The best mystery books from Next Chapter [March 2023]
The mystery book genre has been captivating readers for centuries with its intricate plots, suspenseful twists, and intriguing characters. This genre typically features a crime, often a murder, that must be solved by a detective or amateur sleuth. The story usually involves clues and red herrings, leading readers on a thrilling journey to uncover the truth.
Mystery novels can be broken down into several sub-genres, including cozy mysteries, police procedurals, and hard-boiled detective stories. Cozy mysteries typically take place in a small town or village and feature an amateur sleuth who solves crimes alongside a cast of quirky characters. Police procedurals focus on the work of law enforcement officials, providing a detailed and realistic portrayal of the investigative process. Hard-boiled detective stories, on the other hand, feature a tough and cynical private investigator who solves cases through his or her own methods.
The mystery book genre continues to be a popular choice for readers of all ages, with new titles being published every year. Whether you're a fan of classic whodunits or modern psychological thrillers, there's a mystery novel out there that's sure to captivate you. So grab a book, settle in, and get ready to solve the crime!
On this page, you’ll find sevenof our best new mystery eBook releases as of March 2023, all available from Amazon, Apple Books, B&N, Rakuten Kobo & Google Books. Whether it’s cozy mystery, amateur sleuth or the crime fiction varity you’re looking for, we believe any of the books on this page will do!
If you enjoy one of the stories below, please don’t forget to leave the author a review! Don’t agree with our choices? Please leave a comment and let us know which mystery eBook is your favorite :)
Books featured on this page
Death of a Young Lieutenant (Jake Reynolds Mysteries Book 1) by B.R. Stateham
The Seasiders (Skeletons in the Cupboard Series Book 2) by A.J. Griffiths-Jones
Frozen Stiff Drink (Braxton Campus Mysteries Book 6) by James J. Cudney
A Liverpool Lullaby (Mersey Murder Mysteries Book 8) by Brian L. Porter
The Ghost Of Villa Winter (Canary Islands Mysteries Book 4) by Isobel Blackthorn
A Binding Chance (Messy Bookshop Mysteries Book 1) by Jessica Brimer
Death of a Young Lieutenant (Jake Reynolds Mysteries Book 1) by B.R. Stateham
Book excerpt
The night was as black as the blackest of India ink.
The air as still as a dead man’s thoughts.
Jake pushed the cycle into a heavy thicket growing in a black mass between two old maple trees and then spent some time hiding the machine by covering the bike with fallen branches and twigs. Stepping back he frowned. He hoped the bike was hidden from searching eyes. Shrugging to himself he quickly turned and started walking briskly down the long dark slash of an empty road which cut through a thick copse of trees. For the moment the night was as silent as an unmolested Pharaoh's tomb. No breeze stirred the heavy air. No sound broke through the darkness. But as he walked he could feel a heavy air of electrified tension settling down on his shoulders. Every step took him closer to the oncoming German army. He knew he had to bump into the forward positions of the on-coming enemy sooner or later.
Two kilometers up this road he would find the small French village of Epernay. Just a mile outside of the little village would be the crash site where Oglethorpe and his observer had smashed up the old Bleroit in a patch of trees. But there was something else to be found down that dark, ominous road. In that quaint little village, so delicately deposited onto the banks of the deep Marne River, he knew of a treasure waiting for him. There, on a series of wooden oak panels kept behind the pulpit of the town's church—panels opened only on special religious holidays—would be an unquestioned masterpiece of the 15th Century Dutch artist, Jan van Eck.
The Seasiders (Skeletons in the Cupboard Series Book 2) by A.J. Griffiths-Jones
Book excerpt
It was Good Friday and Grace had spent a busy week spring-cleaning the guest house. Each room had been aired, floors given a wax polish and eiderdowns hung out on the washing-line to freshen them up. She’d been to her regular hair appointment the day before, albeit a bit cautiously, but as it turned out, Maureen was her usual cheerful self and readily filled Grace in on the town’s gossip. There was no awkwardness between them and nothing was mentioned about the ‘incident’.
Dick, being afraid of either getting in the way or getting told off, had spent most of his time avoiding going indoors. He much preferred to tidy the potting shed, pull weeds from the flower beds or disappear to the betting shop. There had been a few silent days after what he liked to refer to as the ‘Sheet Saga’ but now things were getting back to normal. Dick knew that Grace was in her element when the place was full of guests and the weekend’s arrivals would be sure to put her in a good mood. He had glanced at the leather book in the hallway and had counted a family of four arriving this afternoon, two single gents tonight and two couples tomorrow morning. That would mean that the Sandybank was full to its capacity. It would also mean a healthy amount of money going into their bank account too.
Desperately in need of a cup of coffee to boost her energy levels, Grace sat in the kitchen looking wistfully at her latest romance book on the work surface. She’d have to wait until bedtime to finish this one, too much to do today, although it was a shame, as the plot was good and the characters feisty. How she loved being carried away to another realm by the power of books. Brushing her hand over the cover, Grace smiled. Look at that handsome brute, with his chiseled jaw and thick dark hair, she thought, men in real life just don’t live up to those standards. She was disturbed from her daydreaming by Dick, who had opened the back door and was slowly wiping his muddy feet on the bristly mat outside the door.
“Any chance of a coffee for me?” he grinned cheekily at his wife, “I’ve been ever so busy.”
Grace rolled her eyes and got up to make a drink for her husband.
“Oh yes, what’s kept you occupied this morning then?” she asked, “Have you been reading again?”
Dick felt the verbal dig like a poke in the ribs. Grace knew he was struggling to read that little book he’d found the previous week, supposing that it was far too intellectual for his simple tastes. The truth was, he didn’t really understand most of it, instead being much more intrigued by the author. It was the way in which he imagined other people to pronounce the name ‘Quentin Crisp’ that had stirred him to do a bit of careful investigation. Some of his mates at the pub had heard of the arty and eccentric Mr. Crisp and laughed when Dick had happened to mention that he was reading poetry by that very same gent. One chap in particular had commented that Dick would be wearing a silk cravat and fedora next time they saw him, but Dick didn’t understand all the fuss. If he decided to suddenly smarten himself up it would be because he wanted to, not because of a book with a kangaroo on the front, he’d retorted.
Frozen Stiff Drink (Braxton Campus Mysteries Book 6) by James J. Cudney
Book excerpt
The blizzard was at its height on Monday morning. Since it’d begun, thirty-four inches descended upon the county and forced people to seek shelter. The sheriff’s office cleared a majority of the car wrecks on the highway and transported everyone to Wharton General Hospital before it became too dangerous to be outside. The news reported two deaths, and several people remained in guarded condition at the rehabilitation center. Maggie’s father, Ben Roarke, was the only critically injured person I knew, but he’d come through surgery and opened his eyes shortly after sunrise. Ben was in his early sixties, too young to die in a car accident. I sent Maggie a text message, promising to pray for her father and confirming I was available should she need anything. Connor verified he had it under control and would keep me informed of any changes.
April rang me that morning to inquire whether I’d heard from Nana D. A few town councilmen had contacted the sheriff to request additional street closures and commented that no one had heard from the mayor in twenty-four hours. Something was amiss for Nana D to be silent for so long, and April genuinely wanted to relieve my distress. I mentioned the text message wasn’t Nana D’s usual style of responding. When I let April know Hampton had also disappeared, she went uncannily silent. After I nudged her, she said, “I’ll search for both during my venture around town to monitor the blizzard.”
April also shared the results of her conversation with Alex and Hope. Hiram had been in stable condition yesterday morning, complaining only about nausea, dizziness, and an inability to urinate. A few visitors had stopped by and were able to talk with him in between the nurse’s rounds. During the highway pileup, the staff had been overworked and couldn’t confirm specifically who’d been in Hiram’s room, but Connor planned to speak with the entire fleet of nurses on the floor that day. Gene, the security guard, agreed to produce a list of people who’d registered at the front desk, but he admitted a couple of guests might’ve snuck through while he’d been handling all the emergencies.
Unagh Walsh had been dispensing medication to another patient at the opposite end of the floor, heard an alert, and rushed to the main desk around ten o’clock. When she saw Hiram’s heart rate declining too low, Unagh paged the doctor and entered Hiram’s room. He was alone. She shoved an empty bedside table to the floor and checked his pulse. He had none, and as Unagh administered CPR, a doctor arrived to take over. Within sixty seconds, they’d lost the patient and couldn’t understand why. The bedsheet and gown near Hiram’s chest were soaking wet, but Unagh had cleared his breakfast tray hours earlier. No cups or bottles were in sight. The IV bag attached to Hiram’s hand was full but should’ve been half-empty given they’d connected a new bag much earlier.
A Liverpool Lullaby (Mersey Murder Mysteries Book 8) by Brian L. Porter
Book excerpt
As they drove the seventeen miles to Ainsdale, Southport, Derek McLennan, driving the car containing himself, Ross, and Fenella Church, had an observation to make.
“This is a bad one, isn’t it, sir?” he asked,
Ross, in the front seat, replied, “What makes you say that, Derek?”
“Well, for one thing, we don’t usually get called in within hours of the discovery of a body, unless there are indications that it’s our kind of case, and second, the way you said, He did what? to the chief when he called, told me there was some unusual feature about the case, and for us, unusual always means bad.”
“Very good, Derek. You should have been a detective,” Ross allowed himself a quiet laugh. “But yes, you’re right of course. I’m telling you two now,” he said, turning to look at Church in the back seat, “we’ve got a dead woman laid out in the sand dunes, complete with various items which point to a ritualistic or possibly, psychopathic killer, and the clincher, which the first responders discovered, is the fact that the poor woman has got no heart.”
“You mean he removed it?” Church asked, merely for clarification.
“Exactly, Fenella. He not only removed it, but from what Oscar Agostini told me, he’s bloody well still got it.”
“Shit, we’ve got a trophy hunter," McLennan said, without hesitation.
“Quite possibly,” Ross agreed, “but let’s not make any assumptions until we see what we’re dealing with.”
On arrival at the Nature Reserve, or to give it its full title, The Ainsdale and Birkdale Sandhills Nature Reserve, Derek McLennan couldn’t help displaying some of his almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the local area.
“Did you know this is one of the largest areas of wild dunes left in Britain, and that it’s home to some rare species, like the Natterjack Toad, the Great Crested Newt, and the Sand Lizard?”
“That’s interesting, Derek,” said Fenella Church, with genuine interest, while Ross kept quiet. Once Derek got started it was sometimes hard to shut him up.
The Ghost Of Villa Winter (Canary Islands Mysteries Book 4) by Isobel Blackthorn
Book excerpt
When the minibus pulled up in the car park outside the restaurant, the lads in the back cheered. Francois killed the engine and exited the driver’s seat, rounding the front of the vehicle to open the side door. Keen to be the first off, the matrons swung round in their seats. Richard was still gripping his. Clarissa took in the look of terror in his eyes and began to wonder why he bothered coming if he was that scared of heights. Maybe he hadn’t known about the road to Cofete.
Fred said, ‘There you go, Margaret. It wasn’t too bad.’
Clarissa wasn’t sure Margaret agreed with him, judging by the pale expression on her face.
The tour party decanted, the matrons leading the way, followed by Fred and Margaret and then Simon, his perfume trailing behind him like a wraith. Clarissa blocked the aisle and let Richard go in front of her. The lads followed close behind. The moment they were off the bus they hurried into the village, presumably to explore. The frail-looking woman was the last off and Francois had to almost carry her down the two steps. She appeared to be shaking and looked unhealthily pale. Wisps of mousy hair appeared stuck to her forehead. A fever? Her eyes were dull and her thin lips pinched. Perhaps it wasn’t the dust after all. Perhaps she had a virus. Clarissa didn’t like to ask and no one else looked bothered or had even noticed.
Awaiting instructions, they congregated in the car park between the bus and three cars parked closer to the restaurant. A few other cars were parked haphazardly further off. Meaty garlicky smells greeted her nostrils. Chattering voices and bursts of laughter carried on the wind. Not far away, diners, seated behind a low wall containing the al fresco area of the restaurant’s frontage, were having a merry time. She looked forward to joining them.
Ignoring his charges or indeed his duty, Francois locked the minibus and disappeared into the restaurant. As if that were a cue, the matrons followed on behind. Unsure whether to do the same, Clarissa hung back with the others, pushing away locks of her hair that the wind had whipped into her face as she surveyed the surroundings. She’d carried no preconceptions, although she was not surprised to discover the locale had an atmosphere she didn’t take to, made all the more desolate by the fast-gathering calima. She could appreciate the appeal of the remoteness and the back-to-earth lifestyle, harsh as it was, but there was something else, an undertow, something temporary perhaps, an energy that shouldn’t be here, danger. That was as far as her clairvoyance would take her.
A Death in Tuscany by Dick Rosano
Book excerpt
Before leaving for Castelnuovo Berardenga in search of Captain Mirelli, I decided to head down to the winery at the base of the mountain on which the Castello stood.
It was a long low building sandwiched between the macadam road on one side and a sharply sloping hill that dropped away from the other side toward the vineyards. This gave the property access on one side for trucks, tractors, and other vehicles used in delivering grapes and processing the fermentation, and a natural, gravity-fed option on the other side to allow the juice to be run from fermenters on the ground floor to finishing vats and storage vessels on lower levels. With less mechanical pumping, it was believed that finer wine would result.
I watched the trucks loaded with newly harvested white grapes arrive at the winery to my left. The little old man who appeared in the doorway of the winery was Vito Basiglio, the winemaker of Castello dei Trantini. I remembered with fondness the years I spent watching that lively old man skitter about the vats and presses, calling out orders to his apprentices, always moving and always directing the activities of the ten or twelve lesser employees of my grandfather's proud domain. Vito acted with such a feverish intensity that one tended to forget the patience that was necessary for the time-consuming production of fine wine. But he possessed the required patience also, as when I would ask for a taste of the wine when I was a little, wide-eyed apprentice myself.
"Why do you want to drink this grape juice when it still smells of the crusher?" Vito would say, referring to the sweet, musty taste of newly crushed grapes. "Be patient. We'll wait till it is wine," and his eyes sparkled at the mention of the word, "then we shall taste it."
Even now, as I watched him from the roadway, Vito darted here and there supervising the delivery of the new grapes, a man as old as my grandfather, but kept young by this annual ritual of rebirth. It was the process of creating wine that gave Vito his energy. He always looked so alive during the harvest, even though this time of year also brought the longest days and most strenuous work.
At one point, he looked in my direction and studied me carefully for a moment. Then, suddenly recognizing me, he waved with a broad smile across his face. Suddenly, his exuberant wave halted slightly, and the smile faded as he seemed to remember my cheerless reason for being here, and his arm fell to his side. With one last glance in my direction, he resumed his duties, disappearing inside the winery to usher the grapes along their path.
I went to the garage at the end of a short lane behind the main building and found Santo there talking to a young man in work clothes. After telling him I intended to speak with Franco Mirelli, Santo gave me the keys to Nonno Filippo's Fiat, and I went to find it. Parked next to the Fiat in the garage was a new Maserati Quattroporte, one of Italy’s most elegant sedans.
A Binding Chance (Messy Bookshop Mysteries Book 1) by Jessica Brimer
Book excerpt
I leaned against the brick building of Old Treasures, watching from under the awning’s cover as I played with my necklace charm. A light wind and the shade helped cool me from the East Tennessee heat. Activity on Copper Street had come to a halt. Men and women in blue uniforms secured the scene with their vehicles and orange cones. Drivers diverted on side streets to avoid the blockage while store employees and familiar shoppers dotted the sidewalk, staring in disbelief.
Sevier Oak was a simple town tucked in a valley of the Smoky Mountains and named after the heavily forested habitat. People often overlooked the small town due to its lack of attractions, and miniscule population. Neighboring towns often describe Sevier Oak as “the middle of nowhere.” Regardless of our size, it never stopped folks from grabbing a quick bite to eat before continuing to the nearest city, Bristol.
There we have it: the best mystery books from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the stories - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. We’d love to hear from you!
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