Porter Mills’ most cantankerous resident, Alma Hargrove, is finally getting her way—Thornhaven Manor is set to be renovated under her watchful (and widely despised) eye. Disliked by nearly everyone, including her own daughter, Alma had no shortage of enemies. But when Alma turns up dead the day after the first volunteer meeting, the suspect list is longer than a church potluck line.
The State Police dismiss the death as natural causes. Still, Detective Maureen McNeely’s Irish sixth sense says otherwise. Unwilling to let the case slip through the cracks, she purloins the case and starts unraveling the tangled web of secrets, grudges, and motives surrounding Alma’s untimely demise.
Of course, Maureen knows better than to expect help from her misogynistic captain, so she turns to her secret weapon: her uncle, Father Brendan O’Clery. A former Marine and intelligence officer-turned-priest with a mind for puzzles, Father Brendan brings in his own unlikely crime-solving crew: Rabbi Ezra Lieberman and Pastor Langdon Boothe. The unlikely but brilliant trio brings their own brand of wisdom (and chaos) to the case.
Murder, mayhem, and a little divine intervention—welcome to a mystery where faith, wit, and sharp detective work collide in the most delightful way.
Porter Mills’ most cantankerous resident, Alma Hargrove, is finally getting her way—Thornhaven Manor is set to be renovated under her watchful (and widely despised) eye. Disliked by nearly everyone, including her own daughter, Alma had no shortage of enemies. But when Alma turns up dead the day after the first volunteer meeting, the suspect list is longer than a church potluck line.
The State Police dismiss the death as natural causes. Still, Detective Maureen McNeely’s Irish sixth sense says otherwise. Unwilling to let the case slip through the cracks, she purloins the case and starts unraveling the tangled web of secrets, grudges, and motives surrounding Alma’s untimely demise.
Of course, Maureen knows better than to expect help from her misogynistic captain, so she turns to her secret weapon: her uncle, Father Brendan O’Clery. A former Marine and intelligence officer-turned-priest with a mind for puzzles, Father Brendan brings in his own unlikely crime-solving crew: Rabbi Ezra Lieberman and Pastor Langdon Boothe. The unlikely but brilliant trio brings their own brand of wisdom (and chaos) to the case.
Murder, mayhem, and a little divine intervention—welcome to a mystery where faith, wit, and sharp detective work collide in the most delightful way.
Sunday, 3:35 p.m.
My office, my coffee, my rules.
Alma Hargrove’s lips curled into a smug smile as she gazed at the mug she had brought with her to Thornhaven Manor. That’s how it should be, she opined. After all, who knew better how things should be run? She couldn’t wait for the volunteers to show up—she’d let them know immediately who the boss was. It would all be up to her to get Thornhaven Manor back up and running for visitors to enjoy. The Porter Mills town council had no defense when she told them she would head the volunteers reviving the old estate.
The April afternoon had begun to heat up—spring weather in Maryland ranged anywhere from cold to hot—so Alma stood to take off her jacket. Before she did, she reached into the pocket and felt the scrap of paper that had been folded several times. It had arrived in the mail recently and she knew what it meant, although after all these years, it gave her quite the shock. She looked around and was about to take it out and reread it when, suddenly, she heard a crash. She craned her neck toward the sound.
A meek face came into view, head down, shoulders hunched. “Sorry, Mother. I dropped my backpack.”
Alma glared at the girl, thick, angry brows meeting at the end of a flat nose. She shoved the paper back into her pocket. “For goodness’ sake, girl, be careful in here. Everything in this place is museum quality, and I can’t afford to replace what you destroy.” She frowned, giving a “tsk, tsk,” shaking her head as her large frame jiggled under her knit turtleneck sweater. Her short, printed skirt revealed two swollen knees—a totally inappropriate outfit for a woman in her mid-fifties.
Suzanna Hargrove, a fresh-faced twenty-eight-year-old, grimaced as she returned to the kitchen to retrieve the backpack. She found a comfortable chair and sat, pushing a strand of wheat-colored hair behind her ear. How she hated being there. She knew her mother suffered from high blood pressure, diabetes, and a bad heart, but Alma controlled everything in her life, and today she’d have to endure—or listen to—the litany of chastisements her mother would dole out.
Suzanna gazed out the window to an overgrown garden. She wished she could stand up to her mother and leave, but she had no friends, no boyfriends, a poorly paying, part-time job answering phones for a cleaning service, and practically no social life at all. Where could she go? She would be indentured to her mother forever, or until one of them died.
“Suzanna, get in here,” her mother ordered.
Immediately, the young woman jumped up, hating herself for being so weak. She found Alma in the study, sitting behind a massive mahogany desk that had belonged to Mason Wordel, the owner of Thornhaven, who, in 1898, at fifteen, emigrated from the slums of London to the town of Porter Mills, Maryland, to make a better life for himself. He had begun his new life as an indentured servant and, within twenty years, had saved his money by working tirelessly on the landowner’s property. Mason excelled in learning various trades: blacksmithing, tanning, and animal husbandry. All these skills he kept locked tightly away in his brain—and on paper.
And now, Alma beamed, she was in charge of restoring the mansion to its original splendor. She picked up the forms provided by the applicants who had been selected to help on the various committees. Perusing each one, she frowned—none were of the standard she had hoped for.
“Go make some coffee,” she barked to her daughter, standing motionless in front of her. She put a hand to her forehead and rubbed, continuing to speak. “I must not have gotten a good night’s sleep. I feel so tired. Anyway, someone from the town council brought over a coffee machine and a container of dark roast. People will be here soon.” She glanced up at Suzanna, frowning. “What’s that on your eyes? Are you wearing makeup? Take it off right now! I won’t have you looking like a harlot, for goodness’ sake. Take it off now.”
Suzanna didn’t bother to answer. She spun on her heels and stormed out of the room. How much longer? She wondered how much more of her mother she’d be able to endure.
Finding the coffee, she measured it out and began the process of brewing it while imagining what life would be like without her mother. By ten minutes of four, the volunteers began trickling in.
Diara Moore was the first to arrive. “Hello? Anyone here?” Her sugary voice rang out loud and clear as she entered the spacious foyer. She took in the enormity of the place, and when she came to a large, dusty, gilded mirror, took the opportunity to check herself out, admiring the lime green capris and white top that fit snuggly to her slim figure.
“Girl, Beyoncé ain’t got nothing on you,” she sang, as she viewed herself from every angle, admiring her newly-acquired hair extensions topped with strands of delicately-wound braids. Not bad for almost forty, she thought. Her complexion was a soft honey almond, and her flawless skin glowed under the dim lights.
Hearing no reply, Diara walked around, amazed at all the beautiful items still in the house after all these years. “White folks back then sure knew how to live,” she said aloud, admiring piece after piece until she came to the study. The room was brightly-lit, and a large, overweight woman with sagging jowls sat behind a desk that matched her size. A large, messy, steel-gray bun was twisted on top of the Great Dane-sized head. The woman appeared immersed in something, so Diara cleared her throat to get her attention.
Unfriendly eyes glared at her. “Yes?”
Diara was taken aback by the woman’s lack of warmth. “I’m Diara Moore, Alma. You may remember me from when you were in the hospital last year. When you had your hip surgery?” She gave the woman a broad smile. “I was your nurse. Anyway, I volunteered because I have a Master Gardener’s certificate and also do floral arrangements. I could do a lot for this old place.” She searched for a chair to sit on, but everyone was occupied by scattered belongings, so she remained standing, feeling as if she had just been called into the principal’s office.
Alma assessed her from head to toe. “Yes, I remember you. You’re the one who refused to give me my pain medication when I rang for it. And you own that florist shop off Main Street, correct? What’s the name? The Petal Patch or something silly like that?”
Diara stood stone-faced. “If I remember correctly, it wasn’t time for your meds. You had just received them two hours prior.” She glared at Alma. “And it’s the Flower Patch, not the—”
Alma cut her off, waving a sausage-like hand at her. “Fine. Go sit in the dining room until the others get here. My daughter’s making coffee.”
Diara remained standing. “Ms. Hargrove, I’m only a part owner of the Flower Patch. I’m a full-time nurse at the hospital.”
Alma gave a slight shrug, ignoring her. Diara’s jaw clenched, but she turned, finding her way to the dining room. Two more vehicles pulled into the driveway—an old farm truck and a motorcycle. A young man in his mid-twenties hopped off the bike, fluffing a low, knotted man bun, made loose from the helmet. Walking over to the truck, he waited for the older man to get out.
“Hey, Zeke,” said the younger man. “How’s it going?” He waited for the man to turn the engine off and exit the truck.
“Oh, it’s you, Jax,” he said, sneering at the young man, spitting a chaw of tobacco into an empty soda can, a glob of it clinging to his scraggly mustache. His eyebrows came together in a question mark. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think this was your thing.”
Jax laughed, ignoring the barb. “It ain’t, for sure, but a few weeks back, I got locked up for being drunk and disorderly at the Dusty Boot. I have to do community service, and believe me, I’d rather be on a chain gang than have to be involved with old Bulldog Hargrove. If she died tomorrow, I wouldn’t be sad.”
Zeke nodded his agreement. “Yeah, and you know how I feel about that old witch.” He looked over at Jax. “I guess if we both had a contest as to who hated her the most, it would be a draw, huh?”
Jax grinned. “Yeah, I know she screwed you out of that land deal a while back. Maybe we could both pitch in and hire a hitman, huh? I mean, who’d miss that old battle-axe? No one. Not even her daughter.” He laughed at his joke. “So why come here?”
Zeke inhaled and let the air blow out of his cheeks. “I got my reasons.”
Jax secured his helmet to the bike, and the two men walked toward the mansion.
Ezekiel Whittaker was in his fifties, outfitted in well-worn farm overalls. He took in the sight of the old mansion as he walked and was taken aback by the enormity of the place. He had passed it for many years, seeing the windows boarded up and covered in weeds and vines. Walking up the overgrown path with Jax, he opened the massive front door, and the men entered. He vaguely remembered his dad had done occasional odd jobs for the Wordel family at the estate. Zeke had tagged along and played with some of the Wordel kids and was always keenly aware of how he had grown up—so different than the Wordel heirs.
He kept his hands by his side as he made his way down the hallway so as not to break the few old dusty items which remained. He and Jax found their way to the study, but before entering, Zeke relieved his mouth of another chaw of tobacco. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and made his way to Alma Hargrove’s desk.
Taking off his John Deere cap, he approached the woman. “Morning, Alma. I’m here for the meeting.”
Alma looked up briefly. “No, you’re not. Go home. You’re not welcome here.”
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Zeke ground his jaw. “What?”
“You heard me. I have no need of you. I don’t even know why you put in an application. You knew it would be rejected.” She rubbed her chest, feeling her heart flutter.
Zeke lowered his frame over the desk. “What?” he repeated angrily.
Alma put her pen down and glared at the farmer. “How dare you come in here acting as if everything is fine.” Her hands curled into fists. “Now get out of here!” she hissed.
Jax Morgan had been standing next to Zeke. He took a step back.
Zeke remained hunched over the desk, glaring at Alma. He pulled out his soda can and with enormous effort, brought up a great amount of phlegm, spitting into the can, his eyes never leaving hers. “Whatever you say, Alma,” he said, taunting her. He turned to leave. When he got to the doorway, he turned. “But you’ll be sorry. Trust me.” He stomped out of the room.
Jax’s mouth hung open.
Alma grabbed her pen again and looked up at the young man.
“I’m Jax Morgan. I can help with the yard work and maybe mow or something. Whatever you need.” He timidly extended his hand toward the woman.
“I know who you are. And what you are.”
When Alma refused the proffered hand, he stepped back, pressing his lips tight together, staring at the floor.
“I know you’re here to do your community hours.” She scribbled something without looking at him. “Go find the others and sit.”
Jax nodded and backed out of the room in stunned silence.
Next to arrive was Mayor Tom Kepler. He was used to Alma Hargrove and her sour personality. He strode into the office, walked up to the desk, and leaned over it, setting his face inches from the woman’s. “Alma, good afternoon. And what a beautiful April afternoon it is. We’ll have a lovely Easter, for sure. So who’s here already? I see cars out front.” He rubbed his hands together.
Alma sat back in her chair and glared at him, pushing her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. “Everyone’s in the dining room. Go have a seat.”
The mayor’s smile showed off his recently-whitened teeth as he skipped out of the office. “Bye, Alma,” he sung. He turned, giving her a wink. “See you in the dining room.”
Alma’s eyes narrowed as she glowered at the man, but she said nothing. She checked her list and saw several more people were slated to attend. Her fingers tapped the top of the desk impatiently. She hated to be kept waiting.
As if God’s will had suddenly aligned with Alma’s, the front door opened to several voices talking over each other—the last of the volunteers. Hoisting herself laboriously from her chair, Alma stood, smoothing the short skirt while awaiting the bodies belonging to the voices. She couldn’t wait to get this meeting over with and get the restoration started.
A man who had no hair on the top of his head but sported a scraggly, white ponytail trailing down his back stepped into the study. He was followed by an elderly woman, chatting away to no one in particular.
“Alma!” cried Dr. Oliver Sinclair. “Your loyal subjects are here for you to command!”
Alma scowled at him as he bent to offer a deep, courtesan bow.
The old woman, eighty-two-year-old Eudora Parker, Dr. Sinclair’s assistant in earlier years, put her hand to her mouth and giggled like a schoolgirl before her eyes averted sheepishly to the floor as if she had been caught listening to a naughty secret.
Alma put her hands on her ample hips and glared. “Well, I hope that’s the last of you.” She grabbed the pen and a stack of notebooks and walked toward the dining room.
Just then, footsteps were heard coming down the wide hallway.
Jax grinned, and a smile played on his sculptured face. “Hi, Anne. I told you that you should have ridden with me.”
The woman, breathtakingly gorgeous, smiled, her full lips curving to reveal flawless white teeth. Silky, chocolate-brown hair cascaded down her back, flowing down to a slim waist.
“Am I late for the restoration meeting?” her velvety voice inquired. She patted her chest, catching her breath. “I’m Anne Dixon. Jax invited me.” She looked over at the young man.
Alma frowned at the newcomer, then at Jax. She shuffled through the applications. “I don’t see your name on my list.”
The woman gave her a huge, confident grin. “Sorry. It was a last-minute thing.”
Alma pressed her lips together so tight they almost disappeared. “Well, I don’t tolerate people who can’t tell time or keep appointments. Come this way,” she grumbled, as they made their way to the dining room.
Diara, Jax, and the mayor looked up as the group entered the dining room. All eyes went to Anne Dixon, the only person unknown to the Porter Mills locals. Anne introduced herself to the group and took a seat.
Alma cleared her throat and took command of the volunteers. “Oliver, you sit over there, and Eudora—” Alma pointed to a chair. “—over there.” She gave Jax a sour look but said nothing.
The young man looked at several empty chairs and claimed one. Alma took her seat at the head of the table and placed several notebooks in front of her.
Looking around the room, she wondered how she’d ever get Thornhaven Manor in shape with this group. “We may as well begin.”
Suzanna appeared with a carafe of coffee and a tray of pastries, setting them on an old buffet.
Skimming through her notes, Alma began. “As president of the Porter Mills Historical Society, I was able to pull some strings and get the electricity turned on, so that will be a big help to us.” Her eyes found Diara’s. “Ms. Moore, I know you said you were a full-time nurse, but you said you’d be willing to get our gardens back to where they once were. And you have a crew to help?”
Diara beamed. “Yes, ma’am. I have a great crew, and I studied landscaping at the community college. I’m a Master Gardener, remember, so I am more than ready to go.” She looked around at the group, giving them a world-class smile.
“And Mayor Kepler, you’ve volunteered for the publicity and getting all the permits and so on pushed through. That’ll be a big help.”
“I’m looking forward to getting Thornhaven Manor back on its feet and making our town some money. It’ll be a great wedding venue, not to mention all the functions we can sponsor.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Anything to help you out,” he added with a wink.
Alma glared at him and then looked over at Anne Dixon. “So what do you have to offer us?” she spat out rudely.
Anne stood and smiled around. “I’m with a large solar company. I’m here for a month or so to speak with some of the power companies in the Baltimore area, but other than work, I’ll have nothing to do.” She pointed to Jax. “I’m staying at the same place this young man lives, and he happened to mention this mansion is being renovated. It sounded like a fun way to pass some time and get to know folks. I can help with anything—office chores, whatever.” She looked over at the mayor. “I can help with publicity, too. Posting photos of the restoration on the website as it happens and also about the different functions Thornhaven hopes to host, as well as lots of other stuff that people will want to read about, like the history of the home. That kind of thing. I’m very computer literate.”
Alma gave a curt nod. “That would be great, Ms. Dixon. Thanks.”
Anne sat, and Alma’s eyes narrowed when she noticed a thin scar running from the woman’s forehead down alongside her nose.
Doc Sinclair cleared his throat and raised a hand. “I can help catalog the items inside the mansion.” He looked around. “I can’t believe some of them are still here. I mean, anyone could have broken in here and taken stuff. Some of this furniture would be worth a lot of money to an antique dealer.”
Everyone nodded as they, too, appraised their surroundings.
Diara nodded. “I don’t know antiques, but there are some beautiful pieces of china and figurines still in here.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at Alma. “Hey, I could clean in here—you know, dust, vacuum, and all that.”
Alma jotted something in her notebook. “Okay, Ms. Moore.”
“So what happened to Zeke?” asked Jax. “I was going to help him with yard work, since he has all that farm equipment.” His head tilted as he threw the question to Alma.
“We don’t need him,” she snapped, glaring. “I can get a landscaper out here to do what needs to be done.” She picked at a fingernail and narrowed her eyes. “He wouldn’t fit in with the group.”
“Yeah, but—” Jax began.
Alma slapped a palm on the desk, causing the group to jump. “I said,” she growled, her words coming slow. “He doesn’t belong here.”
Jax hunched his shoulders and raised his palms. “Okay. Sorry.” He looked over at Anne and winked.
Tom Kepler stood. “Come on, folks, let’s just move on. We can do what needs doing with who we have here. Let’s hear Alma out and move this meeting on.”
Everyone mumbled their assent, and they continued.
Eudora, who had been silent so far, piped in. “Can you tell us a little about Thornhaven’s history? I know some of it, but mostly the part from when I was a young girl. How did the mansion come to be?”
Again, the group murmured, agreeing.
Alma rubbed her head. The inside of her skull was beginning to throb. “Fine,” she said, acquiescing. She rifled through her notes. “By the time Mason reached forty, he had purchased fifty acres on the outskirts of Porter Mills. It reached to the Pennsylvania border. And, he had married a local girl and had six healthy heirs. He began building Thornhaven Manor, and I’d have to look it up, but I think this is a twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion. When it was completed, Mason invited all the townspeople to a grand lawn party. Needless to say, he became a beloved figure among the locals.”
She rubbed her stomach, which had begun to cramp. “The estate was lovingly cared for, and Mason took pride in his vast library,” she continued. “He had also included what was then a state-of-the-art kitchen, stables, and beautifully-maintained gardens and orchards. He raised horses, cattle, pigs, chickens, ducks, and rabbits.
“All was well for many decades, and the family lived in bliss, until 1953. It seemed as if the minute Mason reached seventy, life began going downhill. He had a heart attack and was never the same. His mind started to go, and he spent most of his time in bed. He soon became a shell of his former self, and as his mind deteriorated, so did that sparkling personality of his. His children soon left the area, and he and his wife moved to a smaller house in town. They only returned to Thornhaven when called for by staff.
“Within a few years, Mason died, and his wife moved back into the mansion until she followed him in 2007. Since none of the six children had wanted to return to Thornhaven after her death, the house was turned over to the town of Porter Mills in a trust, where it remained, collecting dust, for years until the Porter Mills Historical Society decided to restore it.” Alma folded her hands on the desk and looked around at the engaged faces.
“That’s so sad,” lamented Diara.
“Thanks, Alma,” said Eudora. “I never knew that part of its history, and I’ve lived here all my life.” She sniffed and absently patted Doc Sinclair’s hand.
“Alma, that was great,” added Tom cheerfully. “So now we can go forward and give Thornhaven all the attention the place deserves.” His grin widened. “And wouldn’t old Mason Wordel be proud?” He tucked his thumbs under the lapels of his jacket.
“I still think Zeke should be here,” groused Jax, scowling at Alma.
Alma took a deep breath, her large frame expanding like a blowfish. Jax sat back in his seat and looked away. The group went uncomfortably silent for a few minutes.
Anne looked over at Eudora. “Since I have computer skills, maybe I can make some fliers and do a few ad mockups. And Eudora can help me collate them.” She smiled at the old woman and was rewarded with a grateful acknowledgment.
Alma’s lips twisted. “Whatever. She’s yours if you want.”
The meeting went on for several more hours. Everyone was assigned their tasks. The plan was to reconvene the next morning, Monday. Alma asked if everyone could make it or if work commitments might get in the way. When all said they’d be there, she quickly dispersed the group, telling them she’d be staying on to make notes on the projects.
Goodbyes were said, and after everyone, including Suzanna, had left, Alma closed the door. With notebook in hand, she left the dining room. As she began walking, she felt strangely faint and had to steady herself on a winged-back chair. Better yet, she thought, she’d sit down until the feeling left her.
***
Sunday, 8:12 p.m.
Hours later, Alma’s head lolled on the chair she had been sitting on, spittle running down the side of her face. She awoke with a start, and her head shot up in a flash. She rubbed her eyes. Her brain seemed as if it were in a fog. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see how quickly the hours had passed. Sunsets in Maryland during April usually came around seven-thirty or so. Had she been asleep all that time?
Chiding herself, she rubbed her eyes again, determined to stay awake. She hadn’t done anything of value and decided she’d begin inventorying the old collection of books in Mason’s extensive library. She yawned and immediately felt her stomach growl. Of course, she’d be hungry. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She fumbled around in her tote bag for her phone, calling a local Chinese restaurant.
After placing her order, she trudged to the musty-smelling library, where she spotted a tall wooden ladder that reached the top of the highest shelf, approximately twelve feet up. She gingerly made her way up, shaking her head, trying to rid the cobwebs which had invaded her brain. Balanced atop the heavy ladder, she looked down at the floor. She became woozy, causing her to grip the ladder tightly. What was wrong with her?
Letting out an exaggerated groan, Alma knew she should come down, close up the mansion, and go home, but Wordel’s collection of old books was like honey to a bee. She chided herself for allowing her daughter to leave with the others. She could have used her help, especially since she felt so strange.
Just then, she heard a loud knock on the front door. Her dinner order, she thought.
Making her way carefully down the ladder, she walked to the hallway. “Just leave it!” she yelled. “It’s paid for.” When she heard the vehicle drive away, she opened the door and retrieved the food.
After the meal had been demolished, she returned to the library and climbed the ladder again, despite still feeling woozy.
“Got to check out more of these books. What an amazing collection. Just one…more…peek, and that’s it,” she said groggily. Reaching for an old volume of medicinal practices and gingerly opening it up to the first page, she freed both hands from the ladder to digest each word.
She was so engrossed in the book, she never heard the front door to the mansion opening or the footsteps making their way toward the well-lit room. Still reading silently, her lips moving as her eyes swept across the page, she suddenly felt the ladder shake violently. She gripped the ladder tightly, letting the book fall from her hands. It crashed to the floor with a thud.
She screamed and looked down to see what was happening. She needed to see who was doing this. Emitting another loud wail, she continued to hang on for dear life, her eyelids now pressed so tightly together her eyeballs burned.
Alma had never thought she needed God—she had done okay without him—but now she called on him with all her might. She clung to the ladder and thought she could outlast this nightmare and negotiate with whoever was at the bottom. But just as she saw the sardonic face of the person trying to end her life, a hand reached up, grabbed a meaty ankle, and forced her leg off the ladder rung.
Within seconds, her balance broken, Alma fell from the twelve-foot ladder onto the floor with a sickening thud. Agony tore through her leg like fire, but she clenched her teeth, forcing herself to stay conscious. Not dead yet, she thought, determined, though the searing pain threatened to prove her wrong.
A raw moan escaped her lips as she gripped her shattered limb, nausea twisting in her gut. She had to move. Had to find help. But how? Every attempt to shift sent shockwaves of torment through her body, and darkness hovered at the edges of her vision, ready to swallow her whole.
Using her forearms to move her heavy frame across the cold wood floor, she began inching her way out of the library, heading toward the hallway, completely oblivious of the figure still looming over her. Got—to—find—help. She felt something tighten around her ankles, pulling her back into the library. A sickly, chemical-smelling cloth was placed over her entire face, making her gag and her eyes water, burning her throat.
As she began to black out, she felt a stinging sensation on the back of her neck. A surge of heat shot through her body. Although she had seen who was behind this travesty, there was nothing she could do as her world got sucked into oblivion. The life drained from her gelatinous body, which shook as Alma Hargrove’s last breath was expelled.
Bringing together the same cast of novice crime solving sleughs, A Priest, a Rabbi, and a Baptist Minster: The Murders at Thornhaven Manor (hereafter The Murders at Thornhaven Manor) by Janet Brown is the second book in this cosy mystery series set in Maryland, USA. Hitting all the notes of the underdog detective trope, the story opens with the murder of the owner of Thornhaven Manor, Alma Hargrove. After the case is all but dismissed by local state police, homicide detective Maureen McNeely enlists her uncle, Father Brendan O’Clery alongside Rabbi Ezra Lieberman and Pastor Langdon Boothe to form a crime solving team and get to the bottom of who murdered one of Porter Mills' most disliked personalities. When everyone has a motive, who can you trust?
There is a lot to like, if not love, with The Murders at Thornhaven Manor. Even though this is the second book in the series, it is easy to grasp the storyline and character personalities from the opening chapters, further exposition is not needed. I personally have not read any other titles in the series and was still able to pick up what was going on, the plot line is standalone in this regard.
The writing approach is so true to form with anything of its kind in the cosy mystery genre and the characters instantly recognisable. Brendan, Ezra and Langdon all have their unique traits and bring something different in their collective approach to solving this case in a book that gives all shades of Richard Osmond's The Thursday Murder Club and the popular British TV drama Midsomer Murders. Readers should expect a hefty dose of wisdom and chaos when picking up this title!
The pacing of the plot is also met at the right level, moving the story forward in a semi-relaxed way that does not feel super high stakes but equally does not downplay the need to solve the mystery of who killed Alma Hargrove. The inclusion of Maureen's character also helps support the actions of the three novice armchair detectives, giving them access to suspects in a way that would be harder to conceive had the three gone mooching around without invitation. Having the three central figures come from a religious background is a great directional choice from the author, adding to the cosy mystery vibe. Even though Father Brendan O’Clery lived a previous life as a Marine and intelligence officer, his charm as a man of the cloth works wonders with suspects while his mind remains as sharp as a pin.
The Murders at Thornhaven Manor is a excellent book in its genre and a great read. Even the cover design is faultless, a pastel green pairing nicely with the slightly quirky layout and font choice of the title text. It perfectly suits the theme of everything the book is aiming to achieve and the audience it is targeting. A five star read, through and through.
AEB Reviews