Mystery
![Jilly Gagnon - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_jilly_gagnon.jpg)
All Dressed Up: A Novel
A remote hotel. A murder mystery. A missing woman. Everyone has a role to play, but what's real and what's part of the game?
"Jilly Gagnon's well-crafted maze of clues and shifting realities is the perfect read for fans of Lucy Foley."-Wendy Walker, bestselling author of All Is Not Forgotten
The weekend getaway at a gorgeous hotel should have been perfect. But Becca is smarting from her husband Blake's betrayal and knows that the trip is just an expensive apology attempt. Still, the drinks are strong, and the weekend has an elaborate 1920s murder mystery theme. She decides to get into the spirit and enjoy their stay.
Before long, the game is afoot: Famed speakeasy songstress Ida Crooner is found "murdered," and it's up to the guests to sniff out the culprit. Playing the role of Miss Debbie Taunte, an ingenue with a dark past, Becca dives into the world of pun-heavy clues, hammy acting, and secret passages, hoping to take her mind off her marital troubles.
Then, the morning after they arrive, the actress playing Ida's maid fails to reappear for her role. Everyone assumes she flaked out on the job, but when snooping for clues as "Debbie," Becca finds evidence that the young woman may not have left of her own free will.
Told over a nail-biting forty-eight hours and interspersed with in-game clues, set pieces, and character histories from the flapper-filled mystery nested inside a modern one, All Dressed Up is a loving tribute to classic whodunits and a riveting exploration of the secrets we keep.
"Jilly Gagnon's well-crafted maze of clues and shifting realities is the perfect read for fans of Lucy Foley."-Wendy Walker, bestselling author of All Is Not Forgotten
The weekend getaway at a gorgeous hotel should have been perfect. But Becca is smarting from her husband Blake's betrayal and knows that the trip is just an expensive apology attempt. Still, the drinks are strong, and the weekend has an elaborate 1920s murder mystery theme. She decides to get into the spirit and enjoy their stay.
Before long, the game is afoot: Famed speakeasy songstress Ida Crooner is found "murdered," and it's up to the guests to sniff out the culprit. Playing the role of Miss Debbie Taunte, an ingenue with a dark past, Becca dives into the world of pun-heavy clues, hammy acting, and secret passages, hoping to take her mind off her marital troubles.
Then, the morning after they arrive, the actress playing Ida's maid fails to reappear for her role. Everyone assumes she flaked out on the job, but when snooping for clues as "Debbie," Becca finds evidence that the young woman may not have left of her own free will.
Told over a nail-biting forty-eight hours and interspersed with in-game clues, set pieces, and character histories from the flapper-filled mystery nested inside a modern one, All Dressed Up is a loving tribute to classic whodunits and a riveting exploration of the secrets we keep.
Editorial Reviews
"Classic Agatha Christie goes meta in this wish-we'd-thought-of-it premise: a real whodunnit set against the backdrop of a 1920s-themed murder mystery weekend. Think Knives Out all dolled up as The Great Gatsby. This is a super-fun pastiche with a wicked smart plot peppered with clever clues and compelling characters."-Ellery Lloyd, New York Times bestselling author of The Club
"When a couple attend a 1920s themed murder mystery weekend to save their marriage, they find themselves in a real-life whodunnit after one of the actors disappears. Jilly Gagnon's well-crafted maze of clues and shifting realities is the perfect read for fans of Lucy Foley. All Dressed Up is mind-bending fun!"-Wendy Walker, bestselling author of All Is Not Forgotten
"Gagnon invites readers inside one seriously wicked little game with this utterly satisfying mystery. I didn't stop second-guessing myself until the very last page."-Kieran Scott, author of Wish You Were Gone
"With a deliciously creepy setting and juicy interpersonal intrigue, deftly weaves the search for a missing woman with a nuanced exploration of a marriage on the brink."-Sarah Zachrich Jeng, author of The Other Me
"Clue meets Shari Lapena's An Unwanted Guest. . . . I felt as if I was in the middle of a murder-mystery game and playing along with the characters. Such a fun read!"-Georgina Cross, author of Nanny Needed
"When a couple attend a 1920s themed murder mystery weekend to save their marriage, they find themselves in a real-life whodunnit after one of the actors disappears. Jilly Gagnon's well-crafted maze of clues and shifting realities is the perfect read for fans of Lucy Foley. All Dressed Up is mind-bending fun!"-Wendy Walker, bestselling author of All Is Not Forgotten
"Gagnon invites readers inside one seriously wicked little game with this utterly satisfying mystery. I didn't stop second-guessing myself until the very last page."-Kieran Scott, author of Wish You Were Gone
"With a deliciously creepy setting and juicy interpersonal intrigue, deftly weaves the search for a missing woman with a nuanced exploration of a marriage on the brink."-Sarah Zachrich Jeng, author of The Other Me
"Clue meets Shari Lapena's An Unwanted Guest. . . . I felt as if I was in the middle of a murder-mystery game and playing along with the characters. Such a fun read!"-Georgina Cross, author of Nanny Needed
Readers Top Reviews
Patti M
Slow paced at the start, I’m glad I stuck with one because I enjoyed the story a lot! If you’re a fan of ‘locked room’ mysteries, this double layered mystery should go straight to your to read list. Blake has whisked Becca away for a surprise theme weekend at a fancy estate in an attempt to salvage their marriage. As a surprise it is VERY successful. As a relationship rescuer? That remains to be seen. Warning her it was going to be murder mystery weekend *before* she stumbled over a “dead” body might have been a good idea… Becca decides to lean into it though - after all, she does enjoy a good mystery program - until some real mysterious happenings start to pile up. Semi overheard conversations, people behaving oddly, and a missing staff member have (almost) everyone wondering what’s part of the act and what’s real. Pinning down who is guilty of what is hard when nearly every character seems to be hiding something, but all secrets come out in the end! Thanks to NetGalley and RandomHouse/Ballantine for the ARC
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
Friday, 4:15 p.m.
The scene out the passenger side window was like something off a New England postcard: trees rolling away in every direction, a patchwork quilt picked out in a cornucopia of fall shades, drawn up around the necks of the distant hillsides against the chill in the air. I cracked the window slightly, hoping for a hint of that fall scent, part woodsmoke and part decay. Which makes it sound morbid and terrible, but I'd wear it as perfume if someone could figure out how to bottle it. That, and whatever they use in those fir-tree candles you find at the seriously overpriced boutiques around Christmas-not the cheap Yankee Candle crap, the expensive soy ones by companies named after herbs. I want to live inside those candles.
"Remember the time we went camping around here?"
I glanced across the console at Blake. He pulled his eyes away from the road just long enough to flash his wry half-smile at me, the one that brought out the dimple in his left cheek. The imbalance always made him look mischievous, as if he was plotting something he knew the powers that be would disapprove of. I used to get all melty describing his dimple to girlfriends, the feature that turned his boyishly handsome face interesting.
I thought back to that first camping trip, years ago now, just after we'd started dating. Blake had just started at Playpen, and the entire staff was on ramen-subsistence wages, "one step below ramen-profitable," according to Blake. He was still in that decrepit walk-up in Bushwick, we both still had roommates, and the need to f*** each other's brains out was still at that semiferal level that only lasts a few months, maybe a year if you're lucky. It had seemed like such a good idea-a campfire, stars twinkling overhead, miles and miles of empty woods just waiting for us to defile them . . .
I raised an eyebrow, mouth twisting into a small smile.
"What was it the doctor said?"
"I believe his exact words were ‘Never seen poison ivy there before.' " Blake turned to me again, blue eyes sparkling. "But it was more his tone. Actually calling me a degenerate scumbag would have been redundant."
"Well, you disappointed him, obviously." A laugh burst out of me. "Remember the look on his face when I asked him to check me out? I don't care how ancient the guy was, you'd think a doctor would be able to hear the word vagina without having an aneurysm."
"To be fair, when he went to medical school, the preferred term was ‘portal of shame.' I'm just lucky he prescribed calamine lotion instead of penance."
"Clearly he didn't know you well enough."
Blake's smile faltered for just a second, eyes narrowing, and just like that, there it was again, rearing up between us with a malevolent grin, Remember me? Of course I did, I couldn't forget about it for more than a few seconds, the mass of everything we weren't saying was so damned hulking I was surprised we'd been able to squeeze into the Prius alongside it.
I turned back to the window, jaw tightening in a way so familiar that lately it was starting to give me headaches.
"Don't worry, I asked when I booked the room, genital rashes are not included with our package."
I could almost hear the hopeful look in his eyes. With a monumental effort of will, I prised my jaw open wide enough to slip out a noncommittal "That's good."
A few minutes later, we pulled off the highway. A McDonald's and a smattering of gas stations had sprouted around the exit ramp, but within a few blocks they gave way to folksy-looking shops with hand-painted signs advertising car repair prowess, hot coffee, or in one case, antiques and live bait. The obvious combo.
"I bet their milkshakes are good," I said, pointing across the intersection. "Towns like this always have the best ice cream."
"We don't really have time to stop," Blake said, mouth screwing off to the side. "We're running late."
Fury shot through me like a flame.
"Fine." I huffed out a breath through my nose.
"I mean . . . if you really want one . . ."
"Did I say I wanted one?" My voice was getting noticeably tight. I could actually feel the pressure building behind my eyeballs. That couldn't be healthy. "Anyway, we would have been on time if you'd grabbed the lunch I made us out of the fridge. Like I ...
Friday, 4:15 p.m.
The scene out the passenger side window was like something off a New England postcard: trees rolling away in every direction, a patchwork quilt picked out in a cornucopia of fall shades, drawn up around the necks of the distant hillsides against the chill in the air. I cracked the window slightly, hoping for a hint of that fall scent, part woodsmoke and part decay. Which makes it sound morbid and terrible, but I'd wear it as perfume if someone could figure out how to bottle it. That, and whatever they use in those fir-tree candles you find at the seriously overpriced boutiques around Christmas-not the cheap Yankee Candle crap, the expensive soy ones by companies named after herbs. I want to live inside those candles.
"Remember the time we went camping around here?"
I glanced across the console at Blake. He pulled his eyes away from the road just long enough to flash his wry half-smile at me, the one that brought out the dimple in his left cheek. The imbalance always made him look mischievous, as if he was plotting something he knew the powers that be would disapprove of. I used to get all melty describing his dimple to girlfriends, the feature that turned his boyishly handsome face interesting.
I thought back to that first camping trip, years ago now, just after we'd started dating. Blake had just started at Playpen, and the entire staff was on ramen-subsistence wages, "one step below ramen-profitable," according to Blake. He was still in that decrepit walk-up in Bushwick, we both still had roommates, and the need to f*** each other's brains out was still at that semiferal level that only lasts a few months, maybe a year if you're lucky. It had seemed like such a good idea-a campfire, stars twinkling overhead, miles and miles of empty woods just waiting for us to defile them . . .
I raised an eyebrow, mouth twisting into a small smile.
"What was it the doctor said?"
"I believe his exact words were ‘Never seen poison ivy there before.' " Blake turned to me again, blue eyes sparkling. "But it was more his tone. Actually calling me a degenerate scumbag would have been redundant."
"Well, you disappointed him, obviously." A laugh burst out of me. "Remember the look on his face when I asked him to check me out? I don't care how ancient the guy was, you'd think a doctor would be able to hear the word vagina without having an aneurysm."
"To be fair, when he went to medical school, the preferred term was ‘portal of shame.' I'm just lucky he prescribed calamine lotion instead of penance."
"Clearly he didn't know you well enough."
Blake's smile faltered for just a second, eyes narrowing, and just like that, there it was again, rearing up between us with a malevolent grin, Remember me? Of course I did, I couldn't forget about it for more than a few seconds, the mass of everything we weren't saying was so damned hulking I was surprised we'd been able to squeeze into the Prius alongside it.
I turned back to the window, jaw tightening in a way so familiar that lately it was starting to give me headaches.
"Don't worry, I asked when I booked the room, genital rashes are not included with our package."
I could almost hear the hopeful look in his eyes. With a monumental effort of will, I prised my jaw open wide enough to slip out a noncommittal "That's good."
A few minutes later, we pulled off the highway. A McDonald's and a smattering of gas stations had sprouted around the exit ramp, but within a few blocks they gave way to folksy-looking shops with hand-painted signs advertising car repair prowess, hot coffee, or in one case, antiques and live bait. The obvious combo.
"I bet their milkshakes are good," I said, pointing across the intersection. "Towns like this always have the best ice cream."
"We don't really have time to stop," Blake said, mouth screwing off to the side. "We're running late."
Fury shot through me like a flame.
"Fine." I huffed out a breath through my nose.
"I mean . . . if you really want one . . ."
"Did I say I wanted one?" My voice was getting noticeably tight. I could actually feel the pressure building behind my eyeballs. That couldn't be healthy. "Anyway, we would have been on time if you'd grabbed the lunch I made us out of the fridge. Like I ...
