This was seriously bad, and I only finished it out of a desire to be done with it. (I have this thing about giving up on books--I've only not finished two in my life. Come to think of it, it would probably have been just fine if this had joined that list...)
First, I enjoy mysteries as a sort of brain-in-neutral endeavor, and I am not very good at guessing whodunnit before the big reveal. However, this book was so poorly constructed that it was glaringly obvious to even me long before the protagonist figured it out.
The big problem with that is that the protagonist, Alison, is supposed to be a PhD, a professor of literature at a private college in New York. You don't get to that point being so utterly daft as the character is written. Also, as a professor, Alison admits to loathing the Shakespeare class she is teaching, and generally doesn't seem to enjoy literature at all. Also, her best friend--the whimsical, rich, beautiful sidekick archetype--is a totally selfish bitch. And Alison is sooooo distraught at her ex-husband's philandering, even though they are divorced; she continues whining about it throughout the book. And--oh!--he is also a professor at the same college, and teaches biology. Yet they co-teach a class? What? What the hell kind of class would an english prof and a biology prof teach together? I seriously doubt that the author knows much about how academia actually works.
I would have been better off watching some terrible reality TV than reading this. Ca va.