live-streamed YouTube show. A former professor of English and gothic literature, she writes about gender politics and history, medical mystery, and neurodiversity for outlets such as Scientific American, Wired, CrimeReads, and Medium. She is also autistic, though has not (to her knowledge) been a suspect in a murder investigation.
Schillace applied the Page 69 Test to her new novel, The Framed Women of Ardemore House, and reported the following:
From page 69:Visit Brandy Schillace's website.“We’re just about through, sir.”Hello readers! The above passage comes from my book, The Framed Women of Ardemore House, page 69. The question: does it give us a good idea of the larger work? This is a tricky one for my book because we have two intersecting mysteries—and two primary character points of view: Jo Jones (American: a quirky, New York book editor who inherits a manor and a mysterious, now missing, painting) and James MacAdams (British: a hard-boiled, cynical detective who has a related murder to solve). The two tales intertwine in all sorts of ways, but page 69 only gives you the detective’s point of view, while the heart and soul of the book, really, is Jo Jones. I’d say page 69 gives you a great introduction to the police procedural and MacAdams personality—not to mention his rocky relationship with Fleet, the interloping detective from Scotland Yard. But it doesn’t show you the wild Yorkshire moors, or the quaint cottage (where a murder happens), or the sparkling wit and peculiar POV of Jo, our heroine.
“Find anything?” MacAdams asked. She gave him a thin-lipped smile.
“Found everything, sir. Lots of different prints.”
It was going to be a mess of paperwork. They had found hairs on the sheets that weren’t Sid’s—prints that weren’t Sid’s—leftover toiletry items that on analysis also weren’t his. He turned to Fleet, who was turning slowly in place.
“Rental,” he said. “Any number of people may have been through here.”
“Have you checked for a register?” Fleet asked. MacAdams stared.
“A guest book? Of course we have, and no, nothing.” MacAdams watched Fleet with growing impatience. “You’ll want to see the body, surely.”
“In time,” was the enigmatic response. Fleet had begun to walk the room. When he reached the sofa, he tugged up both trousers and squatted low, his face nearly touching the floor’s uneven surface.
“There are marks from a rubber sole,” he said. “Didn’t you tell me there was a rug here?”
MacAdams found himself dropping to one knee and looking askance in the light. There did appear to be a smudge. And not from their paper booties. He hadn’t seen it there before. But then, he hadn’t been on his knees looking for it.
“Maybe someone forgot to suit up,” he said, trying to think back to their initial discovery. Fleet got to his feet.
“Curious,” he said. “And no other papers to be found here?”
“Papers? What are you looking for?” MacAdams asked. It was past noon already; they still had to see Struthers so Fleet could have a look at the actual entry wounds.
“If you haven’t found a guest register, perhaps there’s a reason.” MacAdams felt his masseter muscles locking tight.
“Oh, I’m sure there’s a reason,” he agreed. “I’m sure it doesn’t exist. Sid Randles wasn’t exactly a tidy bookkeeper.”
“And yet, you tell me there are multiple sets of prints and DNA. Someone was staying here, however itinerant.” Fleet performed a full quarter turn on his heel, as if for military drill. “This does not have the appearance of a holiday let. But that doesn’t mean he hadn’t used it for other purposes.”
“Meaning what?” MacAdams asked. He had assumed that Sid merely treated it as his personal home away most of the time, probably for an occasional bender with Ricky Robson and company. Fleet straightened back to his ruler-stiff posture. The look on his face had remained cordial.
“Has it not occurred to you that Sid might be involved in drug trafficking?” MacAdams sucked air: Oh-my-fucking-God, it would be the first assumption of any modern detective.
“Yes. It has occurred,” he insisted quietly. “We’ve not found so much as a bag of weed here or his flat—and he’s never had prior for it. And yes, before you ask, we brought the proper equipment to look for traces. There isn’t any reason for you to do a more thorough search for the same things.”
The infuriating half smile remained.
“All the same,” Fleet said. “I’m here to help.”
Jo (Joesphine) Jones is both autistic and hyperlexic—just like me, the author. She’s also been uprooted from her routine by divorce and the illness of her mother, and then transplanted to the British countryside to take possession of a family estate she knew nothing about. We get to see Jo navigate these changes with her unique perspective on the world—and we watch as others react to her with curiosity and often perplexity. They might chalk it up to her “Americanisms,” but Jo’s eidetic memory, fascination with words, and appetite for knowledge also makes her an excellent amateur sleuth. In the end, MacAdams might find he needs the help of this unsinkable, deeply relatable protagonist. It will take the coordinated efforts of a diverse cast of characters to finally untangle the double mystery—who is the woman in the painting and why was it stolen? Who fired three shots and murdered the sneaky groundskeeper? But perhaps the bigger question has to do with Jo’s bid to build a new life. How do you fit into a new community when you are suspected of murder—while potentially being the real killer’s next victim?
--Marshal Zeringue
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