The New York Times Book Review
A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Gamache Series #7)by Louise Penny
A New York Times Notable Crime Book and Favorite Cozy for 2011
A Publishers Weekly Best Mystery/Thriller books for 2011
"Penny has been compared to Agatha Christie [but] it sells her short. Her characters are too rich, her grasp of nuance and human psychology too firm...." --Booklist (starred/i>/p>/b>/i>/b>/i>
A New York Times Notable Crime Book and Favorite Cozy for 2011
A Publishers Weekly Best Mystery/Thriller books for 2011
"Penny has been compared to Agatha Christie [but] it sells her short. Her characters are too rich, her grasp of nuance and human psychology too firm...." --Booklist (starred review)
"Hearts are broken," Lillian Dyson carefully underlined in a book. "Sweet relationships are dead."
But now Lillian herself is dead. Found among the bleeding hearts and lilacs of Clara Morrow's garden in Three Pines, shattering the celebrations of Clara's solo show at the famed Musée in Montreal. Chief Inspector Gamache, the head of homicide at the Sûreté du Québec, is called to the tiny Quebec village and there he finds the art world gathered, and with it a world of shading and nuance, a world of shadow and light. Where nothing is as it seems. Behind every smile there lurks a sneer. Inside every sweet relationship there hides a broken heart. And even when facts are slowly exposed, it is no longer clear to Gamache and his team if what they've found is the truth, or simply a trick of the light.
The New York Times Book Review
“The superbly gifted Louise Penny is on my secret shortlist of must-read authors, and A TRICK OF THE LIGHT proves why. Artist Clara Morrow is about to have a prestigious show of her paintings when her childhood friend is found murdered, and the finger of suspicion points to Clara. Chief Inspector Gamache is called to investigate, and using his trademark powers of deduction and his intuitive knack for the right question at the right time, he exposes the darkness that underlies the bright stars of Montreal's art world, where competition between friends, and even between husband and wife, can turn lethal. Ultimately, of course, it's Louise Penny who steals the show, and A TRICK OF THE LIGHT will not only keep you engrossed from start to finish, it will teach you something new about love, truth, and the human heart.” Lisa Scottoline
“Penny, elevating herself to the pantheon that houses P.D. James, Ruth Rendell and Minette Walters, demonstrates an exquisite touch with characterization, plotting and artistic sensitivity. And there could be no better explanation of A.A. than you will find here.” Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Outstanding….With her usual subtle touch and timely injections of humor, Penny effectively employs the recurring motif of the chiaroscuro, the interplay of light and dark, which distinguishes Morrow's artwork and which resonates symbolically in the souls of the author's characters.” Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Like P. D. James, Penny shows how the tight structure of the classical mystery story can accommodate a wealth of deeply felt emotions and interpersonal drama."--Booklist"Penny's characters are sharply drawn, realistically complicated and heartbreakingly real. Wonderful, complex characters and sophisticated plotting makes this a perfect book. Do not miss it.” RT Book Reviews
Additional Praise for Louise Penny and the Armand Gamache Mysteries
“Penny sustains her high-wire act, creating characters of remarkable depth in an exhilarating whodunit.” People
“Louise Penny is unsurpassed at building a sense of heart-stopping urgency." The Charlotte Observer
“Penny, who raises the bar with each entry in this superb series, has always mixed murder and corruption with issues of morality...[S]he does so with her accustomed talent for a gripping plot, rich characterizations, arresting prose and thought-provoking questions of mercy, malice and the contradictions of the human race." Richmond-Times Dispatch
"This series dominates best-seller lists and award lists for a reason. Penny tells powerful stories of damage and healing in the human heart, leavened with affection, humor and – thank goodness – redemption." Salem Macknee, Charlotte Observer
“Penny writes with grace and intelligence about complex people struggling with complex emotions. But her great gift is her uncanny ability to describe what might seem indescribable – the play of light, the sound of celestial music, a quiet sense of peace.” New York Times Book Review
Schadenfreude descends on the Quebecois village of Three Pines.
Clara Morrow's solo exhibition at the Musee d'Art Contemporain in Montreal has been a long time coming. And although some seem pleased for her success in middle age, others, including a school friend turned vitriolic art critic, a gallery owner and even her husband Peter, an artist himself, wrestle with their envy. The day after the showing, back in Clara's garden in Three Pines, Lillian Dyson, former critic, current A.A. participant and Clara's vituperative ex-friend, lies dead of a broken neck. Armand Gamache, heading up the Sureté's homicide division, and his second-in-command Jean Guy Beauvoir (Bury Your Dead,2010, etc.), are called on to investigate. They soon realize the case pits sobriety against drunkenness, appearance against reality and good changes against bad. Moreover, Gamache and Beauvoir have their own demons to exorcize, stemming from a catastrophic police raid, physical and emotional rehab and a marriage that never should have happened. With suspects and old slights vying to be uncovered, it becomes difficult indeed to find "some measure of peace in the small village."
Penny, elevating herself to the pantheon that houses P.D. James, Ruth Rendell and Minette Walters, demonstrates an exquisite touch with characterization, plotting and artistic sensitivity. And there could be no better explanation of A.A. than you will find here.
Read an Excerpt
A Trick of the Light
By Louise Penny
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2011 Three Pines Creations, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Oh, no, no, no, thought Clara Morrow as she walked toward the closed doors.
She could see shadows, shapes, like wraiths moving back and forth, back and forth across the frosted glass. Appearing and disappearing. Distorted, but still human.
Still the dead one lay moaning.
The words had been going through her head all day, appearing and disappearing. A poem, half remembered. Words floating to the surface, then going under. The body of the poem beyond her grasp.
What was the rest of it?
It seemed important.
Oh, no no no.
The blurred figures at the far end of the long corridor seemed almost liquid, or smoke. There, but insubstantial. Fleeting. Fleeing.
As she wished she could.
This was it. The end of the journey. Not just that day's journey as she and her husband, Peter, had driven from their little Québec village into the Musée d'Art Contemporain in Montréal, a place they knew well. Intimately. How often had they come to the MAC to marvel at some new exhibition? To support a friend, a fellow artist? Or to just sit quietly in the middle of the sleek gallery, in the middle of a weekday, when the rest of the city was at work?
Art was their work. But it was more than that. It had to be. Otherwise, why put up with all those years of solitude? Of failure? Of silence from a baffled and even bemused art world?
She and Peter had worked away, every day, in their small studios in their small village, leading their tiny lives. Happy. But still yearning for more.
Clara took a few more steps down the long, long, white marble hallway.
This was the "more." Through those doors. Finally. The end point of everything she'd worked toward, walked toward, all her life.
Her first dream as a child, her last dream that morning, almost fifty years later, was at the far end of the hard white hallway.
They'd both expected Peter would be the first through those doors. He was by far the more successful artist, with his exquisite studies of life in close-up. So detailed, and so close that a piece of the natural world appeared distorted and abstract. Unrecognizable. Peter took what was natural and made it appear unnatural.
People ate it up. Thank God. It kept food on the table and the wolves, while constantly circling their little home in Three Pines, were kept from the door. Thanks to Peter and his art.
Clara glanced at him walking slightly ahead of her, a smile on his handsome face. She knew most people, on first meeting them, never took her for his wife. Instead they assumed some slim executive with a white wine in her elegant hand was his mate. An example of natural selection. Of like moving to like.
The distinguished artist with the head of graying hair and noble features could not possibly have chosen the woman with the beer in her boxing glove hands. And the pâté in her frizzy hair. And the studio full of sculptures made out of old tractor parts and paintings of cabbages with wings.
No. Peter Morrow could not have chosen her. That would have been unnatural.
And yet he had.
And she had chosen him.
Clara would have smiled had she not been fairly certain she was about to throw up.
Oh, no no no, she thought again as she watched Peter march purposefully toward the closed door and the art wraiths waiting to pass judgment. On her.
Clara's hands grew cold and numb as she moved slowly forward, propelled by an undeniable force, a rude mix of excitement and terror. She wanted to rush toward the doors, yank them open and yell, "Here I am!"
But mostly she wanted to turn and flee, to hide.
To stumble back down the long, long, light-filled, art-filled, marble-filled hallway. To admit she'd made a mistake. Given the wrong answer when asked if she'd like a solo show. At the Musée. When asked if she'd like all her dreams to come true.
She'd given the wrong answer. She'd said yes. And this is where it led.
Someone had lied. Or hadn't told the whole truth. In her dream, her only dream, played over and over since childhood, she had a solo show at the Musée d'Art Contemporain. She walked down this corridor. Composed and collected. Beautiful and slim. Witty and popular.
Into the waiting arms of an adoring world.
There was no terror. No nausea. No creatures glimpsed through the frosted glass, waiting to devour her. Dissect her. Diminish her, and her creations.
Someone had lied. Had not told her something else might be waiting.
Oh, no no no, thought Clara. Still the dead one lay moaning.
What was the rest of the poem? Why did it elude her?
Now, within feet of the end of her journey all she wanted to do was run away home to Three Pines. To open the wooden gate. To race up the path lined with apple trees in spring bloom. To slam their front door shut behind her. To lean against it. To lock it. To press her body against it, and keep the world out.
Now, too late, she knew who'd lied to her.
Clara's heart threw itself against her ribs, like something caged and terrified and desperate to escape. She realized she was holding her breath and wondered for how long. To make up for it she started breathing rapidly.
Peter was talking but his voice was muffled, far away. Drowned out by the shrieking in her head, and the pounding in her chest.
And the noise building behind the doors. As they got closer.
"This's going to be fun," said Peter, with a reassuring smile.
Clara opened her hand and dropped her purse. It fell with a plop to the floor, since it was all but empty, containing simply a breath mint and the tiny paint brush from the first paint-by-number set her grandmother had given her.
Clara dropped to her knees, pretending to gather up invisible items and stuff them into her clutch. She lowered her head, trying to catch her breath, and wondered if she was about to pass out.
"Deep breath in," she heard. "Deep breath out."
Clara stared from the purse on the gleaming marble floor to the man crouched across from her.
It wasn't Peter.
Instead, she saw her friend and neighbor from Three Pines, Olivier Brulé. He was kneeling beside her, watching, his kind eyes life preservers thrown to a drowning woman. She held them.
"Deep breath in," he whispered. His voice was calm. This was their own private crisis. Their own private rescue.
She took a deep breath in.
"I don't think I can do it." Clara leaned forward, feeling faint. She could feel the walls closing in, and see Peter's polished black leather shoes on the floor ahead. Where he'd finally stopped. Not missing her right away. Not noticing his wife was kneeling on the floor.
"I know," whispered Olivier. "But I also know you. Whether it's on your knees or on your feet, you're going through that door." He nodded toward the end of the hall, his eyes never leaving hers. "It might as well be on your feet."
"But it's not too late." Clara searched his face. Seeing his silky blond hair, and the lines only visible very close up. More lines than a thirty-eight-year-old man should have. "I could leave. Go back home."
Olivier's kindly face disappeared and she saw again her garden, as she'd seen it that morning, the mist not yet burned off. The dew heavy under her rubber boots. The early roses and late peonies damp and fragrant. She'd sat on the wooden bench in their backyard, with her morning coffee, and she'd thought about the day ahead.
Not once had she imagined herself collapsed on the floor. In terror. Longing to leave. To go back to the garden.
But Olivier was right. She wouldn't return. Not yet.
Oh, no no no. She'd have to go through those doors. They were the only way home now.
"Deep breath out," Olivier whispered, with a smile.
Clara laughed, and exhaled. "You'd make a good midwife."
"What're you two doing down there?" Gabri asked as he watched Clara and his partner. "I know what Olivier usually does in that position and I hope that isn't it." He turned to Peter. "Though that might explain the laughter."
"Ready?" Olivier handed Clara her purse and they got to their feet.
Gabri, never far from Olivier's side, gave Clara a bear hug. "You OK?" He examined her closely. He was big, though Gabri preferred to call himself "burly," his face unscored by the worry lines of his partner.
"I'm fine," said Clara.
"Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical?" asked Gabri.
"Great. So'm I. And so's everyone through there." Gabri gestured toward the door. "What they aren't is the fabulous artist with the solo show. So you're both fine and famous."
"Coming?" asked Peter, waving toward Clara and smiling.
She hesitated, then taking Peter's hand, they walked together down the corridor, the sharp echoes of their feet not quite masking the merriment on the other side.
They're laughing, thought Clara. They're laughing at my art.
And in that instant the body of the poem surfaced. The rest of it was revealed.
Oh, no no no, thought Clara. Still the dead one lay moaning.
I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.
* * *
From far off Armand Gamache could hear the sound of children playing. He knew where it was coming from. The park across the way, though he couldn't see the children through the maple trees in late spring leaf. He sometimes liked to sit there and pretend the shouts and laughter came from his young grandchildren, Florence and Zora. He imagined his son Daniel and Roslyn were in the park, watching their children. And that soon they'd walk hand in hand across the quiet street in the very center of the great city, for dinner. Or he and Reine-Marie would join them. And play catch, or conkers.
He liked to pretend they weren't thousands of kilometers away in Paris.
But mostly he just listened to the shouts and shrieks and laughter of neighborhood children. And smiled. And relaxed.
Gamache reached for his beer and lowered the L'Observateur magazine to his knee. His wife, Reine-Marie, sat across from him on their balcony. She too had a cold beer on this unexpectedly warm day in mid-June. But her copy of La Pressewas folded on the table and she stared into the distance.
"What're you thinking about?" he asked.
"My mind was just wandering."
He was silent for a moment, watching her. Her hair was quite gray now, but then, so was his. She'd dyed it auburn for many years but just recently had stopped doing that. He was glad. Like him, she was in her mid-fifties. And this was what a couple of that age looked like. If they were lucky.
Not like models. No one would mistake them for that. Armand Gamache wasn't heavy, but solidly built. If a stranger visited this home he might think Monsieur Gamache a quiet academic, a professor of history or literature perhaps at the Université de Montréal.
But that too would be a mistake.
Books were everywhere in their large apartment. Histories, biographies, novels, studies on Québec antiques, poetry. Placed in orderly bookcases. Just about every table had at least one book on it, and often several magazines. And the weekend newspapers were scattered on the coffee table in the living room, in front of the fireplace. If a visitor was the observant type, and made it further into the apartment to Gamache's study, he might see the story the books in there told.
And he'd soon realize this was not the home of some retiring professor of French literature. The shelves were packed with case histories, with books on medicine and forensics, with tomes on Napoleonic and common law, fingerprinting, genetic coding, wounds and weapons.
Murder. Armand Gamache's study was filled with it.
But still, even among the death, space was made for books on philosophy and poetry.
Watching Reine-Marie as they sat on the balcony, Gamache was once again struck by the certainty he'd married above himself. Not socially. Not academically. But he could never shake the suspicion he had gotten very, very lucky.
Armand Gamache knew he'd had a great deal of luck in his life, but none more than having loved the same woman for thirty-five years. Unless it was the extraordinary stroke of luck that she should also love him.
Now she turned her blue eyes on him. "Actually, I was thinking about Clara's vernissage."
"We should be going soon."
"True." He looked at his watch. It was five past five. The party to launch Clara Morrow's solo show started at the Musée at five and would end at seven. "As soon as David arrives."
Their son-in-law was half an hour late and Gamache glanced inside their apartment. He could just barely make out his daughter Annie sitting in the living room reading, and across from her was his second in command, Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Kneading Henri's remarkable ears. The Gamaches' German shepherd could stay like that all day, a goofy grin on his young face.
Jean-Guy and Annie were ignoring each other. Gamache smiled slightly. At least they weren't hurling insults, or worse, across the room.
"Would you like to leave?" Armand offered. "We could call David on his cell and ask him to just meet us there."
"Why don't we give him another couple of minutes."
Gamache nodded and picked up the magazine, then he lowered it slowly.
"Is there something else?"
Reine-Marie hesitated then smiled. "I was just wondering how you're feeling about going to the vernissage. And wondering if you're stalling."
Armand raised his brow in surprise.
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir rubbed Henri's ears and stared at the young woman across from him. He'd known her for fifteen years, since he was a rookie on homicide and she was a teenager. Awkward, gawky, bossy.
He didn't like kids. Certainly didn't like smart-ass teenagers. But he'd tried to like Annie Gamache, if only because she was the boss's daughter.
He'd tried and he'd tried and he'd tried. And finally —
And now he was nearing forty and she was nearing thirty. A lawyer. Married. Still awkward and gawky and bossy. But he'd tried so hard to like her he'd finally seen beyond that. He'd seen her laugh with real gaiety, seen her listen to very boring people as though they were riveting. She looked as though she was genuinely glad to see them. As though they were important. He'd seen her dance, arms flailing and head tilted back. Eyes shining.
And he'd felt her hand in his. Only once.
In the hospital. He'd come back up from very far away. Fought through the pain and the dark to that foreign but gentle touch. He knew it didn't belong to his wife, Enid. That bird-like grip he would not have come back for.
But this hand was large, and certain, and warm. And it invited him back.
He'd opened his eyes to see Annie Gamache staring at him with such concern. Why would she be there, he'd wondered. And then he knew why.
Because she had nowhere else to be. No other hospital bed to sit beside.
Because her father was dead. Killed by a gunman in the abandoned factory. Beauvoir had seen it happen. Seen Gamache hit. Seen him lifted off his feet and fall to the concrete floor.
And lie still.
And now Annie Gamache was holding his hand in the hospital, because the hand she really wanted to be holding was gone.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had pried his eyes open and seen Annie Gamache looking so sad. And his heart broke. Then he saw something else.
No one had ever looked at him that way. With unconcealed and unbound joy.
Annie had looked at him like that, when he'd opened his eyes.
He'd tried to speak but couldn't. But she'd rightly guessed what he was trying to say.
She'd leaned in and whispered into his ear, and he could smell her fragrance. It was slightly citrony. Clean and fresh. Not Enid's clinging, full-bodied perfume. Annie smelled like a lemon grove in summer.
He'd embarrassed himself then. There were many humiliations waiting for him in the hospital. From bedpans and diapers to sponge baths. But none was more personal, more intimate, more of a betrayal than what his broken body did then.
And Annie saw. And Annie never mentioned it from that day to this.
To Henri's bafflement, Jean-Guy stopped rubbing the dog's ears and placed one hand on the other, in a gesture that had become habitual now.
That was how it had felt. Annie's hand on his.
This was all he'd ever have of her. His boss's married daughter.
"Your husband's late," said Jean-Guy, and could hear the accusation. The shove.
Very, very slowly Annie lowered her newspaper. And glared at him.
"What's your point?"
What was his point?
"We're going to be late because of him."
"Then go. I don't care."
He'd loaded the gun, pointed it at his head, and begged Annie to pull the trigger. And now he felt the words strike. Cut. Travel deep and explode.
I don't care.
It was almost comforting, he realized. The pain. Perhaps if he forced her to hurt him enough he'd stop feeling anything.
"Listen," she said, leaning forward, her voice softening a bit. "I'm sorry about you and Enid. Your separation."
"Yeah, well, it happens. As a lawyer you should know that."
She looked at him with searching eyes, like her father's. Then she nodded.
"It happens." She grew quiet, still. "Especially after what you've been through, I guess. It makes you think about your life. Would you like to talk about it?"
Talk about Enid with Annie? All the petty sordid squabbles, the tiny slights, the scarring and scabbing. The thought revolted him and he must have shown it. Annie pulled back and reddened as though he'd slapped her.
Excerpted from A Trick of the Light by Louise Penny. Copyright © 2011 Three Pines Creations, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
LOUISE PENNY is the #1 New York Times and Globe and Mail bestselling author of ten Chief Inspector Armand Gamache novels. She has won numerous awards, including a CWA Dagger and the Agatha Award (five times) and was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. She lives in a small village south of Montréal.
LOUISE PENNY is the #1 New York Times and Globe and Mail bestselling author of more than ten Chief Inspector Armand Gamache novels. She has won numerous awards, including a CWA Dagger and the Agatha Award (five times) and was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. She lives in a small village south of Montréal.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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I think my wife may be getting jealous as I was up almost all night again with another Louise Penny novel. One would think that some many murders in one little village would be impossible, but Louise Penny makes it seem plausible. The only issue I have with her books is the wait until the next one. Personally, I think she is a genius and I would place her among my favorites, Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Steig Larson, and Tom Clancy. Penny's writing is truly amazing. I feel like I would like to go to Three Pines and meet the people who live there. Armand Gamache is someone I would not only like to meet, but to work for. All of the cliches about being a "page turner" and "I could not put down" apply to all of Penny's works, but especially to this one. The one caution I have is that you really need to read Bury Your Dead to fully understand what is happening to Gamache and his fellow investigators. The entire Inspector Gamache series are great books. I heartily recommend that you read them in order, but it is not a requirement to enjoying these mysteries. I read this in two nights, pity I had to go to work, but I can now turn my attention to my wife and avoid the problems that Peter Morrow is now dealing with.
Louise Penny, in her latest book, A Trick of the Light, shows herself not just a talented mystery plotter, but an adroit literary novel artist as well. Into the familiar setting of the Three Pines village in Quebec, Penny brings back her beloved characters, including Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, his team members Jean Guy Beauvoir and Isabelle Lacoste, who must investigate the murder of a former vicious art critic, whose body has been discovered in the garden of Clara Morrow, who has just had a successful vernissage at a art museum in Quebec and an afterparty at her home in Three Pines. The murder obviously casts a pall on Clara's success, as motives and suspects are abundant. Penny deftly presents the light and dark in varying character's souls, and injects these with a light touch of humor, as when Beauvoir convinces a couple of snarky artists that he is an art critic, and that Gamache is a writer from the Louvre. Beauvoir's reaction to the aftermath of a "smudging ritual" held by Myrna, Clara, Dominque, and Ruth, as they found a clue, is priceless: "It wasn't enough that they were English and had a prayer stick, but now they'd lapsed into pig latin. It was no wonder there were so many murders here. The only mystery was how any got solved, with help like this."(p.117)Penny also interweaves sub-plot areas with several prominent gallery owners and an AA group, to which the victim belonged, with the threads of the investigators and residents of Three Pines. Red herrings abound, and it's not until the penultimate chapter that the murderer is revealed. The last chapter, in particular the closing lines of the book, brought me to tears, and I thought of a line of poetry by Emily Dickinson: " Hope is the thing with feathers." Lovely book, and I'm only sorry there aren't more stars for me to fill out! Highly recommended. --Jane Fricker
I'm running out of adjectives to describe how wonderful -- how beautiful -- Louise Penny's books are. The inhabitants of the town of Three Pines are so compelling that you will never want to finish reading. As always, there are moments of great humor, suspense, and sorrow in the midst of a great murder mystery. The dead body is never the centerpiece, though -- it's her fascinating characters and how they blend, and break, that keeps us riveted to her stories.
I purchased this book two days ago and I just could not put it down. It has it all. will definitely buy more.
If you think that Louise Penny writes only cozy little mysteries set in beautiful Qu¿bec, then reconsider. Her characters are complex, sometimes flawed, and her writing explores some of the darkest corners of human feelings. She is a marvelous writer and an adept observer of mankind, and her writing draws one in and forward through her books. Keep writing Ms. Penny! denversmile
Louise Penny has a gift for pulling me into Three Pines and into the lives of her characters. From tears to laughter, disgust to amazement, my reaction to this new book is WOW. This is another great read. If you are not familiar with this series I say start at the beginning with "Still Life" so that you can appreciate the character development. What a wonderful writer!!
Louise Penny has done it again. She has created yet another extraordinary novel (her 7th in the series) that is, yes, a mystery story, but as her devoted readers have come to expect, so much more. Her writing is so rich with the lives of her characters and so full of sly wit and grace that the only regret I had was knowing that it will be another year until I can read the next book! Her Chief Inspector Gamache returns to Three Pines in "A Trick of the LIght" and enters the art world where all is not truth and beauty. To tell you any more of the plot would only deprive you of the joy of experiencing it all on your own. I was lucky enought to receive an Advanced Reader's Copy of the book and it was a pleasure to once again let Ms. Penny take me on a satisfying journey through the human heart and brain in all of its strengths and weaknesses and sorrows and joys. Enjoy!
I received an Advanced Readers Copy of this book and I truly couldn't put it down! Ms. Penny's writing is such a joy to dive into and so while I wanted to race to the end, I savored the dialogue, description, and wonderful character development as I read it. I refuse to give spoilers as that would ruin the book for others, but I will say that mystery fans will enjoy the progression of the story as it builds wonderfully and gives a great ending. I will also say that if you are a fan of the Gamache series, you better call in sick when this book comes out so that you don't have to be bothered by distractions like work... :) AND if you haven't read the other Gamache books, after reading this one, you will be racing to the book store for the first in the series! Enjoy!
SHE. IS. THE. BEST. Enough said.
A wonderful mystery series that gets better with each book. I suggest reading them in order..
I simply love this series of books. The characters are like close friends and family by this, the seventh book in the series. I haven't read any other books in a very long time that I literally HAVE to keep reading! I find myself thinking about the people & plots at random times of the day...kind of mulling things over. Of course, part of my 'obsession' may be due to the fact that when I first heard about this series, there were already seven books written, and so I read the first several back to back. Just superb!
Hola Compadre! Welcome to the lair of the goddess of magic... (magic sparkles *****)
Have enjoyed the series (my first was #8, a gift) and am looking forward to the next.
I have read and enjoyed every book . I can't wait for the newest installment. Thank you Louise Penny for such interesting and thought-provoking stories.
I am happy about Clara doing what she did it is about time. I am too upset with Jean Guy shame on him. Gamache is so good what this is doing to him breaks my heart. Every time I sit down to read my old friends at the bristo made me feel like I am where I belong this whole thing is just killing me.
I read all of the Gamache series. The best ever.