last.
Charles dropped in and out of her life as he had always done. The evenings were dark early and the branches of the trees were becoming bare.
She visited Mrs. Bloxby one Saturday evening.
“If you will forgive me for saying so,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “you are not looking your usual self.”
“I’ve been working hard on a lot of dreary cases, that’s all.”
“Perhaps you should take a holiday.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere sunny. The heat would ease that pain in your hip.”
“What pain?”
“Mrs. Raisin, arthritis is not just going to go away. Don’t leave a hip replacement to the last minute.”
“It’s not that bad,” said Agatha. “I’ll think about it.”
When Agatha had left, Mrs. Bloxby stood at the doorway of the village and watched her walking off slowly down the cobbled street.
“Poor Mrs. Raisin,” murmured the vicar’s wife. “She’s missing James quite dreadfully.”
Agatha turned into Lilac Lane and then stopped short. The lights were on in James’s cottage and smoke was rising above the thatch from the chimney. She walked forward, paused, and then walked forward again.
This is stupid, she thought.
But she went up to his door, her heart beating hard, and rang the bell.
KISSING CHRISTMAS GOODBYE
CHAPTER ONE
AGATHA RAISIN was bored.
Her detective agency in the English Cotswolds was thriving, but the cases were all small, niggling and unexciting, and yet took a great deal of time to solve. She sometimes felt if she had to deal with another missing cat or dog, she would scream.
Dreams and fantasies, that cushion she usually had against the realities of life, had, to her astonished mind, disappeared entirely. She had dreamt so long about her neighbour and ex-husband, James Lacey, that she would not accept the fact that she did not love him any more. She thought of him angrily as some sort of drug that had ceased to work.
So although it was only early October, she tried to fill her mind with thoughts of Christmas. Unlike quite a number of people, Agatha had not given up on Christmas. To have the perfect Christmas had been a childhood dream whilst surviving a rough upbringing in a Birmingham slum. Holly berries glistened, snow fell gently outside, and inside, all was Dickensian jollity. And in her dreams, James Lacey kissed her under the mistletoe, and, like a middle-aged sleeping beauty, she would awake to passion once more.
Her friend, the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby, had once pointed out that Christmas was to celebrate the birth of Christ, but Agatha’s mind shied away from that. To her, Christmas was more Hollywood than church.
Christmas advertisements were already appearing on television and supermarket aisles were laden with Christmas crackers, mince pies and puddings.
But something happened one crisp morning early in the month to take her mind off Christmas.
She was sitting in her office in Mircester, going through the files with her secretary, Mrs. Freedman, wondering whether to handle another dreary job herself or to turn it over to one of her two detectives, Phil Marshall and Patrick Mulligan. Her erstwhile detective, young Harry Beam, was now studying at Cambridge, and Agatha missed his hard-working energy.
“I nearly forgot,” said Mrs. Freedman, “but this letter arrived for you. It’s marked ‘personal’ so I didn’t open it.”
Agatha picked it up. The handwriting on the envelope was spidery and there was no return address. She opened it. She read:
The paper was expensive. The address in raised italic script at the top gave the address of The Manor House, Lower Tapor, Gloucestershire.
“Nuts,” said Agatha. “Barking mad. How are our profits?”
“Good,” said Mrs. Freedman. “It is amazing how grateful people are to get one of their pets back.”
“I miss Harry,” sighed Agatha. “Phil and Patrick don’t mind the divorces, but they do hate searching for animals. They think it’s all beneath them and I think it’s beneath me.”
“Why don’t you employ a young person to cope with the missing animals? A girl, perhaps. Girls are very keen on animals.”
“That’s a very good idea. Put an ad in the local paper and we’ll see if we can get anyone. Say we want a trainee.”
A week later, Agatha, after a long day of interviews, felt she would never, ever find someone suitable. It seemed as if all the dimmest girls in Mircester fancied themselves as detectives. Some had come dressed in black leather and stiletto-heeled boots, thinking that a
Agatha was about to pack up for the day when the door to her office opened and a young girl entered. She had blonde hair that looked natural and pale blue eyes fringed with thick fair lashes in a neat-featured face. She was conservatively dressed in a tailored suit, white blouse and low-heeled shoes.
“Yes?” asked Agatha.
“My name is Toni Gilmour. I believe you are looking for a trainee detective.”
“Applicants are supposed to apply in writing.”
“I know. But you see, I’ve just made up my mind to try for the job.”
Actually, Toni had been lurking in the street outside for a good part of the day, studying the girls who came out after their interviews, examining their faces and listening to what they said. She gathered that no one had gotten the job. She deliberately calculated that if she turned up last, then a desperate Mrs. Raisin might take her on.
But Agatha was anxious to get home to her cats and relax for the weekend.
“Go away and write your application,” she said. “Send in copies of your school certificates plus a short description of why you think you might be suited for the job.”
Agatha half rose from her seat behind her desk, but sat down again as Toni said, “I have brought my school certificates with me. I am well educated. I work hard. People like me. I feel that is important in getting facts.”
Agatha scowled at her. Agatha’s way of getting facts was usually either by lying or emotional blackmail or
