For people who enjoyed reading The Thursday Murder Club and A Good Day for Chardonnay
You have Aspergerâs Syndrome. You hate the name of this syndrome. You also stopped using drugs six months ago and now your best friend, Winsey, is dead. And your cat, Lester keeps pooping on the floorâitâs a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. And eff no, you donât use the F-word, even when you find out Winsey was killed. You suspect the gargoyle who was sniffing around at the bar the night before, the last time you saw her alive.
For people who enjoyed reading The Thursday Murder Club and A Good Day for Chardonnay
You have Aspergerâs Syndrome. You hate the name of this syndrome. You also stopped using drugs six months ago and now your best friend, Winsey, is dead. And your cat, Lester keeps pooping on the floorâitâs a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. And eff no, you donât use the F-word, even when you find out Winsey was killed. You suspect the gargoyle who was sniffing around at the bar the night before, the last time you saw her alive.
THIS IS HOW IT STARTS
A month later
Everyoneâs waiting for something to happen. Itâs the way of life. What happens next?
Youâre cruising along in your car one second. The next, the world drops out from under you, wheels spinning, no traction, and your life changes.
***
CHAPTER 1
You know the type. Always with the catchphrase.
Hundred percent.
Right?
2020âs equivalent catchphrases like boss or groovy from the sixties.
Radical. That oneâs from the nineties.
It feels like right? will never leave.
But that was Winsey. Always with the catchphrase. Always another conspiracy theory. Always saying someone was out to kill her for her money. Thing is, she didnât have any money. Sure, she had a county job and a growing vestment in a pension plan, but gobs of disposable income or cash available? Uh-uh.
The catchphrases, her theories were enough to make you want to stuff one of your pink kitty socks into her mouth and secure it with duct tape. Not to the point of suffocation. To the point of shutting her up. And itâs no secret. Youâve told her. She laughed. You laughed. Thatâs what friends do, right? They laugh at the other personâs foibles. Hundred percent they do. Plus, with the Aspergerâs and all. You hate the term. Hate the therapist for diagnosing you with it. Sounds like Ass Burger, like something you could walk in and order off the menu at Nickâs. âIâd like one of the flaming Ass Burgers and some fries.â You hate they told you that you have this stupid syndrome. You made Winsey swear never to bring it up in your presence.
Some bogus song from the eighties, Donât Worry, Be Happy is playing on the barâs satellite inside Lubos, a localsâ favorite hangout. Like, seriously? Itâs not the Hawaiian Islands here, Paul. Itâs freaking sixty degrees tonight. Itâs summertime.
You lift your mask above your mouth, lick a spot on the back of your hand near your thumb, sprinkle on salt, lick off the salt, down a shot of tequila like a guy might, and bite a lime wedge.
Paulâheâs the bartenderâdoesnât like you much. He once told you that you should keep some things to yourself. Like, whatâs the fun in that? You told him to shut his face. That you can and will say whatever the eff pops into your head.
The bar is dim. You see Paul give you the stink eye in the reflection of the long mirror cluttered by liquor bottles and glasses. You blink and land on the image of some oversized white dude leering into the mirror at the same moment you do. You drag your eyes out of the mirror and suddenly feel anorexic. The dude canât see the color of your eyes and suddenly you just want to get home.
Lubos smells like someone snuffed out a cigarette into their cheeseburger.
Again, you tell Winsey, âPlease stop talking.â But this time you use air quotes mimicking her when you say, âBecause you had a tough day.â All you can think about is crawling into bed and playing one thousand one games of Aces Up until you feel your eyes begin to bleed. Then, nighty night.
Youâre bored with her banter. The shot of tequila went down way too easy. Got you itching for something stronger. Something they donât sell from behind the bar. Plus, the gargoyle at the end of the bar is looking at you like he wants to snack on your pinky toes while watching The Thing on some classic movie channel.
Most everyone is wearing a mask. Even the gargoyle, which makes him look even more sinister.
So, you say, âWinsey, Iâd love to hear you repeat for the umpteenth timeââa phrase you got from momâ"how much you like this bar, its ambience, right? But hundred percent, I gotta go. Iâm bored and figure a five hundredth rerun of Law & Order will be more entertaining than being here with you. Plus, it stinks like crap in here tonight.â Crap is one of your favorite words.
Winseyâshe laughs. She scratches at the corner of her eye. Takes a sip of beer. Itâs nothing you havenât said before like that to her. You donât think sheâs crying again. So, you leave, get home to the cat, go to bed, and, next thing, the cell is going off. Your eyes blur at the readout but you can see the timestamp is way too early oâclock in the morning, just past midnight, when you get a call from Sheriff Diggins telling you that you were the last one to see her alive.
WTF?
Diggins sounds chipper, like heâs going to be happy when he pins her death on you. Youâre not sure how to respond. Defend yourself? Cry? But you donât cry in front of people. Certainly not into the phone. You hate crying.
âWhat about the rest of the people at Lubos?â you ask. You struggle to sit upright. You had two beers when you got home. You need to pee. Plus, Lester is lying on your stomach. Heâs an oversized version of Garfield, weighing in around eighteen pounds. Suddenly, Lester jumps off, leaving your bladder roiling. The vet calls him a âbig boy.â
âShe followed you out,â Diggins says.
âBut I left,â you say. âI mean I waved bye to her. Got into my car and drove off.â
And thereâs the problem. He tells you they interviewed not one solitary person who saw you two leave alone. âAnd you need to come down to the station at nine,â he says.
And you say, âIn the morning?â Then, âRight.â But this time the word isnât a question.
âOh darn,â you say. An element of fake sincerity glimmers in your voice. âI canât at nine. Vet appointment.â
Diggins breathes heavily into his phone. âRight after, then.â
âI have to take my cat home right after.â You know you can drop him off.
âCanât you drop him off?â
âI donât think so. Thatâs how they end up with so many abandoned cats, you know.â
âAs soon as youâre done, then. But tomorrow. We donât want to have to come out to your house to take you in, now do we?â
âFine.â
After the call, you yell for Lester.
Those small islands. It's always those small islands where the murders happen! Well, at least in this case! Gag Me: A Friday Harbor Novel by Susan Wingate begins with you (yes, I mean you) in the local dive bar, listening to bogus songs from the eighties while listening to your good friend (maybe only friend) Winsey complain about her tough day. You are bored and just can't handle listening to her sob, so you call it a night and head home to see your cat Lester and clean up his inevitable furball messes. The next morning you discover that Winsey has been murdered, and wouldn't you know it, you were the last one to see her alive. To prove your innocence and find the killer, you embark on an investigation but are forced to work with the newly arrived police investigator you have recently nicknamed the Gargoyle. You don't want to be with other people, let alone work with them, but you are determined to track down Winsey's killer and clear your name. It is an investigation that makes you look hard and close at the people you thought you knew and culminates with a suspense-filled thriller ending.
Filled with a cast of wacky characters and some great lines, you get the chance to play the main character in Gag Me. It is like reading a 'choose your own mystery,' but you don't have to keep flipping back and forth between the pages or making questionable calls. Instead, the book does it for you.Â
It is not often that I read novels written in the second person. However, Wingate has written an excellent second-person narrative. It is a writing style that I don't think is all that easy to carry off well, but she delivers consistently throughout the book with well-directed banter. Will be adding more of her books to my TBR pile!
I would recommend this book to those who enjoyed Charlaine Harris' Lily Bard Shakespeare series or Max Wirestone's Dahlia Moss Mysteries.