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A Chicago PI faces a deadly world of femme fatales and not-so-saintly nuns in this crime novel from a “wild, shrewd, mad, and unexpectedly funny” author (The New York Times).
When Sister Rosetta’s niece goes missing, the nun (whose favorite poison is anything bottle-bound and boozy) hires shifty PI Tut Willow to find dear Gladys. But as Tut pulls back the curtain on Gladys’ checkered past—which includes a few racy pictures that’d make a sailor blush—he also discovers that someone doesn’t want her found. And soon bodies start piling up. Is Sister Rosetta behind the deaths of those out to harm her niece . . . or are Tut and Gladys just pawns in a much darker game?
Full of laugh-out-loud comedy and the darkest of intrigue, Death Wore Gloves is “a lively story, both in and out of bed” from an author with “a keen sense of humor and a sharp writing style . . . Top of the line, this one is” (The New York Times).
“This book could have played well at Minsky’s.” —Publishers Weekly
“There is something of Donald E. Westlake in Mr. Spencer’s makeup. Like Mr. Westlake, he revels in absurdities that perhaps turn out to be not so absurd after all.” —The New York Times
When Sister Rosetta’s niece goes missing, the nun (whose favorite poison is anything bottle-bound and boozy) hires shifty PI Tut Willow to find dear Gladys. But as Tut pulls back the curtain on Gladys’ checkered past—which includes a few racy pictures that’d make a sailor blush—he also discovers that someone doesn’t want her found. And soon bodies start piling up. Is Sister Rosetta behind the deaths of those out to harm her niece . . . or are Tut and Gladys just pawns in a much darker game?
Full of laugh-out-loud comedy and the darkest of intrigue, Death Wore Gloves is “a lively story, both in and out of bed” from an author with “a keen sense of humor and a sharp writing style . . . Top of the line, this one is” (The New York Times).
“This book could have played well at Minsky’s.” —Publishers Weekly
“There is something of Donald E. Westlake in Mr. Spencer’s makeup. Like Mr. Westlake, he revels in absurdities that perhaps turn out to be not so absurd after all.” —The New York Times
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