by M C Beaton
Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor
( Agatha Raisin - 17 )
M.C. Beaton
Agatha Raisin is lonely. Busy as she is with her detective agency and the meetings of the Carsely Ladies' Society, she still misses her ex-husband, James Lacey, so she welcomes his return to the cottage next door with her usual triumph of optimism over experience---especially when he invites her on holiday at a surprise location that was once very dear to him. With visions of a romantic hideaway in Italy or the Pacific dancing in her head, Agatha goes off happily with James to...Snoth-on-Sea, in Sussex.
While James may have fond memories of boyhood holidays there, Snoth-on-Sea has seen better days, as has the once-grand Palace Hotel, now run-down and tacky and freezing cold. Nor do the other guests have much to recommend them, especially the brassy honeymoon couple, Mr. and Mrs. Jankers, who pick a fight with Agatha in the dining room. But trouble has a way of following Agatha even if romance does not: Just as she and James are preparing to flee to warmer climes, Geraldine Jankers is found dead on the beach---strangled with Agatha's scarf. So much for Agatha's holiday fantasies: Not only is it time to put her detective skills to work, but the police are not even sure that she'll be allowed to leave town.
CRITICS HAIL AGATHA RAISIN AND M.G BEATON!
“Tourists are advised to watch their backs in the bucolic villages where M. C. Beaton sets her sly British mysteries… Outsiders always spell trouble for the societies Beaton observes with such cynical humor.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“[Beaton’s] imperfect heroine is an absolute gem!”
—Publishers Weekly
“Beaton’s Agatha Raisin series just about defines the British cozy.”
—Booklist
“Anyone interested in … intelligent, amusing reading will want to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Agatha Raisin.”
—Atlanta Journal Constitution
“Beaton has a winner in the irrepressible, romance-hungry Agatha.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Few things in life are more satisfying than to discover a brand-new Agatha Raisin mystery.”
—Tampa Tribune Times
“The Raisin series brings the cozy tradition back to life. God bless the Queen!”
—Tulsa World
“The Miss Marple-like Raisin is a refreshingly sensible, wonderfully eccentric, thoroughly likable heroine … a must for cozy fans.”
—Booklist
Love, Lies and Liquor
“Another highly satisfying Beaton cozy, this one is long on the kind of social comedy that uses character, plot, and atmosphere to produce the laughter.”
—Booklist
“Driven by Agatha’s strong personality, [Love, Lies and Liquor] will please devoted fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Perfect Paragon
“Though Agatha is still a bit of a piece of work, she is mellowing with age, and in this book even forgets to ‘gussy’ herself up once when she goes out. There’s a cliffhanger at the end… that is going to be interesting in the next book.”
—Deadly Pleasures
MORE …
“This is the latest perfectly precious prose problem from Beaton, Britain’s successor to Dame Agatha Christie. If you’ve never read an Agatha Raisin novel, it’s time to start, and you’ll have fifteen more of these confections awaiting you. Polish those off, and you still have a batch of Hamish Macbeth tales. All of them are cunningly plotted, beautifully written and more fun you can imagine. The Perfect Paragon is as perfect as all the others, and you won’t figure out who dunit until the final pages.”
—The Globe & Mail
“Entertaining … welcome back to Carsely, the charming Cotswolds village that’s home to the sixteenth Agatha Raisin mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fabulous … M.C. Beaton is at her best with this fine tale filled with twists.”
—Midwest Book Review
The Deadly Dance
“It’s been 40 years since Dame Agatha Christie’s death, and in that time, reviewers have often bestowed her mantle on new authors. M. C. Beaton is one of those so honored, and she deserves it. When it comes to artfully constructed puzzle plots and charming settings, Beaton serves it up … This is a classic British cozy plot, and a setting done with panache. Maybe M. C. Beaton really is the new ‘Queen of Crime.’ ”
—The Globe & Mail
“It is always fun to read an Agatha Raisin mystery, but the latest installment freshens up a delightful series by converting the heroine from amateur sleuth to professional without changing her caustic wit. Agatha remains crude and rude even to clients, but also retains that vulnerability that endears her to readers.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A very satisfying change for the smart woman of mystery with a new cast of colorfully realized characters blending with a few old favorites.”
—Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
“The story was first-rate and moved along with many twists and turns that kept me always guessing… I read this book in one sitting, which I think speaks for itself.”
—I Love a Mystery
“Fans of Agatha Raisin will be absolutely delighted at this latest addition to the series. Ms. Beaton has surpassed herself in The Deadly Dance”
—Reviewing the Evidence
ALSO BY M. C. BEATON
Agatha Raisin
The Perfect Paragon: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Deadly Dance: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage
Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death
The Skeleton in the Closet
Hamish Macbeth
Death of a Bore
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Village
Death of a Celebrity
A Highland Christmas
Writing as Marion Chesney
Our Lady of Pain
Sick of Shadows
Hasty Death
Snobbery with Violence
_____________________________________
LOVE,
LIES
and
LIQUOR
AN AGATHA RAISIN MYSTERY
_____________________________________
M.C. BEATON
Copyright © 2006 by M. C. Beaton.
This book is dedicated to Sue and Rod Close,
with affection
ONE
JAMES LACEY, Agatha Raisin’s ex-husband with whom she was still in love, had come back into her life. He had moved into his old cottage next door to Agatha’s.
But although he seemed interested in Agatha’s work at her detective agency, not a glint of love lightened his blue eyes. Agatha dressed more carefully than she had done in ages and spent a fortune at the beautician’s, but to no avail. This was the way, she thought sadly, that things had been before. She felt as if some cruel hand had wound the clock of time backwards.
Just when Agatha was about to give up, James
called on her and said friends of his had moved into Ancombe and had invited them both to dinner. His host, he said, was a Mr. David Hewitt who was retired from the Ministry of Defence. His wife was called Jill.
Delighted to be invited as a couple, Agatha set out with James I from their cottages in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds to drive the short distance to Ancombe.
The lilac blossom was out in its full glory. Wisteria and clematis trailed down the walls of honey-coloured cottages, and hawthorn, the fairy tree, sent out a heady sweet smell in the evening air.
Agatha experienced a qualm of nervousness as she drove them towards Ancombe. She had made a few visits to James in his cottage, but they were always brief. James was always occupied with something and seemed relieved when she left. Agatha planned to make the most of this outing. She was dressed in a biscuit-coloured suit with a lemon-coloured blouse and high-heeled sandals. Her brown hair gleamed and shone.
James was wearing a tweed sports jacket and flannels. “Am I overdressed?” asked Agatha.
One blue eye swivelled in her direction. “No, you look fine.”
The Hewitts lived in a bungalow called Merrydown. As Agatha drove up the short gravelled drive, she could smell something cooking on charcoal. “It’s not a barbecue?” she asked.
“I believe it is. Here we are.”
“James, if you had told me it was a barbecue, I would have dressed more suitably.”
“Don’t nag,” said James mildly, getting out of the car.
Agatha detested barbecues. Barbecues were for Americans, Australians and Polynesians, or any of those other people with a good climate. The English, from her experience, delighted in under-cooked meat served off paper plates in an insect-ridden garden.
James rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a small woman with pinched little features and pale grey eyes. Her grey hair was dressed in girlish curls. She was wearing a print frock and low-heeled sandals.
“James, darling!” She stretched up and enfolded him in an embrace. “And who is this?”
“Don’t you remember, I was told to bring my ex-wife along. This is Agatha Raisin. Agatha, Jill.”
Jill linked her arm in James’s, ignoring Agatha. “Come along. We’re all in the garden.” Agatha trailed after them. She wanted to go home.
Various people were standing around the garden drinking some sort of fruit cup. Agatha, who felt in need of a strong gin and tonic, wanted more than ever to flee.
She was introduced to her host, who was cooking dead things on the barbecue. He was wearing a joke apron with a picture of a woman’s body in a corset and fishnet stockings. James was taken round and introduced to the other guests, while Agatha stood on a flagged patio teetering on her high heels.
Agatha sighed and sank down into a garden chair. She opened her handbag and took out her cigarettes and lighter and lit a cigarette.
“Do you mind awfully?” Her host stood in front of her, brandishing a knife.
“What?”
“This is a smoke-free zone.”
Agatha leaned round him and stared at the barbecue. Black smoke was beginning to pour out from something on the top. “Then you’d better get a fire extinguisher,” said Agatha. “Your food is burning.”
He let out a squawk of alarm and rushed back to the barbecue. Agatha blew a perfect smoke ring. She felt her nervousness evaporating. She did not care what James thought. Jill was a dreadful hostess, and worse than that, she seemed to have a thing about James. So Agatha sat placidly, smoking and dreaming of the moment when the evening would be over.
There was one sign of relief. A table was carried out into the garden and chairs set about it. She had dreaded having to stand on the grass in her spindly heels, eating off a paper plate.
Jill had reluctantly let go of James’s arm and gone into the house. She reappeared with two of the women guests carrying wine bottles and glasses. “Everyone to the table,” shouted David.
Agatha crushed out her cigarette on the patio stones and put the stub in her handbag. By the time she had heaved herself out of her chair, it was to find that James was seated next to Jill and another woman, and she was left to sit next to a florid-faced man who gave her a goggling stare and then turned to chat to the woman on his other side.
David put a plate of blackened charred things in front of Agatha. She helped herself to a glass of wine. The conversation became general, everyone talking about people Agatha did not know. Then she caught the name Andrew Lloyd Webber. “I do like his musicals,” she said, glad to be able to talk about something. There was a little startled silence and then Jill said in a patronizing voice, “But his music is so derivative.”
“All music is derivative,” said Agatha.
“Dear me,” tittered one of the female guests. “You’ll be saying you like Barry Manilow next.”
“Why not?” asked Agatha truculently. “He’s a great performer. Got some good tunes, too.” There was a startled silence and then everyone began to talk at once.
I will never understand the Gloucestershire middle classes, thought Agatha. Oh, well, might as well eat. She sliced a piece of what appeared to be chicken. Blood oozed out onto her plate.
James was laughing at something Jill was saying. He had not once looked in her direction. He had abandoned her as soon as they entered the house.
Suddenly a thought hit Agatha, a flash of the blindingly obvious. I do not need to stay here. These people are rude and James is a disgrace. She rose and went into the house. “Second door on your left,” Jill shouted after her, assuming Agatha wanted to go to the toilet.
Agatha went straight through the house and outside. She got into her car and drove off. Let James find his own way home.
When she reached her cottage, she let herself in, went through to the kitchen and kicked off her sandals. Her cats circled her legs in welcome. “I’ve had a God-awful time,” she told them. “James has finally been and gone and done it. I’ve grown up at last. I don’t care if I never see him again.”
“What an odd woman!” Jill was exclaiming. ‘To go off like that without a word.”
“Well, you did rather cut her dead,” said James uneasily. “I mean, she was left on her own, not knowing anyone.”
“But one doesn’t introduce people at parties any more.”
“You introduced me.”
“Oh, James, sweetie. Don’t go on. Such weird behaviour.” But the evening for James was ruined. He now saw these people through Agatha Raisin’s small bearlike eyes.
“I’d better go and see if she’s all right,” he said, getting to his feet.
“I’ll drive you,” said Jill.
“No, please don’t. It would be rude of you to leave your guests. I’ll phone for a taxi.”
James rang Agatha’s doorbell, but she did not answer. He tried phoning but got no reply. He left a message for her to call back, but she did not.
He shrugged. Agatha would come around. She always did.
But to his amazement the days grew into weeks and Agatha continued to be chilly towards him. She turned down invitations to dinner, saying she was “too busy.” He had met Patrick Mulligan one day in the village stores. Patrick worked for Agatha and he told James they were going through a quiet period.
When Sir Charles Fraith came to stay with Agatha, James began to be really worried. Charles, he knew, had once had an affair with Agatha. He dropped in and out of her life, occasionally helping her with cases. For the first time, James realized with amazement, he felt jealous. He had always taken it for granted that Agatha would remain, as far as he was concerned, her usual doting self. Something would have to be done.
“So how’s your ex?” asked Charles one Saturday as he and Agatha sat in her garden.
“I told you. I neither know nor care. I told you about that terrible barbecue.”
“They sound like shiters but we all know weird people.”
“He abandoned me! And when they all started sniggering about Andrew Lloyd W
ebber, he did nothing to defend me.”
“Oh, well. It’s nice to see you off the hook. If you are off the hook.”
But Agatha was addicted to obsessions. Without one going on in her head, she was left with herself, a state of affairs she did not enjoy.
“So no murders these days?” asked Charles.
“Not a one. Nothing but lost teenagers and cats and dogs. I feel guilty. I persuaded young Harry Beam, Mrs. Freedman’s nephew, to stay with me another year before going to university. He’s finding things very dull.”
“Is everyone else still with you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Freedman is still secretary. Then there’s Harry, Phil Marshall and Patrick Mulligan as detectives.”
“Why don’t you take some time off? Go away somewhere. Get away from brooding about him next door.”
‘lam not brooding about him next door I”
Charles was so self-contained and neat in his impeccably tailored clothes and well-cut fair hair that Agatha sometimes felt like striking him. Nothing seemed to ruffle Charles’s calm surface. She often wondered what he really thought of her.
“Anyway,” Agatha went on, “I’m taking time off from the office today. Mrs. Freedman will phone me if anything dramatic happens. What’s up with Andrew Lloyd Webber anyway?”
“Don’t ask me. I never could understand the middle classes.”
Fuelled by jealousy, James did not pause to think whether he really wanted the often-infuriating Agatha back in his life. He watched and waited until Charles left and then watched some more until he saw Agatha leaving her cottage on foot. He shot out of his own door to waylay her.
