Chapter 1

Cheryl

The nursing smock pulled across my middle. I’d lost much of my belly since giving birth two days ago, but I was nowhere near back to my normal size. Still, the top was clean, professional, and anonymous. I found it in a lost and found bin as I checked out of All Saint’s Hospital. The universe providing what I needed.

Or maybe I was so far gone that stealing clothes from charity felt like fate instead of desperation.

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Mercy Hospital's third floor, creating geometric patterns on the polished linoleum. The halls were quieter now, that lull between lunch trays and dinner rounds.

I had stood outside the building for the past ten minutes, my heart a trapped bird hammering against my ribs. I didn’t know what I was doing here. Didn’t know what I was looking for.

That was a lie. I knew exactly what I had come for.

The maternity ward.

A baby.

To replace the baby I lost.

The thought crystallized with such sudden clarity that I stopped walking, one hand braced against the wall. Was that what I was doing? Was that why I hadn’t been able to get into my car this morning and drive home? Why I checked out of the hospital where my life altered forever, but then just... drove here instead? To this hospital on the other side of Kansas City from where my daughter died?

No. No. I wasn’t thinking straight. Grief did strange things to people. I read that somewhere. The five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

I was somewhere between denial and completely out of my mind insane.

Adjusting my large handbag on my shoulder, I entered the hospital and took the elevator to the maternity floor.

A nurse passed me, pushing a cart full of supplies, and didn't even glance my way. Why would she? I wore medical attire. Pausing at a room, I pulled a chart from the rack on the door. Even though my hands wouldn't stop shaking and there was a ringing in my ears that wouldn't go away, I looked as if I had every right to be walking these halls,

Room 347's door stood open.

Through the doorway, I could see her.

Young. Maybe twenty-five. Dark blonde hair pulled back from a face that was tired but glowing with that particular radiance of new motherhood.

She sat up in bed, cradling a bundle wrapped in a pink blanket, gazing down with such tenderness that I had to grip the doorframe to keep from staggering.

That's what I looked like mere days ago. For exactly two hours, that was my face, my joy, my daughter in my arms.

Before she stopped breathing.

Before the doctor said that there was nothing more they could do and then, worse, that I wouldn’t be able to have more children.

I didn’t plan to stop. Didn’t plan to look inside. My hand was already on the doorframe.

The woman in the bed shifted, adjusting her hold, and talked softly to her infant. The baby, I could see a tiny fist, a shock of dark hair, made a small noise in response.

Alive! That baby was alive.

Mine wasn't.

The grief rose like a wave, threatening to pull me under, and I must have made a sound because the woman looked up, her eyes finding mine.

“Oh!” She startled, but then smiled, warm and unsuspecting. “Hi.”

I should have left. Mumbled an apology about the wrong room and walked away. Should have gotten in my car and driven home to Rochester and figured out how to tell my two-year-old son that his baby sister was never coming home.

Maybe I should have called my husband in Afghanistan, if I could have even reached him through military channels, and shattered his heart with the news that our daughter died and there would never be another. His job was top secret, which meant dangerous. I couldn’t do that to him and risk his safety.

I should have done anything except what I was doing, which was stepping into this stranger's hospital room as if I had every right to be here.

“Hello.” My voice came out steady and cheerful. Normal. Like I was actually a healthcare worker making rounds instead of a woman whose mind broke somewhere between the morgue and here. “I'm a CNA. I’m checking to see if you needed anything.”

“Oh.” Her smile widened.

She looked young. Happy. Completely unaware that she was speaking to someone who was coming apart at the seams.

“That's kind, thank you. I'm okay, I think. Just tired.”

I moved closer, my body on autopilot while my brain screamed, ‘What are you doing!’ I lifted her plastic water pitcher and gave it a shake. “Let me refill your water pitcher.”

“That would be great. The nurse was here a few minutes ago, but I forgot to ask.”

My hands knew what to do even if my mind didn't. I took the pitcher to the small bathroom and filled it from the tap. These were normal actions. Helpful actions. Things a real CNA would do.

When I returned, the baby had started to fuss. The woman, I didn’t even know, was soothing her while simultaneously looking exhausted.

“Would you like me to order you a snack from the kitchen?” I offered as I organized things on her tray. “Is your family coming back soon?”

“My husband went home to get our other kids—they're dying to meet their baby sister.” She laughed, but there's an edge of weariness to it. “He texted twenty minutes ago, so probably 40 minutes. And honestly, a snack sounds amazing before they get here.

I should have left then. Should have made some excuse and gone before I did something I couldn't take back. But instead, I straightened her sheets, adjusted her pillows, playing this role like I was born to it.

The baby quieted and appeared to be dozing.

“She's been like this on and off since her last feeding,” the woman said, swaying gently. “I think she just wants to be held, but I really need a shower before the kids get here.”

“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot today,” I said.

My mind reeled. This could be my chance. She had other children, even a daughter.

“I’ll watch her,” I said. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. “While you shower. If you'd like.”

Would she say yes?

Could I actually take this baby?

The woman's face transformed with relief. “Oh my god, you're an angel. Are you sure? I feel bad asking.”

“It's no trouble at all.” My voice remained steady, and I smiled, even though my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. “It’s one of my duties. And I love holding these tiny newborns.”

I had a baby two days ago. She died in my arms.

“Thank you. I can’t wait to stand in a hot shower.” She laughed and gently handed the baby to me; this precious weight settled into my arms with such devastating familiarity. “Her name is Greta,” she added.

The universe was either remarkably cruel or offering me a second chance. I couldn't tell which.

“She's beautiful,” I managed, and it was not a lie. She was pink-cheeked and perfect and very alive.

The woman, wincing slightly, moved toward the bathroom. “I'll be quick. Ten minutes, tops.” She paused at the bathroom door and turned to me.

“Oh, I didn't catch your name?”

“I’m sorry.” I looked down at my uniform where a name tag should have been. “Darn if I haven’t lost my name tag again. I’m Gina,” I lied.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Melissa.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving her newborn daughter with a complete stranger, who showed up unannounced wearing stolen medical attire.

The sound of the shower running came through the door.

I looked down at baby Greta.

She' wasn’t fussing; her dark eyes seemed to gaze at me, her tiny mouth working in that unconscious sucking motion newborns make. She weighed almost nothing in my arms. A handful of life. A miracle.

This one is right here. This one is alive, whispered a dark voice in my desperate mind.

My handbag sat on the floor behind the door, where I left it. The large leather tote Brad gave me this past Mother's Day before he deployed. “For all the baby stuff you'll need to carry,” he'd said, grinning, his hand on my pregnant belly. “Only the best for my girls.”

I could still see his face when he said it. Still feel the weight of his excitement, his absolute certainty that he was coming home to meet his daughter.

How did I tell him he wasn’t? How did I go home and face the empty nursery, the unworn baby clothes, the dreams that died with our daughter?

You don't have to.

The thought slid through my mind like poison, like salvation.

You don't have to tell him anything. You could just go home.

With a baby.

With this baby.

He never needs to know what happened.

The shower ran. I could hear Melissa humming something soft and off-key.

My feet moved before I made a conscious decision.

Crossing to the door with this tiny bundle of joy, I picked up my handbag. The expensive leather was soft, loved. Brad's gift. Brad's trust.

It slipped from my hand and fell onto the tile floor.

I was about to betray both. I should put the baby in her bassinet and leave while I still could.

But Baby Greta made a small coo as if a sign. Before I could change my mind, I picked up the bag, shook it open and settled the swaddled baby into the bag. She fit perfectly, as if were made for her.

My hands trembled so badly that I could barely drape my scarf over the opening, hiding her from view. She didn’t cry. Don’t protest. Just settled into sleep as if she trusted me.

She shouldn't.

The shower was still running.

I had maybe five minutes before Melissa finished. Maybe less.

My body moved on its own, propelled by something beyond thought, beyond reason. Shock, maybe. Or survival instinct. Or a complete psychotic break dressed up as maternal desperation.

I stepped to the door. My legs felt disconnected from my body, as if I were watching someone else. Someone who looked like me but couldn’t possibly be, because I was a good person. I was a good mother. I would never.

But I was. I was doing this right now.

The corridor stretched ahead, impossibly long. A nurse stood at the station, her back to me, reviewing a chart. An orderly pushed a wheelchair past, not even glancing my way. A man carried flowers toward a room down the hall, whistling.

Normal people doing normal things while I stole past carrying a newborn in my handbag.

Every step felt like a mile. My pulse pounded loudly in my ears. They know, my brain screamed. They can tell. They're going to stop you.

The alarms are going to go off. Someone was going to grab my arm and say, ‘what do you think you're doing?’

But no one did.

No one even looked at me.

I reached the stairwell door—couldn’t risk the elevator, too enclosed, too slow, too many chances for someone to see—and pushed through. The metal door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in my heightened state.

My breath came in gasps. The bag pulled heavy against my shoulder. Heavy with another woman's child. Heavy with my crime. Heavy with something that felt like both damnation and deliverance.

Three floors down. My footsteps echoed on the concrete steps. The air was cool, and yet I was sweating. At any moment I expected to hear shouting above me, feet thundering down the stairs, baby Greta’s mother screaming.

But there was only silence except for my ragged breathing and shoes scuffing against the steps.

Ground floor. I paused at the door, hand on the handle, terror flooding through me. This is it. This is where I get caught.

I pushed through anyway because I couldn't stop now. Couldn't go back. Could only go forward into whatever hell I was creating.

The lobby bustled with activity. Afternoon visiting hours meant families everywhere. Children holding balloons, teenagers texting, elderly couples moving slowly toward the exit. An information desk. A gift shop. A coffee stand.

Security guard by the door.

My heart stopped. He was going to know.

He held the automatic door open for me with a smile. “Have a good day, ma'am.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and then I was outside in the humid August air with the sun beating down and traffic flowing past.

No alarms blaring.

No one chasing me.

I just... walked out.

My car was parked three blocks away on a side street. A deliberate choice to avoid parking garage cameras, attendants, and records of when I arrived and left.

I walked fast, but not too fast, trying to look normal even though normal people don't carry stolen babies in leather totes.

Every sound made me flinch. Every person who glanced my way felt like an informer.

But I made it. Three blocks that felt like three miles, and then I was at my car, the blue Honda Accord with Minnesota plates, and my hands were shaking so badly I dropped the keys twice before I managed to unlock the door.

I slid into the driver's seat, placed the bag carefully in the passenger seat, and just sat for a moment, gasping, my whole body trembling.

Oh god, what did I do?

I should go back. Put her in her bassinet and pretend this never happened and check myself into psychiatric care because clearly I'd lost my mind.

I couldn’t let myself think that way.

Because I couldn’t face going home with empty-arms, couldn’t tell my husband our daughter died, and couldn’t survive another loss.

“Piper,” I whispered, my vision blurred with tears, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. “Your name is Piper Ann now. You're coming home with Momma.”

Piper stirred and made a small sound. Not crying. Just... existing. My heart filled with contentment and love.

I smiled at my new daughter and then started the car, checked my mirrors, and merged into traffic.

I didn’t look back.

***

Excerpt from Daughter of Mine by Angie Stanton. Copyright 2026 by Angie Stanton. Reproduced with permission from Angie Stanton. All rights reserved.

At the western edge of Cape Cod, in the grandest bedroom in the sprawling residence known as Gray Gables, Frances Cleveland couldn’t stifle the rising sound of her own screams. Between pains, she rested. The late morning breeze drifted across the lawn from Buzzards Bay, fluttering the lace curtain and cooling the sweat on her forehead.

Even at this moment, Frances felt grateful that Grover chose to spend summers away from Washington’s heat, away from the prying public. Here, in this secluded haven, she needn’t fear strangers hovering near the windows of the Executive Mansion for a glimpse of their president—or, more likely, of his wife and daughters. She could concentrate her fears on her pains and pray for the safe birth of her third child, in the same way she had for her first and again for her second. Frances expected from experience that her suffering would soon recede, replaced by the joy of motherhood. She did not know that before the day was over, her bodily misery would end, yielding not to joy but to overwhelming terror.

The previous February, after sensing a flutter beneath her gown while greeting a crowd of visitors at a reception, Frances guessed the baby would be her third girl. Practiced at keeping confidences, she never mentioned her prediction to her preoccupied husband. When she gave birth to another girl, the blathering journalists would have their say. They would try out their jokes about the president’s little harem. Most days, Frances ignored the journalists. Most days, she trusted Grover to love each of his babies.

The image of a trio of girls was far from Frances’s mind now, as she suffered in bed. She cried out, too loudly. Dr. Bryant reminded her that she’d survived labor pains before. “Don’t you dare say that again,” she said, in a shrill tone that surprised her.

At last, Frances heard the newborn’s cry, faint but lovely. Dr. Bryant chuckled while he clamped and cut the cord. “Mrs. Cleveland, should I bring the president upstairs to see his new daughter? He’s pacing on the front porch. Once he sees this one—she’s beautiful—he won’t regret it’s not a son.”

“Yes,” Frances said, with the strongest voice she could muster. A girl, as she’d guessed. For an instant, with the last of her contractions, she’d ignored her prediction and hoped for a boy. Now, she didn’t linger on that momentary weakness of character. She let a surge of pride swell over her, above the exhaustion. She’d done it. Again.

Frances turned to the local midwife hired to assist. “Tell the steward, his name is Sinclair, to get Ruth and Esther. I want my daughters to see their new sister.”

Frances raised herself a few inches, enough to see the midwife slip into the hall. The woman returned and gave Frances a nod. The girls would come shortly. Frances sank back and watched the midwife wipe down the infant and swaddle her. She did look beautiful. “Here,” Frances said, crooking her arm to make room for Marion, the name Grover chose that would serve for a girl or a boy. The same name as a town across Buzzards Bay, where many of their friends lived. Frances appreciated Grover’s decision to buy an estate on the outskirts of a different but nearby town, Bourne. The family could escape Washington’s heat and busybodies.

And escape the threats.

Hours earlier, Frances gave thanks for the breeze blowing through the open window, reminding her that Gray Gables was perfectly located on a point overlooking the Bay’s east side. But now she blocked the sound of wind and waves. straining to make sense of other sounds, to hear what Grover would say about a third daughter. The doctor scurried downstairs. The midwife remained stationed over the bed, tending to Frances and crooning softly to the baby. Frances ignored the woman, mindful only of the voices wafting in through the window. First, low tones as the doctor talked to Grover. They were friends. Dr. Bryant saved Grover’s life two summers ago, removing the cancer eating away at his palate. Now, Frances imagined the doctor patting her thickset husband on his shoulder and shaking his hand. She hoped Grover would offer the doctor a contented smile. Seconds later, Grover clomped upstairs. The doctor followed behind, with lighter steps.

“So happy, Frankie.” Her husband used one of her nicknames. After their wedding, she asked Grover to call her by her more dignified name, Frances. He still used Frankie or Frank in private moments. She let him—the nicknames added tenderness to his gruff voice. “The doctor tells me you’re fine. You managed without chloroform this time, too. And the baby’s healthy. Marion, right? Three girls. They will enjoy each other’s company.”

He said the right thing. She didn’t need to feel anxious about another girl. He was a good man, kind to her, whatever others thought. He wouldn’t hold the baby, rarely did. But he wiped his chubby hand on a cloth, then touched Marion’s forehead. He stood there for a few minutes, cherishing their third child. For him, it was a fourth, but no matter. His eyes shifted to gaze at her. He wouldn’t see the tall, slender belle he married nine years ago, the one the reporters called lovely. He’d see a tired, sweat-drenched woman who looked every day of her thirty years.

“Ruth and Esther?” Frances asked again, eyeing the midwife. “Did you send Sinclair for them?”

“Yes, ma’am. The steward went a minute ago.” The midwife spoke quietly, carefully. She’d feel nervous in the presence of the president.

Still almost flat in bed, Frances clutched Marion, admiring the infant. Perfect features. Ten fingers and ten toes. Another blessing from God.

A familiar sound at the door. Sinclair knocked softly. His usual pattern—soft, loud, soft—keeping to the household code. Another sound, when the midwife opened the door. Next, Frances would hear four little feet rushing toward the newest baby.

No feet. Only hushed words.

“Sinclair found Annie,” the midwife said. “She’s your older daughter’s nursemaid, right? He tells me she needs another minute to bring Ruth and to tell your younger daughter’s nursemaid to bring Esther.” The midwife stood far from Frances’s bed, speaking almost in a whisper.

Grover didn’t look concerned. His rough mustache skimmed Frances’s cheek as he kissed her lightly on her damp forehead. She was too tired to return the kiss. She heard him drop into the nearby rocking chair.

“Joseph,” he said, addressing the doctor, “you’re certain Frankie is fine? No complications?”

“Just fine, Grover. Ready for the next one before long.”

Four years earlier, when Ruth was born, Dr. Joseph Bryant told Frances how to manage her family. “Breastfeed for six months.” He looked straight at her, with no awkwardness. “You’ll not get in the family way, and the baby will stay healthy. After six months, well, you and Grover can proceed to another.” And so they had. Esther after Ruth. Marion after Esther. A daughter every two years.

Frances closed her eyes, relying on her ears. Dr. Bryant thanked the midwife for her assistance. The woman tidied up, gathering soiled sheets and opening a chest, hunting for fresh linens. The room went silent, except for the soft, repetitious squeak of the rocking chair. Grover leaned up, then back, up then back. Frances sensed herself drifting off.

Another soft knock, barely a sound, followed by a pause, and two more soft knocks. Not Sinclair. One of the nursemaids. Annie? The midwife opened the door. “Ma’am.” Annie’s voice came out as a croak. “I can’t find Ruth.”

***

Excerpt from FIRST DAUGHTER by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Copyright 2026 by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Reproduced with permission from Marlie Parker Wasserman. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Present

I’ve been told my entire life that the perfect cup of bush tea is magic, and this morning I hope with every fiber of my being that this is true. There are some hard truths I have to spill, and I’ll take every ounce of help I can get. I’m settled in one of the scarlet chairs in the EAT TV conference room, directly across the table from Travis Spriggs and his nauseating brand of bright, crisp-cut perfection—just right for television, but less like sunshine and more like a fluorescent spotlight at four in the morning. He’s flanked by two people whose names I’ve only seen in producer credits at the end of some of the highest performing shows on network television: my boss’s bosses, both sporting dark suits and expressions like cliff faces. Bronwyn, the studio exec who oversees me, Travis, and the other on-air talent at EAT TV, sits in the plush chair at the head of the table, her usual pleasant expression as drained as the tumbler of coffee in her hand.

They’re all here for me.

“I’ll get things started, Miss Sinclair,” Bronwyn says, looking at me but speaking to the executives. She hasn’t called me Miss Sinclair since the interview when she hired me three years ago. “Mr. Revilla and Ms. Abbott called this meeting. I’m sure you know why. They’re very ready to start work on the show—”

“My show,” Travis murmurs with a smug smile.

“That hasn’t been officially decided,” Bronwyn says. “We can’t have a conversation about our next steps because—well— because we don’t have your ending yet, Naomi.”

“You’ve given us a lot, Miss Sinclair. Lord knows—” Mr. Revilla gestures with a meaty hand at the chunky beige file folder in front of him. “You’ve given us a hell of a lot here.”

“But you haven’t closed the case,” Ms. Abbott speaks up. Woman’s got a twist-out with impressive volume, and I’m glad I’m not the only hair naturalista in the room. Her coils jiggle as she leans toward me. “You still haven’t told us who killed Ursula Merchant.”

I glance at my mug. The Universe seems to be following a recipe for an uncomfortable morning, blending each ingredient together artfully like the chefs I interview on A Word from the Kitchen. But if there’s a recipe for a poisonous morning afoot, I’ve got the antidote here in the cup in front of me. Bush tea—balsam, mint, and lemongrass—picked from the window herb garden in my townhouse kitchen, and brewed fresh daily the way my parents and Virgin Islanders before me have done for generations. Even with the early morning, smarmy coworker and hard truths, one sip can take my mind away from the over

cast Charlotte cityscape beyond the conference room window straight to the sunny green hills of Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas. I’ve lived in North Carolina for eight years now, but St. Thomas will always be home—and anything that gets me there this fast is magic indeed.

But not right now. I need to stay here, in everything this moment means. Immersed in all that’s led to it. Focused on the possibilities it will usher through. A sip will have to wait.

“That’s what you’ll get from Naomi, Ms. Abbott,” Travis says, injecting his tones with the most bored affect he can muster up. “She’s supposed to be giving you the details for one story, but instead you’ve got—what, five of them in here?” “Six,” Mr. Revilla mutters.

Travis’s brown eyes go wide. “Well, damn, sir, she’ll go off on a tangent or two, but I wouldn’t have guessed as high as six! For a journalist like me, who focuses like hell on the one story he’s got, that’s incomprehensible.”

“We read all six. And we enjoyed them,” Ms. Abbott is quick to assure me.

“But that’s not the point, is it?” Travis asks. “We were each asked to investigate one unsolved food-based mystery for this show you conceived. I gave you that. Naomi’s brought more stories than you can count on one hand, but she hasn’t given you what you asked for. She hasn’t answered the big question.” There’s enough sauce in the smile he beams at me to cover ten full racks of ribs. “You even know who killed her, Nay?”

Bronwyn looks caught between checking Travis’s tone and waiting out my answer. Her bosses follow suit. I sip my tea, still piping hot, and decide to address both. “Of course I know who killed Ursula Merchant,” I answer. “It’s right there in that folder I gave Mr. Revilla. That’s what these are—my notes on the investigation.”

Mr. Revilla and Ms. Abbott exchange a look. She’s ultimately the one who responds. “There’s . . . certainly a story here. Several. You’ve solved quite a few problems on St. Thomas over the past year. But when it comes to the story of Ursula Merchant, the one you were supposed to be investigating the whole time . . . there doesn’t seem to be much of anything.” “Nothing at all,” Mr. Revilla echoes.

“Naomi, they’d really like to make a decision,” Bronwyn says. “Travis presented a fine investigation on the Barbecue Sauce Killings—”

“The Carolina Barbecue Murders,” Travis speaks up. Bronwyn waves him away.

“He’s given us history, interviews, and a compelling hypothesis . . . along with a deep sense of the process, flavor, and sizzle of both styles of Carolina barbecue,” Bronwyn says. “The case you’ve been investigating, this—tea maven in St. Thomas being shot to death in her locked office—it’s equally intriguing. But while you’ve given us so much, you still haven’t given us an ending.”

“You’re right. I haven’t,” I say. “That was intentional. I’m hoping to do that today. Right now, as a matter of fact.” I clasp both hands around my mug.

Travis leans back in his seat, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “You sure that’s what you want? Naomi’s going to take you on a circular journey, which is the way she operates on A Word from the Kitchen. A ton of loose threads—”

“—which she always weaves together. The connections are there,” Bronwyn interrupts. “The best thing we can do right now is just hear you out, Naomi. You say you know how the story ends and what happened to Ursula Merchant. So let’s hear it. Who killed her, and how did all of this lead you there?”

I’m not at the head of the table, but all eyes are on me— Bronwyn’s perfectly lined and shadowed gray eyes are full of hope and curiosity, Mr. Revilla’s and Ms. Abbott’s are expectant behind their eyeglasses, and Travis seems to be trying to will his into lasers capable of slicing me to shreds. I take a deep breath, letting the scent of the brew in my cup ground and fortify me. I’d had a hot cup of bush tea that morning, too. The morning that started it all. The magic in my mug was what set this whole thing into motion—as bush tea always manages to do.

***

Excerpt from The Bush Tea Murder by Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier. Copyright 2026 by Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier. Reproduced with permission from Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier. All rights reserved.

From beginning of Chapter One...

Paradise isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.

Sure, Valerie Corbin knew she and her wife Kristen were supremely fortunate to now reside in the quaint, still-stuck-in-the-1970s town of Hilo on the magnificent Big Island of Hawai‘i—home to lush jungles, fiery volcanoes, black sand beaches, and coral reefs teeming with eye-popping tropical fish.

But at this moment, all she could focus on was the bull terrier-spaniel mix next door barking so loudly that it almost—though not quite—drowned out the whine of the pneumatic tools its owner was using on a jacked-up truck, the parts of which were currently scattered all across his driveway.

Letting loose a few choice words regarding both dog and man, Valerie slammed shut the window above the kitchen sink, then returned to the stove to poke at her potatoes simmering in a pot of water. At the sound of the back door opening, she looked up to see Kristen and her nephew, Sean, come inside from the lānai, Valerie and Kristen’s little white dog, Pua, trotting after them.

“We couldn’t take the racket anymore,” said Kristen, tossing her Outside magazine onto the counter. “Does he ever stop?”

“Who—Akoni or Larry?”

Kristen laughed. “Both, I guess. And yeah, I know the answer: rarely. Especially Akoni, with his constant yowling. Though I gotta say, it seems like Larry’s been working on his vehicles a hell of a lot more of late. And I don’t believe I’ve ever even seen that particular truck before. You think he’s started repairing other people’s vehicles, too?”

“Oh, God, I hope not. Though that would explain the increased frequency of the noise.” Valerie switched off the heat under her potatoes, then turned to Kristen. “I wonder if it’s legal to have a car repair business in this neighborhood. Maybe I should ask at tonight’s meeting if anyone knows.”

“Or maybe you could just talk to your neighbor about it,” put in Sean, who’d taken a seat at the kitchen table and was busy typing something into his phone.

Valerie and Kristen exchanged glances, after which Valerie replied, “Maybe later. But first we should figure out where we stand on the issue.”

Sean set down his phone with a shrug. “So what’s this thing you’re going to tonight, anyway?”

“It’s the monthly meeting for the neighborhood orchid society,” said Valerie, carrying the pot to the sink and dumping the steaming potatoes into a colander. “Shirley invited me—you know, the woman who lives at that house down the street with all those beautiful orchids in her tree ferns? I was admiring them the other day, and after we got talking, she invited me to come along tonight to see if I might be interested in joining. You wanna join me?”

Sean let loose his man bun, held in place by a wooden hair stick, and shook out his dirty-blond locks. “No can do; I’m working tonight at the hospital. It’s my first time in the ER, which should be interesting.”

Sean had come from Arkansas to do a three-month stint as a visiting nurse at the Hilo hospital and was now on his second week at the job—and at Valerie and Kristen’s house, where he’d be staying for the duration of his time on-island. “I didn’t know you were into orchids,” he said in a lazy drawl, pulling his hair back from his face and retying the bun.

“I wasn’t, not till we first got to Hilo. But they’re so amazing and, I dunno . . . other-worldly.”

Star Trek flowers, I call them,” said Kristen, and Valerie nodded.

“And they’re so easy to grow here, so I’m thinking it might be fun to try it myself. Plus, it’d be a great way to get to know some of the folks in the neighborhood a little better.”

“Like Larry?” asked Sean with a grin.

“Ha. I’m not so sure he’s really the orchid type . . .”

***

Excerpt from MURDER, LOCAL STYLE by Leslie Karst. Copyright 2026 by Leslie Karst. Reproduced with permission from Leslie Karst. All rights reserved.

Introduction

I’ve always been a fan of Agatha Christie, but not an obsessive one. I didn’t read and reread the novels. I didn’t go looking for obscure short stories. I didn’t read (and still haven’t) her Mary Westmacott novels. I treated her like most people did: She wrote good mysteries, and if they were handy, I read them.

Then Bill began the Complete, Annotated project by publishing Dorothy L. Sayers’ Whose Body?, followed by Agatha’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Over the years, as he annotated the next five of Agatha’s early novels, I read them carefully for possible footnotes. As I did, I paid more attention to her writing, her deft plotting, her sly sense of humor, and her ability to describe a character with a few sentences.

As I became more familiar with her novels, I realized that she’s underrated, probably because she was categorized as a genre writer. Some even consider her works cozies. Clearly, they never read Appointment with Death (1938), And Then There Were None (1939), or Endless Night (1967). I suspect that her Mary Westmacotts — which are described as romances — are anything but.

The publishing world applies labels to make it easier for bookshops to shelve their books in the store, not because they’re accurate.

In July 2020, as the world began opening up from the Covid-19 shutdowns, I was at the library, looking for a DVD to borrow. I spotted Crooked House (2017). I liked the novel, so I thought, “Why not?”

Crooked House was the second Agatha Christie film adaptation I had seen. Sir Kenneth Branagh’s Murder on the Orient Express (2017) was the first.

We needed fodder for the website (peschelpress.com) and I’d already been reviewing books, so I wrote a review of Crooked House. This reminded me that Bill was working on an annotated edition of The Secret of Chimneys. Was there a movie version? A review for the book would be nice. There was. It was an episode in a box set from ITV’s Marple.

Oookaaaay.

Having become overly familiar with Chimneys, I knew Agatha wrote it years before Miss Marple was a twinkle in her eye. But we watched it anyway. It was terrible. Bill wrote his review for The Complete, Annotated Secret of Chimneys, and I wrote mine for the website.

Since the library’s Marple DVD set included three more episodes, we watched them and I reviewed them for the website.

That’s when Bill said the fateful words that brought us here: “Let’s watch more Agatha films. You write the reviews. I’ll post them on the website, and we’ll publish them as a book.”

So here we are nearly three years later. We had no idea how big the Agatha project would become or how many films have been made for cinema and TV. Bill and I have watched more than 200 adaptations. This includes all the English-language ones we could find beginning with Adventures, Inc. (a 1929 silent movie), and many of the foreign versions too. For those, we were limited by availability and whether or not they had English subtitles. It’s criminal neglect that some of the finest Agatha Christie film adaptations in the world are from Japan, yet they’re unavailable in the West.

To my knowledge, we are the only people who’ve watched all the films. I’m definitely the only person who’s written and posted reviews for all those forgotten TV shows and kinescopes.

Along the way, I became much, much more familiar with Agatha’s writing as I had to read the novels and short stories to compare them to the films. She was cutting edge from the beginning. She invented what we call The Poirot, the practice of bringing together the suspects, explaining the clues, and fingering the criminal. It was a trope born of necessity, when her first attempt — Poirot testifying at the trial — didn’t fly with her publisher.

She began experimenting with narrative structure in 1924 with The Man in the Brown Suit. That novel has two narrators, one of them unreliable. Brown Suit is also a romantic thriller disguised as a mystery. Read the passage where Anne Beddingfeld administers to a mysterious, half-naked, sexy stranger’s wounds. This scene could be ripped from any romance novel of today (the sweet kind, not the spicy which would include far more detail). As a side note, the 1989 TV movie is very true to the text despite being turned into a contemporary.

Agatha was an innovative writer throughout her career. Her The Seven Dials Mystery (1929) is a mash-up of P. G. Wodehouse and John Buchan thrillers. Partners in Crime (1929) is a loose cycle of 16 short stories starring Tommy and Tuppence. Each short story is also a parody of a famous mystery writer, including herself! And unlike Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, Tommy and Tuppence aged in real time, from the young, eager lovers in The Secret Adversary (1922) to retired grandparents in Postern of Fate (1973).

And what’s And Then There Were None (1939), in which 10 characters are dispatched in an entertaining manner for their sins, but a PG-rated slasher flick? As a sign of its influence, the basic plot has been lifted, the serial numbers filed off, and rewritten in dozens more novels and movies. The A.B.C. Murders (1936) is a prototypical serial killer novel.

Agatha’s innovations could fill a book and go a long way to explaining why she’s still read today.

The other reason is more subtle.

Whatever you can say about the quality of the adaptations (like The Secret of Chimneys, bleah), they keep Agatha in the public eye. Never underestimate the importance of TV shows and movies on an author’s reputation. For each person who reads, 100 people go to the movies, and a 1,000 people watch TV. Every time an Agatha Christie film is shown, people who’ve never heard of her learn she exists. Some of them search out her books and discover how good her writing is.

When a writer dies, they can vanish under the constant tsunami of books being written and published daily. Dorothy L. Sayers is a prime example. Sayers wrote at the same time as Agatha. She’s highly regarded and her books are great. But her estate, unlike Agatha’s, shows no interest in licensing her stories and novels for TV or movies. Say the phrase: “Murder at Downton Abbey,” then ask why her literary estate isn’t capitalizing on Lord Peter Wimsey, detective in the peerage and a duke’s brother.

The Agatha Christie estate does not want her writing to suffer that fate, so they license her short stories and novels. Some adaptations are excellent; some are dreadful. For a few, the only commonality between novel and film is the name. Most range in between but all have something to offer, even if it’s only great period clothes, quality acting, or English Country House Porn. Linenfold paneling! Crenelated ceilings! Parquet floors as elaborate as the finest Persian carpet!

Excuse me while I stop and fan myself.

Watching 200+ Agatha adaptations also taught me plenty about filmmaking, pacing, and soundtracks. I can now, sometimes, recognize an actor from another adaptation. I’ve enjoyed seeing how one novel can be interpreted multiple ways, resulting in wildly different films. The Pale Horse (1961) is a good example. The three films (including Miss Marple in one!) are recognizably the same story, yet they’ve nothing to do with each other. The emphasis is different, the characters different, the tone is different.

I’ve watched 13 different Poirots (including an anime version). Seven different Marples (including an anime version). Multiple Tommy and Tuppences. Each actor or actress brings something new to the character.

The foreign films demonstrate how universal she is. She wrote about dysfunctional families, mapped the class divide, noticed the lengths we go to for status and security, and found reasons for murder ranging from money to passion to safety.

Ironically, foreign filmmakers respect Agatha more than she is at home. Appointment with Death (1938) has been filmed three times, but the Japanese version is the only one that captures the novel’s cruelty and horror. The two English language versions fail, one moderately and one spectacularly. Of the four versions of The Mirror Crack’d From Side to Side (1962), only the Japanese version gives a voice to Margo Bence, one of Agatha’s most abused secondary characters. The other three versions ignore her because to face Margo Bence’s pain would mean admitting that the film business cares nothing for children unless they can be sold to make money.

We did not watch every single foreign TV episode even when they were readily available. There just wasn’t enough time. The best we could do was see enough to convey the flavor of a given series. If you want to see them, enjoy yourself! They provide very different views of Agatha and can be rewarding.

The novel that’s been adapted the most is And Then There Were None (1939). We saw ten versions, ranging from a blurry kinescope to slick studio productions with an all-star cast, so it merits its own chapter. Some versions hew to the stage play with its radically rewritten ending. Others stick to the novel, nihilism intact. Some combine the stage play and the novel, so Vera Claythorne learns who the puppet master was, begs for her life, and receives rough justice.

One final warning before you go: spoilers abound, so beware! Unlike Agatha, I don’t play fair with my reviews and hide whodunnit. Where I play fair is in telling you what I thought of them. I liked films that critics panned, and I disliked films others loved. I say why. I go down sidetracks. I enjoyed myself and I hope you will too.

So won’t you join me for an Agatha Christie Movie Marathon? You’ve got hundreds of hours of viewing pleasure ahead of you. Just remember to never accept a cup of tea you didn’t make, or take trips to lonely islands (or châteaus, or country houses) with strangers.

How to use this book

The films are organized by the starring detective. Miss Marple comes first, followed by Poirot, and Tommy and Tuppence. Next, a chapter is devoted exclusively to And Then There Were None, followed by the rest of the adaptations, and the final chapter is movies in which Agatha herself is the star.

Each chapter opens with a photo gallery showing the actors and actresses who played her detectives and characters.

There’s also an index, which is more important than it appears.

Seems logical, yes? Except that some adaptations removed Agatha’s chosen detective, turning the novel into a police procedural. When that happens, the movie is not included in the detective’s chapter. It’s included in “The Rest of the Christies”. Many of the foreign adaptations fall into this category.

Other adaptations (cough, ITV’s Marple, cough) insert a detective who didn’t exist in the novel. That’s why many standalone novels appear in the Miss Marple chapter. She’s now the star of The Sittaford Mystery, Murder Is Easy, The Pale Horse, and others. She also appears in a Tommy and Tuppence novel, By the Pricking of My Thumbs. Similarly, Margaret Rutherford snatched two Poirot novels and made them her own, so they appear in the Miss Marple chapter.

The chapters dedicated to And Then There Were None and the movies not part of a detective series are self- evident. “Agatha the Star,” however, deserves an explanation. In addition to her stories, Agatha’s life has become fodder for Hollywood. This includes the dreadful Vanessa Redgrave/Dustin Hoffman biopic Agatha (1979), a documentary that quotes from her and her work, a Doctor Who episode, and three movies that show Agatha’s exciting life investigating mysteries in a parallel universe. It focuses on Agatha, not her writing. Any relationship to Agatha’s real life should be considered coincidental. Even the documentary in this chapter is not entirely reliable.

Within each chapter, the films are organized chronologically. As you move forward in time, you’ll see changes in how a character was depicted and movie-making styles. Adventures, Inc. (1929) sets the stage. It’s the earliest Agatha film and the scriptwriter, Jane Bess, played fast and loose with the text. She led the way for hack screenwriters everywhere to rewrite Agatha’s prose.

Each review gets two pages. We chose a banner image and six photos of important cast members. I rate films by fidelity to text (or life in “Agatha the Star,” and either the play or the novel in And Then There Were None) and by the quality of the movie overall. The two ratings are separate, but they complement each other and give you a clearer understanding of what to expect.

The cast lists place detectives and police at the top. Everyone else follows in rough order of importance. We group families together to make it easier to work out relationships. Our cast lists are not comprehensive but the main characters are there.

Also note that for those foreign films which don’t name their characters from the novel, we provide that information. This was omitted when they rewrote them so much (such as Unknown (1965), the Indian version of And Then There Were None) that it would not be helpful.

At the end of the list come the film locations, or (in a couple episodes) a song list. Internet Movie Database and Agatha Christie Wiki provided most of the locations, but Bill added to that from other sources (see the bibliography). Knowing the film locations means you, dear reader, can visit the same castle as Poirot or Miss Marple.

Subtitles matter to me. We always looked for versions with subtitles as so many actors mumble or the sound quality is bad. If I can’t understand the dialog, I miss important points. Not every DVD was released with subtitles.

Fortunately, some of the older films like the Joan Hickson Miss Marples are being cleaned up for streaming. They get subtitles. But they aren’t being released as new DVDs so, no subtitles. If you can watch a streamed version, no problem. If you must use your TV and DVD player, you’re out of luck.

We had to have subtitles for the foreign films. We couldn’t see some films we wanted to (we especially regret passing up the Japanese Murder on the Orient Express) because they either weren’t available with subtitles or they weren’t available at all.

The index will help you find a specific film. This isn’t just because some novels got Miss Marple inserted, putting them into the Miss Marple chapter. Agatha’s novels were often released under different names. For example, the novel Lord Edgware Dies (1933) was released in the U.S. as Thirteen At Dinner. It’s been filmed three times, twice as Lord Edgware Dies and once as Thirteen At Dinner. But they’re all based on the same novel and the index connects them.

I list all the names, with a note as to which film it applies to. Or, as with Margaret Rutherford, the film’s name doesn’t correspond to any edition of the novel but I tell you what to look for.

The bibliography provides further reading and shows where some of my information came from.

Enjoy the book. We enjoyed watching the movies, podcasting about many of them, and writing the reviews. We want it to be used, encouraging you to watch Agatha Christie on the screen, always different but always her.

How the movies are rated

Each movie is given two ratings. Fidelity of text is exactly what it sounds. How close is the film to the original text? Sometimes, only the names match. Other films are so faithful, they’re lifeless.

Quality of movie is about the movie itself. Did everything together work as a film? Often, a very good movie isn’t faithful to the text at all (see Miss Marple in Ordeal By Innocence (2007)). If something jars about the movie, I’ll indicate it here.

The rating icons demonstrate Agatha’s many, many ways of killing. Blunt objects, poisoned cocktails, garrotes, knives, guns, stranglers, being pushed down a flight of stairs. They usually reflect the first murder in the film.

A few films, such as And Then There Were None, get five different symbols to reflect all the ways those nasty people got iced.

How to find the movies

We watched the vast majority of the films on DVD on our TV set, the one our neighbors were throwing away. You’re correct that we count our pennies.

That’s why we use our public library. If yours is like ours, it contains a surprisingly large collection of Agatha Christie films. All you have to do is get a library card to borrow them.

You may, like us, have access to more than one library. It’s worth learning what’s available in your area. We belong to our local library (the Hershey Public Library) and to our county library (the much larger Dauphin County Public Library). They often carry different titles so I always check both before moving on to the next step.

Your library is bigger than your municipality, your county, or even your state. Ask for the interlibrary loan librarian. For us, it’s Denise Philips. Denise got us all kinds of DVDs from libraries across the country. This service is usually free, as libraries are tax-supported. Ask and you may be very pleased. The interlibrary loan may take a few weeks for the requested movie to arrive, but it nearly always will.

If Denise could not get us a title, Bill would search eBay and Amazon. We bought a universal DVD player so we could play DVDs from Europe.

There were obscure kinescopes that were on YouTube, so we watched them on the computer.

There are streaming services, including Amazon which gave us access to Britbox. Dailymotion let us watch the Japanese films.

We don’t recommend skeevy pirate sites. They’re illegal, don’t pay royalties to the creators, and whatever you get will be loaded with viruses and malware and the film may be incomplete or damaged.

*** A review ***

The Sittaford Mystery (2006)

Epic expansion of Trevelyan’s life
leaves little room for a coherent
mystery for Miss Marple to sort out

Fidelity to text: 1 pharaoh’s curse

The novel was eviscerated. The murder, séance, escaped prisoner, and a few names remain. Everything else, including the murderer, were altered beyond recognition. Miss Marple resented being shoved in; she stayed defiantly offstage for long stretches.

Quality of movie: 1½ pharaoh’s curses

The scriptwriter shoved ten pounds of plot into a five-pound running length and the result is incoherence with snow.

The Review

Queue up Sir Mix-a-Lot and “Baby Got Back” and recite along with me:

Oh. My. God.
Look at that plot!

You’ll have to sit through this episode twice (at least) to understand what’s going on. This film is 93 minutes long, not long enough for all the disparate plot threads to be woven in a cohesive fashion. The film needed a minimum of another twenty minutes running time to do it justice.

But since ITV didn’t do that, you, dear viewer, will be left asking what just happened? Rewind, dammit! That’s what we did. Repeatedly. Yet there were many moments when I still can’t tell you what was going on.

The trouble starts with forcing Miss Marple into a property that was never written for her. This can work: see ITV’s By the Pricking of My Thumbs, a Tommy and Tuppence novel.

Not here. In fact, Miss Marple disappeared for long stretches of the film, doing heaven only knows what in Sittaford House while sitting out the blizzard. Maybe she was questioning the staff (we only see one servant in the mansion but there must be more), knitting, and speed-reading Captain Trevelyan’s memoirs. She certainly wasn’t at the Three Crowns Inn, inspecting the body and questioning the guests, even though most of the action takes place there.

An entirely new plot is shoehorned in, vastly expanding Captain Trevelyan’s character and backstory. Suddenly, he’s a war hero (WWI), a suspected war profiteer (WWII), an Olympic skater in between (I think; the dialog was incomprehensible at many key points), a major candidate to be the next prime minister (Winston Churchill (!) has a scene with Captain Trevelyan), and he’s a noted archeologist having discovered a major tomb in Egypt back in 1927 that made his fortune! Compared with Capt. Trevelyan, Indiana Jones was a lazy amateur.

But all this rewriting was necessary to give Timothy Dalton scenery to chew to earn his paycheck. In the novel, Captain Trevelyan exists to be swiftly murdered. He doesn’t even get one line. In the movie — since he’s Timothy Dalton — when he’s not emoting in front of us, he’s the topic of conversation by the other characters.

Which I can understand. It’s Timothy Dalton, and my goodness does he look yummy. Some men age very well and he belongs to that lucky cohort. He’s also got to be expensive so the producers made sure to get their money’s worth. Pity they didn’t spend some of their money on a better script or more film stock.

But he didn’t age that well. I had a hard time believing that virginal, lovely, dewy, eighteen-year-old Violet Willets (Carey Mulligan) fell madly in love with a man old enough to be her grandfather. I know why he did, and it’s not just because Violet resembles the woman he callously abandoned twenty-five years prior in Egypt. Violet is delicious, naïve, and believes every word he says and what man doesn’t want that? As for Violet, she didn’t come across as a gold-digger, which is the usual reason sweet 18-year-olds marry men old enough to be their grandfather. Or maybe she was one and the tacked-on ending where Violet runs off to Argentina with Emily Trefusis proves it.

Violet certainly wasn’t broken up about her husband being murdered on their wedding night. If anything, she seemed relieved. She got it all. The Trevelyan name, the inheritance, two tickets to Buenos Aires, and she didn’t have to sacrifice her sweet toothsome body to some old man, even if he was Timothy Dalton.

The Egyptian subplot was of major importance yet it didn’t make any sense. There was the paranormal aspect too, with a ghostly maiden showing up in Captain Trevelyan’s visions. Was there a curse on the gold scorpion? Was he going crazy? We’re never told. The ghost follows a different movie’s script when it appears and vanishes.

This script also doesn’t tell us how an Egyptian servant can show up in isolated Sittaford in 1949 and get hired on, no questions asked. I understand that the servant problem was bad enough that the upper crust didn’t ask as many questions as they could. But here? Really?

We know Captain Trevelyan did potentially bad things in Egypt. Yet he wasn’t suspicious when this mysterious Egyptian showed up at his door? He’d been having weird dreams about his past. He’s got a burgeoning political career which means close scrutiny of his private life. He’s supposed to be a smart man.

Add in the even more incoherent subplot about the escaped prisoner from Dartmoor prison. None of that made sense; not the purchase of the inn a year prior to the events of the story, not the backstory of how the star-crossed lovers met, not how the prisoner escaped from Dartmoor prison and found his way across the moors to be reunited with his paramour and cousin and their eventual escape to freedom.

There’s also the American war profiteer who helped Captain Trevelyan make a fortune manufacturing substandard munitions that killed more American sailors than the enemy. The American war profiteer’s personal aide-de-camp and quack doctor made even less sense. Why did the war profiteer need him around, other than as a dogsbody? There was mumbled dialog that sounded like they were both in the mafia, but it was unclear.

We also meet the incompetent government clerk who’s looking into Captain Trevelyan’s background to ensure nothing questionable is revealed to the press, thus discrediting the party. He’s not doing a very good job if Captain Trevelyan was a known associate of American war profiteers and he doesn’t know.

Then there’s Charles Burnaby. In the novel, he’s boy-reporter Charles Enderby. The name change was the first step in his complete reworking of motives and backstory. Yet we get no foreshadowing of his dramatic personal life or of his connections to the Trevelyan family.

We get almost nothing of James Pearson’s connection to Captain Trevelyan either. We get even less of a reason for Emily Trefusis to be engaged to James Pearson, boy alcoholic, other than that old standby: He’ll inherit big when Captain Trevelyan dies. Maybe that’s why Emily runs off to Argentina with Violet. She gets the money and the girl and doesn’t have to marry the boy alcoholic.

I could rant on, but you get the picture: This movie was a mess, barely suitable for Timothy Dalton fans. ITV could have saved the cost of his salary and paid for a better script. Or, they could have capitalized on Timothy Dalton and added another twenty minutes of movie, explaining all the subplots and how they connected.

General Information

Based on: The Sittaford Mystery (U.S. title: The Murder at Hazelmoor; novel, 1931)

Run time: 1 hr., 40 min. Subtitles: No

Writer: Stephen Churchett

Director: Paul Unwin

Cast

Geraldine McEwan as Miss Marple

Timothy Dalton as Clive Trevelyan
Mel Smith as John Enderby
Jeffery Kissoon as Ahmed Ghali
Laurence Fox as James Pearson
Zoe Telford as Emily Trefusis
James Murray as Charles Burnaby
Rita Tushingham as Miss Elizabeth Percehouse
Michael Brandon as Martin Zimmerman
Paul Kaye as Dr. Ambrose Burt
Patricia Hodge as Mrs. Evadne Willett
Carey Mulligan as Violet Willett
Matthew Kelly as Donald Garfield
James Wilby as Stanley Kirkwood
Robert Hardy as Winston Churchill

Film Locations

The Flower Pot Pub, Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire (pub exterior)
Dorney Court, Dorney, Buckinghamshire (Sittaford House interiors)

***

Excerpt from Agatha Christie, She Watched by Teresa Peschel. Copyright 2023 by Teresa Peschel. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Peschel. All rights reserved.