(Ebook) As the Pig Turns by M. C. Beaton ISBN 9781250001917, 1250001919, 7e54b60b-cdb0-45be-9917-503a4b1b6285, 7E54B60B-CDB0-45BE-9917-503A4B1B6285

(Ebook) As the Pig Turns by M. C. Beaton ISBN 9781250001917, 1250001919, 7e54b60b-cdb0-45be-9917-503a4b1b6285, 7E54B60B-CDB0-45BE-9917-503A4B1B6285

An irresistible new adventure for the bossy, vain, and endearing Agatha Raisin, from New York Times bestselling M.C. Beaton, "the reigning queen of the cozies" (Booklist).Winter Parva is a “picturesque” (touristy) Cotswold village with gift shops, a medieval market hall, and thatched cottages. After a disappointing Christmas season, the parish council has decided to hold a special event in January, complete with old-fashioned costumes, morris dancing, and a pig roast on the village green.  Always one for a good roasting, Agatha Raisin organizes an outing to enjoy the merriment. The rotary spit turning over a bed of blazing charcoals is sure to please on this foggy and blistery evening. But as the fog lifts slightly, the sharp-eyed Agatha notices something peculiar about the pig: a tattoo of a heart with an arrow through it and the name Amy.“Stop!” she screams suddenly. “Pigs don’t have tattoos.”The “pig,” in fact, is Gary Beech, a policeman not exactly beloved by the locals, including Agatha herself. Although Agatha has every intention of leaving matters to the police, everything changes when the Gary’s ex-wife, Amy, hires Agatha’s detective agency to investigate—and another murder ensues. With that provocation, how could any sleuth as vain and competitive (and secretly insecure) as Agatha do anything other than solve the case herself?About the AuthorM.C. BEATON has been hailed as the “Queen of Crime” (The Globe and Mail). Chosen as the British guest of honor at Bouchercon 2006, she is the author of twenty-one previous Agatha Raisin novels, the Hamish Macbeth series, and an Edwardian mystery series published under the name Marion Chesney. Born in Scotland, she currently divides her time between Paris and the English Cotswolds.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Chapter OneAgatha Raisin wearily turned onto the road leading down into her home village of Carsely in the Cotswolds and then came to an abrupt halt. Cars stretched out in front of her. She pulled on the handbrake.It was the end of January and a very cold month, unusually cold. The tall trees on either side of the country road raised bare branches to a leaden sky as if pleading for the return of spring. Agatha prayed it would not snow. It seemed as if two centimetres of snow were enough to close down the roads, because the council complained they had run out of salt and all roads leading out of Carsely were very steep, making driving hazardous.What on earth was going on? She gave an impatient blast on her horn, and the young man in the battered Ford in front gave her the finger.Cursing, Agatha got out of her car and marched up to the Ford and rapped on the window. The sallow-faced youth opened the window and demanded, “Wot?”“What the hell’s going on?” demanded Agatha.The youth eyed her up and down, noting the expensively tailored coat and the beady, accusing eyes and marking the “posh” accent. He scowled. “Pot’oles,” he said with a shrug. “They’re repairing pot’oles.”“And how long will it take?”“Blessed if I know,” he said, and rolled up the window.Agatha returned to the warmth of her car, fuming. She herself had complained bitterly to the council about the state of the road. But there were two other roads into the village. They might at least have put up diversion notices until the road was repaired. She contemplated making a U-turn but knew, considering her lack of driving skills, it would take her an awful lot of manoeuvring on the narrow road to do so.A drip began to appear on the end of her nose. She reached into the box of tissues on the seat beside her and blew her nose. Someone rapped at the window.Agatha looked out. A policeman was bending down looking at her. He was squat and burly, with a squashed-looking nose in his open-pored face and piggy, accusing little eyes.Lowering the window, Agatha asked, “How long is this going to take, Officer?”“It’ll take as long as it takes, madam,” he said in a thick Gloucestershire accent. “I am ticketing you for taking your hands off the wheel.”“My, what? Are you mad? I was simply blowing my nose. The handbrake’s on, I’m stuck here…”“Sixty-pound fine.”“I’ll see you in hell first before I pay that,” howled Agatha.He handed in a ticket. “See you in court.”Agatha sat for a moment, shaking with rage. Then she took a deep breath. She started to negotiate a U-turn, but cars piled up behind her had decided to do the same thing. At last she was clear, just in time to see in her rearview mirror that the line of cars she had just left had started to move.By the time she reached her thatched cottage in Lilac Lane, it had begun to snow, fine little pellets of snow. Damn all pundits and their moaning about global warming, thought Agatha. As she opened the car door to get out, a gust of wind whipped the ticket the policeman had given her and sent it flying up over her cottage.She let herself into her cottage. Her two cats, Hodge and Boswell, came running forward to give her the welcome they always gave her when they wanted something to eat.Agatha fed them, poured herself a gin and tonic, and then phoned her friend Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. When he came on the phone, Agatha complained bitterly about the policeman who had given her a ticket for blowing her nose.“That would be Gary Beech,” said Bill, “the target fiend. You know we have to meet certain targets or we don’t get promotion. He goes a bit mad. The other week, a nine-year-old’s mother who lives in a cul-de-sac in Mircester chalked squares on the pavement for her little boy to play hopscotch. Beech arrested the kid and charged him with the crime of graffiti. And he charged a toddler with carrying a dangerous weapon even though the kid was holding a water pistol. An old-age pensioner was arrested under the Terrorism Act for carrying a placard saying, ‘Get our boys out of Afghanistan.’”“What should I do?”“It’ll probably be thrown out of court. Or you could just pay the fine.”“Never!”“How’s business?”“Not good. The recession is really biting. People just don’t have the money.” Agatha looked out of her kitchen window. “Blast! The snow’s getting thicker. I wish I’d invested in snow tyres or a four-wheel drive. Roy Silver’s coming down for the week-end. I hope the roads clear by then.”Roy had worked for Agatha when she had run a successful public relations business in London. She had taken early retirement and had sold up to move to the Cotswolds. But after solving several murders, she had decided to set up her own detective agency.Bill said he would try to get down to see her at the week-end and rang off.Agatha then phoned her agency. She had a small staff: Patrick Mulligan, a retired policeman, Phil Marshall, an elderly man from Carsely, young Toni Gilmour and a secretary, Mrs. Freedman. A shrewd businesswoman, Agatha had seen the recession coming long before most people and so had decided not to employ any more staff. But there was one absence from her staff jabbing at her conscience. A bright young detective, Simon Black, employed by Agatha until a few months earlier, had shown signs of falling in love with Toni. Persuading herself that she was acting in their best interests, Agatha had told Simon that Toni was too young and to wait three years. But Toni had turned against Simon, feeling he was snubbing her at every turn, and to Agatha’s horror, Simon had gone off and enlisted in the army and was now fighting in Afghanistan.Toni answered the phone and said that Mrs. Freedman and Phil had gone home, not wanting to wait any longer in case the snow got thicker. Toni, young, blond and beautiful, often gave Agatha pangs of envy, but she had to admit that the girl was a brilliant detective.“What have we got outstanding?” asked Agatha.“Two adulteries, four missing pets and two missing teenagers.”Agatha sighed. “It seems not so long ago that I swore I would never take on another missing pet. Now we need the money.”“It’s easy money,” said Toni. “They hardly ever think of checking the animal shelter. I just go along there with the photos they’ve given me of Tiddles or whatever, collect the beasts and phone the happy owners and then say, ‘Pay up.’”“Roy’s coming down for the week-end,” said Agatha, “and maybe Bill will come over. Why don’t you join us and maybe I’ll find something interesting for us to do?”“I’ve got a date.”“Who is he?”“Paul Finlay.”“How did you meet him?”Toni longed to tell the ever-curious Agatha to mind her own business, but she said reluctantly, “I’ve been taking French classes in the evenings, now that it’s quiet at work. He’s the lecturer.”“How old is he?”“I’ve got to go. The other phone’s ringing.”After she had rung off, Agatha sat and worried. Toni had a weakness for older men and had run into trouble before.Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, had left a local newspaper on the kitchen table. She began to search through it to see if there were any week-end amusements, and then her eye fell on an event in Winter Parva, a village some twenty miles away. Agatha had been to Winter Parva only once. It was a touristy Cotswold village with gift shops, a mediaeval market hall and thatched cottages. The article said that as the local shops had not fared as well as usual over the Christmas period, the parish council had planned to generate interest in the village with a special January event. There was to be a pig roast on Saturday on the village green. The villagers were urged to dress in old-fashioned costumes. The Winter Parva morris dancers would perform along with the local brass band and the village choir. Two busloads of Chinese tourists were expected to arrive for the event.That’ll do, thought Agatha, as long as I’m not blocked in the village by the snow.Feeling hungry, she rummaged in her deep freezer to find something to microwave. Suddenly all the lights went out. A power cut.She remembered the pub, the Red Lion, had a generator. Agatha changed into trousers, boots and a hooded parka and set out in the hunt for dinner.The pub was crowded with locals. Agatha went to the bar and ordered lasagne and chips and a half of lager and looked around for a vacant table. Then, to her amazement, she saw her friend the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby, sitting by herself in a corner, looking down dismally at a small glass of sherry.Agatha hurried to join her, wondering what could be wrong, because Mrs. Bloxby never went to the pub unless it was some special fund-raising occasion. The vicar’s wife had grey hair escaping from an old-fashioned bun. Her normally kind face looked tired. She was wearing a shabby tweed coat over a washed-out sweater, cardigan and tweed skirt. It didn’t matter what she wore, thought Agatha, not for the first time. Mrs. Bloxby always had “lady” stamped on her. Agatha and Mrs. Bloxby always called each other by their second names, a tradition in the local Ladies Society, of which both were members.“How odd to see you here,” said Agatha. “Where’s your husband?”“I neither know nor care,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Do sit down, Mrs. Raisin.”Agatha sat down opposite her. “What is the ma...