Twenty-six books in, and the only thing being murdered is the element of surprise.
I've been a loyal fan of the Women's Murder Club for 26 books. TWENTY-SIX. I've followed Lindsay, Cindy, Claire, and Yuki through murders, mayhem, and more dead bodies than I care to count. So it genuinely pains me to give 26 Beauties two stars. But here we are.
The premise was promising. Cindy is investigating the disappearance of several beautiful women, Lindsay and Claire are working two seemingly unrelated murders, and Yuki is prosecuting a drug dealer who shot someone outside a neighborhood grocery store. Three investigations, four familiar faces, and plenty of potential for a terrific thriller.
Unfortunately, I figured out where two of those investigations were heading almost immediately. And when Brady showed up in Yuki's courtroom having conveniently forgotten to leave his backup ankle gun outside, I could practically hear the plot machinery clicking into place. Subtlety apparently took the day off.
The pacing didn't help. Days passed, the same storyline kept resurfacing, and I began to wonder whether this entire investigation could have been wrapped up before lunch. Even the eventual explanations felt handed to the detectives on a silver platter. Whatever happened to making them work for their answers?
The characters weren't much better. These women I've loved for years seemed to be going through the motions. My favorite newcomer was an entertaining older French Interpol agent, although even his fate was painfully predictable. Apparently, visiting America to help solve a crime comes with complimentary gunfire.
And the most memorable scene? Claire and her husband are enjoying a picnic when a body washes ashore. Claire promptly forgets her husband exists. Poor man. Nothing ruins a romantic outing quite like becoming less interesting than a corpse.
I finished this book in record time, not because I couldn't put it down, but because I couldn't wait to move on.
Two stars. A good premise squandered on predictable plotting, convenient coincidences, and characters running on autopilot. A crime thriller with no thrill.
Twenty-six books into the Women's Murder Club, and apparently the only thing being murdered is the element of surprise.
