"Did he or didn't he?" is the question in this third vintage mystery set during the Great Depression and starring the strong-willed and independent Marjorie McClelland. Newly betrothed and looking forward to the future, wealthy Englishman Creighton Ashcroft and mystery author Marjorie would like nothing better than to enjoy some quiet time in which to write about their adventures and plan their impending nuptials. Fate has different plans for the couple when a young mother shows up on Marjorie's doorstep asking for help to find her missing husband. Accepting the case, Marjorie and Creighton are led to an abandoned house and the dismembered body of the husband's mistress. When the husband is convicted of murder, Marjorie feels a nagging doubt that he might not have been guilty. Can her fiancé keep Marjorie's sleuthing nature under wraps or will he be willing to jump in and help her solve another mystery? The spirited third installment in Meade’s bewitching Marjorie McClelland mystery series finds her adventurous heroine fending off the wacky and tacky assistance of family and friends who have immersed themselves in planning her upcoming wedding to debonair Englishman Creighton Ashcroft. Nuptial details quickly take a backseat, however, when a distraught young woman arrives on Marjorie’s doorstep, tearfully pleading for the couple’s assistance in locating her missing husband. Curious clues quickly lead the amateur sleuths to the husband’s secret love nest, where the mutilated body of his mistress turns out to be just the first of the corpses Marjorie and Creighton encounter throughout Meade’s elaborate tale of revenge and betrayal. When Marjorie’s mystery-writer’s intuition kicks into high gear, the couple is challenged to a contest of investigative prowess by the head of the local police force, Marjorie’s ex-fiancé, Detective Robert Jameson. Sprightly characters, saucy dialogue, and supple pacing are once again winsomely showcased in Meade’s sassy paean to those zany Depression-era, romantic detective duos. --Carol Haggas Author of the critically acclaimed Marjorie McClelland Mysteries, Amy Patricia Meade is a native of Long Island, N.Y., where she earned bachelor's degrees in English and business. She enjoys traveling, cooking and classic films, and is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Her Pret' Near Perfect Mystery series debuts this November with Well-Offed in Vermont , and she is the author of the forthcoming Rosie the Riveter Mystery series (Kensington). Meade now lives in Vermont and spends the long New England winters writing mysteries with a humorous or historical bent.   One “You nearly killed her!” declared the desiccated man, his voice rising in indignation. CreightonAshcroft did a double take at Walter Schutt. “I beg your pardon?” “Our Sharon. It nearly killed her when you took off the way you did,” the wizened bookstore owner explained. “Without so much as a word! And then breaking off your engagement to be with the McClelland girl. It’s disgraceful!” Creighton ran a hand through his chestnut hair and heaved a loud sigh. “Mr. Schutt, Sharon and I were never engaged.” “No ring was exchanged, no, but there was an understanding.” Creighton shook his head in disbelief. To the other residents of Ridgebury, Connecticut, the year was 1935, but to Walter Schutt and his narrow frame of reference, it may as well be the turn of the century―the nineteenth century. “Understanding? We had no ‘understanding.’ I took her to the pictures a few times―that’s all.” “You were courting her, weren’t you?” “No … maybe … perhaps, in a manner of speaking.” “Well, to you it may have been just speaking, but to her it was serious.” “Now see here, Mr. Schutt, I never promised Sharon anything.” The shopkeeper pulled a face. “No, young fellas like you don’t promise anything, do ya? But you do your best to lead a sweet young thing like my Sharon to believe otherwise!” The presence of the words “sweet” and “Sharon” in the same sentence made Creighton wince. “Think what you like, Mr. Schutt, but my intentions toward Sharon were never anything less than honorable. I’m sure she can verify that I never laid a finger on her.” Creighton cringed again as he envisioned physical contact with the moon-faced girl. “Even more reason for her to believe you were a gentleman.” Schutt clicked his tongue chidingly. “Poor thing cried into her pillow every night for a week.” With this statement, the spherical shape of Sharon Schutt appeared from behind a curtain that divided the shop from a rear office. The girl was grinning ear-to-ear as she launched her piglike countenance into a cupcake piled high with whipped cream and topped with a maraschino cherry. “Isn’t that right, Sharon?” Schutt placed an affectionate arm around his youngest daughter. “Hmph?” The girl questioned as crumbs streamed from her mouth. “I told Mr. Ashcroft how you cried into your pillow every night for a week after he left.” “Huh?” Sharon answe