Imagine The Bachelor, Only Murders in the Building, and Scooby-Doo went on a bender, woke up on a tropical island, and tried to solve a murder. That’s roughly the energy of Murder on Sex Island—a purposely absurd, occasionally sharp, but sometimes overcooked satire that knows exactly what kind of book it wants to be, whether or not you’re on board.
Jo Firestone leans hard into the ridiculous premise: a washed-up/wannabe PI, posing as a contestant on a sexy reality TV show, trying to redeem herself while surrounded by influencer types and shady producers. The main character, Luella van Horn is a mess. She’s the kind of detective who stumbles into trouble, panics, and somehow still ends up with a dead body in her tub.
There are some genuinely funny lines and great moments of cringe comedy—Firestone’s humor shines brightest in the details: the absurd confessionals, the petty alliances, the cynical showrunners trying to spin a death into better ratings. It’s reality TV meets whodunnit.
But- it tries very hard. And sometimes, it shows. The dialogue doesn’t always land, the character interactions can feel more like improv sketches than actual conversations, and the plot—the mystery part of the mystery novel—is more like background noise. You’re not here for tight pacing or shocking reveals. You’re here for the chaos, the camp, and the commentary on just how far reality TV will go to entertain us.
Would I recommend it? Yes, just be sure you know what you are getting. It’s a great beach read—short, strange, and never taking itself too seriously. But if you’re expecting a twisty thriller or even consistent satire, you may end up more amused than amazed.