Last Dance Before Dawn by Katharine Schellman ~ Historical Mystery ~ @partnersincr1me

LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN

by Katharine Schellman

May 25 - June 19, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

The Nightingale Mysteries

 

Vivian Kelly has finally created a home and a family at the glamorous speakeasy known as The Nightingale, where no one cares who you are in the daytime. After all, in the underground world of 1920s New York City, everyone has a secret to keep, and they’re on the Nightingale's dance floor to leave those secrets behind. But sometimes it takes more than a dance to escape your past.

When a stranger from Chicago shows up at The Nightingale looking to settle old scores, Vivian and the Nightingale's owner, the mysterious and alluring Honor Huxley, send him packing. They soon discover, though, that the stranger was just a warning. Slowly, the people who have made The Nightingale their home realize that someone is following them. Hunting them. And that someone won’t stop until they unravel a mystery that’s been cold for years: a missing girl, a boy out for revenge, and a truck full of cash that disappeared in a job gone horribly wrong.

Vivian just wants to protect the people she loves, and she's willing to dig into the dirt of the past to make it happen. But some questions are safer left unanswered, and now that Vivian has built a family for herself, she has more to lose than ever before.

Now experience this Edgar Award–nominated historical mystery in paperback!

Praise for Last Dance Before Dawn:

"A lively, sprawling crime story that captures the vibrancy of the Roaring ’20s."
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Minotaur Books
Publication Date: May 26, 2026 | Paperback
Number of Pages: 350
ISBN: 978-1250325822
Series: The Nightingale Mysteries, Book 4 || Amazon, Goodreads, Macmillan Publishers
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Macmillan Publishers

Read an Excerpt:

Manhattan, 1925

Everyone came to the Nightingale looking for something.

They didn’t have much else in common, the folks who snuck down the alley toward a single electric light that flickered like it had been forgotten for years and could burn out at any moment. You never knew who would whisper the password at the door under the light, who would make their way through the midnight velvet curtains that muffled loud laughter and louder jazz.

Maybe your family could have bought half of Fifth Avenue, or maybe you couldn’t even buy new shoes. More likely, you lived somewhere in between, with work that paid your bills and the hope, one day, of something a little more. At the Nightingale, it didn’t matter who you were in the daytime. If you could hold your booze and let loose on the dance floor and keep a secret for a stranger, you were in.

They came looking for excitement, for the thrill of breaking a law that no one liked anyway. They came to dance and drink and maybe find a new friend, the sort of friend who—¬ after a glass or three of champagne—¬ would meet them in a quiet corner to get a little bit friendlier.

They came because they loved the music, the way it curled through the air and carried them across the floor, the way the singer’s voice filled the room and made their hearts ache.

They came for the party. They came to escape.

If they were lucky, they could pretend that whatever waited for them back at home didn’t exist. They could lose themselves in the music and the arms of someone new. They could feel free, even if it would never last, because in that moment nothing mattered but the next dance, the next drink, the next hour.

If they were lucky, they found what they were looking for, and they left before trouble could find them.

But not everyone was lucky.

***

Vivian recognized the sound of danger before she even realized what she was hearing.

Twilight had settled on the city, humid and heavy and speckled with the glow of streetlamps. She and Beatrice Henry—¬ Beatrice Bluebird, as she was known at the Nightingale, where she sang six nights a week—¬ moved through it with the practiced carefulness of two women who were used to navigating New York’s streets alone. Their steps were quick, but their eyes were quicker, always on the lookout for a man who might be trouble or a cop who might be trailing them.

The Nightingale paid off the police weekly, like any other dance hall or juice joint. But everyone who worked there knew to be wary just the same.

It was that wariness that sent a prickle of warning down Vivian’s back when they were two blocks from the Nightingale’s back entrance.

“Bea—¬ ” Vivian tossed out a hand to stop her friend in the middle of the sidewalk. A few steps ahead of them, a cat yowled as it ran out of a narrow alley. “You hear that?”

For a moment, the only sound out of the ordinary was the distant grumble of thunder. Then Vivian heard it again.

“Look a little closer, pal.” The voice was low and menacing, snaking out of the shadows and clearly not meant to be overheard. “I want to make sure you and me is on the same page.”

“Viv—¬ ” Bea hissed, but Vivian couldn’t help herself; she took a step forward, just enough to peek down the alley.

Halfway down the narrow stretch of filthy brick walls, two men were just visible in the fast-¬ fading light. One had his back against a wall. He was the taller of the two, but he still shrank back from the menacing bulk of the second figure. That one loomed toward him, his wide shoulders cutting off any escape as he shoved some kind of paper toward the nervous man’s face.

“—told you, when I have something, I’ll let you—”

The menacing man shoved him against the wall, the gesture nearly careless enough to hide the violence of it. The voice broke off with a grunt of pain, but it had been enough. Usually, Vivian would have stayed far away from anything that sounded like a beating and wasn’t her business. But she recognized that voice.

“Don’t interrupt,” the menacing man snarled. “My boss don’t take kindly to rude fu—”

“It’s Spence,” Vivian hissed.

Bea tried to pull her away. “It’s not our business. We can tell Silence or Benny,” she whispered, naming two of the bruisers who worked at the Nightingale keeping customers—¬ and anyone else who needed it—¬ in line. “They’ll come handle it.”

“That’ll take too long.” Vivian shook her head, pulling away from Bea’s cautious hand and running down the alley toward trouble. “Hey! Leave him alone!”

The bruiser barely glanced over his shoulder at her, just cocked his fist back and drove it, almost casually, into the nervous man’s stomach. He doubled over, heaving and gasping for air, as his assailant tipped his hat mockingly. “We’ll be seeing you soon, boyo. You can count on it.”

He was gone before Vivian could reach them. She stood, panting and staring at the gap between buildings where he had disappeared. A drizzling rain began to fall, plastering her hair against her cheeks. She wasn’t dumb enough to go after him.

“You okay, Spence?” she asked instead, turning toward the remaining man as he braced his hands on his knees.

“Swell,” croaked the Nightingale’s second bartender, a lanky, mouthy, handsome grump. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently chasing off the fella who was about to beat you to a pulp,” she said, stung. Spence had been working at the Nightingale all summer and still hadn’t managed to endear himself to any of the other staff. But Vivian had expected at least some gratitude. Instead, he scowled at her like she was the one who had just punched him in the stomach, not the one who had run the attacker off. “But no need to say thanks or anything.”

He hauled himself upright, wincing. “I had it handled, you know,” he said, still sounding resentful. “I didn’t need a rescue.”

“Sure you did, pal,” Bea said, joining them at last. “That was a stupid thing to do, by the way,” she added, glancing at Vivian as she opened her umbrella and held it over both their heads. “Be glad he didn’t have a friend waiting to beat the stuffing out of you too.”

“My stuffing’s doing just fine,” Spence groused, pushing his wet hair off his forehead and straightening his jacket and tie.

“What was that about?” Vivian asked, laying a hand on his arm. “Spence? Are you in trouble?”

***

Excerpt from LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN by Katharine Schellman. Copyright 2025 by Katharine Schellman. Reproduced with permission from Katharine Schellman. All rights reserved.

 

 

Meet the Author:

Katharine Schellman is an award-winning author of historical crime fiction, including the Nightingale Mysteries and the Lily Adler Mysteries, whose work has been called “worthy of Rex Stout or Agatha Christie” (Library Journal). Her books have been nominated for an Edgar and a Silver Falchion, and she has won a Zibby Media National Book Award for "Best Book for the History Lover." A former actor, onetime political consultant, and graduate of William & Mary, Katharine lives and writes in the mountains of Virginia.

Catch Up With Katharine Schellman:

www.katharineschellman.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @katharineschellman
BookBub - @katharineschellman
Instagram - @katharinewrites
Facebook - @katharineschellman

 

Tour Participants:

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Book #Review ~ The Pint of No Return (A Sloan Krause Mystery #2) by Ellie Alexander ~ #CozyMystery @MinotaurBooks

Book Details:

Print Length: 283 pages

Publisher: Minotaur Books

Publication Date: October 2, 2018

Sold by: Macmillan

ASIN: B079DV6VXV

Purchase Link: Amazon

About the Book:

No other festival compares to Oktoberfest in Leavenworth, Washington. The whole town is buzzing with excitement over this year’s activities and eagerly awaiting Nitro’s latest offering Cherrywizen, made with locally sourced cherries. But local brewmaster Sloan Krause is tapped out. Between trying to manage the pub, her pending divorce with Mac, and her mounting feelings for Garrett, she’s fermenting in internal turmoil.

To complicate matters, dreamy movie star Mitchell Morgan and his production crew have arrived in the village to film during the authentic Bavarian brewfest. Mitchell has his eye on Sloan and a taste for Nitro’s Cherrywizen. Sloan escapes his advances for good when she finds Mitchell slumped over the bar. Is this a case of one pint too many, or has Mitchell been murdered by microbrew?

Read My Review Here:

https://reviewsbysaph.blogspot.com/2020/01/book-review-pint-of-no-return-sloan.html

Book Excerpt & #Giveaway ~ Go To My Grave by Catriona McPherson ~ #Mystery @CatrionaMcP

LOCK IT IN A BOX. STITCH MY LIPS. AND GO TO MY GRAVE.

About the Book:

Donna Weaver has put everything she has into restoring The Breakers, an old bed and breakfast on a remote stretch of beach in Galloway. Now it sits waiting—freshly painted, richly furnished, filled with flowers—for the first guests to arrive.

But Donna's guests, a contentious group of estranged cousins, soon realize that they’ve been here before, years ago. Decades have passed, but that night still haunts them: a sixteenth birthday party that started with peach schnapps and ended with a girl walking into the sea.

Each of them had made a vow of silence: “lock it in a box, stitch my lips, and go to my grave.”

But now someone has broken the pact. Amid the home-baked scones and lavish rooms, someone is playing games, locking boxes, stitching lips. And before the weekend is over, at least one of them will go to their grave. 

Book Information:

Print Length: 304 pages
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Publication Date: October 23, 2018
Sold by: Macmillan
ASIN: B079DWLWXX

Purchase from Amazon

Read an Excerpt:

Prologue 

This is the story of three days last September when eight old friends gathered in a beautiful house by the sea. There was food, wine and laughter, and then the friends went their separate ways. That’s the truth and nothing but the truth. The story is over. We have locked the box, swallowed the key and stitched our lips shut. Will that be enough? I don’t know. It took twenty-five years, after last time, for the stitches to unravel, the key to burn through our guts, the box to rust and weaken. But this time’s different. There’s so much more to lose. I can’t speak for the others but I’ll keep this secret and go to my grave.

Chapter One

The house was a held breath. Its ten empty rooms waited, polished like a bowl of apples. There were flowers in the hall and in the big bay windows of the drawing room and dining room. There were logs in the baskets and candles in the holders. The snooker balls were framed and the magazines were fanned and every window was open an inch at the top, not enough to make the curtains tremble but enough to let in the sound of the sea.

The sea. You couldn’t get away from it even if you wanted to. From every room you could hear it, thrashing up on the beach and rattling the pebbles as it drew back again. You could smell it under the lemon cleaner and beeswax polish, under the lilies and freesias and the eucalyptus. You could see it in a film on the west-facing windows, little dots of wet salt back again hours after washing them. And in the shiver of damp when the sun sank and the squabble of gulls when it rose again, there was the sea.

Of course I’d grown up on an island so I was used to it.

Although we’d never lived right on the seafront on Skye, because those houses are worth more rented to tourists than sold to locals. Which was exactly the point: the hard cash value of the sound of the sea.

I walked up the stairs one last time, in and out of the five bedrooms. Pillows plumped, blankets smooth, tissues folded into fans. More flowers. In and out of the five bathrooms. Thick towels laid over warmed rails. Big bars of good soap unwrapped in every glittering dish. Not a drop of water or a speck of dust in the baths.

The house had seventeen rooms really, but the kitchen didn’t count and the breakfast room attached to it was the ‘staff lounge’. In other words, the dumping ground for sup- plies. The two smallest bedrooms didn’t count either, because the nearest bathroom was down the back stairs, past the laundry facilities. We couldn’t rent beds without en suites. Not at the prices we were charging. So they were ‘staff accom- modation’ too.

And that was why the little room at the top of the stairs was called a snug in the brochure, even though it had a sofa- bed for overflow. Or – as my mum said – for flouncing off to after arguments.

I spent two late nights on Amazon choosing jigsaws and board games. My mum raised her eyebrows at the bill but she didn’t argue. Hospitality was my end of this little venture, along with catering. I know my stuff and she trusts me.

I had to blink at the cost of the high-speed Wi-Fi, not to mention the fax and scanner and the extra-fast colour-printer down in the study, but I trusted her too. Holidays would be our bread and butter, she told me, but corporate retreats were the geese that shat the golden shit, second only to weddings.

And Galloway’s cheap property and dark night skies with the excellent star-gazing – we had provided binoculars and a telescope – went hand-in-hand with pitiful connectivity. ‘But I can outwit all that,’ she said. ‘By the time I’m finished we’ll have download speeds like a bank in Manhattan.’

She spent a lot longer than two late nights setting the search terms so that corporations, brides and holiday-makers would all find us, no matter what they thought they were looking for. She knows her stuff too. The website had been live less than a day when we got the first booking.

It was a tenth wedding anniversary. Eight old friends coming down from Glasgow, over from Edinburgh, up from England for a reunion. They bought the full-catered package: Friday tea till Monday breakfast, with a big dinner on the Saturday night. Which was why I was wearing black trousers and a starched white shirt with an apron on top as I padded round the rooms.

If only my mum had been there too I’d have been padding round without my knees knocking. As it was, I was doing this whole weekend – eight people, four meals a day, five counting drinks and nibbles – on my lonesome.

‘It sucks hard and blows back out again,’ my mum agreed, when the news broke, ‘and if you say no, it’s no. So . . . what do you say?’

Because the thing is we had entered every competition going – as you would, starting up on a shoestring – and we had won one. The prize was free registration and a corner stand on the central aisle at Scotland’s biggest wedding fair, at the SECC in Glasgow. We were still pinching ourselves.

‘I’m more the business end anyway,’ she’d said. True, but she can wash dishes and scrub toilets and she’s great with names. It’s always been my worst weakness, despite all the tricks and hacks in the book. It’s the reason I prefer high-end, where you can ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ your way through everything. ‘I promise I’ll keep up with the bookings online in the quiet minutes,’ she’d told me. ‘But it’s your call, Donna. Coal face and all that.’

‘I can do it,’ I announced. ‘If we ditch the pan-seared scallops and soufflés, I can do it. But are you sure you can do the expo? You’ll be more knackered than me.’

‘We can both do it,’ she said. ‘We’re unstoppable.’

A car door slammed, out on the gravel. I nipped to the side of the window and looked down. A navy-blue Range Rover had pulled up, slantwise, right across the front door, and a man was standing there with his head thrown back, staring so the house was reflected in his sunglasses.

He had to be one of the guests. He was dressed exactly like a townie dresses for a country weekend: brand-new cords, brand-new waxed jacket the same colour as his car, an inch of a checked collar showing above the neck of his cashmere. I edged in closer to the glass for a better look and, as I did, the passenger door opened and a girl stepped out. A woman. She matched him like the other side of the cuckoo clock: long legs in dark red jeans, tall boots, a sheepskin gilet over her angora. She was beaming and her hair bounced and shone as she skipped round the back of the car to stand beside the man. She took his arm and squeezed, then reached up onto her tiptoes and pecked his cheek.

It happened too fast for me to be sure. One minute she was kissing him, holding onto his arm, and the next she was sprawled on her arse. I’d have said she overbalanced, if he had stooped to help her up again. If she was still beaming.

But he was back in the car and she scrambled to her feet, rubbing her hands on her red jeans. Heels of your hands on the gravel like that, they had to be stinging. The car was moving and she hopped and hobbled after it. She managed to get the door open and herself into the seat as he gunned the engine and squealed away.

I trotted down the stairs without touching the banister. It gleamed like an eel, with not a single fingermark along its length. Even though that had been a false alarm, I thought I should get the scones in the oven. The smell of baking when the guests arrive is a basic move. There’s nothing complicated about a batch of cherry scones, but knowing they’ve been baked fresh just for you works wonders on the toughest guest.

And doing it calmed me too. I stepped outside afterwards, wiping my hands on my apron, and found – as I’d suspected

– that the sunglasses man had left a scar on the gravel when he peeled away. I took the rake from where it was leaning half behind the ivy on the long front porch and started scraping the ruts flat again. There was the print of her skinny bum and the two small dents from her hands. I smoothed them away with two swipes of my rake. Then I stopped. I nudged at the little bit of granite until it turned back again, showing the speck of red. She had fallen hard enough to break the skin and bleed.

I picked it up – that one red chip in the sea of perfect silver-grey – and put it in my pocket, beside the petals I’d tidied from a table-top and the white thread I’d lifted from a black hand-towel. Then I raised my head at the sound of an engine round the bend of the drive. They were coming back, or someone was arriving.

I didn’t have time to get out of sight unless I took the rake with me so I stashed it back among the ivy and waited on the step like a welcome party.

It was a different car. This one was a red hatchback, sitting low on its suspension. The driver tooted a tune – Tum-tiddly- aye-la! – as it got close and someone waved at me from the passenger seat. I wiggled my fingers in reply as the car slowed and stopped.

It was another couple. Or maybe not, I thought as they climbed out, since both of them had the same short legs and thick waists, the same brown eyes. His hair was clumsily cut into a divot and hers had highlighted spikes, but it was the same hair.

‘Unbe-fucking-lievable!’ said the man. He was standing staring up at the house like the Range Rover guy, knuckling his back and pushing his paunch out like a pregnancy.

‘It’s not,’ said the woman. ‘It can’t be. Glancing similarity.’ Then she smiled at me. ‘You must be Kim.’ She scurried forward, trying to get her bag, coat, phone and a bunch of flowers out of the way to shake my hand. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you at long last.’

‘I’m Donna Weaver,’ I said. ‘Welcome to The Breakers.

You’re the first to arrive.’

‘Donna?’ said the man. ‘What the hell happened to Kim?’ His voice swooped with concern, but his eyes were twinkling. ‘Shut up, Buck,’ the woman said. ‘Ow.’ An earring had caught on her fluffy jumper and her head jerked to the side as she fiddled with it.

‘Here,’ I said, stepping forward. ‘Let me. I’m Donna from Home From Home. I’m going to be looking after you for the weekend.’

‘Oh, you’re a sweetheart,’ the woman said, working her neck round, now the earring was free again. ‘I’m Peach Plummer.’

‘Peach,’ I repeated, staring hard at her. I was trying to get her name into my head. She misread me.

‘God, don’t I know!’ she said. ‘But my real name’s Morag.

And this is my brother, Buck.’

Peach, I told myself. Round and fuzzy. And sweary Buck.

Rhymes with—

‘Buchanan Leslie,’ the man said, shaking my hand. ‘The curse of my mother’s maiden name. If you’re trying to tick us off on your sheet, you should know that my wife’s not coming. One of the ankle-biters has come down with tonsillitis and she drew the short straw.’

‘Hmm,’ said Peach. ‘We’ll measure the straws on Sunday, shall we?’

‘Right then, Donna-from-Home-from-Home,’ Buck said, after a moment’s silence. ‘When you say you’re looking after us, are you unpacking the car and ironing our jimmy-jams or should we—’

‘Shut up, Buck.’

‘I’ll show you to your rooms and then leave you to unpa—’ I began, but he spoke over me.

‘No need to show us anything, Donna. Every nook and cranny is seared into our brains, despite all the therapy.’

‘We think we’ve been here before, you see,’ Peach said. ‘But it wasn’t called The Breakers then.’

‘That’s right,’ I told them. ‘It had a name-change. It used to be . . . Knockbreak House, I think.’

‘That’s right enough, then,’ said Buck. ‘God almighty.’ ‘Welcome back!’ I spread my arms.

‘I’d still love to see over it,’ said Peach. ‘It was a right old dump when we were kids. And look at it now.’

‘But don’t look at it with a black light,’ Buck said. ‘Just kidding,’ he added. He even gave me a wink.

But I didn’t miss the way he hesitated on the porch before he walked through into the vestibule. I was holding the inner glass door for him and, as he passed, I could see his arm where his sleeve was rucked up and the gooseflesh that bristled there.

Praise for Catriona McPherson and GO TO MY GRAVE:

“GO TO MY GRAVE is both a classic ‘country house mystery’ and a thriller. Atmospheric, with mind-bending twists, a narrator who may or may not be reliable, and an ending that will take your breath away and leave you astonished.” – Louise Penny

“A Gothic feast of a novel, this is a country house book with a difference: contemporary, punchy and disturbing, but using the tricks and twists of the best of Christie.” – Ann Cleeves

“GO TO MY GRAVE is a terrific mystery—sharp, devious, and suspenseful. Catriona McPherson has written another winner.” – Meg Gardiner 

Additional Praise for Catriona McPherson:

“Unnerving and suspenseful ... McPherson's best yet.” – Karin Slaughter on House. Tree. Person.

“A one-sitting read.” – Kirkus Reviews (starred review) on House. Tree. Person.

“Both cozy and creepy ... quirky charm.” – The New York Times on Quiet Neighbors

“The definition of a good book.” – Charlaine Harris on Quiet Neighbors

“Layer upon layer of deception ... a fine read.” – Kirkus Reviews (starred review) on Quiet Neighbors

“Outstanding.” – Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Quiet Neighbors

“Complex and character-driven ... atmospheric and suspenseful.” – Library Journal (starred review) on Quiet Neighbors

“A warmhearted character study ... that shivers with suspense.” – The New York Times on The Child Garden

“Agatha Christie meets Upstairs Downstairs ... [For] fans of Phyrne Fisher and Maisie Dobbs.”
– Publishers Weekly on the Dandy Gilver Mysteries

“A dandy series from a Scottish-born author; wit, humor, clues, and red herrings abound.” – The Boston Globe on the Dandy Gilver Mysteries

Enter the Giveaway:

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Book #Review: Bel, Book and Scandal (Belfast McGrath Mystery, Book 3) by Maggie McConnon #CozyMystery

About the Book:

Maggie McConnon rings in Christmas in Bel, Book, and Scandal, the third adventure for everybody's favorite Irish-American culinary artist turned amateur sleuth.

Bel McGrath tries her best to keep herself on the straight and narrow but she just has a taste for trouble. This time danger arrives in the form of a newspaper left behind by visitors to Shamrock Manor--and a photograph that jolts Bel out of the present and back into a dark chapter from her past. The person in the photo is Bel's best friend Amy Mitchell, long gone from Foster's Landing, at a commune in upstate New York shortly after her disappearance. The picture, and Bel's burning desire to find out what happened to Amy--and whether she may still be alive--is the catalyst for a story in which old secrets are revealed, little by little...and certain characters are shown to not be as genuine as Bel once thought.

Book Details:

Bel, Book and Scandal

Belfast McGrath Mystery, Book 3

Maggie McConnon

Print Length: 315 pages

Publisher: St. Martin's Paperbacks

Publication Date: December 5, 2017

Sold by: Macmillan

ASIN: B0719HBMG8

Amazon

Goodreads

Bel, Book and Scandal is another wonderful book in Maggie McConnon's Belfast McGrath Mystery Series. 

Being the head chef at Shamrock Manor, owned by her parents, Bel is always busy. She does not have much of a social life to speak of and her love life is non-existent. When potential customers come to the Manor to explore the location for an upcoming summer wedding, the couple, whose daughter is getting married in May, remember Bel from the scandal at her last place of employment. Upon leaving the Manor, Alison accidentally leaves the newspaper behind that she had been using to track local antique stores. When Bel finds the paper she can hardly believe who is in the picture supporting an article about a local commune that was a bit north of Foster's Landing. Her long lost best friend Amy Mitchell stares out from an older photograph - and now Bel can't sit idly by not knowing whether her friend is actually still alive. Her sleuthing takes her to the place where the local commune used to be and few people in the town are happy to have the subject revisited. Some are even willing to lie to Bel about any knowledge regarding Amy. 

When the pieces of this mystery are finally put together correctly, prepare to be shocked by the outcome. The author does a great job in all three books building up to what we receive in Bel, Book and Scandal. Between the anguish concerning the long standing mystery surrounding Amy as well as the new revelations, the book takes the reader through a myriad of emotions, actions, characters, and scenes. 

As with the previous books, Bel, Book and Scandal isn't your typical light-hearted cozy mystery. There are some light and humorous moments but overall, the book has many serious overtones. The author does a great job taking multiple story lines and weaving them together into a fantastic and cohesive book of mysteries. There are many twists and turns that take the characters and the reader on a wild journey that doesn't just involve weddings and Amy's disappearance.

I enjoyed Bel, Book and Scandal as both the traditional cozy mystery but also as a more suspenseful book. The characters have their different quirks that add to overall tone of the book and each one is well developed. The story is well-told and full of twists and turns that keeps the reader guessing. The plot is pretty solid; I didn't read anything that didn't make sense or contradicted a previous statement or action. 

I was engaged with this fast paced novel from the very beginning. I wasn't bogged down with useless or filler information about the characters, the location, or the backstories. The author did a great job with descriptions that were very vivid. The vividness allowed me to put together my own version of Shamrock Manor and the lives of those who dwell within. I look forward to going wherever the author takes us next with Bel - and I certainly hope she continues with this series.

I voluntarily reviewed an ARC.

My Rating:

Book Review ~ Cat About Town (Cat Cafe Mystery, Book 1) by Cate Conte #CozyMystery

Cat About Town

Cat Cafe Mystery, Book 1

Minotaur Books 

August 1, 2017

Mass Market Paperback: 304 pages

ISBN-13: 978-1250072061

E-Book ASIN: B01N0Z4ZDP

About the Book:

The first novel in a frisky new mystery series set in a small New England town, where an unlikely citizen is called in to solve the purrfect crime. . .

Maddie James has arrived in Daybreak Island, just off the coast of Massachusetts, eager to settle down and start her own business—and maybe even fall in love. When a stray orange tabby pounces into her life, she’s inspired to open a cat café. But little does Maddie know that she’s in for something a lot more catastrophic when her new furry companion finds the dead body of the town bully. Now all eyes are on Maddie: Who is this crazy cat-whisperer lady who’s come to town? If pet-hair-maintenance and crime-fighting weren’t keeping her busy enough, Maddie now has not one but two eligible bachelors who think she’s the cat’s pajamas . . . and will do anything to win her heart. But how can she even think about happily-ever-after while a killer remains on the loose—and on her path?

Maddie James is co-owner of a successful organic juice bar, Goin' Green, in San Francisco.  When her grandmother passes away, she finds herself back in Daybreak Island.  While home Maddie realizes that there are things going on in the tourist town that aren't on the up and up.  Her grandfather is being bullied by the President of the Chamber of Commerce to sell his home and property.  When her grandfather refuses, things being happening around the home.  

Amid the chaos, Maddie bonds with a stray cat who becomes her companion during the stay in Daybreak Island.  During set up of the town festival, the cat discovers the dead body of the bully in one of the tents set up through town.  Of course the local police are involved but it looks like both Maddie and her grandfather may be suspects.  Maddie and her new fluffy friend, JJ, take it upon themselves to flesh out who committed the murder.

There is a small love triangle brewing in Cat About Town but it really doesn't overshadow the main themes of the book.  Both men are good choices for Maddie based on the scant interactions we've seen.  It will be interesting to find out which direction the author takes this particular story line in future books.  I hope Maddie figures out what she's going to do about it rather quickly. 

I enjoyed Maddie's character.  She's friendly, compassionate, and easy to relate to and the way she cares for her grandfather is wonderful.  All of the secondary characters were well written, played their parts in the story, and, along with Maddie, were realistic and believable.  The character development and world building was nicely done and the pacing of the book is steady.  The book flowed along, was easy to read, and I enjoyed every bit of the story.  The author did a great job setting the stage for this mystery and provided several potential suspects.  

I voluntarily reviewed an ARC provided to me through NetGalley.

My Rating:

Book Tour & #Giveaway ~ Cat About Town (Cat Cafe Mystery, Book 1) by Cate Conte #CozyMystery

Cat About Town

by Cate Conte

Cat About Town

Cat Cafe Mystery, Book 1

Minotaur Books 

August 1, 2017

Mass Market Paperback: 304 pages

ISBN-13: 978-1250072061

E-Book ASIN: B01N0Z4ZDP

About the Book:

The first novel in a frisky new mystery series set in a small New England town, where an unlikely citizen is called in to solve the purrfect crime. . .

Maddie James has arrived in Daybreak Island, just off the coast of Massachusetts, eager to settle down and start her own business—and maybe even fall in love. When a stray orange tabby pounces into her life, she’s inspired to open a cat café. But little does Maddie know that she’s in for something a lot more catastrophic when her new furry companion finds the dead body of the town bully. Now all eyes are on Maddie: Who is this crazy cat-whisperer lady who’s come to town? If pet-hair-maintenance and crime-fighting weren’t keeping her busy enough, Maddie now has not one but two eligible bachelors who think she’s the cat’s pajamas . . . and will do anything to win her heart. But how can she even think about happily-ever-after while a killer remains on the loose—and on her path?

My review can be found here:  

https://saphsbooks.blogspot.com/2017/08/book-review-cat-about-town-cat-cafe.html

Meet the Author:

Cate Conte is the alter ego of Liz Mugavero. Liz is the author of the Pawsitively Organic Mystery series from Kensington Books, the first of which was an Agatha nominee for Best First Novel. As you can imagine, her canine and feline rescues demand the best organic food and treats around. She is a member of Sisters in Crime National, Sisters in Crime New England, Mystery Writers of America, and the Cat Writers’ Association. She currently lives in Connecticut.

Author Links:

Webpage – http://www.lizmugavero.com;

Twitter – https://twitter.com/lizmugavero;

GoodReads – http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6475412.Liz_Mugavero;

Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/pages/Liz-Mugavero/329291780446231;

Purchase Links

Amazon – B&N

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