Agnes and the Hitman Read online

  Agnes and the Hitman

  Jennifer Crusie

  Bob Mayer

  Jennifer Crusie

  Agnes and the Hitman

  Bob Mayer

  For Meg and Jen, who never gave up on us

  acknowledgments

  We would like to thank

  Deb Cavanaugh for keeping Bob sane,

  Kim “Needles” Cardascia for never breaking a sweat no matter what we came screaming to her for,

  the Cherries and the CherryBombs for taking the trip with us,

  our beta readers-Brooke Chapman, Katy Cooper, Heidi Cullinan, Kari Hayes, Robin LaFevers, Corinna Lavitt, Chris Merrill, and Valerie Taylor-for giving great feedback,

  Richie Ducharme for getting us the beach house,

  John Karle for never losing us on the road,

  Russ Parsons, who helped us with the food columnist background and who puts up with Jenny in general (well, he has to because she’s family, but she’s still grateful),

  Doreen Thompson for media training (Crusie-Mayer, He Wrote/She Wrote, romantic adventure, and uh…),

  Charlie Verral for once again providing us with our NYC home away from home,

  Mollie Smith for running our professional lives,

  Jennifer Enderlin for being the perfect editor,

  and Meg Ruley for being the perfect agent.

  monday

  cranky agnes column #1

  “Pan Hunting”

  Do not be seduced by those big-box come-ons, full of “complete sets” of extraneous cookware. A complete set is whatever you need, and maybe all you need is a wok and a hot place to grill your bacon. In a pinch, I can do it all with my good heavy nonstick frying pan. Besides the obvious braising, browning, and frying, I can make sauces and stir-fries in it, toast cheese sandwiches and slivered almonds, use the underside to pound cutlets, and in a pinch probably swing it to defend my honor. If I could find a man that versatile and dependable, I’d marry him.

  One fine August evening in South Carolina, Agnes Crandall stirred raspberries and sugar in her heavy nonstick frying pan and defended her fiancé to the only man she’d ever trusted.

  It wasn’t easy.

  “Look, Joey, Taylor’s not that bad.” Agnes cradled the phone between her chin and her shoulder, turned down her CD player, where the Dixie Chicks were doing a fine rendition of “Am I the Only One,” and then frowned over the tops of her fogged-up glasses at the raspberries, which were being annoying and uncooperative, much like Taylor lately. “He’s a terrific chef.” Which is why I’m still with him. “And he’s very sweet.” When he has the time. “And we’ve got a great future in this house together.” Assuming he ever comes out here again.

  Joey snorted his contempt, the sound exploding through the phone. “He shouldn’t leave you out there by yourself.”

  “Hey, Brenda lived out here alone for years, and she did just fine,” Agnes said. “I’m as tough as Brenda. I can do that, too.” Of course, Brenda sold me the house and beat feet for her yacht in the middle of a marina, but-

  “Nah, there’s somethin’ wrong with a guy who leaves a sweetheart like you alone in a big house like that. You should find somebody else.”

  “Yeah, like I have the time,” Agnes said, and then realized that wasn’t the right answer. “Not that I would. Taylor’s a great guy. And anyway, I like being alone.” I’m used to it. “He’s a mutt, Agnes,” Joey said.

  Agnes took off her glasses and turned up the heat under the raspberries, which she knew was courting disaster, but it was late and she was tired of playing nice with fruit. “Come on, Joey. I don’t have time for this. I’m behind on my column, I’ve got-”

  “And there’s Rhett,” Joey said. “How’s Rhett?”

  “What?” Agnes said, thrown off stride. She stopped stirring her berries, which began to bubble, and looked down at her dog, draped over her feet like a moth-eaten brown overcoat, slobbering on the floor as he slept. “Rhett’s fine. Why? What have you heard?”

  “He’s a fine healthy-lookin’ dog,” Joey said hastily. “He looked real good in his picture in the paper today.” He paused, his voice straining to be casual. “How come old Rhett was wearing that stupid collar in that picture?”

  “Collar?” Agnes frowned at the phone. “It was just some junk jewelry-”

  The oven timer buzzed, and she said, “Hold on,” put down the phone, and took the now madly bubbling berries off the heat. Rhett picked up his head and bayed, and she turned to see what he was upset about.

  A guy with a gun stood in the doorway, the bottom half of his face covered with a red bandanna.

  “I come for your dog,” he said, pointing the gun at Rhett, and Agnes said, “No!” and slung the raspberry pan at the guy, the hot syrup arcing out in front of it like napalm and catching him full in the face.

  He screamed as the scalding fruit hit him and then dropped his gun to rip the bandanna away as Agnes stumbled to scoop up the pan and Rhett barreled into him, knocking him down so that he hit the back of his head on the marble counter by the wall and knocked off every cupcake she had cooling there before he collapsed into the doorway.

  “Goddamnit” Agnes said breathlessly, standing over him with her pan, her heart pounding.

  The guy didn’t move, and Rhett began to hoover up cupcakes at the speed of light.

  “Agnes?” Joey shouted from the phone on the counter. “What the fuck, Agnes?”

  Agnes kicked the gun into the housekeeper’s room and peered at the guy, trying to catch her breath. When he didn’t move, she backed up to grab the phone off the counter. “Some guy just showed up here with a gun and tried to take Rhett,” she told Joey, breathing hard. “ But it’s okay, I’m not angry.” Miserable little rat-faced jerk.

  “Where is he?”

  “On the floor, across the hall doorway. He knocked himself out. I have to-”

  “Get the hell out of there,” Joey said, sounding like he was on the move. “Take Rhett with you.”

  “I can’t get out, the guy’s lying across the hall door. If I climb over him, he’ll come to and grab me. I have to call-”

  “Get out the back door-”

  “I can’t, Doyle’s got it blocked with screen and boards. I have to hang up and call nine-one-one.”

  “No,” Joey said, and she heard the screen door to the diner slap shut on his end of the phone. “No cops. I’m comin’ over.”

  “What do you mean, no cops? I-”

  The dognapper stirred.

  “Wait a minute.” Agnes put the phone on the counter and held the frying pan at the ready, hands shaking, as she craned her neck to look closer at the dognapper.

  Young, just a teenager. Short. Skinny. Limp, dirty dark hair. Stupid, because if he’d had any brains, he’d have grabbed Rhett when he went out for his nightly pee. And now that he was unconscious, pretty harmless looking. She probably outweighed him by thirty pounds.

  As she calmed down, she could hear Dr. Garvin’s voice in her head.

  How are you feeling right now, Agnes?

  Well, Dr. Garvin, I am feeling a little angry that this punk broke into the house with a gun and threatened my dog.

  And how are you handling that anger, Agnes? I never touched him, I swear. The boy opened his eyes.

  “Don’t move.” Agnes held up her pan. “I’ve called the police,” she lied. “They’re coming for you. My dog is vicious, and you don’t want to cross me, either, especially with a frying pan; you have no idea what I can do with a frying pan.” She took a deep breath, and the kid glared at her, and she looked closer at his face, and winced at the lurid welts of singed skin where the raspberry had stuck. “That’s gotta hurt. Not that I care.”

&nb