Agatha hopped off the sofa and the cats dashed out of the room towards the kitchen. She checked her make-up in the mirror above the mantelpiece and reapplied her lipstick. She might have been wearing a garment that she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in, but Agatha Raisin would never be seen—not even dead—without make-up. She crossed the cramped hallway and flung open the front door.

“Wasn’t sure if I should use my key and … Good grief!” said James. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“I know, I know,” said Agatha, walking back into the living room. “It’s not really me, but I haven’t been feeling much like me today.”

They sat together on the sofa and James poured the wine.

“Thought you might be feeling a bit down in the dumps this evening,” he said. “Can’t have that, can we?”

They clinked glasses and Agatha snuggled into James. He was not, she well knew, the most affectionate or demonstrative of men, but he had a good heart.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked.

“Not especially.”

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