Mystery
![Stephen Spotswood - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_stephen_spotswood.jpg)
Murder Under Her Skin: A Pentecost and Parker Mystery
A New York Times Book Review Editor's Choice • Rex Stout meets Agatha Christie with a fresh twist in the new Pentecost and Parker Mystery, a delightfully hardboiled high-wire act starring two daring women sleuths dead set on justice as they set out to solve a murder at a traveling circus
"A delight.... It's a pleasure to watch [Pentecost and Parker] sifting through red herrings and peeling secrets back like layers of an onion." The New York Times Book Review
Someone's put a blade in the back of the Amazing Tattooed Woman, and Willowjean "Will" Parker's former knife-throwing mentor has been stitched up for the crime. To uncover the truth, Will and her boss, world-famous detective Lillian Pentecost, travel to the circus, where they find a snake pit of old grudges, small-town crime, and secrets worth killing for.
Will called Hart & Halloway's Traveling Circus and Sideshow home for five years, and Ruby Donner, the circus's tattooed ingenue, was her friend. To make matters worse, the prime suspect is Valentin Kalishenko, the man who taught Will everything she knows about putting a knife where it needs to go.
To uncover the real killer and keep Kalishenko from a date with the electric chair, Will and Ms. Pentecost join the circus in sleepy Stoppard, Virginia, where the locals like their cocktails mild, the past buried, and big-city detectives not at all. The two swiftly find themselves lost in a funhouse of lies as Will begins to realize that her former circus compatriots aren't playing it straight, and that her murdered friend might have been hiding a lot of secrets beneath all that ink.
"A delight.... It's a pleasure to watch [Pentecost and Parker] sifting through red herrings and peeling secrets back like layers of an onion." The New York Times Book Review
Someone's put a blade in the back of the Amazing Tattooed Woman, and Willowjean "Will" Parker's former knife-throwing mentor has been stitched up for the crime. To uncover the truth, Will and her boss, world-famous detective Lillian Pentecost, travel to the circus, where they find a snake pit of old grudges, small-town crime, and secrets worth killing for.
Will called Hart & Halloway's Traveling Circus and Sideshow home for five years, and Ruby Donner, the circus's tattooed ingenue, was her friend. To make matters worse, the prime suspect is Valentin Kalishenko, the man who taught Will everything she knows about putting a knife where it needs to go.
To uncover the real killer and keep Kalishenko from a date with the electric chair, Will and Ms. Pentecost join the circus in sleepy Stoppard, Virginia, where the locals like their cocktails mild, the past buried, and big-city detectives not at all. The two swiftly find themselves lost in a funhouse of lies as Will begins to realize that her former circus compatriots aren't playing it straight, and that her murdered friend might have been hiding a lot of secrets beneath all that ink.
Editorial Reviews
A New York Times Book Review Editor's Choice • Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Mystery Finalist
"A delight. . . It's a pleasure to watch [Pentecost and Parker] sifting through red herrings and peeling secrets back like layers of an onion, all while revealing even more of themselves without guilt or shame. Just like his mystery-writing ancestor [Rex Stout], Spotswood understands that the detective story should be sound, but spending time with unforgettable characters is paramount."-TheNew York Times Book Review
"Spotswood's ability to subvert genre tropes with intriguing and distinctive characters… make this whodunit a delightfully unusual read. Readers will look forward to Pentecost and Parker's further adventures."-Publishers Weekly
"Will's slangy first-person narrative is captivating, and fans of circus life, such as it was, will enjoy this tale, as will followers of the 1940s hard-boiled detective genre, considerably enlivened here by having two no-nonsense women do the sleuthing."-Booklist
"Rich circus atmosphere and a satisfying puzzle."-Kirkus Reviews
"Parker narrates the novel in a voice shot through with not only guts but wry humor.... The relationship between Pentecost and Parker grows ever more fun with time. So where will they go next? For me, it doesn't matter as long as I get to go along."-BookReporter
"Just as vibrant and compelling as [Fortune Favors the Dead]. . . The best things about this novel/series are Spotswood's clever prose and dialogue, which so perfectly calls to mind the time period and the very colorful characters he's crafted. . . Spotswood is quickly climbing the ranks of my favorite current authors, securing himself a spot on my instant-order list, and his Pentecost and Parker mysteries are a solid recommendation to any fans of historical fiction, lady investigators, or mysteries centered around queer characters."-
"A delight. . . It's a pleasure to watch [Pentecost and Parker] sifting through red herrings and peeling secrets back like layers of an onion, all while revealing even more of themselves without guilt or shame. Just like his mystery-writing ancestor [Rex Stout], Spotswood understands that the detective story should be sound, but spending time with unforgettable characters is paramount."-TheNew York Times Book Review
"Spotswood's ability to subvert genre tropes with intriguing and distinctive characters… make this whodunit a delightfully unusual read. Readers will look forward to Pentecost and Parker's further adventures."-Publishers Weekly
"Will's slangy first-person narrative is captivating, and fans of circus life, such as it was, will enjoy this tale, as will followers of the 1940s hard-boiled detective genre, considerably enlivened here by having two no-nonsense women do the sleuthing."-Booklist
"Rich circus atmosphere and a satisfying puzzle."-Kirkus Reviews
"Parker narrates the novel in a voice shot through with not only guts but wry humor.... The relationship between Pentecost and Parker grows ever more fun with time. So where will they go next? For me, it doesn't matter as long as I get to go along."-BookReporter
"Just as vibrant and compelling as [Fortune Favors the Dead]. . . The best things about this novel/series are Spotswood's clever prose and dialogue, which so perfectly calls to mind the time period and the very colorful characters he's crafted. . . Spotswood is quickly climbing the ranks of my favorite current authors, securing himself a spot on my instant-order list, and his Pentecost and Parker mysteries are a solid recommendation to any fans of historical fiction, lady investigators, or mysteries centered around queer characters."-
Readers Top Reviews
Stephen WJuntilaT
Worth the read as I assume are all his writings judging from his first two in this series. Try them in orfer
Kathy GerhardtSte
As satisfying as the last book. Will and Ms. P at it again. Great characters, vivid story and perfect Noir.
Richard KudollaKa
What a team. Pentecost is Sherlock Holmes caliber and Parker is learning fast. The first book was really good, this one is even better. Stephen, more P&P please.
Susan KirchnerRic
This book was very entertaining and fun to read. I loved the strong, smart women characters. The circus background is a novel environment too.
La Femme Libraria
I loved this book and its predecessor. I hope there are many more Pentecost and Parker books to come!
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
The prosecution calls Lillian Pentecost to the stand.
A wave of barely hushed whispers washed over the courtroom. Judge Harman, never one to shy away from a good gavel-banging, let it go unscolded for a change. He couldn't really blame folks. They'd been packed shoulder to shoulder on the hard courtroom benches for three long days, watching the calendar flip from July to August 1946 while they slogged through the boring nuts and bolts of the prosecution's case. Waiting for the real drama to start.
The air-conditioning had gone belly-up halfway through day one and the two hundred or so reporters, family members, and assorted lookie-loos were sweating through their stay-pressed as we approached the climax of the city's murder trial of the moment.
My boss was the climax.
Every eye in the room was on Lillian Pentecost as she made her way to the witness stand, cane thumping out an even rhythm on the courtroom's hardwood floor. She cut an impressive figure: tall, slender, on the far side of forty, impeccable posture-the better to show off the lines of her gray herringbone suit, white collared blouse, and favorite blood-red tie. Her long chestnut hair was tied up in a labyrinth of braids, her signature streak of gray weaving through like a vein of quicksilver.
I even got her to slap on some makeup. A little eye shadow to bring out the winter-gray of her eyes, blush to add drama to her hawkish profile, and the palest of pink lipsticks to make her mouth seem a tad less severe. The goal was no-nonsense but approachable. A woman you'd trust to tell you who murdered who.
The defense table was an island of stillness in the midst of the tittering. Forest Whitsun, attorney for the defense, turned in his seat to watch Ms. P's approach, the look on his face steely confidence mixed with a dash of curiosity.
Sure, I'm interested in what she has to say, his expression told the jurors, but only so I can explain to you good people why she's mistaken.
As for the defendant, you could have propped him outside a cigar shop, he was so wooden. Over the last few days, Barry Sendak had perfected the look of the unjustly accused, woe-is-me. Now, his eyes were blank, lips pressed in a thin line.
I'll give him this, though-he didn't look like an arsonist.
Which was a problem.
Not that arsonists come ready-to-wear. But you'd expect someone who was responsible for burning seventeen people alive and leaving hundreds more homeless and grieving to show it on his face.
The Old Testament scribblers had it right. Murder should leave a mark.
But that was wishful thinking.
The jury had spent the last three days looking for a tell and coming up empty. All they saw was a soft pudge of a man who barely topped five feet. Who at thirty was sliding to bald and thought a brush mustache would make up the difference. He had the imposed-upon air of a civil servant, which is exactly what he was, having spent the last ten years as a safety inspector for the New York City Fire Department. He had the watery brown eyes of a doe in the forest, and in his one-size-too-big suit he looked more like prey than predator.
I knew different.
I'd been with him when my boss pointed the finger and Lieutenant Nathan Lazenby, one of the city's top homicide cops, slapped on the cuffs. Nobody would have mistaken Sendak for prey then.
When I was little, my father made me help him drag a badger out of its burrow near our garden. It had been making waste of our lettuce and my father decided it was time for the thing to go. He stood behind me with a shotgun while I grabbed it by its legs and pulled. It came out spitting and clawing and if my Dad hadn't been so quick on the trigger, that rodent would have torn my face off.
Sendak had the same look on him when Lazenby led him away. Like he wanted to sink his teeth into Ms. Pentecost's cheek and give a good yank.
The problem was the jury wasn't seeing the beast.
The other problem-and the DA had been clear that this was the larger of the two-was that the three tenement buildings Sendak had torched had been in Harlem. The seventeen dead were all Negroes. And if you could find a more lily-white jury, I'd have given you a medal.
The evidence against Sendak was circumstantial. Sure, there was a truckload of it, but if you were hunting hard for reasonable doubt, you could squint and convince yourself it was there and only have a little trouble sleeping at night.
It took some serious arm-pulling and a few scathing editorials in the papers to convince the DA to move forward with the case. Even then, he only pulled the trigger because of a specific thumb pressing down on t...
The prosecution calls Lillian Pentecost to the stand.
A wave of barely hushed whispers washed over the courtroom. Judge Harman, never one to shy away from a good gavel-banging, let it go unscolded for a change. He couldn't really blame folks. They'd been packed shoulder to shoulder on the hard courtroom benches for three long days, watching the calendar flip from July to August 1946 while they slogged through the boring nuts and bolts of the prosecution's case. Waiting for the real drama to start.
The air-conditioning had gone belly-up halfway through day one and the two hundred or so reporters, family members, and assorted lookie-loos were sweating through their stay-pressed as we approached the climax of the city's murder trial of the moment.
My boss was the climax.
Every eye in the room was on Lillian Pentecost as she made her way to the witness stand, cane thumping out an even rhythm on the courtroom's hardwood floor. She cut an impressive figure: tall, slender, on the far side of forty, impeccable posture-the better to show off the lines of her gray herringbone suit, white collared blouse, and favorite blood-red tie. Her long chestnut hair was tied up in a labyrinth of braids, her signature streak of gray weaving through like a vein of quicksilver.
I even got her to slap on some makeup. A little eye shadow to bring out the winter-gray of her eyes, blush to add drama to her hawkish profile, and the palest of pink lipsticks to make her mouth seem a tad less severe. The goal was no-nonsense but approachable. A woman you'd trust to tell you who murdered who.
The defense table was an island of stillness in the midst of the tittering. Forest Whitsun, attorney for the defense, turned in his seat to watch Ms. P's approach, the look on his face steely confidence mixed with a dash of curiosity.
Sure, I'm interested in what she has to say, his expression told the jurors, but only so I can explain to you good people why she's mistaken.
As for the defendant, you could have propped him outside a cigar shop, he was so wooden. Over the last few days, Barry Sendak had perfected the look of the unjustly accused, woe-is-me. Now, his eyes were blank, lips pressed in a thin line.
I'll give him this, though-he didn't look like an arsonist.
Which was a problem.
Not that arsonists come ready-to-wear. But you'd expect someone who was responsible for burning seventeen people alive and leaving hundreds more homeless and grieving to show it on his face.
The Old Testament scribblers had it right. Murder should leave a mark.
But that was wishful thinking.
The jury had spent the last three days looking for a tell and coming up empty. All they saw was a soft pudge of a man who barely topped five feet. Who at thirty was sliding to bald and thought a brush mustache would make up the difference. He had the imposed-upon air of a civil servant, which is exactly what he was, having spent the last ten years as a safety inspector for the New York City Fire Department. He had the watery brown eyes of a doe in the forest, and in his one-size-too-big suit he looked more like prey than predator.
I knew different.
I'd been with him when my boss pointed the finger and Lieutenant Nathan Lazenby, one of the city's top homicide cops, slapped on the cuffs. Nobody would have mistaken Sendak for prey then.
When I was little, my father made me help him drag a badger out of its burrow near our garden. It had been making waste of our lettuce and my father decided it was time for the thing to go. He stood behind me with a shotgun while I grabbed it by its legs and pulled. It came out spitting and clawing and if my Dad hadn't been so quick on the trigger, that rodent would have torn my face off.
Sendak had the same look on him when Lazenby led him away. Like he wanted to sink his teeth into Ms. Pentecost's cheek and give a good yank.
The problem was the jury wasn't seeing the beast.
The other problem-and the DA had been clear that this was the larger of the two-was that the three tenement buildings Sendak had torched had been in Harlem. The seventeen dead were all Negroes. And if you could find a more lily-white jury, I'd have given you a medal.
The evidence against Sendak was circumstantial. Sure, there was a truckload of it, but if you were hunting hard for reasonable doubt, you could squint and convince yourself it was there and only have a little trouble sleeping at night.
It took some serious arm-pulling and a few scathing editorials in the papers to convince the DA to move forward with the case. Even then, he only pulled the trigger because of a specific thumb pressing down on t...
