The Really Dead Wives of New Jersey

Everyone loves a housewife; housewife here meaning not the barefoot and pregnant archetype, but a girlboss with hair extensions, implants and a whole lot of attitude who’s always willing to tussle with her “friends” for an audience of millions. But what happens when a reluctant housewife ends up dead—and she’s only the first casualty of the new season? Astrid Dahl’s The Really Dead Wives of New Jersey effectively straddles the line between dark humor and suspense, following multiple characters in front of and behind the camera as they reckon with a murderer in their spray-tanned, Botoxed midst.

Garden State Goddesses is Huzzah Network’s third most popular reality show, but, as always, the real drama is behind the scenes. Showrunner Eden has her sights on greener pastures so she can finally move out of Hoboken, New Jersey: It only takes a little finagling to bring her naive cousin Hope out of a fundamentalist California commune and into the on-camera fold to boost ratings. Meanwhile, newlywed (and newly wealthy) Hope is a fish out of water among her over-the-top costars: bisexual single mom Renee, nail salon maven and self-proclaimed “Italian supremacist” Carmela, and Carmela’s bonehead of a best friend Valerie, who’s also Hope’s sister-in-law. But when a lethal cocktail leaves one of the housewives dead—and the bodies keep dropping—Eden and the Goddesses cast and crew must crack the case, or risk cancellation of the show . . . and their lives.

Astrid Dahl is the creation of author Anna Dorn: According to Dahl’s cheeky bio, she’s the “star” of Dorn’s Perfume and Pain, a novel that’s also dark, hilarious and campy. Dahl/Dorn has crafted an exceedingly colorful cast of characters, especially Goddesses regular Birdie, a dowager of indeterminate age and bottomless wealth who just can’t seem to stay sober (much to viewers’ delight), and Birdie’s adult son and assistant, Pierre, who loves horses as much as he loathes housewives. The Really Dead Wives of New Jersey shines bright in its love for soap opera-style reality TV, where manicured nails are sharp and verbal barbs over Prosecco-fueled lunch dates even sharper. Pour a healthy glass of white wine—who cares if it’s only 2 p.m.?—don your finest faux fur and get ready for a bumpy but fabulous ride through New Jersey’s toniest, deadliest suburb.