Murder at the Rummage Sale – Feminism and Religion

Judith Shaw photo Murder at the Rummage Sale (Albany, NY: Imagination Fury Arts, 2016) by Elizabeth Cunningham is a mystery novel with a style and depth of thought that offers not only the fun of figuring out “Who Dun It” but also gorgeous prose and poetic phrasing which is not so commonly found in the mystery genre.

Set in 1960 small town America, the book transports us back to that era with a fine eye to detail. It 9781944190019 takes place over a few days in the life of the Church of the Regeneration as the women prepare for their annual rummage sale. Charlotte Crowley, an over bearing kleptomaniac who wraps men around her little finger while antagonizing most of the women, has always led the effort. But with only a few days to go before the sale begins, Charlotte is found dead in the basement, smothered by a plastic dry cleaning bag full of coats.

Though the police declared the death to be accidental, Lucy Way, an older woman with a bit of faery blood and white curls she is very proud of, has her suspicions. Lucy sets out to solve the crime with the help of a cast of characters associated with the church: the Reverend Gerald Bradley, the church minister with a love of drink; Anne Bradley, his wife who doubts the existence of God; Katherine Bradley, their fanciful seven year old daughter; and Katherine’s sworn blood brother, Frankie Lomangino Jr., son of Frankie Lomangino an ex-con who becomes the prime suspect. Continue reading “Murder at the Rummage Sale: Book Review by Judith Shaw”

When I finished writing The Maeve Chronicles, I returned to a mystery novel, abandoned thirty years earlier. I was finally ready to write about the small town Episcopal Church where I grew up in the 1950s and 60s and to explore the points of view of characters based on my late parents. When I began seeing through my mother’s eyes, the intensity of her suppressed fury took me by storm. Trapped in the role of minister’s wife, Anne Bradley strikes me as an embryonic feminist. In the scene below, Anne is hanging up laundry when she is approached by a pesky parishioner who makes a veiled reference to the death of Anne’s son.

*********

“Hello there, Mrs. Bradley,” Mildred Thomson said, adding some obligatory remarks about the weather. “I was hoping to find Father, I mean *Mr. Bradley in today. Do you know when he might be back?”

Anne did not. In fact, she realized she did not even know where he was. Hospital calls? A diocesan meeting? Surely she would have remembered if he’d gone all the way to New York. He had probably told her, and she had probably not listened. He was not there most of the time, or if he was, he was not available, not to her or the children. He stayed in his study in the parish house where no doubt Mrs. Thomson had hoped to ambush him.

“I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs. Thomson,” said Anne, feeling for her cigarettes in her apron pocket. Hell’s bells. She must have left them in the back hall on the shelf above the washer.

Anne turned back to the clothesline. Three children meant a lot of laundry, though in the summer the load was a little lighter, shorts and short sleeves, not so many filthy elbows and knees. There were always Gerald’s shirts. Short or long-sleeved, they had to be ironed, something she could not even contemplate till the cool of the evening.

“Did you have an appointment with him?” Anne asked, hoping the question did not sound too much like a reproof.

“No, no,” Mrs. Thomson said vaguely. “I just happened by. I suppose I ought to make an appointment. I never did with Father Roberts. He never minded my popping in.”

That was definitely a reproach. Anne felt almost sorry for her husband, almost. But it was part of his job to listen to parishioners maunder on, as much as holding services on Sunday and galvanizing his congregation to do good works in the community.

“Mrs. Bradley, may I ask you a personal question?”

Could she say no, Anne wondered? Or at least, excuse me while I get a cigarette? But Mrs. Thomson took her hesitation for consent.

“Do you ever struggle with your prayer life?”

Anne bit back a bitter laugh. She could hear it in her head, a sound a dog might make, something between a yelp and a snarl.

“I suppose you don’t,” Mrs. Thomson said wistfully.

Continue reading “Not a Woman of the Cloth- an excerpt from Murder at the Rummage Sale by Elizabeth Cunningham”