A Conventional Murder (Kit Morrison Convention Mysteries, Book 1) by Nathaniel Webb
About A Conventional Murder:
It's a Daylight Savings Crime!
Kit Morrison just wants to
enjoy her hometown sci-fi convention, but things keep getting in the
way: con drama, annoying fans, murder… Sci-fi/fantasy author Nathaniel
Webb takes on the cozy in his mystery debut, featuring a hilarious
amateur sleuth and a tricky, twisty mystery worthy of the classics.
Art
teacher, single mom, and geek girl Kit Morrison hasn’t been to her
hometown sci-fi con in a decade. All she wants is to sell some art and
catch up with old friends. But when a legendary fantasy author is
murdered, Kit’s detective brother makes her his nerd sherpa. Kit’s happy
to guide him through the weird world of con life—until he makes her
favorite student his prime suspect. And then there are the threatening
notes that keep appearing in her hotel room…
Kit will confront
crazy fans, navigate major drama, wait for the elevator, learn about
industrial laundry machines, and try her best to get a croissant—and
with luck, prove her student’s innocence before the convention ends!
You’ll
laugh—you’ll cheer—you’ll stay up late and fall asleep in a work
meeting the next day. Come meet Kit, a sleuth like no other.
Excerpt:
“You saw my name on the booking.” The old Sandy was back, twenty feet of towering disdain compressed into five-foot-four. In the strangeness of the morning so far, it was a comforting sight. “No Abby?” she asked Wunderlich.
He shrugged. “We checked.”
We! The nerve of him.
Sandy moved past us to Graham Grant’s door and knocked. After a moment she said, “All right, Tom.”
The young concierge approached and pulled a keycard from his pocket. There was a zip sound as a length of elastic uncoiled between the card and a little gem-blue plastic circle clipped to his belt loop. He put the card into the slot on the door.
It flashed red.
“Huh,” Tom said. He breathed gently on the keycard and wiped it on his sleeve. “Sorry. Thing is… yeah.”
He inserted the card again. Just like with my door the night before, the light flashed green and the lock opened with a clunk. Tom stepped back. “All yours, miss.”
I looked at Sandy, who was looking at Wunderlich, who was looking at his phone.
“I already bothered a lot of people this morning,” I said.
“He doesn’t work for me,” said Sandy.
“Work for?” Wunderlich looked up. “You think I send Graham a W-2 every year? He’s an independent contractor. You’re the convention organizer, go organize the convention.”
“I hate you.” Sandy stepped through the door. Beyond her Grant’s hotel room sat in shadow. The double curtains at the back of the room had been drawn, way more than a match for the thin gray light of a late November morning in upstate New York. It was silent: no shower, no snoring.
“Graham?” Sandy said softly. “You up? We’re late for the panel. Graham?” She raised her hand, then hesitated. “Graham, I’m turning the lights on.”
The light switch went up with a solid clunk. Sandy staggered backwards like she’d been shot. Her shoulder clipped the doorframe as she stumbled out into the hall. Her face was pale and greenish, her eyes perfect white circles with tiny pinpoint pupils.
“What?” I rushed forward and grabbed her as she swooned. “Sandy, what is it?”
Over her shoulder, I could see into Graham Grant’s room. Sandy didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.
I knew exactly what it was.
Graham Grant was dead.
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