New and noteworthy mystery titles coming out this Tuesday. Arranged by newest released to oldest.
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Thirty years prior to living in self- imposed exile, Grant McAllister wrote The White Murders, seven murder mysteries that cover his seven mathematical rules to detective fiction. Now, Julia Hart, editor of Blood Type Books, has come knocking on his door. After discovering Grant's book in a box of secondhand books, Julia's publisher would like to reprint The White Murders for a new audience. As she reads Grant's stories and the more time she spends with him, Julia begins to suspect that there is an all too real mystery to unravel. With alternating chapters between editor and author and the seven whodunits from The White Murders, The Eighth Detective is a one-of-a-kind mystery!
— Jen Steele
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(This book cannot be returned.)
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Here’s one where you can believe the hype - Cosby’s penned a heist novel that just might have stolen my heart. Our hero’s a Carolina wheelman who’s put his criminal past just far enough behind him to maybe nod and wave hello to polite society when he passes it across the street. Indeed, Blacktop Wasteland is an ode to country people living around the edges of legal who desperately want to be anything other than poor nobodies. The way Cosby uses language in this book, oh my lord. He’s not just got perfect pitch for dialogue; this novel is stuffed full of more knee slappers and Southernisms than my Granddad could carry in a poke (look it up). There’s just enough a hard man’s gotta do… swagger to please the toughest thriller though guys, and when it comes to American muscle screeching down highways and scrambling through back roads, you know Cosby’s got some high-flying surprises for you. What I like best is when a plan goes south and our hero’s got nothing left but his wits to get a step ahead of disaster, and between cartoon-dumb redneck accomplices and slicker-than-snakes backroom kingpins, every plan in this book gets a tool chest of wrenches thrown in it. Okay, here’s your car metaphor: the rest of this year’s thrillers look like sad little Pintos puttering along in the dust of Cosby’s ‘69 Camero.
— Chris Lee
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