This reader has collected a few rituals over the years, shaping how they approach new books and bright ideas. A habit of not skipping the latest Almodóvar film, listening to the freshest album from Alaska, sharing the experience with whoever is nearby, and turning to the newest lines from authors like Marías or Vila-Matas shapes how they approach every page. In Elia Barceló’s Death in Santa Rita, those listening ears and curious eyes come together. The novel’s grip is lasting; it invites long reading sessions and leaves a sense of contentment, a small happiness that lingers after closing the cover.
Death in Santa Rita unfolds across eighteen chapters, arranged into sequences that center on different characters and themes. The structure remains mostly linear, punctuated by a couple of brief flashbacks and an afterword that adds a few additional texts and letters in first person. The book was published by Roca in 2022 and features a substantial cast near Santa Rita, a place with its own peculiar rhythm and history that lends itself to close scrutiny, including references to gynecological health in some of the plots. The experience is less about the crime itself and more about the atmosphere it creates and the lives that intersect within that space.
What the author achieves is a thoughtful homage to classic mystery storytelling. A house with a wary distance, a handful of residents, and at least one murder form the skeleton of the plot, and the suspense is carefully dosed across the pages. Yet the heart of the book lies with the characters, especially Sofía, the architect of the home and the feudal spirit that underpins its life. Sofía anchors the setting with a quiet authority, and her presence gives the novel a steady center amid the unfolding secrets and tensions in a sunlit Mediterranean landscape that seems to determine the characters’ motivations as much as any external event.
Set in spring 2017, the narrative centers on Huerto de Santa Rita, a locale near Benalafar and close to Elche and Alicante. The Mediterranean is present in more than geography here; it is a living force that informs mood and pace. The text makes the landscape tangible through sensory detail—the flora and blossoms, the scent of air, and especially the light that bathes the estate. The episode subtitles, such as The Bougainvillea Rumor and Silhouette of Palm Trees, underscore how setting matters as much as plot. Daily life leaks into the narrative through the kitchen’s rhythms: a variety of regional dishes and everyday cooking become part of the texture that holds the story together.
Yes, there is a crime, and the narrative advances with a measured rhythm of mystery and plausible suspicion aimed at multiple characters, each carrying their own histories of joy and regret. The book invites readers to consider who benefits from silence, who carries the weight of past wounds, and who might be hiding an inconvenient truth behind a cultivated smile. The tension arises not only from what is on the page but from the way the characters reveal themselves through small, telling actions and conversations that accumulate meaning as the story progresses.
There is also a distinctive taste for eccentricity, luxury, and a touch of snobbery that colors Sofía’s world and history. The text engages critically with men’s behavior and examines questions of identity and autonomy through its cast. It moves through social reflections about gender, writing, and the act of storytelling itself, offering meta-literary moments that invite readers to think about how authority is built in fiction. It is revealed that Sofía writes under two pen names, a nod to dual identities within the literary world, and the interplay between these names suggests a broader meditation on how narratives can shift with perspective. The interplay between the two personas adds a layer of texture to the story, akin to listening to a duet where both voices contribute to the overall chord of meaning.
And why should one read this novel? Because it demonstrates how challenging it can be to write with ease while still offering social insight. The tale balances a straightforward, human, sometimes snobbish realism with a streak of mystery that keeps readers engaged. It presents a cast of beings who long to live peacefully in Santa Rita and who, beneath their polite surfaces, navigate personal desires and fears. The ending hints at continuity, inviting readers to anticipate further chapters where the lives introduced here may evolve and intersect in new ways. The book stands as a thoughtful meditation on place, character, and the kinds of truths that surface when a house becomes a mirror for its inhabitants.