By Georgette Heyer
New York Times and USA Today Bestseller!
Every relatives has secrets and techniques, however the Fountains' are turning deadly?
On a dismal evening, alongside a lonely state highway, barrister Frank Amberley stops to aid a tender woman in misery and discovers a activities motor vehicle with a corpse at the back of the wheel. the woman protests her innocence, and Amberley believes her?at least until eventually he will get drawn into the secret and the clues incriminating Shirley Brown start to upload up?
In an English country-house homicide secret with a twist, it is the butler who is the sufferer, each clue complicates the puzzle, and the bumbling police are well-meaning yet thoroughly baffled. thankfully, in ferreting out a determined killer, novice sleuth Amberley is as awesome as he's boastful, yet this time he is not definite he desires to comprehend the truth?
PRAISE FOR WHY SHOOT A BUTLER?
"If genteel mysteries are your cup of tea, you could have right here a steaming teapot simply ready to be poured."
"Georgette Heyer is moment to none."
"Heyer is an writer to learn ? this implies you!"
New York usher in Tribune
"Sharp, transparent, and witty"
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Extra info for Why Shoot a Butler?
I wondered how he managed to put up with it, day after day after endless day. He was either a saint or a con artist; tough sometimes to tell one from the other. Or he and Lettie might've both been grifters—but if they were, they were good. " Here his voice broke, cheeks went red, eyes filled. He wiped a shirtsleeve across them. Was he putting me on? Didn't think so. His pictures were undeniably those of the music box Lucas Sterne appraised and Schwartz later saw, spruced up, in Wilcox's shop. That little cinnamon-chomping slimesack must have cuddled up with Barton Moss, certainly anyone's match in an oozing contest, got Hartmann's music box spiffy, men sold it on the spot to a Mr.
About your music box. " At my elbow I felt Schwartz freeze. I held my breath, hoped Hartmann'd be sufficiently curious or concerned that he'd give us a better reception than Moss had. The old man ran eye tape over us. Finally he nodded. "I'll buzz you in. " He vanished, then the buzzer sounded. I pushed through the doorway, Schwartz right behind me. By the time the door closed Hartmann was waiting for us in his open doorway. He was big, six-two or three, about two hundred well-packed pounds. Nicely dressed: light-blue silk shirt, crisp dark-blue summer worsted pants.
We pushed past the rusty gate, walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door. No bell. I knocked once, then again, harder. Nothing. Schwartz pointed to me shed. " We picked our way through the piebald meadow, trying to keep to bare spots, the better to avoid the dog turd concealed in the high grasses. Barton didn't own a dog, never did, but it was as if the neighborhood pooches had gotten together and designated Barton Moss's yard as their regional drop point I put my ear to the shed door, heard nothing.
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