When I loaded my last mystery on Amazon, a question box asked me to decide what category it fell under and to come up with tags for it. I’d just posted a blog where an author or two discussed that readers aren’t happy when you describe your book one way, but you do it wrong, and readers come to the book with certain expectations that you fail to meet.

The first description of my book was easy. Fiction. The next was easy, too. Mystery. After that, things got trickier. I just saw a newsletter from Goodreads that described the different types of mysteries and thrillers. The article listed: domestic thrillers, media mysteries, legal thrillers, crime procedurals, contemporary cozies, cold cases, psychological thrillers, new noir, and historicals. But when I searched online, I found an article with even more sub-genres: capers, suspense, soft-boiled, hardboiled, P..I., and supernatural. Other articles listed women in jeopardy and domestic mysteries, along with serial killers and British mysteries. I’m sure there are more, and some of them cross over one another. But when readers pick up a book with one of these labels, they have certain expectations. The question is, how close to the label does your book have to be?

When I buy a domestic mystery, I expect to find cooking, pets, knitting, or book clubs, etc. and I don’t want to meet a brutal serial killer. I want low-key, not the edge of my seat. On the other hand, when I buy a thriller, I don’t want to meet a cheerful owner of a bakery who tries to solve a murder as an amateur. I like cross-genre novels, but I want to know what those genres are before I choose the book. There was a time when I first started writing that I resented how publishers had to have a label before they’d publish a book, and if you fell through the cracks, you were instantly rejected. I’m glad there’s more freedom to bend the rules today, but those labels served a purpose. They helped readers find what they’re looking for out of the millions of books available.

With Jazzi and Ansel, labels are easy. I purposely write them as cozies–including George–a pug, two cats, family get-togethers, and offscreen murders. I think there’s a subtle difference between some domestic mysteries, though, and a cozy. For me, it’s more a matter of tone. That made labeling A Cut Above trickier. It has less of a cozy feel. Karnie isn’t warm and friendly like Jazzi. So I think of her book as more of a traditional mystery. When I had to choose tags for it, I struggled a while.

It has romance in it, so I listed it as a romance mystery. Karnie works in her family’s butcher shop and records podcasts on how to cook cuts of meat her Dad advertises as specials, so I thought about listing it as a culinary mystery, but I’m not sure it has the right tone, so I went with amateur sleuth and female sleuth instead.

I might fuss too much about categories and labels on books, but I think they matter. How about you? Do you think there’s a difference between a cozy and a traditional mystery? One you’d notice? Do you look at tags when you buy books?

My new mystery, A CUT ABOVE, goes on sale May 3rd. I pre-loaded it, but this week, I’m going through it one more time to tighten and tweak it for its final version. Karnie works in her family’s butcher shop. She’s worked there for years and knows all of the customers, and they know her…maybe too well. Here’s a snippet from it:

Chuck gave her a wink.  He started to whistle as he went back to the cutting room.  Why was everyone so stinking cheerful this morning?

She finished her prep and a few minutes later the first customer walked in the shop.  Bald with only a fringe of gray hair, Woodrow Datlow stalked to the counter, looked her in the eye, and smirked.  “Give me two pounds of bacon.” 

She crossed her arms, glaring at him.  “You’re not supposed to eat bacon.  What would your wife say if she was still alive?  You were only fifty-nine when you had your heart attack and stents.”

“That was over ten years ago, young lady, and I’m still here.”  He pulled himself up to his full height.  “I worked until I was seventy, so if I want some bacon, I’m buying it.” 

“Your wife wasn’t happy you didn’t retire at sixty-five.”

“Because she worried about me.  I worried about our money—our stocks and investments.  Besides, right after I retired, my wife left me.”

Karnie snorted.  “She died.  Not the same thing.  How she put up with you that long, I don’t know.”

A smile threatened, but Woodrow pushed it down.  ”I like bacon, darn it.  And pies.  And sweets.  I’m retired now.  I can enjoy life.”

“Not for long if you clog your arteries.”

“Stuff it, girl!  What else have I got to live for?  My Lizzie’s gone.”

“You have two sons who still like you and three grandkids.”

Woodrow waved that away.  “If I’m gone, they’ll get all my money.”

“If they haven’t murdered you by now, they must like you more than an inheritance.  Why?  I’m not sure.  You can be awfully crotchety.”

“And you’re all smiles and rainbows?”  He raised his eyebrows.  “I can’t imagine what you’ll be like at my age.”

“Healthy, that’s what.  Now rethink what you want.”

He looked smug.  “No, because my daughter-in-law sent me in to buy this for her.  She’s making some kind of big breakfast casseroles for her church group.”

Karnie heaved a frustrated sigh.  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

He threw back his head, laughing.  “And miss dueling with you on a Thursday morning?  Haven’t had so much fun for a while now.”

Giving him a dirty look, she went to wrap his order.  He took it and hummed a little tune as he went to pay for it. 

Blast the man.  A pain in the fanny.  That’s what Woodrow was.  She listened to him harass her mom at the cash register because she hadn’t made a banana cream pie to sell this week.

Jazzi and Ansel invite their friends and family to their house every Sunday for a family meal. That way, they keep in touch with each other. And when Jazzi and her hunky hubby are trying to solve a murder, they discuss that, too:

Olivia sniffed the air.  “What are we eating?”

“Kebabs.”  Ansel went to carry them outside to the grill, and Walker, Thane, and Radley tagged along to supervise.  Dad and Eli disappeared in the basement to see the kids, and Jazzi took the roasted potatoes out of the oven to dish up.  By the time Ansel returned with the chicken, it was time to eat. 

Everyone chattered at the same time as they loaded their plates at the kitchen island and found seats.  Then it grew quiet for a while as people ate.  It was during this lull that Olivia announced, “Thane and I have talked, and we’ve decided not to have children.”

Ansel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he glanced at Thane.

“I’m fine with it,” he said.  “Kids cost a lot of money and energy.  We’d rather invest in more fun.”

Gran nodded.  “Kids aren’t for everyone.  My Lynda should have never had them, didn’t want them.” 

An understatement.  That’s why she’d gone to New York to give birth and give them away.  One of the reasons they’d found her skeleton in a trunk in their attic.

Jerod wrinkled his nose, remembering.  He pointed to his three kids.  “I’m sure glad we have ours.  They might make us poorer, but what could ever be a better investment?”

Walker beamed at River and baby Noreen.  River wasn’t even his, but he loved him as his own.  “Ours have made our lives richer.”

Ansel turned a worried frown at Jazzi.  She smiled at him.  “I want them, just not right now.”

“Is your asparagus and rhubarb starting to come up?” Dad asked Gran.  A deliberate change of topic, and Jazzi chuckled.  He grinned at her.  She and her dad had always been close.

The talk turned to casual conversation, what they’d been doing during the week.  At the end of the meal, the guys stayed to help clean up, then took the kids out to the pond to look for frogs, skip stones, and to get rid of some wiggles. 

The women poured themselves glasses of wine and headed to the living room to visit. 

Gran looked at Jazzi.  “Xavier knew who it was.”

Jazzi blinked.  Gran’s visions always took her by surprise.  Gran, too.  “Do you know who killed him?”

Gran shook her head, coming out of her trance.  “Do I what?” Jazzi glanced at Samantha, who shared Gran’s house with her, but Samantha only shook her head.  When the vision was gone, it was gone.  Jazzi had learned from experience, though, that Gran was never wrong.  If she said Xavier knew who was stealing from the job site, then he did.  But why hadn’t he told someone?  She didn’t like the probable answer.  He must have tried to blackmail them for his silence.

THE BODY IN THE TRENCH, the 7th Jazzi Zanders mystery, is on Amazon now. I thought I’d tease you with a small snippet:

The hard rain had turned into a steady shower as they dashed to their vehicles.  Jazzi didn’t like the feel of a poncho, but it kept her dry.  She listened to the rhythm of the windshield wipers as they drove to Len’s job site.  Gaff’s car was parked in the soggy grass area, and they parked next to it.

When they climbed out of the van, George scooted to the center of the backseat.  The pug circled and snuggled down to wait.  He had no desire to leave the vehicle and get wet.  Ansel reached to pat his head.  “We’ll be back.”

Their footsteps squelched as they plodded across the gravel to the trench.  Gaff walked out from under the building’s roof to join them.  He’d been waiting in the half of the warehouse shell that was finished.  He was wearing a long raincoat and carrying an umbrella.  He motioned them to the boards lying beside the mound of mud where the trench collapsed.

Ansel bent to study them, then jerked his gaze to Gaff. 

“I asked Hammer about this, and he got really upset,” Gaff told them.  “He said he built the wall himself, but now, it wasn’t put together right.  Two heavy support beams should have been nailed across the vertical boards.  There are nail holes where they must have been, but somebody removed them.”

Color drained from Ansel’s face.  His expression turned grim, then bleak.  “Someone purposely did this, made the wall weak enough to collapse on Xavier.  There’s no way it was an accident.”

Jazzi could tell he’d been hoping it was.  Old friends worked here.  And even though his family wasn’t worth much, he didn’t want the murderer to be one of them. 

“This puts a whole new spin on things,” Gaff said.  “Someone planned this.  It was premeditated, no accidental bump.”

Jazzi shivered.  Someone purposely buried Xavier alive.  Walls collapsed sometimes when dirt was too heavy pressing against them, and that’s what Ansel was sure must have happened.  He grew quiet and moody.  She wanted to comfort him, but this wasn’t the time.  “What now?” she asked Gaff.

He tossed Ansel a sympathetic glance.  “I start digging into the backgrounds and finances of everyone on the crew.  I try to find answers.  Want to come with me for interviews when I do them?”

Ansel shook his head no, but she nodded a yes.

“I’ll give you a heads-up when I have something,” Gaff told her.  “And you’ll share with me?”

“I always do.”

He gave her a brief smile before motioning toward their vehicles.  “Then we can call it a wrap for now.  And thanks for meeting me here.”

Ansel silently followed them to the vehicles.  He handed Jazzi the keys to his van, and she drove home.  She didn’t try to make small talk.  He wasn’t in the mood.

The Body In the Trench: Jazzi Zanders mystery #7 – Kindle edition by Lynn, Judi. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.