By M. C. Beaton
Unique e-book: 1989
Hamish Macbeth, the laid-back constable of Lochdubh, Scotland, has a brand new Land Rover to force and a Highland summer season to relish, yet as speedy as rain rolls in from the loch, his chuffed lifestyles is going to hell in a handbasket. the difficulty starts whilst his cherished Priscilla Halburton-Smythe returns from London . . . with a fiancé on her arm. His miseries multiply while clouds of midges (the diabolical Scottish mosquito) descend in town. Then a paragon of housewifery named Trixie Thomas strikes into Lochdubh along with her lapdog husband in tow. The newcomer quick convinces the neighborhood girls to include low-cholesterol foodstuff, ban tobacco, and start bird-watching. quickly the town's fish-and-chips-loving males are up in fingers. Now confronted with the rigors of his personal soul, Macbeth needs to resolve Lochdubh's latest crime-the mysterious poisoning of the fitting spouse.
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Extra resources for Death of a Perfect Wife (Hamish Macbeth, Book 4)
It rattled with his collection of brushes and tins of turpentine. Only half a block away, in rue des Vinaigričres, waited the afternoons job, repainting the door of a dress shop. The owner hired Peter on recommendationnot as a survivor of torture or escapee of Russian jails, not in honor of a veteran in the revolutionary underground; the dressmaker was no sympathizer. She hired him on a Frenchmans good word. Peters last employer, a tailor in Montparnasse, had high praise for his talents with brush and paint, especially Peters skill at outlining street numbers in a second color.
Fifteen UP ON THE BALLS OF HIS FEET, the Mayor shook Sixteen WITHOUT LOOKING UP from his newspaper, the assistant stage manager Seventeen IN CLOTHES THAT were not hers, in a part of Part II The Crime Eighteen �FRIENDS ON EVERY SIDE, Karls words, Gardsteins guarantee in that Nineteen RIVKA CARRIED HERSELF ON QUIET, not stealthy, but careful footsteps Twenty THAT SCHVANTZ CHANGED HIS MIND, said meet him here, thought Twenty-One FRITZ RIPPED THE DOOR BACK with such a burst of Twenty-Two NOT THE FEAR of being found or found out, and Twenty-Three TO MR.
For this blank ecstasy. Now heres a revolutionary hope, such democratic purity: any pair of eyes can watch the glimmering water in the Canal St. Martin at lunchtime on an overcast day and partake of the same single truth about the world. Start again from there. Our substance is all particles and vibrations; thats how the world is, always was, its changeless natural shape. Who lays it bare and tells us, dares us, to open our eyes and look? Who is the epochs authentic genius of material existence, the visionary who sees through the confusion of human interference down to the heart of things?