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Table of Contents
About The Book
Agatha Christie meets Nordic noir in this “brilliant debut” (Louise Penny, #1 New York Times bestselling author) about diplomats stranded on a windswept Icelandic island with a murderer in their midst.
A remote Icelandic island. A diplomatic dinner party. A murderer in their midst.
When Kavita Banerjee, the deputy ambassador of Canada, dies suddenly at a dinner party attended by the great and the good from Icelandic business and politics, suspicion falls on everyone present, but particularly on the victim’s boss, Graeme Shearer, the Canadian ambassador.
Jane Shearer, Graeme’s long-suffering wife, is accustomed to cleaning up his messes. But now, saving her husband’s career—and her crumbling marriage—requires her to investigate her fellow dinner guests. Uncovering corruption and murder is a dangerous job, but Jane knows better than most what desperate people will do to protect their secrets.
A remote Icelandic island. A diplomatic dinner party. A murderer in their midst.
When Kavita Banerjee, the deputy ambassador of Canada, dies suddenly at a dinner party attended by the great and the good from Icelandic business and politics, suspicion falls on everyone present, but particularly on the victim’s boss, Graeme Shearer, the Canadian ambassador.
Jane Shearer, Graeme’s long-suffering wife, is accustomed to cleaning up his messes. But now, saving her husband’s career—and her crumbling marriage—requires her to investigate her fellow dinner guests. Uncovering corruption and murder is a dangerous job, but Jane knows better than most what desperate people will do to protect their secrets.
Excerpt
Prologue PROLOGUE
Kristján’s world went dark on a sunny Wednesday.
But before that, there was light. Common snipes were calling cheerfully to each other, their long beaks popping in and out of damp grasses in search of a fat worm. Children squealed in delight as they chased each other around a playground. Tourists in hiking boots ambled along the community’s sidewalks, gazing into store windows. At the entrance to the folklore museum and town archive, the summer breeze swirled ocher leaves on the ground. Kristján crunched his way through them.
Once inside, he hurried down the building’s main hall, past the sepia photos of early twentieth-century fishermen, faces worn and serious, aprons stained with fish entrails and blood.
He came across it at the end of the hall. The body was on the hard stone floor, arms splayed to the side. The dead man was wearing expensive fitted jeans, brown leather oxfords, a tailored pale-pink shirt, now partially untucked, a white undershirt peeking out near the undone top button. The dead man’s cell phone was a few feet away from him, its screen cracked. The head of hair was still as impressive as it had been in life—plentiful, wavy, salt-and-pepper—except for a patch above the right ear, matted with congealing blood.
The still face was remarkably smooth for someone of middle age. That single, perfect cleft on the chin, the light stubble. But now, his eyes were glassy, his blue lips parted, as if his soul had left his body via the softest exhale. Still, whatever had immediately preceded death had not come painlessly.
Kristján looked down at the corpse on the floor. He dropped to his knees. He laid his head on the familiar torso, picked up the cool and stiffening hand and held it in his, stroking the palm with his thumb. Was he allowed to do this? Touch a body? Caress it? He didn’t care. He would stay this way until someone told him he couldn’t.
A chasm opened in his heart, like the volcanic rifts that had devastated this tiny community half a century ago, spouting ash and fire from the earth’s belly. And like that real fissure, the one within him would cause untold damage. There was no coming back now, no words of sorrow or regret or forgiveness or love that could change anything. There was only shock, and that brief, final text sent only half an hour ago.
Komdu. Come.
Kristján’s world went dark on a sunny Wednesday.
But before that, there was light. Common snipes were calling cheerfully to each other, their long beaks popping in and out of damp grasses in search of a fat worm. Children squealed in delight as they chased each other around a playground. Tourists in hiking boots ambled along the community’s sidewalks, gazing into store windows. At the entrance to the folklore museum and town archive, the summer breeze swirled ocher leaves on the ground. Kristján crunched his way through them.
Once inside, he hurried down the building’s main hall, past the sepia photos of early twentieth-century fishermen, faces worn and serious, aprons stained with fish entrails and blood.
He came across it at the end of the hall. The body was on the hard stone floor, arms splayed to the side. The dead man was wearing expensive fitted jeans, brown leather oxfords, a tailored pale-pink shirt, now partially untucked, a white undershirt peeking out near the undone top button. The dead man’s cell phone was a few feet away from him, its screen cracked. The head of hair was still as impressive as it had been in life—plentiful, wavy, salt-and-pepper—except for a patch above the right ear, matted with congealing blood.
The still face was remarkably smooth for someone of middle age. That single, perfect cleft on the chin, the light stubble. But now, his eyes were glassy, his blue lips parted, as if his soul had left his body via the softest exhale. Still, whatever had immediately preceded death had not come painlessly.
Kristján looked down at the corpse on the floor. He dropped to his knees. He laid his head on the familiar torso, picked up the cool and stiffening hand and held it in his, stroking the palm with his thumb. Was he allowed to do this? Touch a body? Caress it? He didn’t care. He would stay this way until someone told him he couldn’t.
A chasm opened in his heart, like the volcanic rifts that had devastated this tiny community half a century ago, spouting ash and fire from the earth’s belly. And like that real fissure, the one within him would cause untold damage. There was no coming back now, no words of sorrow or regret or forgiveness or love that could change anything. There was only shock, and that brief, final text sent only half an hour ago.
Komdu. Come.
About The Author
© Saga Sig
Eliza Reid is a bestselling writer, public speaker, gender equality advocate, and cofounder of the acclaimed Iceland Writers Retreat. She was born and raised in Canada but has lived in Iceland for over twenty years. Her first book, Secrets of the Sprakkar: Iceland’s Extraordinary Women and How They Are Changing the World, was an instant bestseller in Canada and Iceland, and a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice. Her debut mystery, Death on the Island, was an instant national bestseller in Canada, Iceland, and the United States, is the first of a series, and has been optioned for television. From 2016 to 2024, Eliza served in the unofficial role of First Lady while her husband was President of Iceland. She lives in the outskirts of Reykjavík with her husband and four children.
Product Details
- Publisher: Simon & Schuster (April 29, 2025)
- Length: 336 pages
- ISBN13: 9781668032572
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Raves and Reviews
“. . . a true treat from the first page to the last.”
— The Globe & Mail
“Death on the Island is a humdinger of a debut novel. So many people could be guilty for so many reasons, so many big fish in a little pond are hiding secrets of nastiness that may not necessarily include murder, so much deviousness.”
— The Winnipeg Free Press
“Eliza Reid has drawn on her experience as Iceland’s former First Lady to craft a classic murder mystery set on the windswept Westman Islands. The ensemble cast is filled with quirky, complex, and believable characters who are all dealing with their own baggage, along with a dead body or two. And the island itself is a mesmerizing setting made even more sinister by the lashing storm. Whether you have the self-control to savour this tale, or you read it in one desperate binge, as I did, Death on the Island is the debut everyone will be talking about.”
— TERRY FALLIS, two-time winner of the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour
“Eliza Reid’s take on a locked room mystery is an island off the coast of Iceland during a perfect storm - for the perfect murder. Among the suspects are an ambitious chef, an award-winning writer, an Ambassador and a captain of industry. Skullduggery in high places! A most enthralling, entertaining, and intriguing mystery.”
— LIZ NUGENT, internationally bestselling author of Strange Sally Diamond
“A classic murder mystery set against a brooding landscape. Full of twists and turns that will keep you guessing right to the very last page.”
— WILL FERGUSON, Scotiabank Giller Prize-winning author of 419
“With its twisty Golden Age plot and a fascinating Nordic Noir setting, this novel is perfect for lovers of each.”
— ANN CLEEVES, New York Times bestselling author
“An addictive and edgy murder mystery with wonderfully quirky characters and razor-sharp dialogue. You’ll turn the pages faster than you ever thought possible.”
— JANN ARDEN, bestselling author of The Bittlemores
“I loved this book. Eliza Reid is so assured in her plot and characters that it’s hard to believe this is her first novel. Death on the Island is compulsive and propulsive reading. Not only wonderfully evocative of a little-known area of Iceland, it is also surprising, with twists even a seasoned crime reader won’t see coming. A brilliant debut, that promises more to come.”
— LOUISE PENNY, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Grey Wolf
“An intriguing mystery, an exotic setting, and a Christie vibe—what’s not to love?”
— SHARI LAPENA, #1 Globe & Mail bestselling author of What Have You Done
“The mystery, cunningly structured as a series of tick-tock countdowns, pays homage to locked-room classics while blazing a path that’s defiantly modern. This is a fresh, transporting, emotionally involving suspense debut, that rare crime novel you’ll want to discuss with friends.”
— A. J. FINN, #1 New York Times bestselling author of End of Story
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