They’ve all come home to hear the reading of the old man’s will. That heart attack he suffered while bathing was sad indeed. They all need money, these cousins, who have returned to a remote Georgia island plantation replete with abandoned slave cabins. They all expect to get a fiscal piece of the action. When the attorney reads the will, only one of them, Charlotte Remington Maitland, inherits anything, and she gets the entire estate.
Before this ends, the bodies pile up thanks to a secretive murderer, and the deception, secrets, and entanglements of this family is like so much Spanish moss encumbering the eaves of the old mansion. It’s up to Charlotte to save her daughter before it’s too late.
So, here’s the thing: There was a time when I loved books that had that gothic thing going for them. I once devoured Phyllis A. Whitney and writers like her. I’m embarrassed to admit that now, but that’s true enough. Time and whatever else soured me on those, and this feels very much like one of those dark gothic books with telltale clues sprinkled throughout and a dark and somber spirit everywhere. I spent three days sleeping through this and rereading what I’d slept through largely because I found none of the characters particularly appealing—except Melanie, the perky nurse for the old demented relative who lived—you guessed it—in the attic. Melanie fascinated me, and the reader knows almost nothing about her.
I don’t want to give you the impression that this is a complete loss. It’s not at all. Normally, when I fall asleep numerous times while reading something, I feel my sleepiness taints the book. That’s not at all fair to the author, but that often happens. At least with this book, I cared enough about it to regroup and reread what I missed. I needed to see how things turned out, and I didn’t expect any of those outcomes. So, to that degree, it was well worth my time. I just didn’t like any of the characters, and the whole gothic pall depressed me and turned me off.