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Boston, 1868: The wealthy are enjoying the height of the Gilded Age, a time of opulence for many--but not all. Nell Sweeney, a young Irish immigrant, knows what it is to have nothing. But when she earns a coveted position as governess to the wealthy Hewitts, Nell discovers that deadly secrets often lurk beneath society's gilded surface.
"STILL LIFE WITH MURDER is sheer perfection...gripping...powerful...unforgettable...a book you'll want to read again and again while waiting for more adventures of a charming Irish governess by the name of Nell Sweeney. You'll know you've read one hell of a story after you turn the last page! Everything about it denotes superior storytelling that leaves you clamoring for more....This series is going to be a knockout for historical mystery fans, both new and old, so don't miss it, as it's sure to be a keeper. Brava to P.B. Ryan for this remarkable debut!"
--Suzanne Coleburn, Reader to Reader Reviews
"What a thoroughly charming book! A beautiful combination of entertaining characters, minute historical research, and a powerful evocation of time and place. I'm very glad there will be more to come."
--New York Times best-selling author Barbara Hambly
"Utterly absorbing. Vividly alive characters in a setting so clearly portrayed that one could step right into it."
--Roberta Gellis
"Ryan enriches this well-plotted mystery with her keen sense of the era and insight into her characters. This debut mystery is a winner, with a feisty heroine, a colorful historical backdrop and a strong mystery rife with complexities. An ideal blend of history and mystery."
--Romantic Times
"Readers will admire Nell Sweeney and won't be able to resist her many charms. STILL LIFE WITH MURDER is a well-constructed and fascinating mystery in what looks to be a great series."
--Harriet Klausner, The Best Reviews
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STILL LIFE WITH MURDER
Berkley, July 2003
read an excerpt
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The two eldest Hewitt boys were thought to have been killed in the Civil War some three years ago. But one winter's day, the family hears word that their William is, in fact, alive--and in jail for having killed a man...
Enraged at his son's deception--and convinced of his guilt--August Hewitt is determined to see William hang and thus forbids his wife from aiding Will in any way. But Viola Hewitt believes her son is innocent and begs Nell to help her exonerate him. With few leads and even less time, Nell must rely on her wits and her knowledge of the city's dark underbelly to uncover the truth--before the hangman's noose tightens around William Hewitt's throat...
"Still Life With Murder is a skillfully written story of intrigue and murder set during
Boston's famous Gilded Age. Nell Sweeney, governess and part-time nurse, is a winning heroine gifted with common sense, grit and an underlying poignancy."
--Earlene Fowler, best-selling author of Steps to the Altar and Sunshine and Shadow
"P.B. Ryan captures an authentic flavor of post Civil War Boston as she explores that city's dark underbelly and the lingering after-effects of the war. The atmosphere is that of The Alienist, but feisty Irish nursemaid Nell Sweeney is a more likeable protagonist. I look forward to seeing her in action again."
--Rhys Bowen
"P.B. Ryan makes a stunning debut with Still Life With Murder, bringing Nineteenth Century Boston alive, from its teeming slums to the mansions on Boston Common, and populating it with a vivid and memorable cast of characters. The fascinating heroine, Nell Sweeney, immediately engages the reader and I couldn't put the book down until I discovered the truth along with her. I can't wait for the next installment."
--Victoria Thompson, author of Murder On Mulberry Street
"A well-plotted mystery, with a memorable character in the person of Nell Sweeney."
--John A. Broussard, I Love a Mystery
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Boston, as drawn by Nell Sweeney
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February 1868, an Opium Den in Boston
William Hewitt tapped bits of black ash from his pipe into the little stone box. "How did you know these places were called hop joints?" he asked Nell.
"That's what Detective Cook calls them. He's the policeman in charge of your case. He took me to Flynn's Boardinghouse to--"
Will looked up sharply. "To Flynn's? Why?"
"I led him to think your father had sent me to make sure you were really guilty. I wanted to visit the scene of the murder, hear what the witnesses had to say, maybe try to piece together what actually--"
"You have no business meddling in this," he said, a sort of confounded anger vanquishing his good humor.
"I have no choice. Your mother is determined to find out what happened Saturday night, and I'm the only person she can turn to. I tried to get answers from you yesterday, if you recall, but you put me off completely."
"I don't recall, actually. The opium sickness was coming on pretty fast. Was I rude?"
"Occasionally."
"Good. You oughtn't to pry into such things." He whacked the pipe against the stone bowl again, so hard she was surprised it didn't break.
"You assaulted Ernest Tulley only a couple of hours before he was found knifed to death. You chased him down the stairs, and kept pursuing him even after he hurled you through a window. Were you fighting over Kathleen Flynn?"
"Yes, that's it. Clashing horns over a woman. Oldest story in the book."
"No, but really--"
"Yes, indeed. It was the strangely beguiling Kathleen Flynn. Now will you kindly shut up and leave me to my gong?"
"Who was that other man in the back parlor with you?" she persisted. "The one who was drinking whiskey while you were smoking opium?"
He closed his eyes; the air left his lungs.
"Was he a friend?" she asked. "Or--"
"No. I barely... I didn't know him. He just wandered in there. We struck up a conversation."
Ah--a semi-solid answer, at last. "You talked about Ernest Tulley," she said. "You made some fairly strong statements. You must have made friends pretty quickly."
"Gong and booze will do that to you."
"You said something about making Tulley pay."
"Did I? I must have been quite enamored of the enchanting Miss Flynn."
"Are you protecting someone?"
"Do I seem the type to go to the gallows in someone else's stead?"
"I don't know," she answered honestly. "What are you afraid of, Dr. Hewitt? That I'll discover you really did it? Or that you didn't?"
"If you're hoping the opium has loosened my tongue to that degree, I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment. It takes a good deal more than one bowl to deprive me of my wits."
"How much does it take? As much as what's in there?" She pointed to the little horn box he'd just purchased.
"Good lord, that much taken at one sitting would kill even me. No, that's a supply to take with me. Suffice it to say the more I smoke, the more it affects me. A bowl or two at regular intervals, or a tincture of opium if there's no gong to be found, will keep the shakes and aching at bay so that I can function fairly normally. More than that will gradually strip me of my senses, but in a most seductive way. No one can appreciate the allure of the poppy until he has experienced it."
"Do you usually smoke enough to affect your senses?"
"Nearly always. It takes quite some time, and a great deal of gong, but I find it's the only way I can tolerate myself."
"They say you killed Ernest Tulley in a frenzy of opium intoxication."
"What do you think?"
She looked around at Will's fellow pipe fiends, all of whom were in some stage of deep repose. "I should think it would be a miracle if someone under the influence of this drug could summon up the energy for a proper frenzy."
"Then I suppose I must have killed him calmly, in cold blood," Will said as he slid aside the tray that separated them on the wooden bunk. "I just followed him into the alley--or perhaps I cleverly lured him there, and then trapped him." Bracing an arm on the other side of Nell, he leaned toward her, forcing her back against the wall. He was so close she could feel his breath on her face. "And then..." Steel flickered in the lamplight as he raised the knife to her throat.
Nell held his gaze, reeling inside as if she were looking down off the edge of a steep cliff at night. Evenly, quietly, she said, "Put that thing down. The others will see. They'll fetch the police."
"They can't see the knife from where they are. They'll just think I'm kissing you."
Copyright © 2003 Patricia Burford Ryan
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