Grace, gossip, and a little lavender — the perfect recipe for uncovering the truth. A Martha and Marya Mystery: Faith based Cozy Mysteries by Emily Hanlon series tour with guest post

 

Mystery meets moral reflection in Emily Hanlon’s The Martha and Marya Mysteries, a smart and heartfelt series about two women who bring faith and logic to bear on the darkest corners of human behavior.

In Who Am I to Judge?, the town of Pequot Bays reels when a beloved priest confesses to murder. Marya Cook, an outspoken octogenarian known for her purple outfits and peculiar reasoning, refuses to accept the easy answer. She draws in the reluctant Martha Collins—a younger, practical church volunteer—to help her unravel secrets among the town’s wealthy residents. A Cloud of Witnesses finds the duo facing a new test when a zealous priest and his followers upend their parish, forcing Marya and Martha to distinguish between devotion and danger. The Wagers of Sin sweeps them aboard a cruise through the Greek Isles after a wedding ends in tragedy, setting the stage for a tangled investigation of inheritance, envy, and love gone wrong. Through humor and heart, Hanlon delivers mysteries that are as much about conscience as they are about crime.

Emily Hanlon draws on years spent as a personal injury litigator and arbitrator to craft stories alive with moral nuance and human complexity. A Texan by upbringing and New Yorker by choice, she writes from a perspective shaped by both courtroom experience and late-found faith. Now a eucharistic minister and active member of her church community, she donates all book profits to charity. Learn more on her website or follow her on Instagram and Facebook.

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3HXiVKW

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/33530780.Emily_Hanlon

A Cloud of Witnesses

He sputtered again. “A follower of his, one of my parishioners, and a lovely and faithful woman at that, has died, and he’s washing his hands of her.” 

“I heard him. Said it was a suicide. Are you going to do the funeral? Is it allowed?” 

“Of course it’s allowed. We leave final judgement to God’s mercy, not to that…that…Father Thaddeus. And yes, I’m doing the funeral in…” He glanced at the grandfather clock by the office door. “Forty-five minutes. It’s Lisa Ward. Did you know her?” 

Oh no. Lisa Ward. How sad. She was young, maybe in her forties, not much older than Martha. Mousy brown hair, small build, with great big eyes, always looking about, blinking. “No, not really. I mean, I knew her well enough to say hello. You know, from church.” 

Father Seamus locked eyes with Martha. “Martha, I need your help.”

Martha raised an eyebrow. By the gunny sack of Saint Caesarius, the last time Seamus asked for help, it was to investigate the murder of a parishioner. Could he think that Lisa Ward was murdered? 

Martha had a lot on her plate at the moment, but if Seamus needed her help to solve another murder, how could she refuse? She felt a thrill of anticipation run down her spine.

 “Well, Seamus, she did look her usual self last Sunday in church. Quiet as always, but friendly enough. And after all, why should she commit suicide? She was married to the best looking guy at Saint John’s. From my mailings, I know she lived on Pequot Island. So she was rich. But who could have killed her? And why?” Martha grabbed a notepad from under a pile of papers on the desk and took a pen from a ceramic pot serving as a pen holder. It had no ink, so she reached over and took another, then another, until she found one that worked. She made a neat line down the middle of the paper and wrote Suspects on one side and Motivation on the other. “Let’s start with suspects.” She looked up at the priest, pen at the ready.

 He stared at her, mouth agape. “Suspects? What are you talking about? I’m talking about Father Thaddeus.” 

Martha felt her cheeks redden. “What about Father Thaddeus?”

 “I need your help to get rid of him.” He chuckled. “And I don’t mean by murdering him.” 

The Wagers of Sin 

The bride sat in a motorized wheelchair, liver spotted hands resting on its armrests, her bony arms displayed through the lace sleeves of the wedding gown. The pure white skirt of her satin and lace dress covered the footrests, and her tulle veil extended over the wheels, tempting one to imagine the chaos that would ensue if the bride’s attire was not rearranged before she pushed the joystick. A large, silver clamshell locket on a blue velvet ribbon rested on her sunken chest. She gazed up at her groom in reverent adoration, a look more appropriate to spiritual rather than physical objects. 

The groom was, in fact, rather godlike. Tall, bronze, and golden-haired, his sculpted face and physique could have been mistaken for a statue of Apollo had this been a Greek temple in ancient Delphi rather than a Catholic church in Pequot Bays. He sported a white dinner jacket, black tuxedo pants, and patent leather loafers without socks as comfortably as if they had been a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Shoulders slouched, hands in his pockets, he let his gaze wander around the church. He winked at one of the few onlookers in the pews, whose wide-brimmed hat hid her reaction. 

To the bride’s left stood the maid of honor, who had charge of the bride’s bouquet—a cascade of peonies, roses, and lilies. The best man stood a good distance away to the right of the groom, as though waiting in the wings for his cue to enter, clutching a small box. The soft light of the church transformed his furrows and lines into ruggedly handsome features. In his impeccably tailored tux with his posture ramrod straight, one could see that he had once rivaled the groom for handsome virility. 

The priest stood between the bride and the groom, wearing vestments fit for a royal wedding. He intoned, “Since it is your intention to enter the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his Church.”

The bride looked up at her intended with rheumy eyes, red lipstick bleeding into her lip lines, but with an expression so open, so sincere, so loving, that she looked more beautiful than her Apollonian groom. She reached up with her right hand, but the groom kept his own hands buried in his pockets. She let her hand drop back into her lap and slumped a bit in the wheelchair, her chin almost resting on her bony chest. 

The groom sneezed, and his body shuddered. 

The unexpected noise startled the priest, who lost his grasp on the Book of Rites of the Catholic Church. It fell to the marble floor with a bang. The groom flinched. The bride remained motionless. The priest retrieved the heavy tome and flipped the pages, until finally, he asked the groom, “Do you, Nicholas Zambrano, take Helen Marie Holmes for your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”

The groom looked at the guests in the pews and flashed a bright smile. “I do.” He took his left hand from his pocket, glanced at his watch, then replaced his hand into the pocket. 

The priest resumed, “And do you, Helen Marie Holmes, take Nicholas Zambrano for your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”

Silence.

“Ahem. Do you, Helen Marie Holmes…”

The groom glanced down at his bride. “Helen?” 

She sat still, motionless.

“Helen!” He got down on his hands and knees and took her hand in his own. “She does! She does!” 

Who Am I To Judge

Martha craned her neck to see over the Purple Pest and O’Hara, trying to get a glimpse of her first set of suspects to no avail. She would have to squeeze by them.

GET OUT OF MY WAY!  

As though the old woman could hear Martha’s screamed thoughts, she looked up. She smiled, exhibiting a missing bottom front tooth, but Martha looked away. The old woman spoke softly to Martha as she brushed past, but Martha ignored her. 

Martha’s eyes narrowed in on her first suspect, Monica Byrnes, who sat praying earnestly, looking up at the statue of St Joseph. Monica wouldn’t have the nerve to kill anyone. She’d just worry her own self to death over Matthew, her no-good son. Martha instead eyed Lance, sitting next to his wife, his handsome features unmarked by concerns about anything other than himself. She followed his gaze and saw, with a start, that it was locked on the shapely figure of her third suspect, Cyndi Higginbotham. 

Martha looked from Cyndi back to Lance, and then she shook her head. No. They might want to get rid of their spouses but not Enid.

She turned her glance to Higgy. It couldn’t be him. Higgy’s a jerk, a loudmouth, and a blowhard, but no one who’s so generous to the Bishop’s Annual Appeal could be a murderer.

Martha was puzzled for a moment until she recalled there was one more suspect. She slowly turned toward the front of the church and saw the young man—tall, dark and handsome—spotlighted by a ray of light from the large rose window so bright that dust motes danced in its glare. What a shame he became a priest.

Fr. Jim Cartwright , the associate pastor at St John of the Cross, wore a gold embroidered vestment that rustled majestically as he processed down the center aisle.  

She looked him over, from his perfectly coiffed hair to his black leather shoes shined to a mirror gloss, as she followed his progress toward the back of the church.  It’s him! He’s the murderer.

Martha sat down in a pew and remained in church long after everyone left, drained of energy, her adrenaline spent. She trudged to the door that, as she opened it, was a good deal heavier than when she had entered the church. Walking to her car, the Purple Pest’s comment pushed its way into her consciousness. She stopped short. 

Had the old woman really whispered, “It must have been quite a shock for you, my dear. Discovering the body like that.”  No. It couldn’t be. I’m exhausted. It must be my imagination.

Guest Post:

The secret to writing a book and getting it published when you are old, with no creative writing experience or education, and no connections is:

# 1: Just sit down and start writing!  When I first decided to write a book, I was in my sixties, had never taken a course in creative writing, or written a single fictional line. I loved mysteries and had a vague thought in the back of my mind that I would like to try my hand at one. I had no thought of publishing it or even if I would even complete it!  But I just sat down and started to write.  When it was finished, the next step was to have my one and only beta reader, my husband, read it. He didn’t like the sleuth, and thought that, at best, it was an outline of a mystery with no fleshing out of the characters or scenes or descriptions. I have no idea how I got over that rejection, not only because I am exquisitely sensitive to criticism of any sort from anyone, but also, because my immediate reaction to criticism from my husband is full attack mode: ie “You say I’m [fill in the blank]. Well, what about the time you [fill in the blank]”. 

#2:  But the marriage did not end in divorce, and so my second bit of advice is learn to take criticism well.  Not that I, myself, have learned to take criticism well, but now I know that I should at least consider it, and sometimes do. When you get an editor, you have to accept the criticism, or at least have a good reason why not. (I am sure famous authors don’t, but if you are interested in this post, you probably do).   I do believe the precept that there is no such thing as good writing, only good re-writing. 

So I dumped that first book and wrote my second, which passed muster with my husband/beta reader after many major edits, then submitted it to my three sons, and then, after spending so much time, effort, and energy, I decided to get serious about the process. I paid an editor to review it and, with one major exception, got back a bunch of good ideas, corrections.  I learned there is such a thing as “point of view” and “show don’t tell” and a bunch of other basic things that all writers must know in order for publishers to take them seriously.

 #3  And so my next suggestion is to seek feedback – find a beta reader; if you have the time, take some courses, if you don’t, consider hiring a professional editor, which can run from “not too expensive” to “very expensive”.  I went somewhere in between. 

And now you have a book! But after spending so much time, effort, energy, and now money, what is the next step?  Why getting the book published, of course! It took time and a lot of effort, but I was fortunate to find a publisher (which is a story for another time), and now I am a 72-year-old with three published books: The Martha and Marya Mystery Series. 

#CozyMystery #FaithAndFiction #Whodunit #MysteryBooks #BookishCommunity #GuestPost #QnA #Emily Hanlon #seriestour #authormarketingexperts