’Tis Nuala Anne McGrail again—talkin’ the Irish talk, walkin’ the Irish walk, and crackin’ the Case of the Lace-Curtain Cad.
Irish talk: as in “at all, at all,” “do they now?” “ding” for “thing,” and other dialect flourishes of which Nuala Anne is a virtuoso. She is also, as Father Greeley’s faithful know, the devoted mother of three, the exemplary wife of the author Dermot Michael, a sexy songbird, and quite possibly the tastiest bit of eye candy alive. To cap it off, she’s got the second sight. Emotionally battered Damian Thomas, youngest son and whipping boy of the rich and wildly dysfunctional O’Sullivan clan, predictably arouses the fey in her. For reasons complex and murky—which in good time Nuala Anne will bring to light—the O’Sullivans want to hang a murder rap on their own flesh and blood. Why? What’s behind the nastiness that viper John Patrick O’Sullivan directs at Nuala Anne (Irish Stew, 2002, etc.)? When she’s not preparing to knock ’em dead singing Aaron Copland at a Fourth of July concert in the nation’s capital, she’ll put on her “mystery solving face”—the one matching her “Nuala Holmes persona”—flick an adorable paw at the mean-spirited O’Sullivans, and sort them out altogether. ’Tis scarce to be wondered that Dermot Michael is besotted.
An unexpected smidge of gravitas helps Nuala Anne’s sixth rise to the top of the series.