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The Socialite's Guide to Murder

S. K. Golden

Debut Novel
Mystery
Includes a Dog

At a glance

Under 300 pages
🔥
Cozy vibes
🗽
Set in NYC
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Be an amateur sleuth

The hotel was her refuge, but scandal is afoot—and a killer stalks the halls in this charming series debut perfect for fans of Rhys Bowen and Ashley Weaver.

It’s 1958 and Evelyn Elizabeth Grace Murphy has not left the Pinnacle Hotel in fourteen months. Evelyn’s always been good at finding things, she discovered her mother dead in a Manhattan alleyway fifteen years earlier. Now she’s finding trouble inside her sanctuary. At a party for artist Billie Bell, his newest work is stolen, and Evelyn’s fake boyfriend (and real best friend), movie star Henry Fox, is accused of the theft.

With her beloved home in disarray, Evelyn joins up with hotel employee (and her secret crush) Mac Cooper to get to the bottom of the case.

Evelyn’s knack for sleuthing—and her playful imagination—are always hard at work, and she throws an elaborate party at the hotel where every guest is a suspect. But will the killer emerge from the glamorous lineup? If not, Evelyn just might find herself…next in line for murder.

Don’t just take
our word for it

"It’s as if Eloise is all grown up and a sassy, savvy sleuth at the Plaza hotel! Hotel owner’s daughter Evie Murphy is smart and daring in this delightful Golden Age mystery."

- Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of the Royal Spyness mysteries

"This book has all the things I love in a mystery novel – a unique sleuth, a quirky cast of suspects, and a twisty whodunnit. Throw in scandal, secrets and a luxury hotel setting, and I’m hooked. The Socialite’s Guide to Murder is an engaging debut that had me turning the pages quickly to find the answers."

- C. J. Archer, USA Today bestselling author of the Cleopatra Fox Mysteries

"[For] readers who enjoyed other hotel-set mysteries with young amateur sleuths, like Nita Prose’s The Maid."

- Library Journal

Get a taste

I was in the middle of my two o’clock appointment when a shadow fell over me.

“Mr. Peters,” I said, “you’re blocking my sun.”

The bartender stepped to the side so my legs could continue tanning unencumbered, and I turned the page in my Agatha Christie novel. He hadn’t set a drink down at my side, nor had he spoken a word or moved back to the bar, so I marked the page with my fingertip and looked at him over my cat-eye sunglasses. Dior, of course.

“Mr. Peters, how may I help you?”

“It’s almost four, Miss Murphy.”

Oh, right. The party. “Thank you ever so. I’d gotten lost in the book I was reading.”

“It’s not a problem, ma’am. Hope you have a swell time tonight.”

I fished a dollar bill out of my straw tote and gave it to him with a smile.

“Thank you, Miss Murphy.” He stuffed the green bill in his pocket and hurried back over to the bar, where patrons were waiting to order their next round of drinks…