One Death at a Time - Softcover

Waxman, Abbi

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593816676 ISBN 13: 9780593816677

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

“Abbi Waxman is both irreverent and thoughtful.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Emily Giffin

A 2025 Edgar Award Nominee

A cranky former actress teams up with her Gen Z sobriety sponsor to solve the murder that threatens to send her back to prison in this dazzling new mystery novel from the USA Today bestselling author of The Bookish Life of Nina Hill.

When Julia Mann, a bad-tempered ex-actress and professional thorn in the side of authority, runs into Natasha Mason at an AA meeting, it’s anything but a meet-cute. Julia just found a dead body in her swimming pool, and the cops say she did it (she already went to jail for murder once, so now they think she’s making a habit of it). Mason is eager to clear Julia’s name and help keep her sober, but all Julia wants is for Mason to leave her alone.

As their investigation ranges from the Hollywood Hills to the world of burlesque to the country clubs of Palm Springs, this unconventional team realizes their shared love of sarcasm and poor life choices are proving to be a powerful combination. Will secrets from their past trip them up, or will their team of showgirls, cat burglars, and Hollywood agents help them stay one step ahead? Are dead piranhas, false noses, and a giant martini glass important clues or simply your typical day in Los Angeles? And will they manage to solve the crime before they kill each other, or worse, fall off the wagon? Trying to keep it simple and take it easy is one thing—trying to find a murderer before they kill again is a whole other program.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Abbi Waxman, USA Today bestselling author, is a chocolate-loving, dog-loving woman who lives in Los Angeles; has three daughters, three dogs, and three cats; and lies down as much as possible. She worked in advertising for many years, which is how she learned to write fiction.

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1

Mason watched from her position on the floor as the facilitator came to her defense.

"I realize you were triggered by Mason's share, Jim, but fire is never the answer," said the woman firmly, moving the large man most of the way across the room simply by wafting him with her clipboard. He would try and stand his ground every few steps, maybe even mount a counteroffensive, but she would double-time her wrist action, and apparently the breeze in his eyelashes was more than he could handle. "We respect your right to self-expression, but not in the medium of flame." She frowned and pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. "Please take a seat until you can compose yourself. I don't want to ask you to leave Group, but I will."

Mason watched Jim carefully until she was sure he wasn't going to come at her again. Then she looked at Sherri, the facilitator, reassured by her still-mellow affect. She trusted Sherri, despite the fact she was the only nonaddict in this particular room and had her hair in one of those messy buns Mason envied. Admittedly, unlike most "normies," Sherri had seen and heard things that would make a walrus shudder, and those are some implacable motherfuckers. Running a 12-step facility is not a job for the fainthearted, and this evening had tested Sherri's self-possession as well as Mason's instincts for self-preservation. But Mason went back to stomping out embers, confident Sherri had it under control. The meeting, not the fire. The fire was her department.

Group had been going relatively normally until Jim had pulled out his lighter and set fire to a handful of helpful (and flammable) pamphlets, and several group participants had had to stamp them out. Mason had been the first and the only one with really appropriate footwear. But to Sherri's experienced eye, this was just a minor conflagration and no one's worst Thursday night by a long shot. Still, manners matter, so Sherri added, "And you owe Mason an apology."

Mason laughed loudly. "I'm on your tenth step every night lately, Jim."

The large man narrowed his eyes. "No, Mason, you're not."

"I should be," she replied, reaching to take a roll of paper towel from a guy who'd returned from the janitor's closet with a broom and a glittering, rustling string of black trash bags. "Thanks, Dave." Dave nodded but said nothing. He was a man of deep thoughts but few words.

"Well, you're not," Jim said again, truculently. For a sober person, someone in recovery, a tenth step is a daily list of things that might have been better left unsaid, things better left undone, and things you might want to say sorry for. Jim wasn't a big apologizer, and his daily inventory was usually just a list of people he wanted to punch in the ear. He'd been lying: Mason made that list almost every day.

Natasha Mason was an unusually pretty woman of twenty-five with extremely short hair and striking features that might have been overwhelming had they been paired with a more elaborate hairstyle. It wasn't her looks that rubbed Jim the wrong way; it was every other thing about her. He narrowed his eyes and watched her squat down with a wad of paper towels in each hand, circle-wiping the burnt paper mess into a pile, then scoop-lifting it into the trash bag the other guy was holding open. As she got low to the ground several people averted their gaze from the lower back tattoo her position revealed, while others fell silent and stared. Jim couldn't see it from where he was, so dodged the bullet that was moral judgment. Each to his own.

While this was going on, the door to the room opened and a woman entered and silently absorbed the sight of a small funeral pyre surrounded by chairs. Another woman might have hesitated, maybe turned and walked away, but this woman merely raised an eyebrow and stalked a wide and elegant circle. The little people would do what the little people did, regardless of her input, so she let them get on with it. As long as they stayed at least an arm's length away, she had no fucks to give them.

As she took a seat, Mason turned and looked at her, her own eyebrows drawn in her habitual first expression: No, thanks. The newcomer was maybe sixty, possibly a few years in either direction, and exquisitely dressed and coiffed. She was wearing a long, flowing, brightly patterned dress (vintage Ossie Clark), white boots that laced up the front (vintage Beth Levine) and carrying a small, square purse (knockoff Gucci Jackie bag bought on Melrose for twenty bucks). Her body balanced on the folding chair as though it were a well-stuffed chaise lounge, her crossed legs scaffolding the fabric of her dress like the model she might once have been. She looked remarkably comfortable, but wore an expression of extreme sufferance. Mason was used to that, though she'd never seen anyone look quite so ornamental and cranky simultaneously. She became aware that the energy in the room had changed, and looked at some of the more familiar faces. They knew this woman, she could tell that much, even though she herself had never seen her before. And not only knew her, but . . . something she couldn't put her finger on. She looked back at the woman, who was now looking at her with an expression that suggested Mason was blocking her view. Of what, Mason wasn't sure; there was nothing to look at now the fire was out.

Sherri coughed and looked at the clipboard, not that it had anything to offer. "Welcome to Group. I'm Sherri. You are . . . ?"

"Julia," the woman replied, her voice deep and clear and maple syrup smooth. "I have a court card that needs to be signed."

Again, Mason was aware of a change of energy. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Sherri nodded. "I'll take care of it at the end"-she looked around-"for you and anyone else who needs it." A guy at the other end of the circle sheepishly half raised his hand, and she nodded to let him know she saw him. "Mason, why don't you take your seat now you've finished saving us all from a fiery death, or at least the inconvenience of having to evacuate the room?" Then she turned back to the older woman, who was carefully looking everywhere but at her. "Julia, why don't you tell us a little about yourself and why you're here?"

Mason sat back down, but in a different chair so she could keep an eye on Jim and on this new woman. She was less certain with every moment that passed that she hadn't seen her before. It was that kind of face. Maybe she'd seen her in meetings; that was a distinct possibility.

"I'd rather not," the older woman replied. "I've been sober before. I know the drill." She waved her court card. "I went out . . . and now I have to come back." Her tone was polite but managed to convey it had a use-by date that was fast approaching. Whoever this woman was, she had the ability to express a lot by saying very little, and Mason studied her, mentally cataloging what she saw. It was traditional not to judge other people in recovery, but it was also human to do it with big fat bells on. Mason was nothing if not human.

Sherri nodded. "Alright," she said affably, turning away. 'Going out' meant relapse, and relapse was part of being an addict; only a lucky few get sober and stay sober the rest of their lives. Most people struggle hard, going in and out of sobriety with varying degrees of commitment and success. In that way they are no different than people joining gyms in January or starting diets in March-this time it's going to be different. Nobody cares. Everyone's trying. And everyone in that room had the one day they were sitting in, and the wise ones were grateful for it.

Sherri had seen it all. She looked at the sheepish guy. "This is also your first time in Group. Would you like to share?"

He blushed, and nodded. "My name is Andrew, I'm an alcoholic, and I'm here because I drove into a house."

A bubble of laughter went...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593816676
• ISBN 13: 9780593816677
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 401
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: BERKLEY; https://www.penguin.com/?s=BERKLEY; ; Unit 2 Limavady Business Park; Limavady; County Londonderry; BT49 0HR; Vereinigtes Königreich
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