Eliza Reid's debut novel is a murder mystery involving diplomats on an Icelandic island
Death on the Island will be released April 29, 2025
While Eliza Reid knows a thing or two about Iceland and diplomats, this is her first time trying her hand at fiction.
The Ottawa-born nonfiction writer of Secrets of the Sprakkar: Iceland's Extraordinary Women and How They Are Changing the World, has lived in Iceland for over 20 years and has served as the unofficial first lady of Iceland when her husband was in office from 2016-2024.
Her first novel, Death on the Island, is a mystery set in Vestmannaeyjar (the Westman Islands) during a diplomatic dinner party. When the deputy ambassador of Canada dies suddenly, her boss, the Canadian ambassador, is quickly thrown under suspicion, and his wife must figure out everyone's secrets to clear his name and save her crumbling marriage.
"I enjoy reading crime fiction and having lived in Iceland for over 20 years, I felt that my adopted homeland is the perfect setting for a brooding story that has its inspiration in classic mysteries," she told CBC Books in an email.
"Vestmannaeyjar (the Westman Islands) provide an ideal backdrop because and I hope the book conveys a strong sense of place."
She also partially draws on her own experiences with politics in this new novel.
"When I served in the unofficial role of first lady of Iceland, I had a lot of dealings with diplomats from all over the world and I have tremendous respect for the often unheralded, but vital, work that they do."
Reid said that readers can expect a "page-turning" mystery out of Death on the Island that will surprise them from beginning to end.
"You'll meet interesting people, most of whom have secrets to hide. You'll get a glimpse into the world of diplomacy. You'll also be transported to Vestmannaeyjar, a fascinating and beautiful region of Iceland."
Death on the Island will be out on April 29, 2025. You can read an excerpt now.
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 ochre 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, 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.
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.
Excerpted from Death on the Island by Eliza Reid. Copyright © 2025 by Eliza Reid. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster Canada, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
