A Perfect Manhattan Murder (A Nic & Nigel Mystery) by Tracy Kiely
Cozy Mystery
3rd in Series
Midnight Ink (May 8, 2017)
Paperback: 240 pages
ISBN-13: 978-0738745244
E-Book ASIN: B01LXJQVDI

Synopsis

The play’s the thing, but it’s the star-studded after-party that sends sparks flying

Thrilled that their friend’s Broadway debut was a rousing success, Nic and Nigel Martini, along with Nic’s college pal Harper, are trying to enjoy the exclusive after-party. Unfortunately, all the champagne and repartee in the world aren’t enough to overlook the churlish behavior of Harper’s husband, Dan. Nic is shocked the next morning when she learns that Dan’s been murdered. Nigel thinks the world may be a better place without him.

Still, Harper’s their friend and they’re intent on helping her any way they can. The Martinis will stop at nothing—with the possible exception of cocktails and walks with their bull mastiff Skippy—to see that the killer ends up behind bars.

Guest Post

The Life of a Writer – Now in Technicolor

I have three children, all of whom I adore and all of whom produce an ungodly amount of laundry. To pass the time while I neatly fold it (so that they can, in turn, cram it in their drawers or leave it on their floors), I tune into some show like Hoarders or Dr. Phil. Don’t judge. You’d be surprised at how these shows can make you feel practically giddy that your biggest complaint at the moment is too much laundry. The subject on Hoarders is pretty much always the same – too much of everything. Tuning into Dr. Phil, however, is a crapshoot. He tackles everything from weight loss to drug addiction. However, the ones that I like to pair with my laundry deal with parenting.  They usually are titled something like, “Families on the Brink,” or “Children Out Of Control.” After a brief introduction Dr. Phil, the camera will pan to a fairly normal looking couple. The husband usually looks Very Serious and the wife looks Very Sad. When prompted, they will haltingly tell of their inability to control their children and how it is ruining their once happy lives.  Dr. Phil will nod sympathetically as they tell their tale of woe before turning to the audience and saying something like this: “Well, we wondered what a day in the life of this family was really like so we placed cameras all throughout the house. You won’t believe what we saw.”

Cut to a grainy image of the wife – now looking like a well-dressed Tasmanian Devil on crack – screaming at her fourteen-year-old while the father shouts his own profanities and slams his fist into the counter.

I always have the same reaction to these shows – which is jaw dropping disbelief. Not at the rotten behavior of the parents – let’s face it – if you have kids, then you have had that moment when you‘ve done and said something stupid. And if you have teenagers, then odds are you’ve lost your temper and shouted. Loudly. But for God’s sake! Who in their right minds would ever let someone put cameras in their homes?  That action right there, and not than the yelling and swearing, is what bespeaks a sick mind.

I would like to tell you that were you to watch me write, you’d see this: I enter my beautifully decorated (and spotless) writing area. It has a view of the early morning sun bouncing off the rolling ocean. I am showered. My hair is artfully pulled back into one of those carelessly looking soft buns that actually take hours to perfect. I am wearing white linen pants and a light sweater. As I sit at my antique desk, my golden retrievers flopped loyally at my side. I take a sip of my hot tea and begin typing with a quiet intensity. I remain that way for three hours.

However, such a scene exists only in my mind. Were I actually to allow cameras in my home, here is what you’d see.  I enter the kitchen. It is a disaster of dirty breakfast dishes and open cereal boxes. I have not showered. I am wearing torn sweatpants and an old t-shirt. My hair is best left to the care of trained professionals. I stumbled to my desk off the kitchen. My writing area overlooks the backyard, which is littered with soccer balls, lacrosse balls, nets, and what appears to be a pair of dirty socks. Both of my golden retrievers push runs past me; one with a pair of shoes in his mouth, the other with what appears to be my checkbook. After a lengthy chase, I finally sit at my desk. I type. Then I read. Then I chase the dogs again. Then I type. Then I have an idea that needs verification and so I look it up on the Internet. Then I see that Nordstrom’s is having a sale of sorts and so I bop over to that site for a while. Then I think maybe having some chocolate might be a good idea because I just read that dark chocolate is a “super food.” From there I wander over to the cupboard to see if we have any. We don’t. But we do have milk chocolate. I wonder if that counts. I decide it does and eat it. I resume my seat at my desk and reread what I’ve written. (This is usually where the cursing occurs.) Then I repeat everything again.

Were you to be forced to watch this you would begin screaming yourself. It’s a bit like that odd adage – you might like sausage, but you sure as hell don’t want to see how it’s made.

I would say it’s the same with books. You might like them, but you don’t want to watch them made.

About the Author

Tracy Kiely is a self-proclaimed Anglophile (a fact which distresses certain members of her Irish Catholic family). She grew up reading Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, and watching Hitchcock movies. She fell in love with Austen’s wit, Christie’s clever plots, and Hitchcock’s recurrent theme of “the average man caught in extraordinary circumstances.”

After spending years of trying to find a proper job that would enable her to use her skills garnered as an English major, she decided to write a book. It would, of course, have to be a mystery; it would have to be funny; and it would have to feature an average person caught up in extraordinary circumstances. She began to wonder how the characters in Pride and Prejudice might fit into a mystery. What, if after years of living with unbearably rude and condescending behavior, old Mrs. Jenkins up and strangled Lady Catherine? What if Charlotte snapped one day and poisoned Mr. Collins’ toast and jam? Skip ahead several years, and several different plot ideas, and you have her first mystery Murder at Longbourn.

While she does not claim to be Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, or Hitchcock (one big reason being that they’re all dead), she has tried to combine the elements of all three in her books.

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