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.
She poured herself a stiff gin and looked at the empty quiche box in the bin. Retirement was turning out to be much more work than she had anticipated. Agatha Raisin Y La Quiche Letal M C Beaton ...
She had moved to the tiny village of Carsely to live the dream of a retired PR executive. But the Cotswolds were proving to be less of a pastoral escape and more of a social minefield. The local Quiche Competition was her ticket to instant prestige, and Agatha wasn't about to let a little thing like "honesty" get in the way. Agatha Raisin looked at the quiche on her
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. Retirement was turning out to be much more
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.
As the police sirens wailed toward her cottage, Agatha realized two things. First, her social standing in the village was officially ruined. Second, she was going to have to find the real killer just to prove she was a fraud, not a murderer.