By Charlotte MacLeod, Alisa Craig
Greens might be damaging for your HEALTH!
Old Agatha Treadway baked her personal bread, canned her personal vegetables---and died of botulism in her own kitchen. twist of fate, says Dr. Druffitt. homicide, says neighbor Janet Wadman. And says it back whilst she unearths the medical professional lifeless, too. Detective Inspector Madoc Rhys, of the royal Canadian fastened Police, concurs. yet who's the killer...the city miser, who desires the single factor in simple terms Mrs. Treadway can have given him?
The miser's son who's panting for the doctor's daughter? Widow Druffitt, who's preserving mystery conferences with not going humans? The employed woman who listens at keyholes? The employed guy who hides in haylofts? It's an lousy mess...and while Rhys will get it taken care of out, he faces a fair more durable challenge of his personal.
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Extra info for A Pint of Murder (Madoc Rhys, Book 1)
He's wiry but fairly weak. " "I know him," I said. "He's popped up once or twice on our side too. White-blond hair, FA Cup ears? Let us know if you lift him. " We shook hands. "Surely," Hendry said, "though I hope you get him first. " Later that evening Superintendent Costello arrived at our house. He does this fairly frequently; part of his personable, policing-the- community bit. He squeezed into the armchair in the corner furthest from the TV and held in his hand the teacup and saucer Debbie had given to Penny to bring him.
I know what I seen," he said. "Anything happens to any of my sheep, I'll put a bullet in the mutt. " Penny, who had stopped watching the TV at the start of the conversation, now stared up at Anderson open-mouthed and panic-stricken. "There's no need for threats, Mark. Frank's a good dog and I don't think he'd be annoying your sheep. " I winked at Penny conspiratorially. She tried to smile back, but did so without confidence. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you. If that dog's in my field, I'll kill it," he repeated, then nodded, as though we had had a conversation about the weather, and bade us a happy Christmas.
She leaned over the stove, removing a pot from a gas ring and lighting her cigarette from the flame. She had to drag at it several times to get it lit, billows of smoke mingling with the steam from the pots which left her face damp and flushed. "I've a few questions, Sadie. About Angela. " "The fuck you care if I'm up to it. That bastard's gone and got himself nicked again. Two days shy of Christmas. What am I meant to do? " She sat down, a tacit recognition that, try as she might to blame me, she knew I was not the architect of her misfortunes.
A Pint of Murder (Madoc Rhys, Book 1) by Charlotte MacLeod, Alisa Craig