Hannah Claire, a grannie-from-hell detective, is at the heart of Anne K. Edwards' terrific mystery, Death on Delivery, and if you don’t love Hannah, you don’t have a heart. First, a disclaimer. As a fellow mystery author who likes violence, sex and 300-mph-action, I don’t like modern “cozies.” I find them unbearably unrealistic and so sweet they set my teeth on edge.
But Death on Delivery isn't really a cozy. Instead, it hearkens back to the good old days when Agatha Christie’s freakish imagination and gentle wryness were lighting up the British book scene. Edwards’ story is not saccharine; it is black, psychologically astute comedy. Death on Delivery is the type of book you don’t read so much because you believe what is happening, but because of the author’s dead-on understanding of human nature.
The story begins when greedy Jania Yewbanks gets her death “ordered up and delivered,” by her disgustingly self-righteous husband. Rid of a nasty woman whose death is “delivered” in a way that lets him off the hook, the husband figures he’s now on easy street.
But Hannah is on the case—and it’s pretty clear from the start that Hannah always gets her man. No spoilers in this review, you’ll have to read the book for yourself. But a number of entertaining sub-plots intertwine which keeps the surprises coming. The story finishes strong—with Hannah Claire proving she sleuth with the best out there in detectivedom.
Like Agatha Christie once did, Edwards takes a lot of chances with Death on Delivery, such as letting readers in on whodunit on the second page. The next 300 pages are crowded with outcasts—eccentrics, lovelorn old maids, criminals, scoundrels –you’ll recognize your entire family before it’s done.
The best part is that Edwards’ wit and wisdom helps us laugh at those who drive us nuts on a daily basis. A convenient catharsis for those days when (tell the truth, now) we all are wondering how we could order up our own: Death on Delivery.
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