In West Heart Kill, a wildly inventive new whodunit, a group of wealthy summer club gallivanters have their rollicking upended by a string of grisly murders as a fierce storm rages outdoors. Recently profiled in The New York Times, the book’s debut author, Dann McDormann, said he set out to write a traditional mystery, but “it immediately went off the rails.” Indeed, more than one critic celebrates the originality of this work of metafiction “that doesn’t so much break the fourth wall as crash through it in a bulldozer” (The Guardian). Ultimately, McDormann has written a love letter to mysteries, while at the same time upending the rules of the genre.

More buzz about the book:

“Basically The Ice Storm as if written by Borges, then solved by Chandler." —Molly Odintz in CrimeReads

“Every mystery lover enjoys a closed-room/locked-door whodunnit, whether it's the on-screen "Glass Onion" or a re-read of Agatha Christie…sheer catnip for readers.” — Bethanne Patrick on NPR

“For readers willing to try something a little different, this is quite the diversion.” — Publishers Weekly

Excerpted from WEST HEART KILL by Dann McDorman. Copyright © 2023 by Dann McDorman. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

McAnnis has slipped away to explore the clubhouse, empty but for the rattle of plates and the chatter of staff in the kitchen. He clutches a half-empty drink in his hand as a token or excuse, an outward symbol of belonging, the very casualness of it all denoting nothing more sinister than a man who has idly wandered away from a party, certainly not a professional sleuth bent on discovery . . . And it’s in this quiet moment that the sentences finally turn to describing this protagonist: McAnnis is thirty-five but looks older, with tousled black hair, curling long over his ears, and a dark mustache that stamps his face with what he thinks is a faintly sinister cast, useful in some circumstances, a liability in most others. The crows have scratched their feet at the corners of his eyes, lines not from smiling but from skepticism, the habitual grimace or squint of a man weary of betrayal. He has light-blue eyes—“my mother’s eyes,” he sometimes confides to the women who comment on them—and it’s those eyes that give the game away: sad and wary and wounded, the way someone looks at you when you’re obviously lying, an embarrassment and disappointment to you both. His nose is slightly crooked from a punch years earlier that McAnnis knows he should have seen coming. On the back of his left hand is the round white puckered scar of a cigar that had been extinguished on his skin—a reminder, as if he needs one, of poor choices and risks not worth taking.

McAnnis still believes in suits as a necessary evil for the job, and not one of those damned leisure suits, either; a real suit, however cheap and threadbare, would usually suffice to open doors or get people talking, especially when he flips his wallet to flash a shield whose authenticity would stand up to all but the most rigorous inspection. McAnnis wears his ties loose; on the nights when he remembers to undress for bed, the ties stay with the shirts he takes off.

For this trip, he is wearing a brown number with a yellow shirt and an orange-and-tomato tie; after a few hours in the car, it’s clear that the entire ensemble is quite obviously not, despite JC Penney’s claims to the contrary, wrinkle-free.

McAnnis has climbed the stairs to the second floor. The library is dark in the fading sunlight. A small brass plate next to the door reads: In gratitude to Dr. and Mrs. Blake, for the donation of their private collection. December 1929. Charitable tax deduction, you expect McAnnis is thinking. After the Crash of ’29. Most of the library consists of leather-wrapped tomes. One shelf is devoted to hunting and fishing. Another is filled with what appear to be West Heart records, including decades of the club newsletter, printed and bound. One wall has no shelves, featuring instead two massive mounted deer heads surrounded by nearly two dozen brass plaques listing the names and years of the club presidents, each evidently having served a five-year term. McAnnis is studying these thoughtfully when a club member intrudes. It is Reginald Talbot, the treasurer. He is a short, fidgety man with glasses and a receding hairline and a habit, McAnnis discovers, of blinking nearly incessantly.

“Hello—you’re that detective, aren’t you? McAdams.”

“McAnnis. Adam McAnnis.”

“Of course. I overheard you talking to James. Are you looking for the Necessary?”

“The what?”

“The bathroom, sorry. It’s the term up here.”

“Funny. No, I was just looking around.”

“Not investigating something, I hope?” asks Reginald Talbot, eyes fluttering.

“No, not at all,” says McAnnis. “If I had a clock, I’d be off it.”

“You may not be looking for crimes, but perhaps they’re looking for you?” ventures Reginald Talbot. “That’s how it seems in all the mystery novels. Detectives on holiday when a fellow hotel guest turns up missing?”

“Or dead, usually,” says McAnnis. “But no, I don’t generally stumble across bodies in my spare time. Right now, I’m just looking for a refill.” He holds up his drink.

“I’m sure we can help you with that.”

“Though I am curious . . .” McAnnis adds.

“Yes?”

“Do these plaques cover all the club presidents?”

“I think so, why?”

“I’m wondering what happened in the thirties?”

“What do you mean?”

“All these plaques cover five-year stints. But 1935 to 1940 is missing. We have Horace Burr, 1930 to 1935, then Russell Caldwell, 1940 to 1945.”

Reginald Talbot leans in. “You’re right. Odd.”

“Any explanation?”

“No clue. You could ask one of the old-timers, if you’re really interested. Though I can’t imagine why you would be.”

“I’m not. Just habit.”

“A detective detects.”

“Something like that.”

“Good. Let’s get you another drink, then. After all”—Reginald Talbot moving smoothly toward the door, feigning nonchalance like an amateur actor overplaying a part—“we can’t have strangers wandering around unchaperoned, unearthing all our secrets.”

Excerpted from WEST HEART KILL by Dann McDorman. Copyright © 2023 by Dann McDorman. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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