Not Exactly

It was the '90s in Charleston, SC. Cell phones were becoming a thing. Martha Stewart hadn't gone to prison. Bill Clinton has not "had sex with that woman, Monica Lewinsky." The edges of the town were now an anarchic sprawl of unrestrained growth. Fast food, asphalt, car lots with giant American flags. But at the bottom of the peninsula, the old families clung to the myth of timeless Charleston while grasping at any source of income. One thing they had a nose for was valuable artifacts because so many had lived for so long selling off heirlooms one by one. The discovery of a super-rare Tiverton commode has them in a frenzy of greed, and murder seems a logical outcome. An odd mix of characters gets embroiled. • Honor Revenue, divinity professor's daughter and heart-stopping beauty who has spent her short life warding off obsessive nuts. • South-of-Broad drone Chandler Lovelace who has never held a job but knows his furniture. • Simpering twit Rusty Royall, Rector of the august St. Ambrose, who believes he's in thrall to a witch. • Talisha Mackey who's trying to hold together a bankrupt gospel radio station while fending off the advances of a love-obsessed, decrepit root doctor. • Beau-Jack McCully, good ol' boy trickster who is a deft hand at furniture reproduction. • Plus assorted thieves, outlaws, and bunco artist men of the cloth. While Rannie Ralston, the meanest lawyer in Charleston, watches and schemes.

It's the mid-'90s in Charleston, South Carolina, and the city is only beginning to feel the effects of the "Third Yankee Invasion." But Charleston is still Charleston. Large, shabby pockets remain ungentrified, and real estate has yet to be bought up by retired CEOs "from off." The old families live in the old houses and maintain the old rituals. Eccentricity and ancestor worship abound. Not Exactly Murder is an explosive and hilarious romp through a recent past when Charleston was still decadent and quirky, and when port city crime oozed through every street. This is the first book in a four-book series that establishes a new genre. Let's see-what to call it? "Southern Women With Guns" or "Elmore Leonard meets Janet Evanovich meets Dixie"? Whatever you call it, you're in for a ride.

It's the '90s in Charleston, and urban sprawl is fast killing the charm. A tiny pocket of mansions South-of-Broad Street preserve the dying way of life. Bracey Fanseau Jeffcoat has a miserable marriage to an investment swindler and an even unhappier outlook on the death of natural beauty in the Lowcountry. Her husband Chase is in league with property developer ya-hoos to put the last of the Sea Islands under golf courses and condos. They will steal and even murder for the big score. Tamzie Jerome has come into money, but everyone is hell bent on stealing it from her. And perky golf hustler Bobbi-Jean Kincaid is switch-walking through the fairways and lustful males of this world with her own angle on shot-making and money-making. While lurking at the fringe sharpening her claws is the meanest lawyer in town, the flame-haired Rannie Ralston you've met twice before. She can lay a dam' lawsuit on you or use a gun if it's called for. If the dollar sums in the story seem small, remember how long ago this was. And inflation just keeps eating up the dollar. One day soon, it'll be as dead as some of the characters in the story wind up.