April's Affections and Intrigues: Love and Mystery Bloom

Maid of Murder, June 2010 India Hayes by Amanda Flower Five Star Featuring: India Hayes 282 pages ISBN: 1594148643 EAN: 9781594148644 Hardcover Add to Wish List Purchase Amazon Barnes & Noble Powell's Books Books-A-Million Indie BookShop

"Wedding disaster ends in murder."

Maid of Murder
Amanda Flower

Reviewed by Sharon Galligar Chance
Posted May 31, 2010

Mystery

When college librarian India Hayes is asked to be a bridesmaid in her childhood friend Olivia's wedding, she was hesitant to accept. After all, Olivia had been the object of her brother Mark's unreciprocated adoration, and India didn't want to bring up bad memories of the past for him. But Olivia begged, so India finally caved in and said yes.

But India is saved from having to wear the world's ugliest bridesmaid's dress when somebody pushes Olivia to her death in the fountain on the campus of Martin College. Mark becomes the prime suspect in the mysterious murder and is taken into police custody. It's up to India to try and clear her brother's name and find the real killer. As her parents, die-hard activists, stage protest appeals for Mark's release from jail, India begins looking for clues. With a little help from Ina, her slightly crazy landlady, India juggles avoiding Olivia's irate mother, Kirk, the rage-filled bodybuilder fiance, and Bree, the over-attentive maid of honor as she seeks out any piece of evidence that would lead to solving Olivia's murder, not realizing that the more she got involved, the more her own life would be in danger.

In her debut novel, MAID OF MURDER: An India Hayes Mystery, author Amanda Flower delivers a cast of unforgettable characters that are lively, quirky and extremely clever. Combine that with an intriguing story, and you have great cozy mystery. I look forward to future books from Amanda Flower.

Learn more about Maid of Murder

SUMMARY

India Hayes is a lot of things...starving artist who pays the rent as a college librarian, daughter of liberal activists, sister of an emotional mathematician, tenant of a landlady who has kissed the Blarney Stone one too many times, and a bridesmaid six times over. But she's about to step into the most challenging role of her life: amateur sleuth.

Childhood friend and now knockout beauty, Olivia Blocken is back in town to wed her bodybuilder fiance with India a reluctant attendant...not just because the bridesmaid's dress is a hideous mess, but because she's betraying her brother. Mark still caries a torch of the bride who once broke his heart and sent his life into a tailspin.

When Olivia turns up dead in the Martin College fountain and the evidence points to Mark, India must unmask the real culprit while juggling a furious and grieving Mother of the Bride, an annoyingly beautiful Maid of Honor, a set of hippie-generation parents, the police detective who once dated her sister and is showing a marked liking for her, and a provost itching to fire someone, anyone--maybe even a smart-mouth librarian.

India's investigation leads her on a journey through childhood memories that she'd much rather have left in the schoolyard, but to avoid becoming the next victim, it is a path she must follow.

Excerpt

As a child, I dreaded the Fourth of July despite the fireworks, the barbecue, and the general flag flapping. The holiday signaled that summer was half over. And though my mother chided me about my attitude, called me her pint-sized pessimist, and told me to see the "glass half full," I moped through the holiday. I knew—come the next day—the discount store and supercenters would have fresh back-to-school displays of yellow number two pencils and college-ruled notebook paper. I was a fair student and mid- list popular, but I never wanted to go back to school. As an adult, when I actually had to work every day, my attitude toward Independence Day changed. To me, any day that starts as a paid holiday is a good one.

But that Independence Day morning, my brother called.

When the telephone jangled near my sleeping head, I sat bolt upright and sent my cat Templeton flying across the room in a hissing cloud of black fur.

Who died? was my first thought, followed closely by, who’s about to die? for waking me.

I groped for my glasses, shoved them on my face, and looked at the clock. It read four minutes after six in electric blue numerals. The phone rang again. I snatched it up.

"India?" My brother’s voice, hyped up on caffeinated pop and mathematical theorems, zipped out over the line "Could you look up Yang-Mills Theory for me at the library today? I think I’m really onto something. I’d do it myself, you know, but I’m hitting a wall here with work. And the library’s slow, right, because it’s summer—"

"Mark." I interrupted.

"Huh?"

"The library’s closed today." I swatted a hank of long, dark hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear.

"It’s closed? But why?" He sounded shocked.

"It’s the Fourth of July. You know, Happy Independence Day and all that." I glared at the clock. "It’s also six-oh-five in the morning on a day I don’t have to work," I added in case he was having trouble grasping the point, which Mark often did.

"It is?"

"Where are you?" I asked while rubbing my gray eyes, which were gritty from sleep.

"In my office?"

"You don’t sound very sure of that."

There was a pause. "Definitely my office. I’m working on this really great theorem. I think I have it now, India. My dissertation—"

"I understand," I stepped in before he could enter another long-winded explanation about The Dissertation. He’d worked on it for half a decade. It’d become a bit of a swear word in my parents’ house.

"Well, Mark, I better let you get back to it. Call me at the library tomorrow, and I’ll see if I have time to look up that Yohoo-Miller thing for you."

"Yang-Mills. It’s a partial differential equation that—"

"Whatever." I moved to hang up, but his lingering silence was palpable. I sighed. "Was that all?"

Mark swallowed hard. "I know she’s getting married."

Geez. I knew he’d eventually find out one way or another, but I wished it had been after the ceremony.

"Mark, I—"

"Don’t lie to me; I saw it in the paper. She’s getting married next weekend. You knew. I can’t believe you didn’t know."

"Uh." What could I say? I did know. Mark would be devastated when he found out how well I knew. I tucked that thought away to deal with later.

"Why didn’t you tell me? It’s not like I’d care or anything."

Sure, I thought, and my watercolors would make me millions of dollars someday. I took a deep breath. "I didn’t know how to tell you, and Olivia didn’t want to hurt you, either."

"Thanks, anyway," he whispered and hung up.

I stared at the receiver, then knocked it against my forehead a few times before dropping it back in its cradle.

After fifteen minutes, I threw off the sheet and stomped to the bathroom. "Next time he has a day off, I’m calling at three in the morning. That little . . ."

After a shower and breakfast, I no longer felt so hateful toward Mark. I knew I should have told him that Olivia was getting married. I should have told him months ago when I learned about it, but there never seemed to be a good time. And the way marriages go these days, I thought, it would be much easier to announce that Olivia was getting a divorce in a couple of years.

I clicked on the TV.

"It’s going to be a beautiful Independence Day, folks," the weather girl from the Cleveland station said. "We might break some records. Temperatures in the upper nineties and ninety percent humidity, Remember, don’t mow your lawn until after sundown. There’s an Ozone alert— "

I clicked off the screen.

By nine that morning, I was sprawled across a sheet I used to cover my poorly chosen couch in order to avoid touching the hot, itchy fabric. It was beautifully upholstered in royal purple velvet. I had found it at an estate sale in Chicago. It had cost a mint to have it shipped to Stripling, and, not until it was safely stowed in my apartment did I learn that it was uncomfortable in the summertime and a magnet for black cat hair. My long legs hung over its end, and Templeton lay in the same position next to me on the floor. I periodically spritzed him, then myself, with ice water from a spray bottle that I normally used to wet down my unruly hair. Templeton shook his head like a dog every time he was hit with a spray of water but didn’t move out of its reach. Even an aquaphobic feline welcomed the cool mist in my air conditioning–deprived apartment. While Templeton shook his head for a fourth time, I tried to build up the courage to call my brother back and tell him the truth—that I did know that Olivia was to be married this weekend in Stripling and that I, India Hayes, who had sworn after the last wedding that I would never be in a bridal party again, am to be one of Olivia’s doting bridesmaids.

The phone rang.

I told Templeton, "I’ll get it, but tomorrow I’m teaching you to answer the phone."

He didn’t respond.

"India?" It was a voice easily as perky as the weathergirl’s.

I swallowed hard. I knew that voice. "Hi, Olivia. You aren’t in town, are you?"

Templeton gave me a look that to me said, "Spritz me, baby." I obliged.

"Just arrived. We’re at my mother’s now. Stripling is just how I remember it. It’s so cute. The perfect place for a wedding, don’t you think?"

"Really darling."

She missed the sarcasm. "As you know, it’s a holiday."

"I heard something about that." I spritzed myself in the face.

"Very funny. Anyway, my mother is having a little Independence Day gathering at two in honor of my return, and I am inviting you to come."

"Well, I was planning—"

"Please, India? I haven’t seen you in forever, and I want you to meet Kirk. You can bring a date if you want."

I snorted, but after ten more minutes of listening to Olivia’s pleas, I finally agreed. As bridesmaid-in-waiting, I had an obligation.

After she hung up, I pulled the sheet over my head with a moan and asked Templeton to put me out of my misery. I peeked out from the sheet when he didn’t respond. He looked like an overbroiled chicken splayed on the hardwood floor. "If you are not going to help me out, I’ll just have to call Bobby, won’t I?"

Templeton blinked at me. I picked up the phone and hit speed dial. When Bobby McNally answered, I said, "I need a favor."

"It’ll cost you," a churlish and groggy Bobby answered.

"How much?"

"How do you like children?"

I groaned.

What do you think about this review?

Comments

No comments posted.

Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!