Sleep well, my lady /

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

In the follow-up to the acclaimed series debut The Missing American , PI Emma Djan investigates the death of a Ghanaian fashion icon and social media celebrity, Lady Araba.

Hard-hitting talk show host Augustus Seeza has become a household name in Ghana, though notorious for his lavish overspending, alcoholism, and womanizing. He's dating the imposing, beautiful Lady Araba, who leads a selfmade fashion empire. Fearing Augustus is only after her money, Araba's religious family intervenes to break them up. A few days later, just before a major runway show, Araba is found murdered in her bed. Her driver is arrested after a hasty investigation, but Araba's favorite aunt, Dele, suspects Augustus Seeza was the real killer.

Almost a year later, Dele approaches Emma Djan, who has finally started to settle in as the only female PI at her agency. To solve Lady Araba's murder, Emma must not only go on an undercover mission that dredges up trauma from her past, but navigate a long list of suspects with strong motives. Emma quickly discovers that they are all willing to lie for each other--and that one may still be willing to kill.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

ONE The day of the murder In the lavish Trasacco Valley, the Beverly Hills of Accra, no one would have anticipated a murder. The sprawling gated community was landscaped with neat hedgerows and palm trees lining its streets. Pink, yellow, and red hibiscus bushes dotted impossibly green lawns. Red and yellow bougainvillea spilled over the walls and fences. Completed about a decade before, the Valley couldn't possibly fit any more buildings. However, east of it along the N1 Highway stretched acres of virgin land where the Trasacco Company had begun constructing several new gated complexes on what would be called Trasacco Hills. The entrance to the Valley was a ten-foot-high wrought-iron gate with a sentry box where the security guards kept track of who went in and out. Peter, the veteran lead security guard, knew every resident by name and face, but all visitors needed to state their identity and destination, and their license plate number might be noted as well. Peter, forty-five, was older than his peers, some of whom were in their twenties. True, he was a tad overweight and could probably not outrun a fit young intruder, but the Valley's five-year security record was impeccable, with not a single instance of robbery, burglary, or carjacking. Peter was proud of that. Change of shift was between 6:30 and 7 a.m., giving Peter another fifteen minutes or so before he went home to his wife and kids. Another early bird in Trasacco Valley was Ismael, the head groundskeeper. With a small number of assistants, he kept hedges trimmed, grass mowed, and weeds cleared. Unlike Peter, he was wiry in build, but like the security man, he was friendly and smiled easily. He had a way with greenery. The elegance of the grounds was, for the most part, due to him. Today, he was to put in Blood of Jesus plants--eye-catching with their deep purple leaves and crimson veins that looked like streaks and splatters of blood--in select areas of the complex. But before he did that, he had promised Lady Araba Tagoe, who loved decorating her palatial space with flowers and trees, that he would bring her a pair of planters for the upper terrace outside her bedroom. It was a Monday--a fresh start to the week. Ismael went to the garden shed that stood at the end of Ruby Row next to a motion-sensor exit. From the shed, Ismael removed two large terra-cotta planters and carried them one in each hand to 401 Ruby Row. For additional security, each mansion in the Valley had a remote-operated wrought-iron gate at the driveway entrance. Among the several different house types and colors, Lady Araba's was called "The Duke," painted orange chiffon with a red tile roof trimmed in white. A high-ceilinged portico formed the Duke's front entrance. As Ismael approached, Lady Araba's chauffeur, Kweku-Sam, was washing her Range Rover, which he did every morning before he took the boss out. Any driver worth his salt kept his employer's vehicles shiny and spotless--barely possible in Accra's dusty environment. Araba's second car was an Audi, but she preferred the Rover for its high profile and smoothness over rough roads. "Morning, Kweku!" Ismael called out. Kweku-Sam looked up from his work and smiled. "Morning. How be?" "I dey, oo! Wassup?" They slipped seamlessly into Twi instead of English. Ismael was from arid Northern Ghana, while Kweku-Sam was Akan, but Twi was their lingua franca. "Where is the house girl?" Ismael asked. "Usually she's sweeping the yard by now." "She traveled to her hometown for a funeral. Where are you taking those flowerpots?" "To the terrace," Ismael responded. "Madam asked me to get them for her." He worked part-time at a plant shop in town. "Okay," Kweku said, glancing at his watch. "She will be down in about thirty minutes. Today is a big day for her--the fashion show." "Ah, fine." Ismael knew next to nothing about that kind of thing. It was a different world. The lives of Trasacco's residents were far removed from his own. Ismael took a left across the green lawn with sprawling hibiscus, past the projecting bay window of the living room and the kitchen, then a right at the staff quarters to the rear of the house. On the second floor, Lady Araba's master bedroom occupied the west wing and opened directly onto a terrace via a framed glass door. Ismael already had a ladder leaning against the wall from the day before when he had been up on the terrace. It was tricky climbing up with a heavy planter in one hand, but he was accustomed to awkward maneuvers. At the top of the ladder, he reached over the decorative terrace wall and set down the first planter gingerly. He returned to the ground and did the same for the second planter before skipping over the wall into the terrace. Ismael loved it here. The shaded pergola, which Lady Araba had designed herself, was surrounded by explosions of color. Hanging ferns, blue plumbago, red ixora, yellow galphimia, and pink desert rose flourished. There wasn't any other homeowner in Trasacco who could boast of such plant glory. Ismael moved the planters to either side of the pergola. Lady Araba liked symmetry and matching pairs. As Ismael went past, he looked toward the glass door and felt his stomach plunge. He scrambled down the ladder, jumping the last four rungs to the ground. He ran around to the front of the house, shouting, "Kweku! Kweku! " Kweku-Sam looked up from polishing off the Rover with a chamois. "What's wrong?" "It's Madam," Ismael said, breathing hard. "Something bad has happened. Do you have a key to the house?" Kweku-Sam shook his head. "No. But what has happened?" "She's lying in her bed," Ismael said, "and there's blood. Take the car and bring Peter here. Quick! " The Rover's tires squealed as Kweku-Sam gunned the engine. Inside the security booth, Peter had finished entering his summary of the night's activities into the logbook and was giving the morning report to the two security guards taking over duty. There wasn't much to report, as the shift had been quiet. He looked up as Lady Araba's Rover came toward them at top speed. Kweku-Sam jumped out. "Peter, come! Ismael says something bad has happened to Lady Araba." Peter frowned. "What is it?" "I don't know. You just come, my brodda." Peter dropped everything and got into the Rover. Kweku-Sam made a rubber-burning U-turn, and they took off back to 401, where they skidded into the driveway. Ismael was nowhere to be seen. Peter followed Kweku-Sam at a full run to the rear of the house. "Ismael!" Kweku-Sam called out. "I'm up here!" Ismael's head appeared over the terrace wall. " Chaley , what's going on?" Peter asked. "I think she's dead," Ismael said, voice shaking. "What?" "Do you have a key to get inside?" Ismael asked Peter. "No, no, I don't." Peter started up the ladder. Kweku-Sam followed. "Then I have to break the glass door," Ismael said, grabbing a metal patio chair from the pergola. By the time the other two men reached the terrace, Ismael was attacking the door with the legs of the chair. It splintered open on his second attempt, and he reached inside and pulled down the door handle. The other two men were right behind Ismael as he pushed the door open. " Awurade ," he said. "Oh, Jesus." Shades of white and cream were the color scheme of the room. The copious scarlet of the spattered blood on the carpet and bed was a jarring contrast. A bloody duvet covered Lady Araba's body up to her neck. She was lying on her back and might have simply been asleep, save that her face was bloated and gray. Her eyes, now milky white, were still open. So was her mouth. The pillow on which her head rested had a wide halo of dried blood. Peter and Ismael stood staring, frozen. They heard a loud wailing sound and turned to see Kweku-Sam weeping as he rushed inside. Calling out his boss's name, he lurched toward the bed, but Peter grabbed him and held him back. "Kweku," he said quietly, then more emphatically, "Kweku, there's nothing you can do. Madam is dead." Excerpted from Sleep Well, My Lady by Kwei Quartey 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.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Quartey's second book in the "Emma Djan Investigations" series (after The Missing American) opens in an upscale enclave in Accra, Ghana. The gardener of up-and-coming fashion designer Lady Araba finds her murdered. The investigation into her death is quickly botched by inadequate forensics and, more significantly, political maneuvering. Shortly before her demise, Lady Araba was linked romantically to the alcoholic talk-show host Augustus Seeza, the only son of a powerful judge, Julius Seeza. When the official investigation falters, Lady Araba's Aunt Dele brings the case to Emma Djan's firm, and she and her colleagues take on the case. They probe Lady Araba's past and dig up some significant dirt about her family and the abuse she endured as a child from her father, an Anglican priest. Emma must sift through the facts to find out the truth about Lady Araba's death. VERDICT This engaging and well-developed mystery will appeal to readers looking for a solid police procedural with compelling characters and an international setting. The local culture is vivid, and a glossary at the end aids readers with unfamiliar words.--Kristen Stewart, Pearland Lib., Brazoria Cty. Lib. Syst., TX

Publishers Weekly Review

In Quartey's terrific sequel to 2020's The Missing American, PI Emma Djan takes on a nearly year-old cold case--the murder of high-profile fashion icon Lady Araba in the bedroom of her lush mansion in a gated community known as the Beverly Hills of Accra, Ghana. Lady Araba's aunt doesn't believe her niece's chauffeur, who was convicted for the killing, is guilty. Emma and her colleagues at the Yemo Sowah Agency assume various undercover identities--as housekeeper, cop, construction worker, professor, journalist, interested house buyer--in an effort to narrow the long list of possible culprits, including family members, several lovers, and an alcoholic TV talk show host. Stops at the morgue and a forensic lab, as well as an ongoing search for a unique murder weapon, contribute to the dark atmosphere. Along the way, Quartey skewers Ghanaian politics, religion, and the law. Smooth prose complements the well-wrought plot. This distinctive detective series deserves a long run. Agent: Marly Rusoff, Marly Rusoff & Assoc. (Jan.)

Booklist Review

This second Emma Djan novel, following the acclaimed series debut (The Missing American, 2020), finds the Ghanaian PI on the job when fashion icon and social-media celebrity Lady Araba is murdered in her lavish home. Emma's agency is approached by Araba's Aunt Dele, who claims her niece's relationship with TV talk show host Augustus Seeza was turbulent and that he was with her the night she died. It turns out that there are several people with strong motives, including Araba's own father, a noted preacher, who sexually abused her as a child. Emma goes undercover to unmask the real killer and free Araba's driver, who was falsely accused of the crime and has been languishing in jail. The story is brilliantly executed by moving forward and back in time, although Emma's fans might wish she had a bigger role. Quartey, also the author of the Darko Dawson series, is one of the strong voices in the current wave of African crime fiction, which provides relevant insight into a continent anxious to maintain its unique identity yet thrive in the twenty-first-century world.

Kirkus Book Review

Emma Djan, the cop-turned--private eye who waded through every swamp of corruption in Ghana in her debut, The Missing American (2020), investigates a second case that's much more intimate. The law may believe that fashion mogul Lady Araba Tagoe was murdered by her chauffeur, Kweku-Sam, but her aunt, Dele Tetteyfio, isn't having any of it. Convinced that the Ghana Police Service has beaten a confession out of Kweku-Sam just so that they won't have to figure out how the real killer could have penetrated Araba's exclusive gated community without raising any hackles, she wants Yemo Sowah's agency to look into the case--assuming of course that she can get a 10% discount--preferably by finding evidence against Araba's sometime lover, Augustus Seeza. Augustus is almost too obvious a suspect, a TV news producer and interviewer coddled by his parents, High Court justice Julius Seeza and his wife, and separated from heiress Bertha Longdon, the spouse who's had it up to here with his drinking, his affairs, and his constant promises to turn over a new leaf. And it certainly looks suspicious that the forensic evidence Sgt. Isaac Boateng collected at the murder scene was never processed by the police lab and Boateng himself was reassigned from Homicide to Domestic Violence. But the case turns out to be more complex than Auntie Dele imagines, and there's no guarantee that she'll be pleased with the results Emma and her colleagues dig up by assuming false identities and going undercover at every waking moment. A gripping setup, some workaday sleuthing, and a neatly turned solution. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Author notes provided by Syndetics

Kwei Quartey is a crime fiction writer and physician. He practiced medicine for more than 20 years while working as a writer. Dr. Quartey balances the two professions by dedicating the early morning hours to writing before beginning a day in his clinic.

Dr. Quartey attended medical school at Howard University in Washington, D.C. In 1990, he began practicing medicine in California with HealthCare Partners. Dr. Quartey later founded the facility's wound care center while working as an urgent care physician.

As a crime fiction writer, Kwei Quartey made the Los Angeles Times Bestseller List in 2009. Having published 2 books in An Inspector Darko Dawson Mystery Series, Wife of the Gods and Children of the Street, the release of a third novel in the series, Murder at Cape Three Points, is scheduled in March 2014. Death at the Voyager Hotel, a mystery e-novella not belonging to the series, was published July 2013.

(Bowker Author Biography)