Troubled Daughters, Twisted Wives: Stories from the Trailblazers of Domestic Suspense
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Fourteen chilling tales from the pioneering women who created the domestic suspense genre
Murderous wives, deranged husbands, deceitful children, and vengeful friends. Few know these characters—and their creators—better than Sarah Weinman. One of today’s preeminent authorities on crime fiction, Weinman asks: Where would bestselling authors like Gillian Flynn, Sue Grafton, or Tana French be without the women writers who came before them?
In Troubled Daughters, Twisted Wives, Weinman brings together fourteen hair-raising tales by women who—from the 1940s through the mid-1970s—took a scalpel to contemporary society and sliced away to reveal its dark essence. Lovers of crime fiction from any era will welcome this deliciously dark tribute to a largely forgotten generation of women writers.
forever her mother’s face. With a little gasp of joy that was almost ecstasy she turned to the bookshelf and chose at random six tall, slender, brightly colored books. One she laid open, face down, in her lap. Another she opened and leaned against her breast. Still holding the rest in one hand, she pressed her face into Pinocchio’s pages, her eyes half closed. Slowly she rocked back and forth in the chair, conscious of nothing but her own happiness and gratitude. The chimes downstairs struck
away again and the safest place for me was high up in the air where he knew I couldn’t get off and run. I began to get nervous, looking out the taxi window on the way from the Rockville airport; I would have sworn that for three years I hadn’t given a thought to that town, to those streets and stores and houses I used to know so well, but here I found that I remembered it all, as though I hadn’t ever seen Chandler and its houses and streets; it was almost as though I had never been away at all.
asking favors. This I learned was the cause of the brooding silence. There is no greater favor you can ask a California hostess than the use of her telephone for a New York call. I sat without speaking until the bells were still. Mike pulled out a roll of bills that reminded me of the old movie gangsters. “Let me pay you now, Lissa. I don’t want to make this call from the Officers Club. It may take two or three hours to get through, and there are always too many fellows waiting to use the
of love. I know Gil’s faults, too. He was vain and opportunistic, but there wasn’t a malicious bone in his body. Think of his naïveté over that suicide business. As soon as she had confessed, whether he fully believed it or not, he began to loathe her. This cooled her considerably, I’m sure. When the hysteria died, she saw that he was dangerous to her, and put poison in his highball. “She had the poison, you know,” Mike continued. “It was the same stuff she’d put into the sleeping pills. After
work had never caught on, although he had a small loyal following in Detroit and occasionally sold a painting. His only concessions to the need for making a living and for buying paints and brushes was to teach some ten hours a week throughout the winter and to take this summer job at the art colony, which was also their vacation. Mrs. Moon taught craft therapy at a home for the aged. After the loom had been set up in their cabin Mrs. Moon waited. Sometimes she went swimming in the lake,