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The debut of a brand-new series set in a sleepy English town introduces sweet yet bumbling investigative journalist Vicky Hill, who will do anything for the scoop of a lifetime. However, the unusual death of a local hedge-jumping enthusiast just may lead to Vicky's own deadly downfall. Specifications Series Title Vicky Hill.
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A Vicky Hill Exclusive!: Devon's answer to Bridget Jones - Hannah Dennison - Google книги
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A Vicky Hill Exclusive!
We're committed to providing low prices every day, on everything. So if you find a current lower price from an online retailer on an identical, in-stock product, tell us and we'll match it. See more details at Online Price Match. Email address. Please enter a valid email address. Walmart Services. Get to Know Us. Tow-bar getaways. We want a set of recycling bins outside every caravan just like normal householders. Dora turned on her.
She caught my eye, and I had to look sharply away as laughter began to bubble inside me, too. The scene was just too ridiculous. She was brandishing a twelve-bore shotgun. Annabel screamed. Ronnie ran off. Dora stood her ground. Topaz was trembling violently.
Vicky Hill Exclusive Mystery Series
Frightfully sorry about that. Firing a gun without a license.
Topaz rolled from side to side like an upended sheep until Annabel gamely stepped forward and pulled her to her feet. I can prove it. Your ladyship. And with that, Dora limped away. I retrieved my Fiat but had only gotten halfway down the drive when one of the Swamp Dogs flagged me down. The four youths descended on my car, hammering on my bonnet and windscreen.
Two figures seemed to be engaged in some kind of heated exchange given the amount of arm flailing by one of them. Who needed the battlefields of Afghanistan when there was Gipping-on-Plym?
I could tell it was going to be one of those days. With a stab of disappointment, I realized his Land Rover did not have a safari roof rack, although obviously, it could have been removed. If anything, he seemed amused.
Dressed in a red-checked shirt and jeans, the gypsy wore his long, gray hair in a single braid threaded with ribbon. A large gold-hoop earring dangled from one ear. I sprang back, startled. Made of carbon steel and with a blade measuring a good nine inches, the knife could be lethal in the wrong hands—which it was today. Never one of my favorite people, Jack bore the telltale signs of the heavy drinker —the bloodshot eyes, the purple nose, and the flushed complexion. It looks like this gentleman is a little the worse for wear. This is my spot. But on closer inspection, small strips of white material divided it into sections of roughly ten yards apiece.
The gentleman only had to ask.
Jack lashed out with his other hand, accidentally catching the side of my face. It hurt. Jack sprawled backward and landed flat on his back in a puddle of muddy water, where he lay still and in complete shock. The billhook was returned to its rightful owner. Jimmy Kitchen gestured to a glossy-coated piebald pony hobbled some yards away. She limped toward us. Another Land Rover—minus a safari roof rack—bumped across the field toward us. JUMP ! Since both hedge-jumping and hedge-cutting displays were two of the main attractions this Saturday, there had already been some territorial wrangling over a highly desirable stretch of blackthorn that had ended in a fistfight and both guilty parties spending a night in the slammer.
The magistrate ruled that the hedge in question was off-limits and ordered that both events be held at opposing ends of the field. I felt one of my rare headaches coming on. Dave Randall pulled up alongside us and wound down the window. Dressed in a black T-shirt, his muscular arms were bare and browned by what little sun we had managed to have this summer.
I was relieved, though not surprised, to see two sworn enemies become instant friends in the face of a hostile force. Once—rumor had it—Dad even sided with the Mafia. Dave got out of his Land Rover and made a show of cricking his neck and rolling his shoulders. Horse is lame. I sensed that the unconscious truce could soon be forgotten. Why not? Jack followed suit, and the two men drove off in convoy.
At last I would see the inside of a gypsy wagon. Jimmy was sitting on another that was painted a dark green. The upper half of the wagon door was wide open, affording a spectacular view of open fields and woodland. Beneath a casement window and atop a bow-fronted glass cabinet was a neat bed reminding me of a berth at sea. It was definitely cozy.