This delightfully breezy, richly atmospheric debut by a former journalist who covered Savannah's infamous Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil murder trials fails to generate much suspense, but it derives its charm from an encyclopedic trove of lore about antiquities and dishy gossip, Southern style. Divorced from blue-blood architect Talmadge Evans III, but still living in a carriage house in the backyard of their restored mansion, Eloise "Weezie" Foley suffers the indignity of having her ex's sexy fianc e, Caroline DeSantos, living in the main house Weezie restored herself. As a "picker," Weezie earns her living foraging for discarded treasures in Dumpsters and at estate sales. When she discovers Caroline's corpse in a historic manor house, Weezie is the prime suspect in her murder. To compound her quandary, Weezie's attorney her closeted Uncle James, an ex-Catholic priest is having an illicit affair with a man from the DA's office. Factor in her on-again, off-again romance with old high school flame Daniel Stipanek, counterfeit antiques and her mom's alcoholism, and the plucky heroine has enough problems to drive at least three novels. Unfortunately, the suspense gets lost somewhere among the antiques and Weezie's attempts to consummate her romance with Daniel. But even a denouement that comes way too soon and a junk bin of distractions won't keep readers away. 8-city author tour. (Feb. 20) Forecasts: This appealing effort should do well enough on its own, but if booksellers and publicists play up the Midnight connection, it could soar. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Savannah Blues
Narrated by Susan Ericksen
Mary Kay AndrewsUnabridged — 14 hours, 12 minutes
Savannah Blues
Narrated by Susan Ericksen
Mary Kay AndrewsUnabridged — 14 hours, 12 minutes
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Overview
Editorial Reviews
Savannah Blues is the story of a woman coming to terms with the sudden changes in her life and of a charming city, Savannah, GA. Eloise "Weezie" Foley has lived in Savannah her whole life and is thinking about leaving owing to a nasty divorce from her cheating husband, Tal Evans III. The divorce settlement has left her living with her dog in the carriage house, located in the backyard of the townhouse that she found, bought, and restored during her marriage. To make matters worse, Tal is engaged and living in the townhouse with sleazy, sexy Caroline DeSantos. Weezie is a "picker," someone who searches through garbage, estate sales, etc., to find discarded items to resell to antiques dealers. When she discovers a dead body while trying to sneak into an estate sale early, things get problematical for Weezie: the murdered woman is Caroline. Read by Susan Ericksen, this novel is filled with funny, likable, attention-grabbing, and quirky characters. A multilayered book that includes antiquing tips, romance, and murder, this heartwarming tale of loss and love is a worthwhile purchase for public libraries.-Carol Stern, Glen Cove Lib., NY Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Sassy gal hunts for antiques in Savannah's street junk-and tracks down a killer. Eloise Foley ("Weezie" to her devoted friends) has been forced to move out of the 1858 townhouse she shared with her obnoxious ex-husband, Talmadge Evans III, the blue-blooded heir to an old southern name and fortune. He got the townhouse, where he now lives with his new flame, Caroline DeSantos, and Weezie got the charming carriage house just behind it, big enough for her and her mutt Jethro, who always pees on Caroline's camellias. Weezie's mother frets about Weezie having no job, husband, or prospects-and then BeBe Loudermilk, Weezie's best bud, introduces her to the sexy new chef at the restaurant she owns. Dan Stipanek is ruggedly handsome-and wouldn't you know it, Weezie knew him way back when they used to make out under the stars at Beaulieu, an antebellum house once owned by the Mullinaxes, the last of whom recently died at 97, without an heir, so that an estate sale has been planned. Weezie sneaks into the house in the dead of night to get a better look before any choice items are snapped up by dealers, and she spots a unique corner cabinet of burled elm that may have been carved by a master carpenter, once a slave. If she could buy and resell it, she'd have enough money to open her own shop. Weezie continues to prowl through the old manse, opens a closet door-and out tumbles the body of Caroline DeSantos! For the police, Weezie's the number one suspect, but they don't have evidence to arrest her. Meanwhile, she keeps looking for the corner cabinet, which has disappeared. Could wicked antiques-dealer Lewis Hargeaves be mixed up in all this? First-timer Andrews, a former journalist and once anantiques "picker" herself, offers deft plotting, sly humor, and appealing characters: pure fun. Author tour
“Savannah Blues serves up a tasty dish.
“A great heroine, steamy Savannah setting, a hunky chef, antiques galore. It doesn’t get any better than this.
“A shining novel of wit, love, and hilarious--yet poignant--vengeance.
Disarming, entertaining.
Quirky, endearing characters make Savannah Blues one heck of a good time.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940172039669 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Macmillan Audio |
| Publication date: | 05/05/2015 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Sales rank: | 1,179,352 |
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
The rapping at the front door of the carriage house was unmistakable. Her. I could see Caroline DeSantos's slender profile through the frosted glass inset of the front door. She had started by ringing the bell, once, twice, three times, then she began rattling the doorknob with one hand and banging at the brass knocker with the other.
"Eloise? Open up. I mean it. That beast of yours did it again. I'm calling the dogcatcher right now. You hear me? I've got my cell phone. I'm punching in the number. I know you hear me, Eloise."
She did indeed have something that looked like a phone in her hand.
Jethro heard Caroline too. He raised his dark muzzle, which has endearing little spots like reverse freckles, his ears pricked up, and, recognizing the voice of the enemy, he slunk under the pine table in the living room.
I knelt down and scratched his chin in sympathy. "Did you, Jethro? Did you really pee on the camellias again?"
Jethro hung his head. He's just a stray, but he almost never lies to me, which is more than I can say for any other male I've ever been involved with.
I patted his head as a reward for his honesty. "Good dog. Help yourself. Pee on everything over there. Poop on the doorstep and I'll buy you the biggest ham bone in Savannah."
The banging and door rattling continued. "Eloise. I know you're home. I saw your truck parked on the street. I've called Tal. He's calling his lawyer."
"Tattletale," I muttered, putting aside the box of junk I'd been sorting.
"Bitch," I muttered.
Jethro barked his approval. I turned around and saw his tail wagging in agreement.
"Slut." More wagging. We were both gathering our resolve for the coming barrage. Jethro crawled out from under the table and sat on his haunches, directly behind me. His warm breath on my ankles felt oddly reassuring.
I threw the front door open. "Sic her, Jethro," I said loudly. "Bite the bad lady."
Caroline took half a step backward. "I heard that," she screeched. "If that mutt puts a paw in my garden again, I'm going to..."
"What?" I demanded. "You're going to what? Poison him? Shoot him? Run him over in that sports car of yours? You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, Caroline? Running over a poor defenseless dog."
I put my hands on my hips and did a good imitation of staring her down. It wasn't physically possible, of course. Caroline DeSantos stands a good four inches taller than I do, and that's without the four-inch spike heels she considers her fashion trademark.
She flushed. "I'm warning you. That's all. For the last time. There's a leash law in this town, as you well know. If you really loved that mutt of yours, you wouldn't let him run around loose all the time."
She really was quite lovely, Caroline. Even in Savannah's ungodly summer heat, she was as crisp and fragrant as a just-plucked gardenia. Her glossy dark hair was pulled off her neck in a chignon, and her olive skin was flawless. She wore lime green linen capri slacks and a matching linen scoop-neck blouse that showed only a tasteful hint of décolletage. I could have gone on living a long time without seeing her that way, that day.
"Oh," I said. "Jethro is running around. Is that what's bothering you about my poor little puppy? But you're an expert at running around, aren't you, Caroline? I believe you and my husband were running around on me for at least six months before I finally wised up and kicked him out."
I'd kicked Tal out, but he hadn't gone far. The judge in our divorce case was an old family friend of Tal's daddy, Big Tal. He'd given our 1858 townhouse to Tal in the property settlement, and only after my lawyer raised the god-awfullest ruckus you ever heard, had he tossed me a bone -- basically -- awarding me the slim two-story carriage house right behind the big house.
Tal installed Caroline in the big house the minute the paperwork was completed, and we've had a running back-fence spite match ever since.
My lawyer, who also happens to be my uncle James, talked himself blue in the face trying to persuade me to sell out and move, but he knows better than to try to make a Foley change her mind. On Charlton Street I'd make my stand -- to live and die in Dixie. Move? Me? No sirreebob.
Caroline flicked a strand of hair out of her face. She looked me up and down and gave me a supercilious smile.
It was Thursday. I'd been up at dawn cruising the still-darkened lanes of Savannah, trying to beat the trashmen to the spoils of the town's leading lights. I looked like hell. My junking uniform, black leggings and a blue denim work shirt, was caked in grime from the Dumpsters I'd been digging through. My short red hair was festooned with cobwebs, my nails were broken, and peeling paint flakes clung to the back of my knuckles.
The day's pickings had been unusually slim. The two huge boxes of old books I'd pounced on behind an Italianate brownstone on Barnard Street had yielded up mostly mildewed, totally worthless Methodist hymnbooks from the 1930s. A carton of pretty Occupied Japan dishes rescued from a pile of junk at a house on Washington Avenue hadn't turned up a single...
Savannah Blues. Copyright © by Mary Kay Andrews. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.Videos
