Witty, endearing, and wildly entertaining, this Southern cozy mystery is a little bit Gilmore Girls, a little bit Finlay Donovan, with a big helping of Only Murders in the Building.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Primrose Murder Society by Stacy Hackney, which is out now.
Lila Shaw stopped trusting anyone the minute her husband went to jail for white-collar crime, taking their country club lifestyle with him. Now Lila is broke, friendless, and losing her house—and to make things worse, her true-crime-obsessed daughter, Bea, was just expelled from fourth grade. Desperate for a fresh start, Lila agrees to temporarily move in and clean out an abandoned junk-filled apartment in Richmond’s palatial Primrose building. The luxurious Virginia landmark is filled with retirees who start their days early drinking bourbon and gossiping, in that order.
Soon after Lila’s arrival, the Primrose is thrown into chaos. The owner of the building’s splendid penthouse has died and in his final days he set up a two-million-dollar reward for any resident who helps to solve the 21-year-old murder of his granddaughter at the Primrose. A fan of all detective stories and true-crime podcasts, Bea is inspired to investigate. They really could use the reward money, so Lila reluctantly agrees, in a questionable attempt at family bonding. She’s certain the killer is long-gone after all these years anyway. That is, until another resident is murdered… and Lila becomes the prime suspect.
Now Lila needs to solve both murders to avoid jail, and even worse, losing her daughter to her snobby in-laws. To catch a killer and clear Lila’s name, she and Bea must rely on their elderly neighbors—Jasper, a shy former detective, and Evelyn, an opinionated socialite—along with Nate, a good-looking reporter who keeps appearing at the most inconvenient moments. As the amateur sleuths expose the truth about the Primrose, Lila hopes she can also unravel the trickiest parts of her own life and start fresh.
The Primrose did not look like a typical murder site. Stretching up five stories to a peaked roof and a circular tower, the building itself was clad in elegant rose-colored brick with large arched windows and cream stone trim. The circular slate driveway was lined with red azaleas and Mercedes sedans. The building looked safe and luxurious, a place where nothing bad could happen. Bea would never have to know about its dark past, and Lila herself had plenty of other problems. An unsolved murder from twenty years ago didn’t even rank in the top fifty.
“It’s pretty,” Bea said, tipping up her pointed chin to stare at the top of the Primrose.
Lila exhaled at the unexpectedly positive comment. She had feared Bea would proclaim her hatred for the Primrose at first sight.
“This is a fun adventure. We’re going to love living here. I know it,” Lila said and squeezed her daughter’s arm, injecting as much enthusiasm as she could into her voice. An adventure was not what she would call it if she was being honest. Desperation was probably a better description of their current life status.
“I do like it already.” Bea beamed a rare smile. “Mostly because of the murder.”
Lila swallowed, snared in her daughter’s expectant gaze. “What . . . there’s no . . . I mean, how do you—”
“Google,” Bea said by way of explanation.
Of course. Google. Anyone who spent two minutes researching the Primrose would come across the story of Sophia Kent’s unsolved murder. Lila really needed to put those parental controls on her laptop.
“Let’s see what the inside looks like,” Lila said, changing the subject. If she pretended like the murder never happened, maybe Bea would forget about it.
Lila picked up a suitcase in either hand. One was filled with photo albums and her grandma’s candlesticks, the other with clothes. Bea pulled a single roller suitcase behind her. It was all they had left. Lila missed her Breville espresso machine (confiscated by the government) and Isabel Marant sandals (sold to pay the electric bill) and the currant rose-scented candles (broken by Bea in a fit of anger).
They made their way across the gray cobblestones. The cream awning over the front double doors announced the name in grand, black script—The Primrose. Lawrence Pfeifer, a noted Virginia architect, had designed the building back in the early 1900s as a luxury apartment hotel. Considered a historic landmark due to its aesthetic influence on the Richmond landscape, the Primrose was now an upscale condo building for adults over the age of fifty-five.
They stepped through the heavy wooden double doors into the lobby. Cream marble floors stretched out in either direction, and the ceiling was at least fifteen feet high with elaborate gingerbread trim. The walls were clad in a gold damask wallpaper, which shimmered above and below the large arched windows. An ornate chandelier dripped crystals and sent shards of rainbow lights flickering on the polished wood of a gilt-edged round table, topped with an impressive arrangement of fresh hydrangeas and peonies. Bea drew in a breath of delight, and Lila was suddenly hopeful that this was the right decision after all.
Two women and a man were seated on twin taupe velvet sofas facing each other in a small seating area off to the right of a grand piano. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon, but all three sipped large glasses filled with ice cubes and bronze liquid that was clearly alcohol. They were over the age of seventy-five and staring straight at Lila.
“She’s not even wearing a crop top.” One of the women slid on a pair of glasses that hung from a chain around her neck, sounding disappointed. She wore the odd combination of a sweater embroidered with cats and Alexander McQueen platform tennis shoes.
“I told you not every young person wears crop tops.” The other older woman was taller with a gray bob that hit at her chin.
“But that’s all I see on the TikTok,” the cat-sweater woman protested. “That, and a lot of girls applying their makeup while they talk about who hurt their feelings.”
“Men are allowed to get their feelings hurt too. I learned that from my granddaughter’s therapist,” the man said. “I meant to tell Florence that she hurt my feelings yesterday when she told us about the Faberleys’ divorce.”
“I was stating a fact. It has nothing to do with you,” the woman with the gray bob said.
“Divorce is trigger-happy for me,” the man said solemnly. “I don’t think you’re using that term right,” the woman with the gray bob said.
Lila stepped forward and called out, “Hello. We’re looking for Susanna Moore.”
Before the elderly trio could respond, a door swung open to Lila’s left and a thirty-something woman in a severe black dress appeared in the doorway. “I’m Susanna Moore.”
“Oh hi! There you are, appearing out of nowhere. Sorry we’re a little late. This place is gorgeous,” Lila enthused.
“One moment.” Susanna disappeared back behind the door without explanation.
Meanwhile, the two women and man rose from the sofas as quickly as their canes and walkers would allow and scattered down the hall. No one spoke to Lila. She looked down at herself and brushed at her pilled pink sweater. Why was she surprised? She didn’t look as if she belonged in this expensive building. Heck, she didn’t belong. Everyone had probably vowed to steer clear of the new resident who was maybe a criminal, abandoned by her husband, and didn’t wear crop tops. She thought of how her old tennis partner, Linley Moore, had pretended not to see Lila at the grocery store last week. She considered Patricia’s deep sigh over the phone when Lila broke the news about Bea’s expulsion—good Lord, Lila, can’t you do anything right? Lila’s face flushed. Her life was such an embarrassment. No wonder people avoided her.
The door swung open once again. Susanna’s face was pale, and her expression was no-nonsense. “I expected you ten minutes ago.”
Lila plastered on a smile. “I’m sorry. I left a message there was a big accident on the highway and—”
“I’ve had to push back my other obligation.” Susanna’s thin lips puckered up into a smaller, firmer line.
Several beats passed. Lila scrambled for something to say. Ten minutes wasn’t that late, especially when she had driven over two hours in traffic from Norfolk. “You don’t need to worry about us. We are good at finding our way. Just point us in the right direction, and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“But first can you tell me about the murder of Sophia Kent?” Bea asked. “I love murders.”
