Death of a Scriptwriter (Hamish Macbeth Mysteries, No. 14)
M. C. Beaton
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HOLLYWOOD IN THE HIGHLANDS
With the lovely Priscilla Halburton-Smythe away in London, Lochdubh Constable Hamish Macbeth pines for company during the long Scottish winter. He gets his wish -- and more -- when a troupe of flashy, urbane filmmakers clamors into the nearby town of Drim. Before long bedlam erupts around their make-believe mystery ...and culminates in the sudden appearance of one very real corpse.
The initial suspect in the killing is one Patricia Martyn-Broyd, the aging mystery writer furious that her musty old cozies are getting a risque face-lift in their TV reincarnation. Yet, going behind the scenes, Hamish soon finds a town full of locals bitten by the movie bug and a cast of quarreling show business types, all harboring their own secrets, lies, and hidden agendas. And as the culprit strikes again, Hamish must quickly find the right killer -- or script the wrong finale to a show gone murderously awry.
laid on for your benefit. The real scene, the screwing one, is the one that will be shown.” “You must be lying!” “Why should I bother? Instead of constantly complaining and interfering, you should be kissing our feet that your dreary books have got some recognition.” “I shall get a lawyer tomorrow,” said Patricia, “and get it stopped.” Penelope shrugged. “You can try. The reason you are shocked at the thought of naked bodies is because of the horrible one you’ve got yourself. I bet you have
standing on an outcrop of rock. “You’ll come to a stop right here, Penelope,” Sheila called back. “Then you stand and shield your eyes and look down the mountain.” “Wait there a minute,” Giles called. Sheila stood where she was. A shaft of sunlight suddenly lit up the village of Drim, standing beside the black loch. The air was pure and clean and scented with wild thyme. “All right,” she heard Giles shout. “You can come back now.” Sheila walked back. “So, Penelope, in your own time,” said
Hamish. “Yes,” said Daviot absently. “This is all going to make us look a bunch of fools with the press.” “In what way, sir?” “Well, saying Josh Gates murdered Jamie Gallagher. Bad press, that.” “But the murders are solved, and you’ve got them off your back.” “True. You should consider a move to Strathbane, Hamish.” Hamish, not Macbeth. He was definitely in favour. “No, sir. I am quite happy where I am. It was Jimmy Anderson who put me on to it.” “Then why did he not do it himself?” “He
where she is. Glasgow, I suppose.” “Something’s been puzzling me,” said Hamish. “Did you ever go to Angus Macdonald?” “The seer? Well, yes, I did. A lot of us went over to have our fortunes told.” She must have said something nasty about Penelope to give the seer the idea that she had killed her, thought Hamish. He got into the police Land Rover and drove into Lochdubh. Then he thought, surely Priscilla would have phoned, left a message for him. He ran into the police office and played his
the damage and had threatened them with prison. After that Parry had been left in peace. He had recently started to take in long lets. He said this way he saved himself the bother of changing linen every week and cleaning the chalets. It was a good move, for the tourist season in Sutherland, that county which is as far north in mainland Britain as you can go, was very short. Parry was moving his sheep from one field to the other when Hamish arrived. He waved. Hamish waved back and leaned against