Agatha Raisin looked at the quiche on her kitchen counter and felt a rare prickle of guilt. It was golden, flaky, and smelled divine—mostly because it had been baked by an expert at a high-end London deli, not by Agatha herself.
Agatha beamed, already imagining where she would place the trophy. She won, of course. She endured the polite, slightly strained applause of the village ladies, clutching her prize like a shield. The triumph lasted exactly until the following morning. Agatha Raisin Y La Quiche Letal M C Beaton ...
The news hit Carsely faster than a summer storm: Reg Cummings was dead. He had been found slumped over his kitchen table, and the cause was quite clear. The spinach and cowhide-mushroom quiche—Agatha’s quiche—had been laced with a highly effective, very lethal dose of hemlock. Agatha Raisin looked at the quiche on her
The next morning, the village hall was stiflingly hot and filled with the scent of butter and judgment. Agatha watched as the judge, Reg Cummings, took a generous slice of her entry. He chewed slowly, his eyes widening. "Superb," he whispered. She won, of course