Marni Graff writes two award-winning mystery series: The Nora Tierney English Mysteries and The Trudy Genova Manhattan Mysteries. She teaches writing workshops and mentors the Writers Read program, and is Managing Editor of Bridle Path Press.
Graff also writes the crime review blog Auntie M Writes, www.auntiemwrites.com.
Nurse Trudy Genova is making plans to take her relationship to NYPD detective Ned O'Malley to the next level, when she lands a gig as medical consultant on a film shoot at the famed Dakota apartment building in Manhattan, which John Lennon once called home. Then star Monica Kiley goes missing, a cast member turns up dead, and it appears Trudy might be next. Meanwhile Ned tackles a mysterious murder case in which the victim is burned beyond recognition. When his investigations lead him back to the Dakota, Trudy finds herself wondering: how can she fall in love if she can't even survive?
Readers of Death Unscripted, the first book in the Trudy Genova Manhattan Mystery series, will find the same pleasures in this sequel: fast pacing, engaging characters, twists and turns on the way to a satisfying close. From the award-winning author of The Nora Tierney English Mysteries, this second series is a winner. Once again M.K. Graff reveals her talents in crafting this delightful mix of amateur sleuth and police procedural.
Part procedural, part cozy, Death at the Dakota is a well-crafted and highly entertaining mystery.- Bruce Robert Coffin, #1 bestselling author of the Detective Byron mysteries.
I fell in love -- not only with co-protagonists, Trudy and Ned, the richly detailed and historic setting of The Dakota, and the unique cast of characters, but with the unusual plot of Death at the Dakota. Sherry Harris, Agatha Award nominated author of the Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mysteries
Rashid was right about one thing: the trumpet gown with horizontal stripes did make Monica look like a Slinky. That one went right back on the hanger, without debate from anyone.
Next up, the Monique Lhullier, heavy lace fitted down past Monica’s derriere that flowed into a wide circular train. Expensive it might be, but it reminded me of the curtains from my Nana Genova’s house.
“Too heavy, Rashid,” Monica complained. “I’m too short to carry all this around.” She didn’t mention the way it strained over her small belly.
The Jenny Packham was so sheer it couldn’t be worn with any kind of undergarment. Made of silk charmeuse, it shimmered as Monica dropped it over her head. “Packham’s done Sex and the City, The Devil Wears Prada, and of course, Casino Royale,” Rashid gushed, adjusting a large bow under the deep-V neckline. He stepped back. “There. What do you think?”
I thought Monica’s slightly rounded belly showed in a too obvious way. “Does it remind you of a nightgown, Alice?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and opening my green eyes wide to convey the message “help me out here.”
“Nix this one, Rashid,” Alice said authoritatively. “She can’t wear a bra with it and you’ll never get those nipples past the censor for the TV-G rating.”