BN.com Gift Guide

Owls Well that Ends Well (Meg Langslow Series #6)

( 19 )

Overview

Ever since her first Meg Langslow mystery, the multiple award-winning Murder With Peacocks, Donna Andrews has amazed readers and critics alike with her clever, witty, and fun novels. Her latest outing, Owls Well That Ends Well, is her funniest and best work yet…
A YARD SALE…
Meg Langslow was actually looking forward to renovating the old Victorian mansion she and her boyfriend Michael bought. But she wasn't thrilled by the lifetime of junk ...

See more details below
Paperback (Mass Market Paperback - Reprint)
$7.99
BN.com price

Pick Up In Store

Reserve and pick up in 60 minutes at your local store

Other sellers (Paperback)
  • All (58) from $1.99   
  • Used (58) from $1.99   
Owls Well that Ends Well (Meg Langslow Series #6)

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook - First Edition)
$7.99
BN.com price

Overview

Ever since her first Meg Langslow mystery, the multiple award-winning Murder With Peacocks, Donna Andrews has amazed readers and critics alike with her clever, witty, and fun novels. Her latest outing, Owls Well That Ends Well, is her funniest and best work yet…
A YARD SALE…
Meg Langslow was actually looking forward to renovating the old Victorian mansion she and her boyfriend Michael bought. But she wasn't thrilled by the lifetime of junk accumulated by the house's eccentric previous owner, Edwina Sprocket. The easiest solution: hold the end-all and be-all of gigantic yard sales. But when the event attracts the late Miss Sprocket's money-hungry heirs, the over-enthusiastic supporters of some endangered barn owls, and customers willing to go to any lengths to uncover a hidden treasure, Meg suspects things have gotten a little out of hand…

TO DIE FOR…
Then an antiques dealer is found stuffed in a trunk with his head bashed in--and the yard sale turns into a day's-long media circus. Even worse, the suspect arrested for the crime is the person Michael needs to secure academic tenure. Now, Meg is juggling an ever-growing list of suspects. And she's going to have to outthink and outwit one clever murderer who lives by "everything must go…"
"A loony, utterly delightful affair...another laugh-out-loud lark that will leave readers singing Andrews' praises."
--Booklist

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

"It's a hoot...a supporting cast of endearingly eccentric characters, perfectly pitched dialogue and a fine sense of humor make this a treat."--Publishers Weekly

"Death by yard sale epitomizes the 'everyday people' humor that Andrews does so well…for readers who prefer their mysteries light...Andrews may be the next best thing to Janet Evanovich."--Rocky Mountain News

"Andrews delivers another wonderfully comic story....This is a fun read, as are all the books in the series. Andrews playfully creates laughable, wacky scenes that are the backdrop for her criminally devious plot. Settle back, dear reader and enjoy another visit to Meg's anything-but-ordinary world."--Romantic Times (starred review)

Kirkus Reviews
Murder disrupts what already looks like the garage sale from hell in Meg Langslow's fifth birdbrained adventure (Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon, 2003, etc.). Now that fiction's favorite decorative blacksmith and her sweetie, Prof. Michael Waterston, have bought The House in the Virginia hills, they have to clean out tons of junk left behind by the late Edwina Sprocket, the founder of SPOOR (Stop Poisoning Our Owls and Raptors) recently succeeded as president by Meg's doctor dad. Since yard sales are generally quiet, low-key affairs, they've spiced this one up by inviting some 70 neighbors, relatives and Sprocket heirs to make it a multifamily event and offering discounts for buyers who show up in costume. The resulting bedlam is hilarious to every one except Gordon McCoy, aka Gordon-you-thief, the sharpie antique dealer who gets himself bashed to death with a decorative bookend in the owl barn. "This isn't an Agatha Christie novel," Chief Henry Burke warns, but he's only half right. The ranks of suspects who turn out to have paraded seriatim through the barn rearranging the corpse strongly suggest an amalgam of middling Christie-say, The Mysterious Affair at Styles-with Andrews's trademark farce. A creaking mystery surrounded by rampant goofiness, less interested in serious suspects than walk-on zanies. If you're in a truly silly mood, you can't do better; serious puzzlers need not apply. Author tour
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312997908
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 3/7/2006
  • Series: Meg Langslow Series , #6
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 189,004
  • Product dimensions: 4.16 (w) x 6.72 (h) x 0.96 (d)

Meet the Author

Donna Andrews

Donna Andrews is the author of the Meg Langslow mysteries, including Stork Raving Mad and Swan for the Money. She has won the Agatha, Anthony, and Barry awards, a Romantic Times award for best first novel, and two Lefty and two Toby Bromberg Awards for funniest mystery. When not writing fiction, Andrews is a self-confessed nerd, rarely found away from her computer, unless she's messing in the garden. She lives in Reston, Virginia.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

When the doorbell rang, I stumbled to the still-dark window and poured a bucket of water where the front porch roof would have been if it hadn't blown away in a thunderstorm two weeks ago.

"Aarrgghh!" screamed our visitor. A male voice, for a change.

Ignoring the curses from below, I poured another gallon jug of water into the bucket, added a scoop of ice cubes from the cooler, and stationed it by the window before crawling back into the sleeping bag.

"I have an idea," Michael said, poking his head out from under his pillow.

"Next time let's just hire someone to do this."

"There won't be a next time," I said. "We are never, ever having another yard sale."

"Works for me," Michael said, disappearing under the pillow again.

Within thirty seconds I heard the gentle not-quite-snores that told me he was fast asleep.

A point in Michael's favor, the non-snoring. The list was long on points in Michael's favor and very short on flaws. Not that I normally keep ledgers on people, but I suspected that after several years together, Michael was tiring of my commitment phobia and working up to a serious talk about the "M" word. And no matter how much I liked the idea of spending the rest of my life with Michael, the "M" word still made me nervous. I'd begun making my mental list of his good points to defuse my admittedly irrational anxiety.

Not something I needed to worry about right now. Now, I needed to sleep. I settled back and tried to follow Michael's example. But I didn't hear a car driving away, which probably meant our caller was still lurking nearby. Perhaps even trying to sneak into the yard sale area. I wished him luck getting past our security. But odds were he'd eventually ring the doorbell again. Or another early arrival would. If only someone had warned me that no matter what start time you announce for a yard sale, the dedicated bargain hunters show up before dawn.

My family, of course, had been showing up for days. Every room that had a floor was strewn with sleeping bags, and my more adventurous cousins had strung up hammocks in some of the floorless rooms.

From downstairs in the living room, I heard the thumping of Cousin Dolores's morning aerobics and the resonant chants Cousin Rosemary emitted while performing her sun salutations. Perhaps this morning they would both keep to their own separate ends of the living room. If not, someone else would have to restore peace between East and West today.

Michael was definitely fast asleep again. What a wonderful gift, being able to fall asleep like that. I felt envious.

Just envious, the cynical side of my mind asked. Not even a teeny bit resentful? I mean, it's no wonder he can sleep so soundly. He hasn't spent every waking moment of the last two months getting ready for this weekend.

In late August, we'd bought The House—-a huge Victorian pile, three stories high plus attic and basement, with three acres of land and assorted outbuildings, including a full-sized barn equipped with a resident pair of nesting owls. The only way we'd been able to afford it was to take the place "as is," which referred not only to the property's run-down condition, but also to the fact that it still contained all of the late Edwina Sprocket's possessions. And Edwina had been a hoarder. The house had been merely cluttered, the attic and basement downright scary, and the barn . . . apparently when the house became overcrowded, she'd started shoving things into the barn. When she'd run out of space on the first floor of the barn, she'd placed a ramp up to the hay loft and begun pouring junk in from above. She'd filled the barn and moved on to the sheds by the time she'd finally died, leaving her various grandnieces and grandnephews with a hideous clearing-out job that they'd avoided by selling the place to us. As is. With a clause in the contract entitling them to ten percent of whatever we made by selling the contents.

Eventually, I assumed, I would come to share Michael's conviction that this was a marvelous deal. Perhaps tomorrow evening, when the yard sale was history.

Right now, I just felt tired.

I heard a car engine outside. Probably another caller heading for our doorbell. I crawled out of the sleeping bag and stumbled over to the window. I rubbed my eyes, opened them, and found myself staring into the pale, heart-shaped face of one of our resident barn owls, sitting on its favorite perch, a dead branch in the oak tree just outside our window. Apparently I'd interrupted its bedtime snack—-the tail of an unfortunate field mouse dangled from its mouth.

"Ick," I said. "Are you trying to put me off spaghetti for good?"

The owl stared at me for a few seconds, and then twitched its head. The tail disappeared.

"That branch has got to go," I said, to no one in particular. Certainly not to the owl, who wasn't likely to give up his customary feeding station simply because I objected to having our front porch whitewashed with owl droppings and sprinkled with leftover rodent parts every night. Perhaps I could delegate the branch removal to one of the many uncles and cousins who kept asking what they could do to help, assuming I found one who could be trusted with sharp implements.

Just then our latest caller rang the bell, and I emptied the bucket out the window, still staring at the owl.

No screams or curses this time. Only a very familiar voice.

"Meg? It's me, Dad."

I closed my eyes and sighed.

"I brought doughnuts."

I stuck my head out of the window, startling the owl into flight. A very wet Dad stood on our doorstep. Water beaded on his shiny bald head, and he was trying, with his chin, to brush several ice cubes off the stack of boxes in his arms.

"I'll be right down." I said.

I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and headed down the hall for a quick visit to the bathroom. But when I was still ten feet away, a bathrobe-clad man carrying a bulging shaving bag emerged from the last bedroom on the right, waggled his fingers at me cheerfully, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The only bathroom on this floor. Chalk it up to lack of caffeine, but I was so irritated it took me a few seconds to realize that I had no idea who the heck the man in the bathrobe was.

Yet another visiting relative, obviously. But no one I recognized. I thought I knew all the relatives who'd invited themselves to stay at the house. I racked my brain to figure out which aunt or cousin might have brought a new husband or boyfriend along.

Meanwhile, I headed for the third floor bathroom. I reminded myself that this was a temporary inconvenience. First on our long list of remodeling projects was creating a real master bedroom suite with a private connecting bath. And we weren't inviting any more houseguests until we'd solved the bathroom shortage. Just then I heard the strains of Puccini's "Un Bel Di Verdremo" wafting down from the third floor, which meant that Mrs. Fenniman, another visiting relative, had taken possession of the bathroom for her usual long and tuneful ablutions. I went downstairs instead.

I followed voices to the kitchen. Apparently someone else had let Dad in. He'd put on water for coffee and was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, sharing his doughnuts with my brother, Rob, and a petite middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar—-although it was hard to tell, because she was wearing a set of Groucho Marx glasses, complete with the fake nose and mustache.

"Morning," I said.

The bathroom off the kitchen was, of course, occupied. But since it was only a half bath, turnover should be faster than upstairs. I stationed myself by the door.

"Morning, Meg," Dad said, raising a cloud of powdered sugar as he waved at me. "You remember your mother's Cousin Emma. From Wichita."

"Kansas?" I asked.

Emma nodded, and raised her Groucho mask briefly so I could see her face. She wasn't wet, so I deduced she'd come in with one of the family instead of ringing the bell.

"Mother said her relatives were coming from all over for the yard sale," I said. "But Kansas?"

Whatever Emma started to say was drowned out by the loud thud and subsequent howl of agony from the bathroom.

Copyright 2005 by Donna Andrews

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Read More Show Less

First Chapter

Chapter 1

When the doorbell rang, I stumbled to the still-dark window and poured a bucket of water where the front porch roof would have been if it hadn't blown away in a thunderstorm two weeks ago.

"Aarrgghh!" screamed our visitor. A male voice, for a change.

Ignoring the curses from below, I poured another gallon jug of water into the bucket, added a scoop of ice cubes from the cooler, and stationed it by the window before crawling back into the sleeping bag.

"I have an idea," Michael said, poking his head out from under his pillow.

"Next time let's just hire someone to do this."

"There won't be a next time," I said. "We are never, ever having another yard sale."

"Works for me," Michael said, disappearing under the pillow again.

Within thirty seconds I heard the gentle not-quite-snores that told me he was fast asleep.

A point in Michael's favor, the non-snoring. The list was long on points in Michael's favor and very short on flaws. Not that I normally keep ledgers on people, but I suspected that after several years together, Michael was tiring of my commitment phobia and working up to a serious talk about the "M" word. And no matter how much I liked the idea of spending the rest of my life with Michael, the "M" word still made me nervous. I'd begun making my mental list of his good points to defuse my admittedly irrational anxiety.

Not something I needed to worry about right now. Now, I needed to sleep. I settled back and tried to follow Michael's example. But I didn't hear a car driving away, which probably meant our caller was still lurking nearby. Perhaps even trying to sneak into the yard salearea. I wished him luck getting past our security. But odds were he'd eventually ring the doorbell again. Or another early arrival would. If only someone had warned me that no matter what start time you announce for a yard sale, the dedicated bargain hunters show up before dawn.

My family, of course, had been showing up for days. Every room that had a floor was strewn with sleeping bags, and my more adventurous cousins had strung up hammocks in some of the floorless rooms.

From downstairs in the living room, I heard the thumping of Cousin Dolores's morning aerobics and the resonant chants Cousin Rosemary emitted while performing her sun salutations. Perhaps this morning they would both keep to their own separate ends of the living room. If not, someone else would have to restore peace between East and West today.

Michael was definitely fast asleep again. What a wonderful gift, being able to fall asleep like that. I felt envious.

Just envious, the cynical side of my mind asked. Not even a teeny bit resentful? I mean, it's no wonder he can sleep so soundly. He hasn't spent every waking moment of the last two months getting ready for this weekend.

In late August, we'd bought The House---a huge Victorian pile, three stories high plus attic and basement, with three acres of land and assorted outbuildings, including a full-sized barn equipped with a resident pair of nesting owls. The only way we'd been able to afford it was to take the place "as is," which referred not only to the property's run-down condition, but also to the fact that it still contained all of the late Edwina Sprocket's possessions. And Edwina had been a hoarder. The house had been merely cluttered, the attic and basement downright scary, and the barn . . . apparently when the house became overcrowded, she'd started shoving things into the barn. When she'd run out of space on the first floor of the barn, she'd placed a ramp up to the hay loft and begun pouring junk in from above. She'd filled the barn and moved on to the sheds by the time she'd finally died, leaving her various grandnieces and grandnephews with a hideous clearing-out job that they'd avoided by selling the place to us. As is. With a clause in the contract entitling them to ten percent of whatever we made by selling the contents.

Eventually, I assumed, I would come to share Michael's conviction that this was a marvelous deal. Perhaps tomorrow evening, when the yard sale was history.

Right now, I just felt tired.

I heard a car engine outside. Probably another caller heading for our doorbell. I crawled out of the sleeping bag and stumbled over to the window. I rubbed my eyes, opened them, and found myself staring into the pale, heart-shaped face of one of our resident barn owls, sitting on its favorite perch, a dead branch in the oak tree just outside our window. Apparently I'd interrupted its bedtime snack---the tail of an unfortunate field mouse dangled from its mouth.

"Ick," I said. "Are you trying to put me off spaghetti for good?"

The owl stared at me for a few seconds, and then twitched its head. The tail disappeared.

"That branch has got to go," I said, to no one in particular. Certainly not to the owl, who wasn't likely to give up his customary feeding station simply because I objected to having our front porch whitewashed with owl droppings and sprinkled with leftover rodent parts every night. Perhaps I could delegate the branch removal to one of the many uncles and cousins who kept asking what they could do to help, assuming I found one who could be trusted with sharp implements.

Just then our latest caller rang the bell, and I emptied the bucket out the window, still staring at the owl.

No screams or curses this time. Only a very familiar voice.

"Meg? It's me, Dad."

I closed my eyes and sighed.

"I brought doughnuts."

I stuck my head out of the window, startling the owl into flight. A very wet Dad stood on our doorstep. Water beaded on his shiny bald head, and he was trying, with his chin, to brush several ice cubes off the stack of boxes in his arms.

"I'll be right down." I said.

I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and headed down the hall for a quick visit to the bathroom. But when I was still ten feet away, a bathrobe-clad man carrying a bulging shaving bag emerged from the last bedroom on the right, waggled his fingers at me cheerfully, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The only bathroom on this floor. Chalk it up to lack of caffeine, but I was so irritated it took me a few seconds to realize that I had no idea who the heck the man in the bathrobe was.

Yet another visiting relative, obviously. But no one I recognized. I thought I knew all the relatives who'd invited themselves to stay at the house. I racked my brain to figure out which aunt or cousin might have brought a new husband or boyfriend along.

Meanwhile, I headed for the third floor bathroom. I reminded myself that this was a temporary inconvenience. First on our long list of remodeling projects was creating a real master bedroom suite with a private connecting bath. And we weren't inviting any more houseguests until we'd solved the bathroom shortage. Just then I heard the strains of Puccini's "Un Bel Di Verdremo" wafting down from the third floor, which meant that Mrs. Fenniman, another visiting relative, had taken possession of the bathroom for her usual long and tuneful ablutions. I went downstairs instead.

I followed voices to the kitchen. Apparently someone else had let Dad in. He'd put on water for coffee and was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, sharing his doughnuts with my brother, Rob, and a petite middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar---although it was hard to tell, because she was wearing a set of Groucho Marx glasses, complete with the fake nose and mustache.

"Morning," I said.

The bathroom off the kitchen was, of course, occupied. But since it was only a half bath, turnover should be faster than upstairs. I stationed myself by the door.

"Morning, Meg," Dad said, raising a cloud of powdered sugar as he waved at me. "You remember your mother's Cousin Emma. From Wichita."

"Kansas?" I asked.

Emma nodded, and raised her Groucho mask briefly so I could see her face. She wasn't wet, so I deduced she'd come in with one of the family instead of ringing the bell.

"Mother said her relatives were coming from all over for the yard sale," I said. "But Kansas?"

Whatever Emma started to say was drowned out by the loud thud and subsequent howl of agony from the bathroom.

Copyright 2005 by Donna Andrews
Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 19 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(13)

4 Star

(3)

3 Star

(2)

2 Star

(1)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 20 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 9, 2005

    Who Knew a Yard Sale Could Include Murder?

    Meg and Michael have bought this huge Victorian to make it their own. But it is stuffed to the gils - and beyond - with JUNK So they have a yard sale. But it turns into a family affair - 30 families to be exact. The quirkyness and wack-o antics of her family add to the mix when murder occurs. Lingerie, genealogy, decorating, too-few bathrooms, sheep on the loose, Spike, owls---make a highly readable addition to the series. May there be ever more.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 14, 2012

    Lightweight but fun.

    A good addition to the series. Start with the first and enjoy them all. Fun, lightweight, summertime reading.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 7, 2011

    not recommened

    it was just an ok book. some parts were funny but most were not.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted July 25, 2011

    Great Series!

    I love these characters!!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 20, 2011

    Highly Recommend

    I loved the book. This is a series that you can really get hooked on. The characters are likable and real. I've been to a few events like Meg and Michael's that seem to gain a life of it's own. Fun read, great characters. Makes you feel like part of the family. Enjoy!!!!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 18, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Great book from a great series

    This is another one of Donna Andrews Meg Langslow books.. I love them. They are so much fun. Witty, and intellectual they don't speak down to my intelligence, nor do they get so obscure that they are hard to read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 17, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Mother of ALL yard sales!!!

    This is my favorite of this series so far! The main setting for this book is Meg and Michael's yard sale. And what a yard sale it is! This is a hilarious story of bargain hunters, owls, an aggressive dog, Sprockets, dozens upon dozens of extended family members, and of course murder. This series keeps me coming back again and again with its great cast of characters and fun times.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Delightful amateur sleuth who-done-it

    In Virginia, decorative blacksmith Meg Langslow and her lover Professor Michael Waterston move into the house they bought from the estate of the late Edwina Sprocket, the founder of SPOOR (Stop Poisoning Our Owls and Raptors). However, before they can reside comfortably the house needs a cleaning as the former SPOOR president was a rat pack. Meg and Michael decide to host a yard sale. Neighbors and family are encouraged to make the sale into a mega-gala by selling junk and providing special discounts for those in costume. The only rule is that the barn is off-limits........................ Chaos reigns as is typical when Meg¿s family shows up for an event. However, bedlam takes a deadly turn when slimy antique dealer Gordon McCoy enters the forbidden zone barn; someone obvious followed as the culprit uses a bookend to kill the intrusive intruder. Police Chief Henry Burke has plenty of suspects as a lot of people apparently entered the barn, but hones in on a professor at Michael¿s school. Meg thinks the cop is way off base so she begins her own loony investigation........................... This satirical amateur sleuth stars a wonderful heroine and a flock of zany relatives, friends, acquaintances, and other loons and birdbrains. The story line focuses on the nuttiness more so than the who-done-it. Fans of amusing mysteries that plays for laughs as opposed to serious drama will want to fly with Donna Andrews¿ fun tale......................... Harriet Klausner

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 18, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 3, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted May 22, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 4, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 17, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 15, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted November 20, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 29, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 28, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 25, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 13, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 13, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 20 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)