Book review: Katarina Bivald’s Just Another Dead Author.
Thank you to Poisoned Pen Press and NetGalley for my gifted ARC.
This book was an absolute delight to sink into—layered, witty, and sharper than it first lets on. Katarina Bivald delivers a clever, bookish murder mystery set in the lush French countryside, where egos are outsized, secrets are well kept, and even the writers have murder on the brain. We’re reunited with Swedish mystery author Berit Gardner, first introduced in The Murders in Great Diddling, and while this sequel stands perfectly well on its own, having a bit of context makes her character even more enjoyable.
Berit arrives in Lyon expecting twelve peaceful days of mentoring aspiring writers and basking in the charm of a literary retreat. Instead, she finds herself giving a lecture at the exact moment a famously arrogant author, John Wright, drops dead in the front row. The retreat carries on, as these things always do in fiction, but the air shifts. Someone there is a killer—and Berit can’t help but investigate, despite the not-so-gentle warnings from Commissaire Roche, who’s less than thrilled to have a nosy novelist on her heels.
The first half of the book leans heavily into atmosphere and setup. It’s a slow burn that spends time introducing us to a large ensemble cast: other authors, agents, publishers, bookstore owners, and one very persistent young journalist. This could have bogged down the story, but Bivald’s sly humor and keen eye for character detail kept me engaged. Still, I won’t lie—it’s a lot to track. If you’re looking for a fast-paced, high-stakes thriller, this might feel too leisurely. But if you love a mystery that rewards close reading and subtle clues, this one delivers.
The plot structure includes brief but effective interludes from the killer’s perspective. These are never cheesy or over-the-top—they’re restrained, a bit clinical, and carefully worded to tease without spoiling. It added a creeping tension that picked up speed in the second half, especially as Berit begins to close in. I also appreciated how realistic the investigation felt—there were no outlandish plot twists, just human motives: jealousy, professional insecurity, wounded pride.
What Bivald does brilliantly is play with the literary world itself. This isn’t just a murder mystery set at a writers’ retreat—it’s also a story about writers and how they observe, embellish, and sometimes hide behind their stories. There’s a gently satirical edge here, but it’s never mean-spirited. One of the strongest themes is the role of observation—how writers see everything and say very little until they’re ready. As Berit puts it: “Being a writer means listening to people even when they’re not talking.” That line is the heartbeat of this story.
Berit herself is an outstanding protagonist—mature, steady, wry, and deeply observant. She doesn’t play the role of brilliant detective as much as someone who pays attention when others don’t. Her relationship with Commissaire Roche evolves nicely over the course of the book, from irritation to mutual respect. It’s refreshing to see two women—one a cop, one a civilian—collaborate not because the plot demands it, but because they both want justice.
The side characters are a lively and sometimes ridiculous bunch. There’s Mildred, the aging British writer who may or may not actually write anything. There’s the insecure romance novelist clinging to relevance. And then there’s the aggressive young journalist determined to scoop the mystery before Berit can solve it. Each character feels distinct and plausible in their flaws. Some are more memorable than others, but together, they make up the perfectly dysfunctional mix of personalities you’d expect at a retreat where success and failure sit uncomfortably close together.
I do wish the middle had been trimmed slightly—it gets a bit talky and repetitive as we bounce between interviews, alibis, and speculative theories. But the final third makes up for it. The unraveling of the mystery is smart, logical, and satisfying. The ending doesn’t rely on shock—it earns its resolution through slow, thoughtful buildup. The clues were there all along; I just didn’t see them clearly until Berit did.
Overall, Just Another Dead Author is a cozy, literate, and deeply enjoyable mystery that knows exactly what it is. It’s funny without being silly, clever without being smug, and thoughtful without dragging. If you’ve ever wanted to attend a writer’s retreat with a murder thrown in, this is the book for you. If you’ve ever dreamed of writing your own mystery novel, it might even make you pick up the pen.