From Publishers Weekly
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Review
"You're about to meet a great new dame of crime fiction in Death Was the Other Woman. Linda L. Richards has created a stunning character with a voice and eye right out of a 1930s L.A. hard-boiled classic - guns and gams, booze and bodies, peepers and perps. Move over, Sam Spade - Kitty Pangborn's on the case."--LINDA FAIRSTEIN, author of Death Dance
"Reading Death Was the Other Woman was like stumbling across a long-lost and wonderful Orson Welles flick. It's a pitch-perfect story of Depression-era L.A. that's so damn good I recommend calling in sick to work and making a plate of sandwiches before you start reading, because you won't want to put it down for anything--including such petty concerns as food, drink, sleep, and oncoming Packards and locomotives."--CORNELIA READ, author of A Field of Darkness
“Death Was the Other Woman propelled me straight into Depression-era Los Angeles, a really stunning and exciting achievement. And the murder kept me guessing right to the page turning end. On top of that, the lively characters have walked off the page and now pursue me long after I've closed the book. A really stellar crime caper, a delight.”--LOUISE PENNY, author of Still Life
"With crackling dialogue, a Tommy-gun plot, and bang-on authenticity, Death Was the Other Woman engrossed me in a terrific, compelling mystery. With memorable characters and settings, Richards manages to dig beneath the surface of Prohibition-era Los Angeles and give a sense of its historical context. A great read!"--DANIEL KALLA, author of Pandemic and Blood Lies
“Sharp, vibrant, and crackling. One chapter in to Linda L. Richards’ sparkling 1930s Los Angeles mystery, Death Was the Other Woman, and we’d follow her smart, resourceful, spirited heroine, Kitty Pangborn, down any dark alley, any mean street."--MEGAN ABBOTT, author of The Song is You and Queenpin
“Kitty Pangborn, the narrator of Linda Richards' winning new mystery, Death Was the Other Woman, is just what every underachieving, over-imbibing, minimally employed, and maximally hard-boiled PI needs: that is, a decent secretary. … Death Was the Other Woman is a first-rate, rousing new take on the Southern California detective novel. Let's hope it's the beginning of a long series."--DYLAN SCHAFFER, author of I Right the Wrongs
"Linda L. Richards can grab her readers better than a slap in the puss or a slug from a forty-five. She breathes new life into the L.A. noir genre with an array of fresh characters and stylishly seedy neon-lit dives. More importantly, she moves the gritty crime genre on in the form of Kitty Pangborn, a well brought up young lady who gets a crash course in the dark underbelly of the City of Angels. She may be a longsuffering PA to a less than successful PI, but Kitty is no kitten. She's the broad with the brains, and readers will be left clamoring for more."--BRENDAN FOLEY, author of Under the Wire, director of The Riddle
Book Description
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
HE’S DRESSED WELL, the dying man. Sharply, one would say. He’s wearing a good suit. Dark, and of a wool so fine it would feel soft to the touch. The suit has a pale pinstripe; it’s barely discernible. And he’s wearing the suit well—he wore it well—except for the dying part.
He’s standing there, his lifeblood draining from him, the look on his face showing surprise as much as horror. He hadn’t planned on dying today. Had, in fact, planned on being the one doing the killing. Killing is part of his job. Not dying. There’s not enough money in L.A.—or the world for that matter—to get a man to give up his life as easily as that.
The man is standing. I can see him as clearly as if I were there, though of course I was not. But I understand things now. Things I had no hope of understanding at the time. I can re-create them in my mind and know what the details mean.
His hat is fashionable, well shaped, well made, and for the moment, it’s worn at a good angle. His features are as well cut as his suit. Dark like the suit as well. He’d be handsome if he weren’t presently concerned about the end he can see so clearly.
Another man is there, similarly dressed, but the look on his face is different. No surprise. No pain. He’s in control. He’s always in control. The gun in his hand tells that story.
The woman is barely in the room, but she doesn’t look away. That shocks me somehow. She shouldn’t watch. Why would she watch? What profit will her witness bring?
She’s exquisite. That shocks me as well. Her shoulders are broad and smooth. Her legs long and well defined. Her hair, her features, soft and lovely. And the look on her face . . . that shocks me most of all. Not pleasure, no. But not distress either. To her, this scene is correct. The only proper conclusion to a story she helped write.
But all of this is later. Much later. It makes sense to me now. But then? Not then. At the time I found him, it made no sense at all.
