The Gift of the Magpie: A Meg Langslow Mystery

By Donna Andrews

New York Times bestselling author Donna Andrews returns with another Meg Langslow mystery written "firmly in the grand tradition of Agatha Christie's Christmas books" (Toronto Globe and Mail).

The 28th book and the seventh Christmas mystery in the Meg Langslow series, The Gift of the Magpie is yet another wonderfully merry and funny book from New York Times bestselling author Donna Andrews.

Meg’s running Caerphilly’s Helping Hands for the Holidays project, in which neighbors help each other with things they can’t do and can’t afford to have done. Her hopes for a relatively peaceful (if busy) Christmas vanish when someone murders Harvey the Hoarder, whose house the Helping Hands were decluttering. Was there any truth to the rumor that he had something valuable hidden beneath all his junk? Was one of his friends, neighbors, or relatives greedy enough to murder him for the rumored treasure? And what about the magpie that has been bringing her family bits of tinsel and costume jewelry—does the bird’s latest gift hold a clue to solving the crime?

Full of intrigue, this Christmas mystery will take readers home to Caerphilly, where the suspense falls as thick as the snow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781250760135

Donna Andrews

DONNA ANDREWS has won the Agatha, Anthony, and Barry Awards, an RT Book Reviews Award for best first novel, and four Lefty and two Toby Bromberg Awards for funniest mystery. She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Novelists, Inc. Andrews lives in Reston, Virginia. She has written over 30 books in the Meg Langslow mystery series.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Monday, December 21

Cow manure?

I was talking into my cell phone, but my friend Caroline Willner, who’d just popped into the kitchen with an armload of brightly wrapped presents, must have thought I was talking to her.

Is this part of the whole not-swearing-in-front-of-the-boys thing? she asked. And what did I do to deserve—oops! Her voice sank to a whisper. Sorry! Didn’t realize you were on the phone.

Although I could see that her curiosity was aroused.

We have access to a variety of manures—cow, horse, sheep, goat, and llama, I said into the phone. Much of it’s even organic. Is there a particular reason you want cow manure?

Well, any of those would be acceptable, my caller said. Especially the organic ones. I just don’t want chicken manure.

Of course not, I said. It’s so apt to be infected with salmonella. Give me your address and let me know when I can drop by—would sometime later today work? If you can show me the area you want fertilized, I can figure out how much manure is required and how many volunteers we’ll need to spread it.

I’ll be home all day putting up the tree. She rattled off her address. When I’d jotted it down, we wished each other a Merry Christmas and signed off.

And a Merry Christmas to you, I said, turning to Caroline and accompanying the greeting with a hug.

Likewise. She set the presents down on the table and began to pry her small, round form out of a bright turquoise down jacket. Your mother sent me in here to see how I could help out with this noble, heartwarming holiday endeavor you’re in charge of. And it turns out to be a manure-delivery service? I can see why she told me to ask you, instead of explaining it herself.

I could see her point—I wasn’t sure Mother had ever actually uttered the word manure in her life—she preferred natural fertilizer.

And it’s certainly not very Christmas-y, is it? she added. Not exactly festive.

I sighed.

Manure can be pretty festive if you’re a die-hard gardener, I pointed out.

Ooh—I have an idea, she exclaimed. How about some exotic manure? Much more festive. And I’ve got a lot of it down at the sanctuary. Zebra manure, wildebeest manure, yak manure—lots of options. I’m very careful about their feed, so it’s all completely organic. You’re welcome to as much of it as you’d like.

I’ll suggest that to Dad, I said. He’s the manure expert. And I could let him explain that we probably had more than enough suitable manure right here in Caerphilly County, thanks to the growing number of local farmers who’d taken up organic farming. Although if too many of them had figured out that they could actually sell their organic manure, nice to know we could trek down to the Willner Wildlife Refuge for a supply—it was only an hour or so southwest of us. Most of our projects aren’t that weird, and so far this is the only one involving manure. It’s called Helping Hands for the Holidays.

And just what does Helping Hands do when it’s not delivering manure?

Well, it all started out this fall, after the hurricane, I said. For a while everywhere you went you saw blue tarps, boarded-up windows, and piles of branches and other debris. The Ladies’ Interfaith Council figured out that some people couldn’t do the cleanup and repairs themselves and couldn’t afford to hire anyone. So they decided to help out.

If I try very hard, I can see the members of the Ladies’ Interfaith Council picking up fallen branches, Caroline said. Small, graceful ones. But shingling roofs? Do they wear white gloves, or is that just for the tea parties?

Clearly it’s been a while since you went to a Council meeting. I had to laugh. Robyn Smith started shaking things up when she took over as rector at Trinity, and ever since they let in the Wiccans and the atheists, things have been downright lively.

Is your mother okay with all of this? Caroline looked anxious.

Mother’s fine with it, I said. They haven’t done away with the tea parties and cucumber sandwiches—they’ve just added a whole lot of other things, most of which she approves of, as long as other people do the heavy lifting. Anyway, the Council decided to fix things up for a couple of the neediest cases—a few retired folks on limited income and a young woman who was recently widowed and is trying to work full time while raising three kids. They negotiated a deal with Randall Shiffley—his construction company provided the supplies at cost and he donated the services of a few skilled workers. The Council raised the money to pay for the supplies and recruited volunteers to perform the manual labor under the supervision of Randall’s workers. And stuff got done for people who couldn’t otherwise afford it. The ladies of the Council saw that it was good, so they got all excited and decided we should do a lot more of this helping our neighbors.

And that’s not a good thing? She must have picked up on my tone.

It’s a wonderful thing, I said. But this is absolutely the wrong time of year to be doing it. Everybody’s calendars are already bursting at the seams, and the weather hasn’t exactly been helpful.

Really? She cocked her head in puzzlement, rather like a bird. I thought you hadn’t had any snow? We haven’t down my way.

We haven’t, I said. Snow isn’t the only kind of weather that can complicate things. The last few months we’ve had unseasonably warm weather and torrential rain—Caerphilly Creek has flooded three times already this month. But whenever the thermometer plunges into the sub-freezing zone, the atmosphere’s dry as a bone. We’ve had nothing for weeks but warm wet days and bright sunny deep-freeze days. Everyone’s mourning the likelihood that we won’t have a white Christmas.

Maybe Rose Noire should do her snow-summoning dance, Caroline suggested. It could help—it was a lot of fun last year.

Oh, so that’s what happened? I said. No, thank you. Breaking the all-time snowfall record last year was interesting, but we don’t need to go for two Christmas blizzards in a row. And a snowfall could bring all the Helping Hands projects to a complete halt, instead of just making everyone who’s working on them miserable. At least the people working on the outdoors projects—fortunately we do have some indoor projects. In addition to roofs, furnaces, insulation, wiring, and plumbing we started getting other kinds of requests. Car repairs. Accounting woes. Medical issues. Helping Hands turned into a sort of Make-A-Wish program for grown-ups. And then—

My phone rang. It was Randall Shiffley. I should probably answer. With luck he was wearing his mayor’s hat and calling me, his part-time special assistant, on some official business. But the odds were it would be Helping Hands business. I could at least hope he was calling with a progress report on an existing project, not enlisting me for a new one.

Hey, Randall, I said. What’s up?

Hey, Meg, he said. Got a couple new ones for you.

I tried to sigh too softly for him to hear. Then I put the phone on speaker. Hearing our discussion of whatever new projects Randall was about to dump on me would probably do more than any amount of explaining to help Caroline understand Helping Hands for the Holidays.

First one’s a no-brainer. Couple over on Bland Street whose grandmother is coming to live with them, and she’s in a wheelchair. They’ve asked if we can build them a ramp.

Refreshingly straightforward. I was scribbling in my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I called my voluminous to-do list. You want me to go over and kick things off?

No need, Randall said. I’ll send one of my men over to scope it out. If their granny needs a wheelchair ramp, odds are she’ll also need a whole host of other accommodations they haven’t even thought of yet. Once we know what-all they need, I’ll let you know how many helpers to send. Meanwhile, do you have some time today? Got a new possible project that requires your touch.

This time Randall could probably hear my sigh. Requiring my touch usually meant that either the project or the person requesting it was difficult. Possibly both.

You know Mr. Dunlop? he asked. Harvey Dunlop, over on the south side of town?

The name sounded familiar. I frowned in an effort to place him. Enlightenment struck.

Harvey the Hoarder? I asked.

That’s him. Randall chuckled. Good old Harvey.

Are his neighbors complaining again? I thought that yard cleanup we talked him into doing last summer shut them up.

"The cleanup you talked him into, Randall said. I like to give credit where it’s due. Yes, they shut up for a while, but now they’re back, complaining about rodents, and smell, and what an eyesore the house itself is. On top of that, this time Mr. Dunlop’s relatives have gotten into the act and are threatening to sic Adult Protective Services on him. And you know what Meredith’s like."

Yes, I did. Here in Caerphilly, Adult Protective Services—or Child Protective Services, or any other kind of town or county social work—meant Meredith Flugleman. Which wasn’t a bad thing—she was highly skilled, passionately dedicated, and without a doubt one of the best-hearted people in the county. But she was also annoyingly perky and persistent. Once she decided that Something Must Be Done, having her around was like having a small, yappy terrier nipping at—or worse, attaching itself to—your ankles. I didn’t think her approach would work well with Mr. Dunlop.

So he’s asked for our help? I said.

Not exactly, Randall said. But he needs it. And I figure if anyone can talk him into asking for help, you can.

I took several of the deep, calming yoga breaths my cousin Rose Noire was always nagging me to try when stressed.

Meg?

Just checking my schedule, I said. I should be able to get over to Mr. Dunlop’s house a little later this morning. I’m assuming time is of the essence.

I can only do so much to slow down the town building inspector, Randall said. And you know Meredith. Luckily Meredith’s on a cruise till after New Year’s, and the inspector’s off deer hunting for the time being. But still—the sooner the better.

I’ll see what I can do.

Chapter 2

Looks as if Randall just rearranged your day, Caroline said as I was hanging up.

And I’ll have to desert you, I replied.

Not necessarily, she said. Do you mind if I come along? I confess, I’m a little curious to see this Harvey the Hoarder. And while I do plan to spend some time out at the zoo helping your grandfather with whatever he’s up to, if I’m staying here through the holidays, I’m probably going to get sucked into your Helping Hands thing as well, so maybe I should start looking for a project that matches my skill set. This sounds a lot more interesting than plumbing and carpentry.

Are you sure? I asked. The place could be pretty awful. And there could be more than just inanimate objects—there could be cockroaches. Rats.

I’ve done first aid on wounded badgers, she said with a laugh. "I’m not afraid of a little old Rattus norvegicus. In fact, if we do find rats, I could take charge of humanely trapping and disposing of them. Right in my wheelhouse. Just give me a hand bringing in my suitcase and the rest of the presents from my car and I’ll be at your service."

Let’s get the boys to help. I led the way out into the hall, reached for the cord attached to a large wall-mounted dinner bell, and gave it a brisk jingle.

This is new, Caroline said.

We installed it a few months ago, when Michael and I both had laryngitis, I said. Josh and Jamie seem to find it entertaining, so we’ve kept it around.

From somewhere upstairs came the sound of pounding feet, then a pair of faces peered over the railing around the second-floor landing. No, make that a trio of faces. I’d only been trying to train my not-quite-teenaged sons to answer the bell, but apparently it worked on my brother, Rob, and many of the visiting family as well—probably because a reasonably high percentage of the time, whoever was ringing the bell was announcing the availability of either a meal or some fresh-baked treat that should be eaten hot.

Can you guys carry in all the presents and treats from Aunt Caroline’s car? I asked.

They stampeded downstairs, each pausing to give Caroline a hug. Then Caroline handed her keys to Rob and the trio raced outside. Caroline stepped into the living room to admire the Christmas tree. The main Christmas tree, anyway—every year Mother seemed to up the ante in the Christmas tree department. This year she’d affixed tiny ones festooned with gold glitter to the tank tops of all the downstairs toilets.

Lovely, Caroline said, gazing around the room as she paused by the tree, still holding her stack of presents.

I was opening my mouth to say something offhand, like well, of course or as usual and felt suddenly guilty. The room was lovely. Watching Caroline enjoy it brought that home to me, and I made a mental note to say something appreciative about the decor to Mother. I’d long since let her take charge of decorating the entire downstairs of our house. Left to my own devices, I’d probably have done a decent tree and a modest wreath on the door, but that would be about it. I was too busy during the holiday season—and besides, I hadn’t inherited the decorating gene.

This year’s new addition to the decor was a wide panel made of evergreen branches braided with red velvet ribbon and matte gold metallic ribbon that went all the way around the walls on top of the crown molding. Initially I was appalled to think how much painstaking hand labor must have gone into it—but then I found out that Mother had started hiring the residents of the Caerphilly Women’s Shelter to do such handiwork, at generous rates that helped them build nest eggs for starting their new lives much sooner. Now when I looked up at the beautiful, intricate woven branches, one of my favorite quotes from A Christmas Carol tended to pop into my mind: At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute.…

And all Mother’s other holiday favorites were back. Intricate blown glass ornaments catching the light in all the windows—but high up, where they’d have better odds of escaping the roughhousing that was sure to take place when cousins and friends came over to visit Josh and Jamie. Multiple trees—the music-themed one in the front hall, the food-themed one in the dining room. Even a literary-themed one in our library—who knew there were so many book-shaped Christmas ornaments in existence?

Should we put all these under the tree? Rob and the boys were back, each having to peer around a stack of presents higher than his head.

Or as close as you can get them, I said. Caroline, just give me a few minutes to change into something presentable and we can take off.

I’m going to run out and see Rose Noire, Caroline said. I’m dying to see her new herb-drying shed.

I resigned myself to the possibility that Caroline might not be accompanying me to see Harvey the Hoarder. I didn’t share Rose Noire’s fascination with all things New Age, but even so I enjoyed visiting the herb-drying shed—which also doubled as a yoga studio and meditation room and housed her collection of crystals and other minerals. Maybe—

Mom? Jamie looked worried about something. Josh was frowning, too. Since the twins, in spite of being boon companions, usually worked hard on doing everything differently from each other, something serious must be going on. Aunt Caroline brought a lot of presents.

I glanced over to the tree. Yes, the present stash was looking much more robust.

To make room for the new additions, they’d had to relocate the dogs’ Christmas beds, elegant red velvet cushions with green-and-gold bows that Mother had set on either side of the fire. Tinkerbell, my brother’s Irish wolfhound, had already adjusted to her new location and was dozing contentedly. Spike, our eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball, was sniffing at the new presents and uttering the occasional growl of suspicion and resentment.

There are a lot of people here, I said.

But she brought at least two for me, Josh said. And probably two for Jamie.

And she gives good presents, Jamie added.

We need to think of something really good for her. Josh folded his arms as if expecting me to protest.

I stifled a sigh. It was nice that they’d become focused on giving in addition to receiving presents. I just wished they’d relax a little about picking their outgoing presents. We’d been agonizing over what to give various friends and family members since before Halloween.

Good idea, I said aloud. I’ll pick her brain and see if I can come up with any suggestions while we’re driving around.

Don’t forget, Josh said. We need those suggestions.

They dashed upstairs again, still looking worried.

Going someplace interesting? My grandmother Cordelia strode in. Her tall, imposing figure was clad in jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and disreputable sneakers. Work clothes, obviously.

What if I told you I was having tea with the president of the garden club? I asked.

Then I’d wish you joy of it and look around for someone who’s doing something that’s either useful or enjoyable. But you don’t look dressed for a tea party. Got any Helping Hands projects going? I’m dressed for that.

I filled her in on Harvey the Hoarder, and as I could have predicted, she immediately volunteered to help out.

Much more my cup of tea than the garden club, she said. I can’t wait to get this Harvey decluttered and organized.

Remember, we have to go gently, I said. He hasn’t even agreed yet to let us help him.

We’ll charm him into it.

When we got to my car, I shouted for Caroline, who came running over to join the party. The two of them hadn’t seen each other in some weeks, so they chatted happily, catching up. Which was fine with me, since it left me free to think about how to tackle Mr. Dunlop.

Although I suspected they hadn’t forgotten the purpose of our trip.

Probably a good thing Randall has you to deal with this Harvey the Hoarder character, Caroline said at one point during our drive. After all, you have experience dealing with hoarded houses.

Only one. I hoped that didn’t sound too curt, but I wasn’t fond of remembering that experience. Mrs. Edwina Sprocket, the previous owner of our beloved house, had been a hoarder, and we’d bought the house as is—meaning we, rather than her surviving family, had to deal with the cleanout.

Yes, but your mother has told us all about how well you dealt with it. Cordelia nodded with approval. She said you were wonderfully efficient.

Maybe, I said. But even a house chock-full of stuff can only be so bad. We just had to deal with the stuff—not with Mrs. Sprocket fighting tooth and nail to hang on to every bit of junk.

True. Cordelia set her jaw. But however bad it is, we’ll deal with it.

Absolutely! Caroline chimed in. Do you know if it’s a big house?

I don’t think so, I said. The neighborhood runs to small lots. And small houses, for the most part. But I’m afraid the only times I was there before, I was focused on the yard. Anyway, we’ll see in a minute—we’re almost there.

Harvey Dunlop’s house was on Beau Street—which local wags preferred to call The Street Formerly Known as Beauregard. Several years ago, after much debate, the town council had agreed to rechristen the half-dozen streets in town that carried the names of Confederate luminaries—but they hadn’t yet agreed on what the new names would be. Eventually, Randall had sent two of his workmen around with buckets of paint to give the streets in question provisional new names. In addition to the Beauregard to Beau change, Jeb Stuart Street had become Stuart Street easily enough, and Forrest Lane—named after Nathan Bedford Forrest—had only taken a small stroke of the paint brush to become Forest Lane. Jefferson Davis Avenue had become Davis Avenue, since we already had a Jefferson Street. Robert E. Lee Street had become L Street, which was no doubt highly confusing to tourists who expected to find K and M Streets nearby. The only real problem had arisen when the two workmen nearly came to blows over how to modify Stonewall Jackson Street. They finally agreed to disagree, which was why all the signs along the northern side of the road in question identified it as Stone Street, while across the way on the southern side it had become Jackson Street. People eventually got used to it. Locals knew where they were going anyway, and luckily it wasn’t a street most tourists would ever need to find.

Strange that I remembered so little about Mr. Dunlop’s house from the time Randall and I had browbeaten him into cleaning up his yard—was it only a year and a half ago? No, come to think of it, more likely two and a half. I’d look it up later. The yard had been filled with pots and planters—some broken, some intact but empty, and others nourishing healthy stands of ragweed, stinging nettles, poison ivy, purple loosestrife, crabgrass, jimson weed, and who knows how many other undesirable bits of greenery. We even found a small stand of kudzu near the house, getting ready to make its play for world domination. He also had several defunct cars on cinder blocks in various parts of the yard, along with enough scattered car parts to assemble at least another half-dozen rusty vehicles. He was apparently fond of birdbaths and garden statuary—the more battered or incomplete the better—beehives, fish tanks, well-weathered lumber, and random bits of plumbing gear. He’d tried to screen the whole thing from neighbors and passersby by planting a tall boxwood hedge, but apparently his green thumb only worked on weeds. A lot of the boxwoods had died and been replaced at random intervals with smaller boxwoods, and last I’d seen it many of the surviving ones didn’t look as if they planned to hang on much longer. If you asked me, the wildly variable boxwoods added another whole level of chaos and disorganization that far outweighed any contribution they made toward screening the mess.

Horrible as his yard had been, according to him, every single object in it was something he wanted to keep. A few things he was planning to use one of these days, or at least might need at some future date. Most of the junk items were, according to him, either valuable heirlooms or family mementos of great sentimental value.

I’d finally gotten him to agree to the cleanup by offering to give him an itemized receipt for every single thing we hauled to the dump, plus a signed promise from Randall that if at any time he actually did need any of it—or found a buyer for it—Randall would haul it back from the dump himself. There were rumors that in the months following the cleanup he’d gone up to the dump a time or two to peer through the chain-link fence at his stuff, but Randall hadn’t gotten any requests to haul any of it back. Maybe that boded well for cleaning out the inside of his house.

Well, I could hope.

And then again, maybe he hadn’t called to have anything brought back because he’d managed to reclutter his yard again all by himself.

As we drew near the house, I could see that the hedges were, if possible, even more bedraggled and unhealthy than I remembered. But at least the yard was still mainly clear. He’d started a new and much smaller collection of weeds and flowerpots, but apart from that it didn’t look too bad.

The house, on the other hand, was a disaster. Had it been that bad a couple of years ago? Surely I’d have remembered if it had been. Maybe it had taken a lot of damage from this fall’s storms.

Or maybe we’d been so focused on the yard that we’d turned a blind eye to how awful the house was.

At least it was relatively small: a modest frame bungalow with wide front porch running its entire length and a matching detached one-car garage to the right and a little behind the main house. I couldn’t tell if the siding had originally been painted white or pale gray. It was all gray now; peeling paint and weathered wood underneath. The roof was more blue tarp than shingle. The porch listed downhill toward the left side of the house, and I hoped there was something to hold the porch roof up other than the six dilapidated pillars I could see. It looked as if Mr. Dunlop was trying to keep the porch clear, or at least methodically organized—there was actually a wicker rocking chair that, unlike every other possible seat within sight, was not filled with pillows, empty flowerpots, deceased houseplants, empty popcorn tins, small garden tools, milk crates of recyclables, and who knows what else. But all of it was neatly stacked, as if he hoped that with enough organization he could ward off the neighbors’ complaints.

Most of the windows had at least one pane of glass that was cracked or replaced with plywood. And inside, I could see venetian blinds tightly closed, no doubt to shield the mess inside from prying

Reviews for The Gift of the Magpie

[murderbydeath · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book. I missed out on it during the Christmas season, but it’s cold and rainy here down under, so it was the perfect atmosphere in spite of it being the last day of July.There’s always something wonderful going on in Caerphilly, even if a lot of people get bumped off. This time it’s a Helping Hands program, started by the towns’ churches’ interfaith committee, to help out people with small (or large) projects, run by volunteers lending their individual expertise. The biggest project of them all is a notorious hoarder who is in danger of having his home condemned and his family having him declared unfit to care for himself. Meg and the mayor get the Helping Hands involved and are helping him deal with all his stuff and make repairs to his home when Meg finds him bashed in the head in his garage.The mystery plot wasn’t one of her best, though Andrews did a great job keeping the reader in a state of reasonable doubt, but the rest of the story was just lovely. Not a word normally associated with mysteries, but it was. Though there was less emphasis on the Christmas spirit in this one, I loved the ending and I loved the surprises. The only thing that I noticed (beyond a couple of minor continuity errors) was that of all her books, this one was probably the one where the titular birds (magpies) had the smallest role. The birds have never been pivotal to the plots, so it’s barely worth mentioning. Have I mentioned how much I loved the ending?I eagerly await the next two books.

[tottman_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's Christmas in Caerphilly again and that means that Meg Langslow is up to her neck in Christmas-related tasks plus a little mystery in Donna Andrews's new book, The Gift of the Magpie. This year Meg is busy with the Helping Hands for the Holidays project where neighbors help each other with projects they either can't or can't afford to do themselves.Meg's latest task is helping Harvey the hoarder whose house needs to be decluttered in order for necessary home repairs to be done before the building inspector condemns it. Making the task harder is Harvey's nosy neighbors and a handful of disagreeable cousins who appear to have their eyes on Harvey's things. A murder right in the middle of the project complicates her efforts and sets her on the trail of figuring out who might want Harvey dead. Meg has the assistance as always of her extraordinarily talented and helpful family and the many friends and denizens of Caerphilly. Meg and her recruited volunteers must juggle helping the police sort through endless boxes of records that might give a clue to the motive for the murder, assist with the many remaining helping hands projects, prepare for the Christmas festivities, and negotiate between her grandfather and her cousin Rose Noire over the fate of some escaped magpies. All of this as well as making sure a murderer faces justice.Donna Andrews has an unparalleled ability to juggle an enormous cast of characters without making the story seem overpopulated or underdeveloped. She also manages to squeeze in tidbits about the banking crisis during the great depression as well as the care and habits of magpies.The Gift of the Magpie is the perfect tonic for 2020. Caerphilly is a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. The warmth of the characters seeps out of the pages and into your home. This story is perfect to disappear into and forget about the real world for a few hours. It's impossible to read this book without a smile on your face from beginning to end. This book is a perfect gift to give either to someone else or to yourself.

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

good-works, family-dynamics, friendship, situational-humor, verbal-humor, law-enforcement, cozy-mystery, murder-investigation, hoarding, animal-welfare*****Warning! I liked it so much that I pre-ordered an audio copy!Come for the laughs and puns, stay for a good mystery, and perhaps to learn some things! Meg Langlow is a craft blacksmith/organizational wizard with a very large, impressive, and quirky family and she is the protagonist. Michael Waterston is her drama professor/former star of a cult sci-fi TV series husband. Dr. Langslow is her father/mystery geek/local Medical Examiner. And a cast of most of the town of Caerphilly, Virginia. It's the Christmas season and in the Good Works department is a community effort to help anyone with a need that can be filled with the help of volunteers, whether hauling manure, making a wheelchair ramp, or helping a man who is overcome by clutter. That last one is the man who needs Meg's persuasion to accept help and find creative answers to the fears he has. Add in some truly awful neighbors and some even worse cousins, and you can guess why Meg finds him nearly dead of blunt force trauma in his garage. Let the sleuthing begin!I requested and received a free ebook copy from St. Martin's Press/Minotaur Books via NetGalley. Thank you!