The difference between tough-but-tender female crimebusters and their busybodyish counterparts (think Angela Lansbury in Murder She Wrote) comes down to how they handle their beverages. Thick-skinned lady detectives tend to spend at least one rainy night with a bottle of Jack Daniels, during which they deliver funny/bitter monologues about men to their cats. At the other end of the sleuth spectrum, empathetic Mary Worth types attract streams of tearful visitors, where the one phrase that should be forbidden in crime fiction is uttered: “More coffee?”

Gail Bowen’s series heroine Joanne Kilbourn is a rare mixture of both varieties – Bowen’s middle-aged Mom utters the dreaded java line, but she knows how to knock back the strong stuff when the occasion calls for it. The latest novel opens with big trouble in southern Saskatchewan: Kilbourn’s old friend Jill, a sophisticated but vulnerable television producer, is about to marry Mr. Wrong. Bridegroom and celebrated film director Evan MacLeish has a poor track record – both of his previous wives have committed suicide, and his teenage daughter is a psychological minefield.

Kilbourn, who has offered to accommodate wedding guests and rehearsals at her house, has to juggle kids, food, and friends through a tense few days. A murder follows, and then another, and then comes the scene that really kicks things off: Kilbourn discovers the bride-to-be covered in blood.

Kilbourn is a likeable heroine, but not a particularly memorable one. Too often The Glass Coffin has the mood and characterization of daytime television. Potential sharp edges are dulled by Oprah-like exposition (“It was a poignant statement of longing by a young woman who didn’t often reveal herself, and the people who loved her were quick to respond”), telegraphed emotions (“Tracy had listened to Jill’s words without interest, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table to indicate her impatience”), and dotty sentiments (“Had we been alone, Jill’s remembrance of things past might have opened the door for an intimate discussion. But we weren’t alone.”). Readers may want to think twice about Bowen’s offer of a cup of coffee this time.