By M. C. Beaton
There's not anything extra miserable for a middle-aged lovelorn girl with bald patches on her head than to discover herself in an English seashore inn out of season. Agatha Raisin, her hair falling out after a run-in with a hairdresser-cum-murderess from a prior research, travels to an old style lodge to be able to fix the wear clear of the associates in her all-too-cozy Cotswolds village. unsatisfied in regards to the gradual effects and triggered by way of the aged citizens of the hotel, she consults the neighborhood witch for aid. Agatha purchases a hair tonic (and a love potion, simply in case!) and is quickly sprouting hairs and shooting the fondness of the village police inspector. however the quiet city is surprised via the homicide of the witch. Which one of many graying visitors is able to this sort of brutal crime? The brassy but endearing Agatha won't cease until eventually she reveals the culprit--and, in fact, a bit love, too.
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Additional info for Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden (Agatha Raisin, Book 9)
He thought he was in love with that woman,” she continued. “She led him on. ” I waited for more and got it. “I hope she felt guilty and goes straight to hell. ” I could picture her at Saturday’s CAP rally in the park, yelling along with the best of them. ” She glared at me. “Of course I have. ” I tried to explain that I didn’t mean to imply otherwise but I’d already said enough to lose her trust, and clearly the conversation wasn’t going to be pleasant from here on. I excused myself, paid for both coffees at the counter, and left.
When they saw the large sign at the edge of town advertising The Black Cat B&B, they decided to check it out. They still felt like celebrating, and a bed-andbreakfast would be more festive than a motel. They were surprised to find that The Black Cat B&B was surrounded by a high chain-link fence with a security gate at the entrance. But it looked ideal: a large Victorian building on a sprawling lot within walking distance of the Sogobia River, surrounded by shade trees to temper the heat coming off the Nevada desert.
Now for the record, of course it was suicide. Any damn fool can see that. But as soon as I saw the hole in the fence, I knew some asshole would come up with a theory. ” Driving down Main Street, on my way home, I saw Sonny Boy’s mother enter Mom’s Café. I swung into a parking place out front to follow her inside. She was slipping into a corner booth. I approached the table. She was one of those working women with a face that revealed a life of long hours, much worry, and probably too much booze.