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On Sale Date: June 10, 2025
9780778368601, 0778368602
Trade Paperback
$19.99 USD, $23.99 CAD
Fiction / Myster & Detective
480 pages
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Interspersed with riddles and puzzles that both Destiny and the reader must solve, A Most Puzzling Murder is a one-of-a-kind mystery that will leave you guessing and gasping until the very last page!
Destiny Whip is a former child prodigy, world-renowned enigmatologist and very, very alone. A life filled with loss has made her a recluse, an existence she’s content to endure until a letter arrives inviting her to interview for the position of Scruffmore family historian. Not only does an internet search for the name yield almost nothing, it’s a role she never applied to in the first place!
She decodes the invitation's hidden message with ease, and its promise to reveal her family secrets proves too powerful a draw for the orphaned Destiny, who soon finds herself on Eerie Island. It’s a place whose inhabitants are almost as inhospitable as the tempestuous weather. The Scruffmores themselves turn out to be not much better, a snarled mess of secrets and motives connected by their mistrust for one another.
Their newly arrived guest proves to be just as much an enigma to them as they are to her. While Destiny slowly works to unravel the mysteries hidden throughout the ominous castle, she struggles to interpret disturbing nightly visions of what is to come. In the midst of cryptic ciphers, hidden passages, and the family’s magical line of succession, Destiny is certain of two things: one of the Scruffmores is going to die and she’s running out of time to stop it.
CHAPTER 1
Destiny
Sunday, 9:57 a.m.
Destiny Whip warily eyes her bedside table, thinking how it could easily be mistaken for a miniature graveyard, what with all the little pills neatly lined in staggered rows, positioned upright like tiny headstones. It certainly feels as though she’s regarding the burial ground of her hopes and dreams, haunted by the specter of the enormous potential she’s so dismally failed to live up to.
When you’re declared a child prodigy, everyone expects you to go far in life, but all Destiny has managed today is a slow shuffle to and from the bathroom. Even that required Herculean reserves of energy.
Balancing her laptop on her knees, she reaches to the farthest side of the bed for her emotional-support urn, pulling it close and tucking it into her armpit as though cuddling a teddy bear. She kisses the top of the teardrop shape, the metal cold against her chapped lips.
Bex appears in Destiny’s doorway, leaning her head against the frame. “Good morning.”
Her best friend is still too scrawny, but not nearly as emaciated as she was a year ago when all she feasted on was beauty magazines and models’ Instagram pages rather than anything resembling food. Bex looks mostly healthy again, her long chestnut hair gleaming, the hollows of her cheeks no longer reminiscent of sinkholes.
“You okay?” Bex asks, the corners of her mouth turned down.
It’s the anniversary of the accident today, one year somehow crawling by on scraped knees.
Some people act like severe depression is a tarnish, one that can be polished off with the application of enough elbow grease. Luckily, Bex isn’t one of them.
Destiny tries to speak, but a knot of regret is so tangled up in her throat that the words don’t stand a chance.
Her laptop suddenly squawks with an incoming video call. In the months that Destiny has been seeing Dr. Shepherd, they’ve never once had a virtual consultation over a weekend. But today is going to be a tough one, which is why the psychiatrist insisted on the appointment.
As the ringing continues, Destiny gently places the urn beside her and instinctively reaches for her notebook before paging to the list of tasks the doctor assigned last month.
Bex sidles up next to her, reading over her shoulder.
1. Leave the apartment once a day to go for a walk or grab a coffee.
2. Reach out to an old friend or colleague to suggest a meetup.
3. Replace all the dead plants.
4. Keep a dream journal about the white-haired ghost woman.
5. Email the council expressing your wish to return.
6. Accept one of the consultancies that you’ve been offered (one that doesn’t require travel).
7. Work on forgiving Nate.
8. Limit your interactions with Bex.
Bex side-eyes the last item on the list. “Rude,” she huffs. “You’d think I was a bad inf luence or something.”
Rather than answering Bex or the incoming call, Destiny thinks of how she’s never f lunked an assignment in her entire life. Always top of her class, and despite being admitted to university as a twelve-year-old, Destiny cannot fathom this degree of failure.
She’s ticked nothing off the list, not even throwing away the plants whose shriveled corpses goad her, their untimely deaths undoubtedly due to the curtains constantly being drawn tight. That, and Destiny forgetting to water them.
The laptop’s ringing grates on Destiny’s nerves, but she can’t force herself to answer and face Dr. Shepherd’s disappointment. It will be carefully concealed, of course, with the psychiatrist gently pointing out there’s always next week, or the week after that, to achieve these seemingly simple goals. But it doesn’t matter how much of an extension Destiny is given.
It’s no use.
For how can she possibly cut ties with Bex, who’s her dearest, not to mention only, friend?
Plus, there’s no way the Council of Enigmatologists will take her back after she’s been AWOL for so long. Each time an envelope drops through the mail slot, Destiny fully expects it to be a letter informing her that they’ve completely revoked her membership. It hurts to remember how thrilled she was to be appointed president of the prestigious group just thirteen months ago, and how she, Bex, and Nate all splurged on a fancy dinner to celebrate.
When the call finally drops, Bex exhales, a long whoosh of defeat. “I know I shouldn’t enable you with all the talking, but it’s not like I can call anyone on your behalf.”
They both look down at the wallpaper on the home screen of Destiny’s laptop.
It’s a photo that was taken thirteen years ago when Destiny was eight. In it, her mother’s arm is f lung across Annie’s shoulders, happiness radiating from the two best friends in waves. Destiny’s eyes fill with tears as she studies her mother’s straight black hair and pale skin, and those enormous glasses obscuring most of her face.
Jutting her chin at Destiny’s mother, Bex murmurs, “I wish I’d known Liz.”
Destiny nods before turning her attention to Annie, with her striking Afro and beaded shoulder-duster earrings, and her smile as bright as the sun.
The image was captured two weeks before Liz died. A year later, the paperwork went through to officially make Annie Destiny’s second adoptive mother. Their deaths were a wrenching loss, a tearing in the fabric of Destiny’s being that she never quite stitched back together.
There were times in the before when Destiny experienced the sting of loneliness, that awful yearning of the one forever stuck outside, nose and palms pressed against the cold glass, gazing in at what belonging looked like: foreheads bent together, raucous laughter elicited by inside jokes, sentences finished by those who knew you best.
But this is not loneliness, in the same way that a drop of water is not a deluge, the way a sigh is not a hurricane.
“I’m so sorry that you’re having such a rough time of it,” Bex says, reaching out to tuck a f laming red curl behind Destiny’s ear. She freezes upon seeing Destiny’s expression, her hand hovering like a ghost between them. “A year is a long time, though, and Dr. Shepherd is right despite the fact that she clearly has it in for me. You need to move on.”
God, that Bex is apologizing to her, of all people, when everything that happened was Destiny’s fault.
“No, I’m sorry,” Destiny says, her voice pulled so taut that it snaps. Seeing the pills all standing to attention—no longer a cemetery full of headstones, but rather an army ready to fight the last battle—Destiny reaches for the urn again, stroking it like a security blanket. “If you stop talking to me, Bex, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Not gonna happen,” Bex replies breezily. And then more firmly she says, “Okay, it’s tough love time. You seriously need to shower because you’re stinking up the place. Plus, the kitchen needs cleaning. Those take-out containers have grown thumbs. I swear I caught them trying to hitch a ride to the nearest primordial swamp.”
Destiny laughs at how incredibly bossy Bex is.
Especially for a dead person.
Still, it’s reassuring that no matter how much has changed, some things stay exactly the same.
Excerpted from A Most Puzzling Murder by Bianca Marais, Copyright © 2025 by Bianca Marais. Published by MIRA Books.
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| Photo Credit: Brendan Fisher |
BIANCA MARAIS cohosts the popular podcast The Shit No One Tells You About Writing, which is aimed at helping emerging writers get published. She teaches creative writing through the podcast and was named a winner of the Excellence in Teaching Award for Creative Writing at the University of Toronto’s School of Continuing Studies. She lives in Toronto, where she loves playing escape-room games and writing about strong female protagonists.
Author website: https://www.biancamarais.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/biancamaraisauthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/biancam_author/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/biancamarais_author/
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