Review: MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT by Susan C. Shea | A comfortable read...and the plot was a study in art -- painting it, copying it, stealing it, and killing for it Reviewed by Betty Cox

September 10th, 2026

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MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT

Murder in the Abstract, July 2010
Danielle O'Rourke #1
by Susan C. Shea

Avalon Books
Featuring: Danielle O'Rourke
272 pages
ISBN: 0803477686
EAN: 9780803477681
Hardcover
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"A comfortable read...and the plot was a study in art -- painting it, copying it, stealing it, and killing for it"

Fresh Fiction Review

MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT
Susan C. Shea

Reviewed by Betty Cox
Posted January 10, 2011

Mystery Woman Sleuth | Mystery Amateur Sleuth

Danielle O'Rourke was once married to one of the wealthiest men in San Francisco, but she could not tolerate his wandering eye and divorced him. She didn't ask for, nor receive, money from him but made it on her own as a vice president of the Devor Museum of Art in charge of fund- raising. On the evening of a big gala with about six- hundred mega-wealthy collectors present, disaster strikes; an up and coming young artist falls, jumps, or is pushed out of Dani's second story office window. How he got into her office is a mystery, as the door is always locked. Even though Dani was on the ground floor schmoozing with the clientele at the time of the accident, she is number one on the police department's suspect list, for several reasons.

Dani feels she has to clear her own name, as it doesn't look like the police are looking at anyone but her. Her pursuit of justice takes her from San Francisco to Santa Fe, New Mexico. It takes a while and the help of one of San Francisco's finest, who just happens to be in Santa Fe at the same time as Dani, to find the guilty culprit.

MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT is a comfortable read. The characters were a little confusing as they had similar names, beginning with the same letter in some cases. The narrative was well constructed, and the plot was a study in art -- painting it, copying it, stealing it, and killing for it.

Learn more about MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT

SUMMARY

Danielle O'Rourke's gala evening at the Devor Museum ends in catastrophe when the body of a young artist plummets from her office window. The police label it murder and suspect Dani, the Museum's chief fund raiser. Self-preservation and an insider's understanding of how money moves the art world drive her to investigate who might have a motive for murder. Dani's playboy ex-husband and a green-eyed cop complicate matters as her search moves through the fashionable worlds of San Francisco and Santa Fe.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE I was hiding in the third floor ladies room when my cell phone began to jangle. Struggling with the oh-so-cute clasp of the Kate Spade evening bag, I cursed the weakness for fashion that made me choose an accessory that was almost as useless as it was expensive. “Yes?” I snapped when at last I pried open the handbag. I had been congratulating myself for getting my boss an appointment with a gold-plated venture capitalist after listening to him tell me more than I wanted to know about his collection of Oceanic art. If it led to a donation for the Devor Museum of Arts and Antiquities, I might get a nice raise. Right now, all I wanted was a few minutes to repair my lipstick and recharge my batteries. My business is convincing wealthy people to give away large sums of money or precious objects, and it can be hard work. It’s an honorable profession, for the most part, although some folks see us more as thieves, car salesmen, or carrion crows. When I was married to Money, and I certainly was for a short time, my mother-in-law made it clear that’s how she saw me. I learned a lot about money during my four years as Mrs. Richard Argetter III, consort of one of San Francisco’s wealthiest young social lions. For one thing, all those clichés about money not making you happy? I now know they’re mostly true. I’m awed on a regular basis, though, by wealthy people with good hearts and generous instincts who do great deeds. “Better get down here, Dani,” a voice barked in my ear. “All hell’s breaking loose.” “Len?” Len Hightower’s our security chief, much given to drama. “What are you talking about?” But I could already hear a change in the tone of conversation outside the restroom door. As gregarious as an open bar and the presence of their peers rendered San Francisco’s social butterflies at a party like this, the anxious quality of this particular hum set it apart. “Get down here. Peter needs you.” “I’m on my way.” Peter Lindsey is my boss. He’s also the director of the Devor Museum. I may be a senior executive, too, but when he says jump, I do. Snapping the phone shut, I quick-checked my reflection. The new green eye shadow did nice things for my hazel eyes but the flame lipstick had to go. On my large mouth, it looked like clown makeup. I swiped it off and settled for lip gloss. Nudging the door open with my shoulder, I reached for the pager. The display showed Peter’s cell phone number. I speed-dialed while easing my way past guests, a few of whom were looking over the railings of the central staircase that ran up the spine of the handsome old Edwardian building to the glassed roof atrium. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t see what it was when I peered over the heads of the shifting, murmuring crowd. Was there a fire? I sniffed, but didn’t smell smoke. Squeezing past the outstretched arms of the two Museum guards standing at the third floor landing after getting a nod of recognition from one of them, I hurried down the carpeted stairs. It looked as though the guards’ orders were to keep people from coming down, which surely meant it wasn’t a fire. But what the hell was it? The bar had been set up in the large first floor lobby for tonight’s preview of Matthew Barney’s multimedia installation, so, naturally, that’s where the biggest crowd was. I paused at the second floor landing and looked toward the two-story, glass entrance doors installed a few years ago over the howls of architectural purists. Strangely, because our liquor license from the city forbids Devor Museum guests from loitering outside the entrance, there seemed to be as big a crowd on the sidewalk as inside the building. An elevator opened into the lobby as I peered down, disgorging a score of black-clad, dot com types and a security guard, a temp brought in for the evening by the look of him. They merely added to the crush. I made it down to the first floor, maneuvering past a flock of twenty- somethings in Prada and Jimmy Choos who were chattering about guys with cute butts, while craning their pretty necks and sniffing the tension in the room. Even though I’m tall, I couldn’t spot Peter over the heads of the crowd. Len is short, a matter of some sensitivity to him. I worried he’d need one of those bicyclers’ flags to stand out right now. “What happened?” I asked a portly man blocking my path to the information desk, where I guessed staff might be gathering. “Someone said a body just landed outside,” he replied without taking his eyes off the glass doors.

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