Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Sometimes when I'm in a store something on the shelf speaks to me. Actually what happens is when I'm looking at it, it looks back--staring right at me--and the next thing I know it's winking, desperately trying to get my attention, "Suzanne take me home."

Okay, so even I can't believe I wrote that, it sounds creepy.

But what I'm trying to describe is sometimes when I see something that I wasn't planning on buying, there's a voice inside of me urging me to buy it anyway. 'Suzanne, you don't understand "why" right now, but some day you're going to need this. Trust your instincts.'

A few months ago when I was in the Dollar Store, there was a simple cardboard recipe box sitting on the shelf. It had an old fashioned design and I liked it--didn't need it, had no idea what I would do with it, but I ended up buying it anyway. I had the feeling that somewhere down the road I was going to need this recipe box, and by golly, somewhere down the road I did.

My daughter always calls me when she wants to cook one of our family favorites, because she can't ever find the recipe. So I decided to send her the recipes and that's when I remembered the dollar recipe box. And when I opened my storage closet, there it was waiting for me, just when I needed it.

The mystery of not understanding, but doing something anyway has taken me on a lot of interesting journeys in my life. Buying a recipe box, when I didn't need one, it might seem insignificant. Who cares, after all, it only cost one dollar. But opportunities like the recipe box--they're my dry run, learning to trust my instincts for when the big stuff comes along.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book The Busybody Book Club: A Novel by Freya Sampson. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

PROLOGUE

Nova

I call this emergency meeting of the St. Tredock Community Book Club to order," Phyllis said, rapping her knuckle on the desk.

"Hang on a sec, who put her in charge?" Arthur grumbled. "Technically, Nova's our chair, so she should start the meeting," Ash said.

"Can you all stop arguing, please!"

Nova looked at the ragtag group in front of her. Phyllis had clearly come straight from bed, as she was wearing an oldfashioned nightie under her coat and her hair was held in place by curlers. Arthur's weathered face was still red and puffy from all the crying he'd done during his confession earlier, and Ash was tapping away on his phone, his teenage brow furrowed in concentration. When Nova had set up this book club, it never occurred to her that one day she'd be holding a latenight meeting with this motley crew. But then again, it never occurred to her that one day they'd be investigating a murder either.

"Are you sure your theory's right?" Ash asked, looking up from his phone. "It just seems so unlikely."

"I know it does, but how else do you explain all this?" Nova signaled to the evidence laid out on the desk in front of them.

"It's all very well knowing who did it, but how are we going to prove it?" Arthur said. "This lot doesn't mean anything unless we can get a confession, and that's hardly likely to happen."

Nova glanced at Phyllis, who had gone quiet. 'Too quiet.' "You've got a plan, haven't you?"

"Of course I have," the older woman said indignantly.

"Let me guess; is it inspired by an Agatha Christie novel?" Ash asked.

"Haven't I said all along that she'd have the answer?" Phyllis said. "Now, Nova, how would you feel about having a couple of extra guests at your wedding?"

Nova swallowed; in all the drama of the past hour, she'd barely thought about the fact she was getting married in little more than twelve hours' time. Assuming the wedding went ahead and she wasn't arrested before then, of course.

"Craig's parents have invited most of the village to the church, so I suppose a few more guests won't make any difference."

"Excellent!" Phyllis turned to Arthur and Ash. "I hope you've both got clean suits, because tomorrow we're going to catch a criminal: Miss Marple style."

CHAPTER ONE

Nova

NINE DAYS EARLIER

Nova Davies closed her eyes and thrust her arm into the murky depths. She could feel the chill of the water through her rubber gloves as she groped around, reaching for the body. "Any luck?" her colleague, Lauren, asked behind her.

"There's something here, but I can't get a proper grip on it."

"Try and grasp a leg, that might give you something to pull on. Or else the hair."

Nova delved further, trying not to think too hard about what else might be down there. Finally, she managed to close her fingers round a foot, and she yanked her arm back hard, freeing the victim with a loud splash.

"Got her!"

She stood up from the toilet and turned round triumphantly, a soggy plastic doll in her hand.

Lauren shook her head as she opened the black bin bag she was holding. "I bet it was that Daryll Robins. I saw him lurking round the toilets earlier with an evil smirk on his face, plotting our downfall."

"The boy's only six! Here, take Toilet Barbie while I wash my hands." Nova dropped the offending doll in the bag, along with her rubber gloves, and crossed to the sink.

"Man, we do 'not' get paid enough to deal with this nonsense," Lauren said with a dry laugh.

"Good thing we love what we do, hey? And thanks for staying to help."

"No problem. You know St. Tredock Community Center rule number 17: never leave a comrade to face a blocked toilet alone!"

They headed down the corridor together, and Nova stopped outside the small meeting room, sighing when she saw the circle of empty chairs inside.

"No one's coming tonight, are they?" she said.

"Of course they will; you still have a few minutes."

"I'm not so sure. There were only four people last month, one of whom looked like he'd gotten lost on the way to the pub. Honestly, this book club is a disaster."

"Don't be so defeatist. I once ran an oversixties yoga class here for more than a year and it only ever had one member, and I don't think he even mastered a downward facing dog. Now, 'that' was a disaster."

Nova smiled. "Thanks, that makes me feel a bit better."

"Just give it time. I've told you, this lot are deeply suspicious of anything—and anyone—new, but they'll come round to you eventually."

"This lot" was how Lauren referred to the residents of St. Tredock, the small, picturesque Cornish village where the two women worked. Nova had moved to the area five months ago, but Lauren had lived here her whole life and took great pleasure in affectionately mocking her fellow natives.

"I'm sorry I can't stay and give you moral support, but Sam will never forgive me if I miss tonight's pub quiz. I've got a parting gift for you though." Lauren reached into her rucksack and pulled out a packet of digestive biscuits. "I know what Phyllis is like, and your evening will be considerably easier if you have snacks."

"Oh, thank you. I meant to buy some earlier but forgot."

"No worries. Also, I've never been to a book club before, but don't you need a copy of the book?" Lauren's eyes scanned the empty chairs, and Nova grimaced.

"Ah, yes. Ideally you do, but I can't find mine anywhere. I must have left it at home."

"It's 'Where the Crawdads Sing', right? I'm sure I saw it on your desk this morning, under a pile of papers."

"Really? You're a lifesaver!"

"Right, I'd better get to the Anchor," Lauren said. " Will you join us later?"

"I'll see how it goes here. If I don't make it, tell Craig I'll see him at home."

"Will do. Good luck with your crawdads!"

Lauren headed toward the front door, and Nova glanced at her watch; 6:59 and there was still no one here. She walked down the corridor, her footsteps echoing through the empty community center. Nova hated being here alone, and she hummed as she unlocked the door and flicked on the light. The office was really a glorified cupboard, with barely space for the desks of her, Lauren and their boss, Sandy. Nova's was nearest to the door, its surface invisible under assorted junk modeling from the afterschool art club, some wilting potted plants she was trying to resurrect and several dirty coffee mugs. No wonder she kept losing things; she really must keep it tidier. Nova located her copy of 'Where the Crawdads Sing', which as Lauren had said was under a teetering pile of papers, then put on a slick of red lipstick and grabbed a plate for the biscuits.

She flicked off the office light and stepped back out into the corridor. As she was locking the door, Nova heard a sudden bang to her right. Her heart leaped and she swung round, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she prepared to defend herself.

"That wind! There's a storm coming tonight, Craddock, you wait and see."

Phyllis Hudson was stepping into the entrance foyer, untying a plastic rainhood from under her chin. The septuagenarian was a familiar sight at the community center. Nova saw her squat figure and distinctive bluerinsed perm at the knit and natter group on a Monday, at the Silver Swans senior ballet class on a Thursday and at the food bank on a Friday. In fact, she was such a regular that Nova had been told to turn a blind eye to Craddock, the elderly, arthritic English bulldog that accompanied Phyllis at all times, in blatant contravention of the center's noanimals policy. The dog was lumbering in through the door now, wheezing like a sixtyaday smoker.

"Evening, Phyllis," Nova said, fixing a smile on her face. "What's wrong with you? You look like you've witnessed a murder."

"Nothing, I'm fine. Come on in, I'm just setting up."

Nova hurried to the meeting room and began laying out the biscuits. As she did, she took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart. 'It was just the door banging in the wind.'

(continued on Tuesday)

Love this book? Share your review with the Publisher