Blame it on the Brontës has fun with its lighthearted small-town byplay, but it’s not a particularly substantial book.  For a fun, quick summer read it does the job – just don’t expect a lot of out of it.

San Francisco-based Assistant Professor of English Athena Murphy is the world’s foremost expert on the Brontë sisters, but as she hasn’t published an academic paper since she put out her thesis, she’s told to publish or get off the pot by her superiors at Wyatt College.  Inspiration strikes suddenly in the form of C.L. Garland, a pseudonymous author who writes retellings of classic works with additional smut thrown in, and among their works is a filthy version of Jane Eyre. Athena decides to write Garland’s biography – if only to be sure that she has some recent scholarship work to point to and keep her job.

Athena’s hunt takes her back to her little hometown of Laurel, Illinois. There, she bumps into her old boyfriend and college sweetheart, Thorne Kent.  Athena’s plan is to get her research done and get out of there without having to deal with Thorne and the heartbreak he caused her in college by dumping her, but all things are fair in fate and secret authorship.  Her investigation begins to narrow down her Garland suspects, and may just lead her to a surprising conclusion.

Blame it on the Brontës floats along on the charm of its small-town setting and general sense of humor, but it’s surprisingly light on romance.  Athena and Thone’s connection blows hot and cold over the prairies, which was really annoying.  The book is predominantly a mystery, and in the end it’s a predictable mystery at that.

That’s not to say I didn’t like Athena, though I found Thorne to be a pretentious bore instead of mysteriously sexy most of the time.  Athena, however, is relatably scatty and amusing.

The book itself is just plain average, but the mystery around Garland is pretty compelling for the first half of the book.  The conclusion to the ever-winding mystery, sadly, is pretty predictable, which means you’re going to be tapping your toes waiting for someone to say the obvious – which doesn’t happen until the second-to-last chapter.  I wish that the author had some up with something more original.

In the end Blame it on the Brontës isn’t much more than cute and vaguely entertaining.  It’s not offensive, but it doesn’t challenge or excite, either.

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