A Brisket, A Casket: A Deadly Deli Mystery by Delia Rosen

By Delia Rosen

Murder’s at the menu during this savory debut. Gwen (nee Katz) Silver heard the brisket at her uncle’s Jewish deli, Murray the Pastrami Swami—the just one of its style in Nashville, Tennessee—was “to die for.” yet she didn’t detect that intended actually… whilst Gwen learns she’s inherited Murray’s, the local New Yorker leaves her chaotic profession and messy divorce at the back of to begin over in Nashville. however the enterprise turns out doomed from the beginning. Murray’s taken his recipes and mystery record of foodstuff providers to the grave with him, and ruthless actual property developer Royce Sinclair will cease at not anything to aim and sandwich Murray’s into his already overstuffed portfolio. Then, on Kosher Karaoke evening, longtime client Buster Sergeant bites into his brisket…and bites the dirt. The coroner says nutrition poisoning, yet Gwen’s no longer confident. Now, with assistance from hunky police detective Beau McClintock, “Nashville Katz”—as Gwen is readily nicknamed—will locate herself including “private investigator” to her resume—and a brand new like to her lifestyles.

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Sample text

At the deli? ” I shrugged, spreading my hands. Technically Cazzie Watts and her family were my neighbors outside Nashville, our adjoining villa-style condos being located in Antioch, a small suburban town about a dozen miles southwest of the city off Highway 41. “It’s the whole deal, Caz,” I said. “I’m not sure I can cut living here. Or if I’ve got what it takes to run Murray’s. ” She just stared at me and shook her head. ” I said. “I think it’s very normal considering what happened yesterday,” she said.

After a moment, they went right back to their tiff, not even bothering to answer. “Crap,” I said, pivoting toward the kitchen doors. ” Thomasina. I wasn’t in the mood. “Crap isn’t a curse word,” I said. ” she interrupted before I could defile her sensitive buttercup ears. “Agnes Jean,” I muttered under my breath. J. ” I pushed through the doors into the dining room and found the place hopping, the mingled, mouth-watering scents of knishes, kasha varnishkes, and other delicacies filling the air.

Crap isn’t a curse word,” I said. ” she interrupted before I could defile her sensitive buttercup ears. “Agnes Jean,” I muttered under my breath. J. ” I pushed through the doors into the dining room and found the place hopping, the mingled, mouth-watering scents of knishes, kasha varnishkes, and other delicacies filling the air. They instantly comforted me the way they had when I was a young girl visiting Uncle Murray—before he went off chasing one dream only to find another. J. was serving beers near the movable karaoke stage, her back to me, her Appalachian forest of blond hair spilling over her shoulders.

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