As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,12

cashmere sweater, the exact colour of her eyes – no, not her eyes, thought Agatha, her contact lenses – and form-fitting grey cashmere trousers over ankle boots with high heels.

‘Take a pew,’ said Amy in a soft Gloucestershire accent. ‘Drinkie?’

‘Nothing,’ said Agatha. She pulled a notebook out of her capacious handbag. ‘I was amazed to learn that your husband divorced you. Why?’

‘I think there was someone else.’

Agatha looked at the vision in front of her and then thought of the squat and ugly Beech.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ she said. ‘I saw your ex when he gave me a ticket. Hardly an Adonis.’

‘Wait. I want to show you something.’

Amy left the room and returned after a few minutes with a photograph, which she handed to Agatha. ‘That’s me and Gary on our wedding day.’

The Amy in the photograph was small and plump, with brown hair and teeth that stuck out. ‘I was hardly a beauty,’ she said.

‘How did the transformation take place? Was it due to your present husband?’

‘No, it was like this. Gary was mean. He used to beat me. But I did love him. I’ve always fallen for masterful men. But he gave me a good lot of money in the divorce settlement. I was that broke up, I went to Florida on a holiday. The airline had made a mistake with my booking, so as a compensation, they upgraded me to first class. I met this businessman, Art, ever so kind he was. His wife had just dumped him. He was going to finalize the divorce when he got to Miami. I told him all about Gary and he said, “Get a makeover and let him see what he’s been missing.” I said that surely it cost a lot of money.

‘He said he would fund it, but I had to meet up with him afterwards and go with him to meet his ex-wife because he wanted to make her jealous.’

‘What was his full name?’

‘Art Mackenzie the Third. He said he was in hedge funds. I thought he meant he was a gardener. He tried to explain, but I couldn’t understand it.’

‘What puzzles me is why he just didn’t buy the services of some beauty in Florida.’

‘He said I reminded him of his mother.’

Stark, raving bonkers, thought Agatha. But she prompted, ‘Go on.’

‘Well, it took over three months and I had the works. He must have spent a fortune on me. When I was finished, he said he was delighted, so I said, “When do we meet your wife?” He said, not yet. But he said I should do some work for him. He said he ran a big escort agency and some Arabs were coming to town. He said all I had to do was act pretty and see they had plenty of drinks in their penthouse suite. He had changed. Before I started all the cosmetic surgery and that, he cried a lot and said I was a comfort to him. But afterwards, he had gone sort of hard and businesslike and kept rabbiting on about how much I had cost him.

‘Well, I was pretty green but not that green, and I knew he wanted me to do some whoring for him. I felt sick. I was sitting in this hotel lounge, crying, because I had no money to get a plane home.’

‘You could have gone to the British consul,’ said Agatha.

Her eyes widened. ‘I never thought of that. I’d never been out of England before. But that was when I met Bunchie.’

‘Who’s Bunchie?’

‘Mr Richards. His name is really Tom, but I call him Bunchie. It’s a pet name. Anyway, he came up to me and asked what was the matter, and the minute I heard his English voice, I cried even harder. He said I should go to the police, but I said they’d think I was nothing more than a tart for taking his money in the first place and they might arrest me for prostitution. So he said he had to catch the plane home, and do you know, when he said he lived in Mircester, I thought, There really is a God, cos I’d been praying ever so hard. And he said he’d take me with him. We got married two weeks after we got back.’

‘Have you considered,’ said Agatha, ‘that this Art may have come to England looking for you and taken his spite out on Gary?’

She bit her collagen-enhanced lips. ‘I dunno.’

‘What does your husband think about paying my