Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist by M. C. Beaton Page A
Authors: M. C. Beaton
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, British, Women Private Investigators, Women Detectives, Traditional British, Murder, Cotswold Hills (England), Travelers, Raisin, Agatha (Fictitious Character), Cyprus
Ads: Link
she had learned. Trevor's plumbing business was on the skids and the receivers were shortly to be called in. Angus was a very rich retired man who had owned a chain of shops in Glasgow. George Debenham was also in financial trouble, having gambled unwisely on the stock exchange. Friend Harry was a comfortably-off farmer, no debts there. Rose Wilcox was extremely rich in her own right, the result of three previous marriages, the last of which had left her a very wealthy widow before she married Trevor.
"So does Trevor inherit now she's dead?" asked Agatha, her eyes gleaming. "And why wouldn't she bail his business out if she was that wealthy?"
"The simplest way will be to ask Trevor, but I'd like to get him away from the others. Let's leave it until tomorrow, Agatha. We'll go in early in the morning and suggest he might like to take a drive with us. Leave it until tomorrow."
But Agatha fretted. "Bill might know," she said, "and have forgotten to tell me."
But when she phoned Bill's number again, Mrs. Wong told her acidly that her son had gone over to see his new girlfriend--"such a nice young lady. "
So that was that. James said he was tired and hungry and he would cook them both something to eat.
Agatha sat staring into space. This was not how she would have imagined it to be. Her dreams had turned upside-down. No lingering romantic kisses beside the Mediterranean--except from Charles. Every time she thought of that episode with Charles, she felt hot and uncomfortable. How could she have let one man make love to her when she was in love with another? Because, said a nagging voice in her head, maybe you've never really been in love with James but with an imaginary James. The imaginary, or dream, James was always doing and saying the right things while the real James was as cold and distant as ever. Agatha gave a broken little sigh. Her obsession with James seemed to be waning as each day passed.
Over dinner James suddenly said, "I would like to get even with Mustafa for cheating me. I'll bet he's dealing in drugs. You don't have all those villains around just because you're running a brothel."
"Could be dangerous," said Agatha.
"So's poking about in a murder investigation, but it hasn't stopped you yet."
"Oh, well, I'll help you."
"Not this one," said James firmly. "'I'll deal with Mustafa myself."
FIVE
WHEN Agatha went downstairs in the morning, she found a note on the kitchen table from James. It said briefly, "Gone off on some private business. Be back around lunch-time."
Agatha cursed and crushed the note into a little ball and shied it into the rubbish bin. They were no longer a team, she thought bitterly. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table and gloomily revised in her mind all James's coldnesses, all his snubs, and all his lack of affection, until she was perfectly sure she had no feelings left for him at all.
Then she decided to go into Kyrenia and do some investigating for herself. The day was a washed-out milky grey, with wreaths of mist hiding the tops of the mountains. It was very warm and humid.
She parked in a side street and walked down to the Dome Hotel. English tourists with high fluting voices came and went outside the hotel. North Cyprus seemed to be living up to its reputation of being the last genteel watering-hole along the Mediterranean.
Neither Olivia nor the rest were in their rooms. She went to the dining-room. A few people were having a late breakfast but they were not among them. But over at the window sat Charles, holding a coffee-cup between his sum fingers and gazing dreamily out to sea.
Agatha hesitated and then, with a little shrug, she walked towards his table. He looked up.
"Morning, Aggie," he said. "Where's your guard-dog?"
"If you mean James, he's gone off somewhere on his own. Have you see the Debenhams or the bereaved husband?"
"You've missed them. They had breakfast. Then they said something about going to Bellapais."
"What's
"So does Trevor inherit now she's dead?" asked Agatha, her eyes gleaming. "And why wouldn't she bail his business out if she was that wealthy?"
"The simplest way will be to ask Trevor, but I'd like to get him away from the others. Let's leave it until tomorrow, Agatha. We'll go in early in the morning and suggest he might like to take a drive with us. Leave it until tomorrow."
But Agatha fretted. "Bill might know," she said, "and have forgotten to tell me."
But when she phoned Bill's number again, Mrs. Wong told her acidly that her son had gone over to see his new girlfriend--"such a nice young lady. "
So that was that. James said he was tired and hungry and he would cook them both something to eat.
Agatha sat staring into space. This was not how she would have imagined it to be. Her dreams had turned upside-down. No lingering romantic kisses beside the Mediterranean--except from Charles. Every time she thought of that episode with Charles, she felt hot and uncomfortable. How could she have let one man make love to her when she was in love with another? Because, said a nagging voice in her head, maybe you've never really been in love with James but with an imaginary James. The imaginary, or dream, James was always doing and saying the right things while the real James was as cold and distant as ever. Agatha gave a broken little sigh. Her obsession with James seemed to be waning as each day passed.
Over dinner James suddenly said, "I would like to get even with Mustafa for cheating me. I'll bet he's dealing in drugs. You don't have all those villains around just because you're running a brothel."
"Could be dangerous," said Agatha.
"So's poking about in a murder investigation, but it hasn't stopped you yet."
"Oh, well, I'll help you."
"Not this one," said James firmly. "'I'll deal with Mustafa myself."
FIVE
WHEN Agatha went downstairs in the morning, she found a note on the kitchen table from James. It said briefly, "Gone off on some private business. Be back around lunch-time."
Agatha cursed and crushed the note into a little ball and shied it into the rubbish bin. They were no longer a team, she thought bitterly. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table and gloomily revised in her mind all James's coldnesses, all his snubs, and all his lack of affection, until she was perfectly sure she had no feelings left for him at all.
Then she decided to go into Kyrenia and do some investigating for herself. The day was a washed-out milky grey, with wreaths of mist hiding the tops of the mountains. It was very warm and humid.
She parked in a side street and walked down to the Dome Hotel. English tourists with high fluting voices came and went outside the hotel. North Cyprus seemed to be living up to its reputation of being the last genteel watering-hole along the Mediterranean.
Neither Olivia nor the rest were in their rooms. She went to the dining-room. A few people were having a late breakfast but they were not among them. But over at the window sat Charles, holding a coffee-cup between his sum fingers and gazing dreamily out to sea.
Agatha hesitated and then, with a little shrug, she walked towards his table. He looked up.
"Morning, Aggie," he said. "Where's your guard-dog?"
"If you mean James, he's gone off somewhere on his own. Have you see the Debenhams or the bereaved husband?"
"You've missed them. They had breakfast. Then they said something about going to Bellapais."
"What's
Similar Books
