I am delighted to be on the blog tour for this cozy mystery. Many thanks to the publisher and Rachel’s Random Resources for this opportunity.
About the book:
Death at St Jude’s
The Isle of Wight has always felt like a safe place to live for keen dog-walker and reluctant sleuth Susan. But after being involved in the investigation of a troubling crime near her old home, Susan decides to move to the peaceful village of Bishopstone.
Susan loves the sense of community and immediately throws herself into village life, volunteering at the local primary school and joining the choir of St Jude’s. So, when there is an altercation at the meeting of the choir committee, followed by a shocking accident involving head teacher Lawrence, Susan is dismayed to realise her powers of deduction may be needed again.
There is a dangerous criminal hiding in plain sight and with the police reluctant to help, Susan must put together the pieces of the fiendish puzzle to flush out a killer before they strike again.
A brand new cosy mystery from the author of the bestselling The House Party. Perfect for fans of Frances Evesham, Faith Martin and LJ Ross.
My thoughts:
I was drawn to this title by the cover. It perfectly reflects the setting and the atmosphere of this novel. Death at St. Jude’s will be enjoyed by readers who like traditional mysteries with good characters and an interesting plots.
Mary Grand writes gripping, page-turning suspense novels, with a dark and often murderous underside. She grew up in Wales, was for many years a teacher of deaf children and now lives on the Isle of Wight.
I am delighted to be on the blog tour for this novel. It is one that I really enjoyed. (my thoughts are below). Many thanks to the team at HTP for this opportunity.
The Framed Women of Ardemore House
Author: Brandy Schillace
Publication Date: February 13, 2024
ISBN: 9781335014030, Hardcover
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Price $30.00
Book Summary:
An abandoned English manor. A peculiar missing portrait. A cozy, deviously clever murder mystery, perfect for fans of Richard Osman and Anthony Horowitz.
Jo Jones has always had a little trouble fitting in. As a neurodivergent, hyperlexic book editor and divorced New Yorker transplanted into the English countryside, Jo doesn’t know what stands out more: her Americanisms or her autism.
After losing her job, her mother, and her marriage all in one year, she couldn’t be happier to take possession of a possibly haunted (and clearly unwanted) family estate in North Yorkshire. But when the body of the moody town groundskeeper turns up on her rug with three bullets in his back, Jo finds herself in potential danger—and she’s also a potential suspect. At the same time, a peculiar family portrait vanishes from a secret room in the manor, bearing a strange connection to both the dead body and Jo’s mysterious family history.
With the aid of a Welsh antiques dealer, the morose local detective, and the Irish innkeeper’s wife, Jo embarks on a mission to clear herself of blame and find the missing painting, unearthing a slew of secrets about the town—and herself—along the way. And she’ll have to do it all before the killer strikes again…
“Compulsively readable….This cozy mystery offers humor and heart along with expertly crafted plot and a refreshingly unique voice.” —Bust Magazine, Ellia Bisker
“Twisty, engaging, and thoroughly unexpected.” –DEANNA RAYBOURN, New York Times bestselling author of KILLERS OF A CERTAIN AGE
“The intricate plot and memorable local characters here are a delight.” –BOOKLIST
Start reading…you will want to keep going
The Framed Women of Ardemore House
CHAPTER ONE
The house was enormous. Jo didn’t know enough about local architecture to date it, but the walls stretched up in the damp air, big and dark and lichen flecked. Windows had been boarded up; they wept black mildew creases over sandstone sills. Staring through the car window, Jo dropped her eyes down to the stairs, flanked by columns where Jo imagined regal statues might have stood. Or ought to have stood.
“It’s…a castle,” she whispered.
“It is most certainly not a castle,” said Rupert Selkirk, solicitor of Selkirk and Associates, in the driver’s seat beside her. “Not even the largest house in Abington.”
Solicitor. Jo rolled the word around in her mouth. She’d pocket it for later rumination; it was nice to have a word for chewing on. It suggested antique leather chairs and brass lampstands, felt safer than divorce lawyer, and didn’t trigger the same sort of gut gripe. Rupert looked exactly as a solicitor ought to, with a high forehead, disappearing hairline, and two very bushy eyebrows. He also drove a puddle-green sedan with the steering wheel on the wrong side of Jo’s expectations. She wondered if the sense of dislocation would fade with the jet lag. It hadn’t exactly improved her first impressions. She forgot to introduce herself, forgot the handshake, stared in absolute stunned silence at the landscape as they drove.
Online pictures had suggested something endlessly green, but the reality was wet and ragged, browned out from the end of winter and laced at the edges with naked tree branches. Jo squinted into the distance, taking in the brackish heath, then trees, then fog. A cluster of trees appeared, lanky pin oaks and a few copper beeches. A crumbling dry-stone wall snaked away from decayed posts; no fence, but the remnants of one. She let her eyes wander its length to a dark smudge of woodland and black bark dotted with lichen. The rest of the hill loomed treeless, stark, and scarred by eruptions of additional stone. Moors, she thought. Endless and rolling with dry heather and wet peat.
Jo had pressed herself to the glass, ignoring the steam prints she made. She hadn’t brought much with her—certainly not her books. But Wuthering Heights might have been a good choice. Relaxation breathing had never been much use to her; whenever she consciously thought about autonomic responses, they went all wrong. So she mentally recited the opening lines of the novel as the car grumbled to a halt in the shadow of Ardemore House. As for Rupert, he was repeating himself.
“—Not a castle. The house is wider than it is deep, mostly to take advantage of the south-facing aspect.” Seeing the blank look on Jo’s face, he tried again. “In England, south-facing gardens get the most sun. That’s where you’ll find the Ardemore Gardens. They were the highlight of the property, once. Overgrown now, I’m afraid.” Rupert swept his hand across the horizon as if bisecting it. “Everything east of here is rented for grazing livestock. There is also, as you know, the cottage. It helps defray the tax burden.”
Tax burden. She might want to hold on to those words, too.
“Emery Lane, my assistant, will be drawing up papers while we walk the property,” he said. Jo was starting to run out of processing space, internally. She felt a hiccup of emotion and press-ganged it into a smile.
“Papers?”
“For you to sign. To take over the property as your inheritance.”
The smile failed. Better say something like yes, good. Quite. Exactly the thing. But Rupert got there first, offering her a hand out of the passenger seat.
“Your mother always spoke very warmly of you, by the way. I was very sorry to hear of her passing.”
At these words, Jo quietly abandoned her pursuit of professionalism.
“Y-yeah. I got the card. Thanks.”
Rupert was still looking at her. She could tell, but wasn’t about to look back. She took in the house, instead, this not-castle that rose straight out of bracken and into a cloud bank.
“I want to go inside,” she said. Rupert joined her across the weedy lawn.
“I thought we would see the cottage first. It’s at least habitable.”
He didn’t seem to understand; Jo was standing in front of Wuthering Heights, and no, she did not want to go poke around a cottage. Not yet.
“Inside,” she said. “Please.” Rupert sighed.
“All right. But have proper expectations. This property has been vacant for a century, at least since at least 1908.”
Now in front of the door, Jo furrowed her brow as Rupert hunted for the right key. That was a surprise, actually. And it didn’t make sense.
“But you said my uncle Aiden had the property? In your email—”
“Ah, but he did not live on-site. Had a flat in York, and—” Rupert stopped abruptly and stumbled back. Jo followed his gaze to see a pair of bright eyes peering back at them through the glass.
“Jesus!”
“Tut, now.” Rupert waved his hand airily. “That’s only Sid Randles, caretaker.”
A moment later, and the man himself opened the door. Lean, lanky, all arms, legs, and a shock of red hair. Attractive in the way of highwaymen and pirates, he was either a very well-kept forty-something, or thirty gone to seed. He was also blocking the way.
“Here’s a surprise,” he said. “This the American, then?”
“Jones,” Jo corrected. “It’s Jo Jones now. I mean, again.” Jo faltered slightly, then dutifully stuck her hand out. Sid tucked an industrial-grade flashlight under his arm and gave her a shake, then squeezed her palm.
“Sounds like an alias,” he said.
“Jo Jones was an American Jazz drummer of the Count Basie Orchestra rhythm section from 1934 to 1948,” Jo said, then puckered her lips as if that would bring the words back. Sid eyed her a minute, then let out a yelp of laughter, and not very kindly.
“Ms. Jones would like a tour. Sid, will you do the honors, please?” Rupert checked his wristwatch. “I need to take this call and there’s no signal inside.” He turned away, and Sid grinned at Jo, one crooked canine slipping over his lip like a storybook fox.
“There’s no electricity,” he said.
“I figured that’s why you have the flashlight,” Jo said, pointing. Imagining him as Reynard from the French fables had done wonders for her confidence. She could almost imagine the swish of his irritated tail.
“Fine, fine. Come on in.” He backed into the hall. “Hope you don’t mind the smell.”
It would be hard to miss it. A puff of musty air assaulted Jo’s nostrils on entering—a wet, rotten odor. The windows were boarded, and in the slanted peek-a-boo light she could just make out the ghost of a table, a phantom of chairs in the foyer. Sid swept the light across the hall from a dust-webbed staircase to a grand room that opened off their left.
“You’ll want to pay respects to the Lord and Lady,” he said, then marched her through the pocket doors. The smell was stronger in here, sharper and more tangible. Then, her heart leapt; she’d caught a glimpse of distant book spines.
“It’s a library?” she asked.
“Yeah. A rotten one.” Sid played the flashlight beam along the mantel of a marble fireplace. “But up there, see ’em? That would be Lord William Ardemore. And his wife, Gwen, of course.”
The portraits were too large, and the beam of the light too small, but she could make out a frowning man with deep set eyes and a woman with a rosebud mouth, who might have suitably graced a Victorian cookie tin. Family members she had never known.
“Damned odd, those two.” Sid flicked the light between them. “Just up and vanished from the place.”
Jo sucked a breath. Did everyone know more about them than she did?
“What do you mean? Vanished how?”
“I mean just that.” He played the light against his own face, campfire style. “Just up sticks and gone. Fired everybody, too, didn’t they? Oh, they’d been toast of the town, like.” He did an awful falsetto: “Jobs for the big garden and big bloody house. Then poof. Like they were running from something.”
Jo was watching carefully for signs of a joke. There didn’t appear to be any, so then she waited for him to carry on. Except he didn’t. She studied him for a few silent seconds, until he gave another bark of laughter.
“Nothin’ to say about that, eh? Well, the old Lord and Lady are the least of your worries, anyhow. There’s a hole in the roof upstairs, an honest to God hole. Between you and me? Be cheaper to pull the house down than to fix it up.”
Jo pursed her lips so hard she felt teeth.
“I just got it! I can’t tear it down!”
Sid only shrugged at her outburst.
“Fair, I guess. But what do you plan to do with it, then? Look around.”
Jo did not, in fact, have an answer to that. Sid apparently meant it rhetorically, anyway, since he was now herding her toward the door.
Brandy Schillace, PhD, is a historian of medicine and the critically acclaimed author of Death’s Summer Coat: What Death and Dying Teach Us About Life and Living and Clockwork Futures: The Science of Steampunk. The editor-in-chief of the journal Medical Humanities, she previously worked as a professor of literature and in research and public engagement at the Dittrick Medical History Center and Museum. Brandy also hosts the Peculiar Book Club Podcast, a twice-monthly show.
The Framed Women of Ardemore House, featuring an autistic protagonist caught at the center of a murder mystery, is her fiction debut. Brandy is also autistic, though has not (to her knowledge) been a suspect in a murder investigation. Find her at https://brandyschillace.com/
The cover of this book, its title and the book’s description all drew me in and made me very eager to read this one. It did not disappoint. I think that The Women of Ardemore House will be adored by those who enjoy a twisty plot and an interesting protagonist.
As in The Maid (Nita Prose),, the main character, inheritor of Ardemore House, sleuth, and keen observer is neurodiverse. This leads to Jo being hyperlexic as just one of her talents. But, readers will enjoy spending time with Jo for many reasons, not just her autism. (It has been noted that the author also is neurodiverse, leading her to be well able to describe Jo’s world.)
Jo is coming out of a difficult period when the story opens. She is recently divorced and has been badly used by her publisher ex. Jo has also experienced the death of her mother. So, when she learns that she has an inheritance in England, Jo is ready to try out the ex-pat life. She arrives to find the requisite decaying country pile and its small cottage, a rather strange caretaker and a portrait…but it disappears.
When caretaker Sid is murdered, the story moves toward solving the case. This gives readers the opportunity to know all those working the case as well as the people in the village.
Who killed Sid? Why? Will Jo find happiness in Britain? Readers will turn the pages as they wait to find out.
I recommend this title. Mystery fans could not do better as they start reading in 2024.
Many thanks to NetGalley and the team at Harlequin Trade Publishing for this title. All opinions are my own.
Annabelle Hirsch has compiled an idiosyncratic and interesting collection of objects here. They place a firm spotlight on women and their place(s) in history. Dip in or read in order. Either way this is a fascinating book with entries that offered pause for thought.
The time period that is covered is immense. The first entry is from 30,000 years ago. What makes this healed femur significant? The answer is perhaps surprising.
For each entry readers find an illustration and a short essay/reflection. I had many favorites.
This is a book to savor rather than devour. It is worth a reader’s time.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Crown Publishing for this title. All opinions are my own.
Mary Lennox; does any reader ever forget her? This story of her transformation and growth has stood the test of time. The enchantment of the garden has remained irresistible for generations.
There is no greater treat than introducing a child to the magic of a book. This gorgeous edition of The Secret Garden is perfect for doing exactly that. The illustrations are many, vibrant and enticing.
Remember that there is magic here for adults as well. I definitely want the hard copy of this edition for myself!
Many thanks to NetGalley and Chronicle Books for this title. All opinions are my own.
This latest in the good series for kids features a very well-known celebrity. But…how did she become Queen Bey? Young people will be interested to find out in this title about the entertainer.
The story is nicely told. What I loved the most about this one, however, was the absolutely delightful illustrations. They will make everyone smile!
This book will make a welcome addition to the series.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Quarto Publishing Group for this title. All opinions are my own.
Deanna Raybourne has written two historical mystery series as well as some standalone novels. A Grave Robbery is the ninth in her series featuring Speedwell and Stoker.
Veronica Speedwell is a lepidopterist and a free spirited woman who is ahead of her time. Stoker has been an adventurer. Both now live and work on an eccentric’s estate.
The relationship between these two is what I most enjoy; they are clever, witty, and more than willing to challenge one another. That is just what happens here.
Stoker’s employer wants him to install a mechanism in a waxwork. The idea is to make it seem as if the waxwork is breathing. There is a bit of difficulty because…this is no waxwork but a corpse! And so, the adventure begins and the protagonists are on the case.
Those who already know the series will be eager to read this. New fans will enjoy this one as well. They may find that a trip to the backlist is in order for the full experience.
Recommended to fans of slightly quirky historical mysteries.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Berkley Publishing Group for this title. All opinions are my own.
I am a huge fan of this series which follows Ben (short for Benedicta), a lawyer in a small Irish town. Over the course of the novels, readers follow her involvement in interesting cases and keep am eye on her relationships. These include one with a local Garda officer and others, for example, with bookstore owners, publicans, estate and newsagents and many in her area. There is a real sense of community in these pages.
In this latest entry, Ben has concerns about her parents as they have taken in a man whom they met in their grief group. (Readers of the earlier books will know why they are mourning.) Stuart may not be who he seems. Ben is worried so wants to whisk her parents away and they go to visit her.
At the same time, there is a book festival coming to the peninsula. The star speaker is a reclusive author with some ties to the community. When he dies, the stage is set for crime solving. Will Stuart be a part of this or is he up to something else entirely? The pages will turn until readers find out.
Anyone who likes stories by Carlene O’Connor, Sarah IStewart Taylor or Tana French will want to read this.
Many thanks toNetGalley and Oceanview Publishing for this title. All opinions are my own.
When I was contacted by the publisher with an invitation to read this book, I was over the moon. I had heard about it and was eagerly awaiting its release. It was an immeasurable treat to have early access.
This title offers a series of reflections and conversations between Judi Dench and Brendan O’Hea. Originally written for an archive, the two got the idea to publish a book together, and the reader is so lucky that they made that decision.
Within these pages, readers get to share in Judi’s life and her professional career. Her love for her husband, her daughter and her craft all come across. She is witty, wise, and it was an absolute pleasure to read her words.
Judi Dench and her husband, referred to Shakespeare as the man who pays the rent because they were in so many productions over the years. However, Shakespeare never really became routine for them and Judi brought her best self to every performance.
The first play that is reflected upon is Macbeth. Judi Dench very much views it as a play about the relationship between Lord and Lady Macbeth. She sees the deterioration of their marriage as a true tragedy.
Included here are Dench’s thoughts on nineteen plays interspersed with other reflections. A couple of examples of these are Company and Fireside Ramblings.
For anyone who admires Judi Dench or who wants to more deeply understand the bard, this book is a must read. I adored it.
Many thanks to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for this title. All opinions are my own.
