Mrs. Mohr goes missing

Set in 1893 Cracow, this exceptional debut and series launch from Polish author Szymiczkowa (the pen name of writing duo Jacek Dehnel and Piotr Tarczynski) introduces Zofia Turbotynska, a 38-year-old professor's wife, who finds household management, novel reading, and the search for social prestige insufficient outlets for her prodigious energy. At a nursing home run by nuns that she visits to promote a charitable cause, she becomes involved in the search for a missing resident, Antonina Mohr, a judge's widow. Zofia questions the home's staff and residents, hiding her unofficial investigation from both the mother superior and her husband. After Mohr's suspiciously pink-hued corpse is found in an attic, Zofia pressures the resident doctor until an autopsy reveals cyanide poisoning. The strangling of one of the home's impoverished residents complicates the puzzle. The preface offers helpful context on place and period, while the translation showcases the novel's deliciously ironic voice. Fans who like colorful locales and tongue-in-cheek mysteries will eagerly await Zofia's next outing. (Mar.)

An affluent 19th-century wife and aspiring sleuth perseveres in the face of police skepticism to probe a series of suspicious deaths in Cracow.A provocative prologue introduces an anonymous killer sneaking away after examining a frail corpse. The year is 1893, and restless Zofia Turbotyska struggles, because of her provincial roots, to be accepted in Cracow high society. Keeping an efficient household for her husband, esteemed medical professor Ignacy Turbotyski doesn't satisfy her. So she undertakes various projects to occupy her time and prove her worth. When her cook, Franciszka, asks for time off to visit her grandmother at Helcel House, Zofia decides to solicit the residents for donations to a charity raffle she's organizing for the benefit of scrofulous children. The benevolent nuns who run the house are receptive. On her initial visit, Zofia notices a bit of a stir over Mrs. Mohr, a resident who's gone missing. Her reading of Poe surely has an effect on her, for when she visits Helcel House again, Zofia takes the initiative to question the staff about the still-missing resident. Strangely invigorated, she undertakes a search of the premises and discovers Mrs. Mohr's body hidden under a blanket in the attic. The consensus is a fatal fall while wandering. Zofia is not so sure. When another Helcel resident is found murdered, Zofia alone links the two deaths and doggedly proceeds to investigate. In a nod to Victorian convention, Szymiczkowa (the pseudonym of partners Jacek Dehnel and Piotr Tarczyski) begins each chapter with a wry summary of what's to come.A delightful debut whodunit written with abundant wit and flair. Pray for a series to follow. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

In which we meet the household at an apartment on St. John's Street, learn how Vienna is taking its revenge on Cracow, what one can do with seven stallions, and how to cure many a case of cholera; we also hear about the great value of certain books, the equally great rapacity of the ladies from a certain society, and the tragic accident that befell the Hungarian envoy all because of a bottle of slivovitz. It was Saturday, 14 October 1893. All morning a large cloud, dark gray with streaks of sapphire blue, had been hanging above number 30 St. John's Street in Cracow--​known as "Peacock House" because of the fine sculpted bird above the main entrance​--​threatening rain. "Come along, Franciszka," said Zofia Turbotyńska gloomily, fearing the worst​--​by which she meant having to pay twenty cents for the ride home in a cab. "The shopping won't do itself." And then, ignoring the cook's aphoristic answer ("On Saint Jerome's, either it rains or it don't"​--​though in fact this particular sacred figure had been commemorated a fortnight ago), she went into the hallway, did up two rows of small black buttons on her boots, pulled on her cherry-red kid leather gloves, donned a new hat bought at Marya Prauss's fashion emporium, and examined herself in the mirror. Zofia, née Glodt, wife of Professor Ignacy Turbotyński of the medical faculty at Cracow's Jagiellonian University, was approaching her fortieth summer, but she noted with approval that she was really quite comely. Perhaps over the past year she had gained a minimal amount of weight, but she carried herself erect and still had an alluring figure. A healthy complexion with no pimples and very few wrinkles​--​just one was more distinct, on her forehead, between the brows, perhaps too often knitted. An oval face, the features rather stern, but softened by nicely defined eyebrows and keen eyes with dark lashes . . . a slightly hooked nose . . . and lips​--​well, the lips could have been fuller, but she consoled herself that her thin lips gave her the look of a refined Englishwoman. She reached for an umbrella from the porcelain stand, which was bristling with her husband's walking sticks. Briefly her fingers fluttered over the handles​--​a silver parrot's head with topaz eyes, a rolled-up elephant's trunk, an ivory knob (donated a couple of years ago by his grateful students), and a small, glossy skull (a souvenir of his last year at medical school)​--​and finally extracted a Chinese dragon chasing a pearl: a present, as Zofia liked to mention, from her sister, who lived in Vienna. Just one more backward glance into the mirror​--​playful enough for her to find herself pleasing, and stern enough for Franciszka not to dare counter it with a smirk​--​and they were ready for the march to Szczepański Square. They went the usual way: down St. John's Street, then St. Thomas's, with an occasional reluctant glance at that cloud, which was gathering, swelling, and seething over the Piasek district. "It's sure to be pouring in the outskirts by now," said Franciszka, seemingly into space, though with patent reproof. But she knew that in the life of Zofia Turbotyńska there were sanctities greater than the elevation of the host, including a proper Sunday luncheon, and thus an equally proper Saturday shopping expedition. By now they had reached the end of St. Thomas's Street, and so Franciszka, who was walking slightly behind with a basket over her arm, knew what would happen next: as soon as they came level with the Alchemist's house, the bow on Zofia's hat suddenly twitched and turned to the right, followed by the rest of the hat and her head. The time had come for a groan, for this was where "that crime" came into view, "that hideous shack, worthy of a station halt in a garrison town"​--​in other words the enormous bulk of the covered emergency staircase, tacked onto the City Theater a couple of years ago after the fire at the Ringtheater in Vienna. "I realize that almost four hundred people burned to death there," Zofia would say, "but is that a reason for Vienna to take revenge on Cracow with this monstrosity? Fortunately we'll have our new theater in a matter of days!" And so there was the ritual groan, and then the bow moved back into place. Now they had to move on to serious matters. Excerpted from Mrs. Mohr Goes Missing by Maryla Szymiczkowa 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.