As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,11

electricity company and they say, “Power will be restored momentarily”, but nothing happens. How are they?’

Agatha walked with her new cordless telephone to the living-room door. ‘They’ve all fallen asleep. Look, I’ll give it a little longer.’ As she replaced the receiver, the lights came on. She rushed to switch off the generator.

Mrs Bloxby phoned back. ‘I’m on my way.’

Agatha woke her sleeping guests. Mr Friend struggled to his feet. ‘I hope you never find who murdered that copper,’ he said.

‘Why?’ asked Agatha.

‘He was going to get me up in the court and do me for flashing.’

‘What! How did that happen?’

‘I was out for a walk with the missus, and I had to pee. Went behind a bush. No one about, or so I thought. That damn Beech, he came out of nowhere and charged me with exposing myself. Me! I’ve been a churchgoer all me life. The shame of it. I could ha’ murdered the man meself.’

‘Did you go to court?’ asked Agatha.

‘No, but it got in the local paper, and mud sticks. I’m telling you, missus, I don’t know how the police are going to find the murderer because there’s so many wanted him dead.’

Chapter Three

Agatha overslept. As soon as she poked her nose over the duvet, she felt the room was cold. She switched on the bedside lamp and nothing happened.

She struggled out of bed and picked out her warmest clothes. Clumping downstairs later in a pair of fleece-lined suede boots, she wondered if she would ever wear high heels again. Nothing more depressing than flat-heeled footwear.

She did not want to switch on the generator, for the thought of operating the machine gave her a stab of techno fear.

Agatha phoned the electricity company and gave them a blast of abuse that didn’t bring the power on but made her feel much better.

The radio in the car informed her that salt was being imported from abroad. Agatha wondered how they could spare it, as the European continent was pretty much snowed up.

Her office was in an old building in a narrow winding street near the abbey. She pounded up the stairs to the first floor and swung open the frosted glass door of the office.

Toni, Patrick Mulligan and Phil Marshall were all talking excitedly as Agatha came in.

‘What’s up?’ demanded Agatha, taking off her coat.

‘We’ve got a client,’ said Toni, ‘and you’ll never guess who it is.’

‘Enlighten me,’ said Agatha crossly, irritated with herself for being late.

‘Gary Beech’s ex-wife,’ said Toni. ‘She’s employing us to find out who murdered her ex-husband.’

‘And you didn’t even phone me? You let her get out of the office before I arrived?’

Phil smoothed his silver hair and said quietly, ‘She’s waiting for you at her home address. We thought we’d wait until you arrived.’

‘And why aren’t you all out working?’

‘It’s such good news,’ said Patrick, looking more like a tired bloodhound than ever. ‘Toni wanted us all to wait until we told you. Gary’s wife is now a Mrs Richards, married to a supermarket owner. She’s prepared to pay a lot.’

Agatha felt mean and petty. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was good of all of you to wait for me. Do you know why she wants to find the murderer of her ex? If she divorced him, she can’t care that much about who killed him.’

‘Get this,’ said Toni excitedly. ‘He divorced her!’

‘Give me the address and I’ll get round there,’ said Agatha, putting on her coat.

Mrs Richards lived in a large villa in the better part of town. Snow began to fall again in feathery flakes, swirling hypnotically in front of Agatha’s eyes as she drove up the short drive and parked her car.

I should have asked how much she’s paying, thought Agatha. She rang the bell and listened to the dulcet tones of the Westminster chimes.

The door opened. Agatha blinked. ‘Is Mrs Richards at home?’

‘I’m Mrs Richards. You can call me Amy. You’re Agatha Raisin?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Come in.’

Amy Richards was a petite blonde with a genuine tan and a perfect figure. She had a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes. When she let Agatha into a living room on the ground floor and the white light from the snow outside fell on Amy’s face, Agatha realized that she was older than she looked and that she’d probably had a face-lift. It was because of Amy’s eyes. Clever plastic surgery can restore an appearance of youth, but nothing changes the expression of age and experience in the eyes. She was wearing a blue