Cover image for No time to die : a Mali Anderson mystery
No time to die : a Mali Anderson mystery
Edwards, Grace F. (Grace Frederica)
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Doubleday, 1999.
Physical Description:
258 pages ; 25 cm
Format :


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The indomitable Harlem sleuth Mali Anderson is back, this time on a case that will become more personal than she ever imagined. A bizarre and brutal serial killer is on the loose in Harlem, but this time he has chosen the wrong victim--Mali Anderson's close friend Claudine Hastings. The savvy sleuth vows to track down her friend's killer, ignoring handsome Detective Tad Honeywell's suggestion that she leave the investigating to the police. While the body count rises, Mali refuses to back down, tirelessly combing the "three Bs of Harlem: the barbershops, beauty shops, and bars" as she zeros in on the culprit. It soon becomes clear that the killings are centered in Mali's own neighborhood, and she fears that the people she holds dearest, including her jazz musician father and her preteen nephew, Alvin, will become embroiled in the case. But little does Mali realize that even as she races to catch the killer, he is planning yet another crime--and he's already chosen her to be his next victim. TheChicago Tribunecalled Grace Edwards's first mystery,If I Should Die, "excellent," and her follow-up book,A Toast Before Dying, "impressive." Now, in the third installment of the Mali Anderson mystery series, Edwards has once again painted--in the smooth and sumptuous style her many readers have come to adore--a portrait of Harlem that is both beautiful and haunting. Filled with vibrantly unforgettable characters,No Time to Dieis a thrilling and suspenseful plunge into one of the world's most fascinating neighborhoods.

Reviews 2

Booklist Review

In Edwards' latest Mali Anderson mystery, set in a Harlem vibrant with music, shops, and colorful characters, an angry young man, mistreated all his life by an overweight, abusive mother, seeks revenge on successful women he thinks have somehow spurned him. His methods are grisly--garroting the women to death. Mali gets involved when Claudine, a good friend, is killed. Mali's involvement brings her into the killer's sphere when her gray eyes and offhand manner one day offend him, unwittingly putting her on his death list. She is distracted by a suspicion that Claudine's murderer is her abusive ex-husband, who has had a long-running feud with Mali and even runs her down with a stolen car. When she recovers, Mali learns that another woman, a close friend of her jazz musician father, has been murdered. The bodies pile up in this fast-paced mystery that has enough twists to engage the reader until the killer is brought to keel. --Vanessa Bush

Publisher's Weekly Review

Mali Anderson, formerly of the NYPD, finds herself investigating a murder close to home when a longtime friend is the victim of a brutal slaying in Harlem. Mali believes that her friend Claudine has been murdered by Claudine's abusive ex-husband, James Thomas, whom Mali has always mistrusted. Despite the doubts of Mali's police detective boyfriend, Tad Honeywell, Mali's suspicion is reinforced when a second victim, also linked to James, is killed in the same manner (strangulation with piano wire). Or is a sadistic serial killer on the loose in Harlem? When Mali is sent to the hospital after someone tries to run her down, she vows to solve the case. Edwards's supporting cast, which includes Mali's jazz musician father, fleshes out the story, which is told in a mixed first- and third-person narration, in the manner of James Patterson's Alex Cross novels. Many of the scenes are set in the restaurants and nightclubs of modern-day Harlem, brought vividly to life. Weakening the tale is the sad but stereotypical background of the murderer and an easily foreseen ending. The intriguing look offered inside its unusual locale makes this mystery, third in the series (after A Toast Before Dying), worth reading despite its predictability. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved



I rested my arms on the window and glanced out at a late afternoon sky that resembled rusted steel. Threatening clouds had been hanging low for three days now and so far the weatherman had not earned his keep. The Saturday crowd moving along 125th Street probably had as little faith in the forecast as I and went about business as usual, ignoring the heat and the haze. I sneaked another glance at my watch and wondered how long Elizabeth was going to wait. It was nearly 6:30. "Claudine should've been here by now," I said, trying but failing to hide my impatience. "As long as we've known her, she's always been late, but this is something special." I was annoyed because we three had arranged a week ago to go out to dinner to celebrate her impending liberation. I knew James Thomas, her soon-to-be ex, and I had detested him from the day we confronted each other three years ago at their wedding reception. Now I pictured his smooth face and silky soft voice and felt a fleeting panic, imagining that he might have talked Claudine into changing her mind about the divorce, that he would get a job again, stop drinking, stop blaming and beating her for what he imagined the world was doing to him. I turned from the window and faced into the office to watch Elizabeth lean back in her chair, an old swivel model of glossy dark walnut and vintage leather upholstery. The chair had belonged to her father when he'd had his own law practice uptown over the old Smalls Paradise next door to the Poro School of Beauty Culture. That was years ago. Elizabeth's office was smaller, and probably a lot more expensive. Space on 125th Street near the Apollo didn't come cheap. The coil beneath the chair squeaked as she leaned forward. She pushed her cascade of brown dreadlocks away from her face and folded her arms on the desk. "Calm down, Mali. I don't know if you're annoyed because Claudine's late or because of the advice I just offered you. We can discuss this another time if you'd like. I only want you to understand that if you have to attend another hearing, you may very well lose the case. There's a new police commissioner on the job; the city claims it's trying to save money, and the cop--the principal in your lawsuit--is now dead. The department's offering you reinstatement and a possible promotion for helping break that drug ring." I listened and allowed her voice to trail into a familiar silence before I answered. As an attorney, Elizabeth Jackson had a very good reputation and a practice lucrative enough to afford a four-story brownstone near Marcus Garvey Park. My dad knew her father and she and I had gone to school together. She went into law and I opted for social work--except I'd taken a short detour into the NYPD and gotten fired for punching out a racist cop. When I answered, it was the same reply she'd heard since taking the case. "Possible promotion? Possible? Sounds like a word game to me. That's not the best they can do and they know it. I'm not backing down and I'm not compromising. You know as well as I that I have no intention of rejoining the department." I watched her shrug. "I can understand that. Why you joined in the first place will always be a mystery to me." She caught my stare and quickly said, "Okay, I'm just letting you know what the situation is; what you stand to lose." "I'll take the chance," I said, and turned to look out of the window again. I'd planned to enter the social work doctoral program at NYU. To hell with rejoining NYPD. Just show me Mr. Benjamin Franklin and all of his brothers. They'll help with my tuition. I gazed at the Apollo's marquee, which hung like a dark outcropping over the crowd moving below. The theater was once known as Hurtig and Seaman's Music Hall, a vaudeville house catering to white audiences. It reopened in 1934 as a showcase for black entertainment, and the new owners renamed it the Apollo. Benny Carter's band played the opening, Ralph Cooper was the M.C., and there were sixteen dancers called the Hot Steppers. My father, a self-named Harlem historian as well as a jazz musician, tells me this stuff. He remembers a lot and spends his free time entertaining me with information he says I should have if I'm to be an authentic Harlemite. I thought I was authentic enough, having been born thirty-two years ago in Harlem Hospital and raised on Strivers' Row. In addition to the big bands that played the Apollo, Dad also loved the comedy of Moms Mabley, Pigmeat ("Here Comes the Judge") Markham, and early Redd Foxx, who later sanitized his act for TV. Ella Fitzgerald got her start here, winning the Amateur Hour with "A-Tisket, A-Tasket," a song someone advised her not to sing because "it didn't have enough rhythm for black folks." I turned away from the marquee and stared down the street, looking for Claudine in the crowd. The thoroughfare was clogged with the end-of-day confusion of buses and cars. I did not spot her familiar face and I glanced at my watch again. Nearly seven o'clock. Two hours overdue. Elizabeth had left three messages on Claudine's machine. "When did you last speak to her?" I asked. "Few days ago. To confirm dinner." "I think we should head on up to her place," I sighed. "See what's going on." Excerpted from No Time to Die by Grace F. Edwards All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.