The Death of Mrs. Wastaway

Remember those Sunday afternoons as a kid when the gloomy weather cast an equally gloomy shadow upon your mood?  Nothing to do but mutz around or search the dial for a movie.  I always called them Sunday movies - titles like Life With Father and Cheaper by the Dozen.  But, if I was lucky, and the antenna was pointed just so I could get PBS. And if I was really lucky they would be showing one of those mysterious husband-wife movies like Rebecca or Laura.

If, like me, you enjoyed - and rather looked forward to - those rainy Sunday afternoons, pick up The Death of Mrs. Westaway.  Ruth Ware gives us all the necessities of a gothic thriller- a chilly, centuries old mansion, a tight lipped housekeeper, and the scent of secrets in the air. It's the kind of book that you know exactly what will happen in the end but you keep reading just in case you're wrong. I will confess that, for the first time ever, I applied my friend Mary's reading technique, read the last chapter first.  I really read  it after chapter four but then had to backtrack to see how everything unfolded.

When her mother died, nineteen year old Harriet (Hal) Westaway took over her mother's tarot card stall on a local beach boardwalk in a tiny English village.  She barely makes enough money to pay the rent on her fortune-telling stall, let alone the rent on her flat.   When she receives a letter from a solicitor telling her that she is the heir to a substantial fortune, Hal sees this as her way to pay off her loan shark debts, and get a second change at a comfortable life.  Problem?  She knows the letter has come to her by mistake.  

Hal kicks into high gear, researching and creating a persona that she hopes will be passable when when she attends Mrs. Westaway's funeral.  Mrs. Westaway's children welcome their long lost relative, some warmly, some with suspicions.  Family secrets, death threats, chase scenes, and all sorts of intrigue ensue as Hal attempts to collect on her generous portion of the estate. 

Rebecca was on my year of retro reading book list, but I'm counting this as a fine proxy.  Pick up a copy and stash it away for a rainy afternoon.  Oh, and yes, I was right.

Thanks for stopping by.