By M. C. Beaton
The neighborhood girls deemed him a "wizard." So while, to Agatha's horror, she unearths a number of coarse grey hairs poking out of her head--and the rinse she attempts at domestic turns her hair a beautiful color of purple--she makes a beeline for Mr. John, the good-looking Evesham hairdresser who can provide to paintings his magic on Agatha's coif. And the fascinating beautician additionally turns out to have designs on Agatha's center. yet their destiny jointly is minimize brief while Mr. John collapses useless from poisoning in his salon--and Agatha unexpectedly has a homicide case in her hair. was once it one in every of Mr. John's many shoppers, all of whom divulged to him their darkest secrets and techniques? It's time for Agatha to resolve this hair-raising secret.
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Additional resources for Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham (Agatha Raisin, Book 8)
You should. ” 49 Shy Abita disappeared beneath a shrewd gaze. ” That ﬂoored me. Abita unfolded from the chair. ” I riﬂed through my purse for a business card. I neatly wrote down my home and cell phone numbers on the back. “You will come back? ” I asked as I handed her the card. What I really meant was: you won’t take the one link I’ve got to Ben and vanish? “When I can. The schedule is tough and when I’m done with classes I’ve have to take care of my son. I’m not used to being away from him for so many hours at a time during the day.
With her clinging to me and bawling her head oﬀ like a lost calf, I slowly navigated my way down to the sheriﬀ. ” I attempted to shake her oﬀ; she’d become a buck brush burr, refusing to let go. “I wanna go home,” June wailed. “I understand, Mrs. Everett. ” The sheriﬀ ’s gaze raked her from bare head to bare feet. ” She released me. I squirmed away. I didn’t get far. She grabbed my hand. ” My initial response didn’t make it out of my mouth, fortunately for her. Did she want me around because I was the only woman present?
She’d pronounced her ﬁrst name, A-beet-a, last name, Kay-lin. “That’s my son. ” The little boy, around three, wasn’t dressed for playing on the cold, dirty ground. Didn’t bother him; he hadn’t looked up from racing the Matchbox car back and forth. “So, Abita. Who’s our mutual acquaintance? ” Her brown eyes clouded. “No. ” “Thank goodness. ” My fake smile faltered. Occasionally clients showed up on my doorstep, hoping if I met them face to face, heard their tale of woe straight from the horse’s mouth, it’d compel me to take their case—for free—out of the goodness of my heart.