Determined to make the First Edition Library a success, Hayley Burke wasn’t expecting to have to solve an old friend’s murder in this all-new mystery from USA Today bestselling author Marty Wingate. Hayley Burke, curator of Lady Fowling's collection of first edition mysteries, is settling into her position at the First Edition Library in Middlebank House. She's even made progress with Lady Fowling's former secretary, the ornery Miss Woolgar. The women are busily preparing for an exhibition that will showcase Lady Fowling's life and letters. Hayley knows the exhibition is a huge undertaking and decides, against her better judgement, to hire Oona Atherton, her former boss from the Jane Austen Centre to help with the planning. Oona is known for being difficult, but all seems to be going swimmingly until she and Hayley uncover a one-page letter that alludes to a priceless edition of MURDER MUST ADVERTISE signed by several Golden Age of Mystery authors. Oona feels this book could be the focal point of the exhibition and becomes obsessed with finding it. When they find clues that appear to point to the book being somewhere in the First Edition Library, Oona is certain she's unraveled the mystery and texts Hayley the good news, but upon arriving back at Middlebank, Hayley finds her old boss dead at the bottom of the stairs. Did her discovery of the rare book get her killed or was it some angry shadow from her past? Hayley must read between the lines to catch a malicious murderer. A Seattle native, Marty Wingate is a member of the Royal Horticultural Society and leads garden tours through England, Scotland, and Ireland when she is not killing people in fiction. 9781984804136
excerpt Wingate / MURDER IS A MUST 1 The taxi drove west away from the rail station, avoiding the Monday-evening commuter traffic on Manvers Street. Instead, we encountered it along Green Park. Skirting Queen Square, we swung round the Circus, where lights twinkled in the austere Georgian terraces that formed the circle—doing their small part against the January darkness. No quicker a journey than walking, and certainly not cheaper, but I’d had no energy for the hike from the train up to Middlebank House. Perhaps I should’ve done. Nervous excitement had built up during my afternoon journey from Liverpool to Bath—my tummy atwitter at the thought of the First Edition Society’s inaugural literary salon. It would be my first official public event as curator, and would go live in only twenty-four hours. Nerves were the order of the day. When I walked into the entry, Mrs. Woolgar, Society secretary, shot out of her office and, dispensing with formalities, said, “Ms. Burke, a man delivered six cases of wine this afternoon. I had him leave them in the kitchenette, but—will we need that much?” “I tell you what,” I said, dropping my case next to the hallstand and hanging up my coat. “If they don’t drink it all during the salon tomorrow evening, you and I can finish it off after everyone’s left.” Behind her glasses, Mrs. Woolgar’s eyes grew large. “Well, I hardly think—” She caught herself. “Or we’ll keep it until next week’s salon,” I said. “And the next or however long it lasts. We saved fifteen pounds with a large order.” “And Professor Fish? You’re certain he’ll arrive early enough tomorrow—and Mr. Moffatt knows to collect him?” Actually, Arthur Fish wasn’t a professor—he was a tutor at a college in London. But as he was our lecturer for the inaugural salon, I thought it better not to press the point. Titles and position meant a great deal to Mrs. Woolgar. “Mr. Fish will come down on the train and arrive by midday, and Val will meet him.” I’d been over this with her, but repeating it helped me as much as I hoped it helped her. “I’ve a cold lunch arranged”—or would have, as soon as I did the shopping in the morning at Waitrose—“and he’ll have a quiet afternoon to sort himself out over a cup of tea.” While she tried to think of another potential disaster—my reading on the situation—the secretary smoothed the cutwork collar on her dress. She wore her usual-style frock, a narrow skirt and wide lapel, this one navy with matching belt. I admit to a bit of envy at Mrs. Woolgar’s 1930s wardrobe. Narrow skirts didn’t suit me. “Still,” she said, “I’m not entirely comfortable with the title of his talk—‘Fifty Ways to Murder.’ Rather sensational.” I might’ve conceded her point but for the fact it was also the title of his popular book and that Middlebank was home to the First Edition library, a stunning collection of books from the women authors of the Golden Age of Mystery. It had been the lifetime passion of Lady Georgiana Fowling, who, through her élan and generous nature, had garnered the love and admiration of the people of Bath and the worldwide membership of the Society. Her ladyship had died almost four years ago at the grand old age of ninety-four and, sadly but inevitably, during the last few years of
excerpt Wingate / MURDER IS A MUST 1 The taxi drove west away from the rail station, avoiding the Monday-evening commuter traffic on Manvers Street. Instead, we encountered it along Green Park. Skirting Queen Square, we swung round the Circus, where lights twinkled in the austere Georgian terraces that formed the circle—doing their small part against the January darkness. No quicker a journey than walking, and certainly not cheaper, but I’d had no energy for the hike from the train up to Middlebank House. Perhaps I should’ve done. Nervous excitement had built up during my afternoon journey from Liverpool to Bath—my tummy atwitter at the thought of the First Edition Society’s inaugural literary salon. It would be my first official public event as curator, and would go live in only twenty-four hours. Nerves were the order of the day. When I walked into the entry, Mrs. Woolgar, Society secretary, shot out of her office and, dispensing with formalities, said, “Ms. Burke, a man delivered six cases of wine this afternoon. I had him leave them in the kitchenette, but—will we need that much?” “I tell you what,” I said, dropping my case next to the hallstand and hanging up my coat. “If they don’t drink it all during the salon tomorrow evening, you and I can finish it off after everyone’s left.” Behind her glasses, Mrs. Woolgar’s eyes grew large. “Well, I hardly think—” She caught herself. “Or we’ll keep it until next week’s salon,” I said. “And the next or however long it lasts. We saved fifteen pounds with a large order.” “And Professor Fish? You’re certain he’ll arrive early enough tomorrow—and Mr. Moffatt knows to collect him?” Actually, Arthur Fish wasn’t a professor—he was a tutor at a college in London. But as he was our lecturer for the inaugural salon, I thought it better not to press the point. Titles and position meant a great deal to Mrs. Woolgar. “Mr. Fish will come down on the train and arrive by midday, and Val will meet him.” I’d been over this with her, but repeating it helped me as much as I hoped it helped her. “I’ve a cold lunch arranged”—or would have, as soon as I did the shopping in the morning at Waitrose—“and he’ll have a quiet afternoon to sort himself out over a cup of tea.” While she tried to think of another potential disaster—my reading on the situation—the secretary smoothed the cutwork collar on her dress. She wore her usual-style frock, a narrow skirt and wide lapel, this one navy with matching belt. I admit to a bit of envy at Mrs. Woolgar’s 1930s wardrobe. Narrow skirts didn’t suit me. “Still,” she said, “I’m not entirely comfortable with the title of his talk—‘Fifty Ways to Murder.’ Rather sensational.” I might’ve conceded her point but for the fact it was also the title of his popular book and that Middlebank was home to the First Edition library, a stunning collection of books from the women authors of the Golden Age of Mystery. It had been the lifetime passion of Lady Georgiana Fowling, who, through her élan and generous nature, had garnered the love and admiration of the people of Bath and the worldwide membership of the Society. Her ladyship had died almost four years ago at the grand old age of ninety-four and, sadly but inevitably, during the last few years of