Death of a Nag (Hamish Macbeth, Book 11) by M. C. Beaton

By M. C. Beaton

Unique e-book: 1995

Lochdubh constable Hamish Macbeth is extra dour than ever after wasting either his merchandising and his woman, the unswerving Priscilla Halbourton-Smythe. a visit to an enthralling beach lodge along with his puppy Towser is intended to elevate his sagging spirits. in its place, he arrives at "Friendly House" to discover the atmosphere chilling, the meals inedible, and his fellow site visitors under neighborly. There's an amorous spinster, tarty ladies, a retired army guy, a secretive London family members, and Bob Harris, who so nags his spouse, Doris, that everybody desires to kill him. Then anyone does. quickly Macbeth is termed upon to behave -- to dig into the earlier and deep into the guts to carry anything extra daunting than in simple terms the perpetrator: Justice.

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Additional info for Death of a Nag (Hamish Macbeth, Book 11)

Example text

Anderton sat back down. ” “The character was doing most of the talking, but it looked like the kid understood him. ” The kettle began to whistle. Anderton went over to the stove and fixed more tea, his back to Macdonald. ” He sat down again. ” “I have no idea. The kid turned around once and he might have noticed me. But what difference does it make now? ” “I didn’t stare at them until they disappeared over the horizon, if that’s what you mean. I was in a hurry to get home and watch East-Enders .

The funeral was quite an event,” Winter said. “I didn’t know he had so many friends. ” “I was thinking it would be mostly men, but there were plenty of women too. ” Ringmar was looking out the window behind Winter, who assumed the church tower had caught his attention. “It’s a hell of a disease,” he said, turning back to Winter. ” “In the middle of your Grand Canary vacation? Mats was a close friend, but I can handle the grief. ” Their silence gave way to the roar of the engines. “It’s a bunch of diseases rolled up in one,” Winter said after a while.

Nobody remembered what the man looked like. But they showed no reluctance to describe him anyway. He had been tall, average height or a bit short. Compared to the kid? No, compared to the streetcar, somebody said, and Winter closed his eyes as if he were exorcising the world’s ingratitude. The man’s hair had been blond, black and brown. He had been wearing a suit, leather jacket and tweeds. He had horn-rimmed glasses, dark sunglasses and no glasses at all. He was stooped over, his posture was perfect, he was bowlegged and he had long, muscular legs.

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