Marty Singer, retired cop and occasional private detective, is invited down to Virginia’s horse and wine country, along with his girlfriend Julie Atwater, by her friend Ruth Colvin, who runs a boarding stable. They’re expecting a relaxing vacation. But Ruth has a reason for asking them. Her farm is in trouble. Someone has been sabotaging her operation – knocking down fences so the horses can get loose. In the competitive world of horse people, only a little doubt about the safety of her facilities could ruin her. That’s how The Bitter Fields begins.
Then murder intervenes. One of Ruth’s employees, a charming polo player named Freddie Farrar, is shot to death. Marty can’t help but suspect there’s a connection between the crimes. Who could hate Ruth so much? There are suspects – a bigoted old lady who wants some of her land for a burial plot, a rich young woman who’d been having an affair with Freddie, and that woman’s husband – who has been arrested, but whose guilt Marty doubts.
All this is played out against the backdrop of the changing south, where history is a living presence, opinions are in transition, and people often cover up their real thoughts. One thing I liked about this book was that although it seemed at first to involve a lot of tired southern stereotypes, those characters were treated sympathetically and allowed to have their say – and to change. It all got kind of heart-warming in the end. Except for the killing, of course.
Recommended. Cautions for the usual, particularly sexual
matters, but not bad.
After borrowing this book from the public library, I found that I’d already read and reviewed an earlier novel in the Jonathan Stride mystery series. I said I found it well written, but I didn’t love it. That’s pretty much my reaction to Alter Ego, Brian Freeman’s ninth in the series. But I read it free, so why complain?
Jonathan Stride is a police detective in Duluth, Minnesota. His two chief subordinates are an Asian-American woman and his wife. Both, needless to say, are gorgeous. As is also his teenaged adopted daughter, a former prostitute whom he and his wife more or less rescued, and who is beginning to reintegrate her life.
It’s big news when a Hollywood film company comes to Duluth
to make a movie. Jonathan is less happy than most of the locals, because it’s a
fictionalized dramatization of one of his own cases. He is being played by Dean
Casperson, one of Hollywood’s major players, but the whole business makes him
Then a man dies in a freak collision with a deer on a
snow-covered highway. His ID turns out to be bogus, and a gun is found in the
car. Shortly after that, a local college girl who hung around with the movie
people is reported missing. Putting two and two together, the police start
searching the area near the auto accident, and sure enough – the young woman’s
body is found in the snow, a bullet in her head.
And then she turns out to have been using an assumed
It’s all confusing, and it’s not about to get simpler. On
top of the murder mystery, there are questions about certain behaviors on the
movie set, behaviors no one will talk to the police about. Stride and his
co-workers (along with author Freeman’s other series character, Florida PI Cab
Bolton, who shows up for his own reasons) will have to move fast and smart to
prevent very ugly history from repeating itself, not on film but in real life.
As stipulated above, I find Brian Freeman a good writer, and I can find no fault with his storytelling. I’m not sure why his books leave me kind of cold, except for a certain political correctness I sense in their construction. Most of the cops in this story are women, and they’re all beautiful. I don’t know for sure, but I’d wager that is not a statistically accurate portrayal of the Duluth police department.
Ah, but I’m probably just jaundiced. I note that my review
of the previous Jonathan Stride book complained about excessively explicit sex
scenes. I’m happy to report he seems to have toned that down.
I might even read another book in the series – if I can
borrow it from the library.
I reviewed the first book in Jason Richards’ Drew Patrick mystery series the other day. I told you I thought the book not well written, but that I appreciated the spirit of the thing. I liked the hero and his supporting cast, and the positive atmosphere.
So I invested in Shattered, the second book in the series. I hoped author Richards might have learned a little with the passage of time, or perhaps got an editor to help him.
Alas, there’s been no improvement on the writing front.
I like it that Drew has a traditional PI’s office above a Cambridge, Mass. city street. Such offices in hard-boiled mysteries always give me a warm, homey feeling – and it’s nice having Drew’s beagle mix, Dash, there to keep us company.
A couple named Jeffrey and Cynthia Holland are the clients
who come to the office this time out. Their daughter Ashley has disappeared,
and they’re concerned. They don’t want to go to the police, because they fear
Alas, Ashley is dead already. Her murder seems to be tied to
the deaths of some other attractive young women – young women who, it turns
out, had been working for a high class escort service, and had been involved
with the same man – a high-powered Hollywood studio owner.
There’s not much mystery in this one; author Richards identifies
the guilty party early on, making the plot a race against the clock to prevent
the next murder.
It seemed to me a lot of opportunities to raise the dramatic tension were lost here. The guilty party could have been concealed, for one thing. And instead of the cops loving Drew and being happy to have him pitch in, they could have resented him and blocked his efforts, in the more plausible tradition of cops in the hard-boiled genre. There could have been conflict between Drew and his girlfriend Jessica.
Also, dramatic opportunities were lost. The character of
Cynthia Holland, Ashley’s mother, is intriguing, but we don’t get to know her very
And there were lots of writing problems. Mistaken use of
homonyms. Spelling errors. Overwriting – Drew tells us more than we need to
know, and explains himself too much. A good editor would have cut this
manuscript down by thousands of words.
So my verdict remains the same. I salute and appreciate the
author’s effort. But he’s not writing very good books at this point. I hope he
ups his game.
It isn’t often I like a book without considering it well written. But that’s the case with Jason Richards’ novel Chasing Shadows, first in his Drew Patrick private eye series.
Drew Patrick works in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He gets hired by a single mother named Bonnie Ross, who is concerned about her teenaged daughter Tina’s relationship with a young man named Aaron. Aaron is a college student and a promising football player, but Bonnie doesn’t trust him, and Tina has changed and grown distant since they started dating.
There’s nothing criminal about that, but Drew agrees to
check the boy out. Turns out Bonnie’s concerns are justified. Aaron has been
working as a collector for a loan shark, and is being pressured to commit
murder. But Drew, assisted by his girlfriend Jessica (also a PI), a couple
friendly sheriff’s detectives, and his faithful beagle mix, Dash, will do his
best to get between the kids and disaster.
Okay, about this book. It’s not very well written. There are proofreading and spelling problems. The dialogue is often turgid – a lot more contractions could have been employed, for one thing. The author’s attempts at wit are hit and miss – more often than not he presses his jokes where a lighter touch would have been more effective.
But I appreciated what he seems to be doing here. He seems to be trying to recreate the magic of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser books – Spenser worked not far away in Boston. The Spenser books were refreshing in their time. Unlike past hard-boiled shamuses, Spenser was optimistic in attitude and took care of his health. He also had healthy relationships with women, and eventually connected with a regular girlfriend. I really liked those books until Parker allowed Spenser to become totally whipped.
Similarly, Drew Patrick is a positive guy with a healthy attitude. He is devoted to his girlfriend, cheerfully rejecting all passes from other women. He even has a dog – something often useful in breaking the ice with people, and (for most of us) a sign of good character. Also, perhaps, a nod to the Thin Man.
But he isn’t entirely believable. He doesn’t seem to care much
about paying the bills, and pursues “justice” even when not being paid. And the
regular cops seem happy to have him meddle in their investigations (something I
find hard to believe).
So I can’t give Chasing Shadows my highest recommendation. But I won’t deny I kind of enjoyed the book. You might too. Only mild cautions for adult content.
I’ve cut out buying the pricey books for the time being. But it turns out I’d pre-ordered Michael Connelly’s new Harry Bosch/Renee Ballard book, The Night Fire. So I read it, and now I’ll review it.
As you may recall if you’re following the books (not the Amazon
Plus TV show), Harry Bosch is pretty old now (about my age), and is retired as
an LAPD detective. But his old motto, “Everybody matters or nobody matters,”
still drives him, so he finds ways to keep involved. Mostly by providing help
(off the books) to the young detective Renee Ballard. Renee works the night
shift, which she likes, because it allows her to work alone. (She can generally
call on Harry if she needs backup.)
One night Renee gets called to a scene of death by fire. A homeless
man has burned to death in his tent. It looks like an accident, but
investigators say no. However, the case is assigned to Robbery-Homicide, and
Renee gets shut out. But she doesn’t forget about it.
Then Harry Bosch receives a surprising legacy. An old cop,
once his own mentor, died recently, and he left something behind for Harry. It’s
a “murder book” – a ring binder containing all the case notes for an old
homicide investigation. The thing was police property, and should not have left
police custody. The case involves the murder of a drug addict in his car in an
alley. For the life of him, Harry can’t figure why his old friend stole this
book, or kept it. There’s no sign he ever investigated it on his own.
What follows for both Renee and Harry is a case of what I call “retro-telescoping prioritization,” a situation where you set out to do one thing, but can’t do that until you do another thing, but there’s something else you have to do before you can do that. The plot of The Night Fire gets fairly complicated, and I lost track of a few threads now and then. But it all comes together in the end, and there’s a suitably suspenseful payoff.
The Night Fire was not the best book in the Harry Bosch saga, but it wasn’t bad. Cautions for language and adult situations, and a brief public service announcement about gay rights. Connelly fans will enjoy this new installment in the series.
I am concerned about Renee Ballard, though. She’s surviving
on a diet of coffee and surfing. If she doesn’t resolve some of her personal
issues, she’s gonna crash hard.
Having now become a pretty confirmed fan of Norman Green’s novels, I figured I’d try out his series character, Alessandra “Al” Martillo. As you know, I’m no big fan of hard-boiled female detectives, but I took a flyer on The Last Gig, the first book in the series.
I’ll give author Green credit for facing honestly some of
the inherent problems of the female action protagonist. “Al,” he informs us
along the way, is a sort of genetic anomaly – a throwback to more ancient
humanity. She’s stronger than most women and a lot of men, and she heals at an
She’s also – of course – gorgeous. But she’s as emotionally maladjusted
as she’s physically exceptional. Raised by an indifferent aunt after her mother’s
suicide, and then taken in by a sympathetic gay uncle, she keeps to herself and
pushes off every man who shows interest. She’s got a chip on her shoulder for
the whole world – especially her distant father, whose only contribution to her
upbringing was to teach her to fight.
She works for peanuts for a sleazy private eye, who keeps
trying to get into her pants. She can handle him, and she needs the work.
Then her boss gets approached by “Mickey” Caughlan, an Irish-American
gangster who has (he claims) gone straight. Somebody has been smuggling drug
components in Caughlan’s trucks, and he wants to find out who.
As Al investigates, she grows curious about a part of
Caughlan’s story that may or may not be related to the crime. Caughlan had a son
who was murdered, and he seems oddly unconcerned about it. Supposedly it’s
because the boy wanted to be a musician, a career choice Caughlan opposed. But
Al thinks there’s more to it.
So she jumps into the case with both feet. She will deliver
beat-downs and receive them, and be challenged to move outside her personal
comfort zone. Very dangerous people will threaten her, but Al is the most
dangerous character in the city.
I didn’t love this book as much as the previous Green books
I read. It wasn’t a bad book, but I didn’t identify with Al as I did with other
Green protagonists, and I didn’t find here the fine passages of writing I’ve so
enjoyed in the other books. A small public service announcement for gay
marriage was included in the plot, but there was nothing really unfair there.
I’d probably go on with the series, if the later books were
cheaper, but for now I’ll hold off. Moderately recommended, with cautions for
language, sexual situations, and mature themes.
I could easily have gone my entire life without really noticing the night sky at all, let alone wondering if it had anything to tell me. We’re so smart now, we know at least something about everything, but still, nobody can tell you which of those pieces of information are important.
Mohammed “Manny” Williams, the main character of Way Past Legal, is not a Muslim, in spite of his name. He doesn’t know what he is. Abandoned in a garbage bag as an infant, he grew up in the foster care system and became a successful thief. He’s always been looking for that big score, but is not prepared when he and his partner Rosario knock a place over and find themselves with a cool two million on their hands. Then Rosey tries to cheat Manny out of his half, and Manny feels no compunction about stealing it all back from him.
One thing is certain – this kind of money will bring a lot
of heat. So Manny has to get out of New York. But he makes one stop on his way
out – he picks up his little boy Nicky, who’s been languishing in a group home
like his dad before him. Nicky adores his father, and is just happy to be with
Manny knows everyone will expect him to run south, to
someplace warm. So he heads north. He’s near the northern tip of Maine when
their car breaks down. A kindly local farmer gives them a ride to a garage, and
he and his wife put them up while they’re waiting for repairs.
This town is like no place Manny has ever known. He’s never
met friendly, generous people like these before. He helps them and is helped by
them, and grows fond of them. Nicky loves it there, and the weight of paternal
responsibility begins to bear down on Manny – how can he give his son a secure future
when he’s on the run? How can he help him to grow up when he’s immature
And when outsiders start showing up in the area, hunting for
the money, Manny will have to take big risks and make hard decisions, because
it’s not just him now – and not just him and Nicky – but it’s him and a whole
lot of people he’s started to care about.
Beautifully written, exciting, suspenseful, and wholly engaging, Way Past Legal is now one of my favorite crime novels . It’s as good as Shadow of a Thief, which I reviewed yesterday, and lacks the occult element. The main Christian character in Way Past Legal is a very sympathetic fellow. I need to caution you about a lot of obscene language, and there’s violence, of course, but no explicit sex. Highly recommended for adults.
I picked up Ray Bradbury’s The October Country at the library some days ago. Originally published in 1955, “the Dubliners of American Gothic” is a story collection that leans into twilight subjects, potentially unsettling tales touching on darker matters. At least that’s how the book is billed, but I want to talk about a light-hearted story that might should be on all the college reading lists.
“I met the most astounding bore. You simply must see him! At Bill Timmins’ apartment house last night, a note said he’d return in an hour. In the hall this Garvey chap asked if I’d like to wait in his apartment. There we sat, Garvey, his wife, myself! Incredible! He’s a monstrous Ennui, produced by our material society. He knows a billion ways to paralyze you! Absolutely rococo with the talent to induce stupor, deep slumber, or stoppage of the heart! What a case study. Let’s all go visit!”
“The Watchful Poker Chip of H. Matisse” is a tale for a new generation. The in-crowd discovers Garvey, whom the narrator describes as “a terrifyingly ordinary man” who had lived alone with his wife for twenty years. Though she was a delightful woman, he was so boring no one would accompany them to anything. This group of seven would-be elitists think he’s a gas, and after a few weeks he comes to enjoy their attention. Their subtle mockery turns to genuine admiration, and Garvey takes steps to keep them enthralled.
The prejudices of the in-crowd are remarkably dated, but their attitude is contemporary. They see through everything; they love to be unimpressed as their tastes flit from fad to fad. They embrace common entertainment only ironically, unless they can spin it into a superior, sophisticated pleasure. “Beer’s intellectual. What a shame so many idiots drink it.”
Would Garvey or his wife be better off with or without the attention of this self-righteous crowd? Let the reader judge for himself and decide whether he has in-crowd attitudes that should look just a foolish today as the Garvey fan club does decades after their story was written.
So like a man who has settled for order instead of law, eventually I gave up on peace and contented myself with what moments of quiet I could find.
If you told me about a mystery story containing a supernatural element which is essentially syncretistic, and in which the main character is possibly demon-possessed during the climax, I’d probably tell you “Not my style. I’ll pass.”
But I got Norman Green’s Shadow of a Thief through an Amazon Prime deal, and I’m hoarding my pennies these days, and the writing was extremely good. So I stayed with it. And you know what? I’m a fan now.
Saul Fowler used to be a burglar, both free-lance and under
contract to one of those shadowy US government agencies that so heavily
populate fiction. But he succumbed to drugs and alcohol. Then he got clean
through Narcotics Anonymous and fled to the northern tip of Maine, where he
replaced his old addictions with a new one, to fishing. For his future he has
Then he’s approached by a man from his past – Reverend McClendon, who was his stepfather, and possibly his natural father. McClendon was the closest thing to a father figure Saul ever had, and he taught him his trade – the confidence game. But he’s a TV preacher now and – he claims – he’s turned his life around. He genuinely believes, he says, in Christianity (though his theology appears pretty pathetic).
He had (he says) a daughter, who might have been Saul’s
half-sister. She has been cruelly murdered, and McClendon thinks Saul has the
skills to look more deeply into the mystery than the cops have. They blame it
on gang warfare (the girl was Chinese-American).
Saul agrees, not entirely sure why. But he has nothing better to do, and maybe he owes McClendon something.
His investigation will take him back home to New York, into
the worlds of gangs, prostitution, the NYPD, and urban voodoo.
Theologically, I could criticize this book quite a lot
(though I noticed there was no Christian-bashing). But as a story, it worked
magnificently. Norman Green is as good a writer as I’ve come across in years –
I’m amazed I’d never heard of him before. His prose is elegant, his characters
fascinating, his dialogue snappy, his plotting riveting. My interest never once
flagged as I read.
I highly recommend Shadow of a Thief, if you can handle some heterodoxy in a fictional setting. Cautions for language and violence.
Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police is summoned to the office of the head of CID himself at the beginning of Hardcastle’s Runaway. He’s never met the Commissioner before, so he knows the matter at hand must be important.
But in fact it’s not. The Commissioner wants him to look for
a missing girl, the daughter of a friend who’s a member of Parliament. It’s
1919, the Great War is newly over, and many young women like this one have bobbed
their hair (and their skirts) and become what’s known as “flappers.” Inspector
Hardcastle puts men on the job to find her, but after a few days she pops up of
her own accord. That seems to be the end of the matter.
But the girl disappears again. Inquiries among her gentlemen
friends, veteran military officers all, reveal that she was present at a party
at a country house, and nobody has seen her since.
There are many influential men who do not wish their
relationships with this young girl revealed. But Hardcastle has the Commisioner’s
support, and he proceeds with his customary bluntness and tactlessness. In the
end, a tragic secret will come to light.
The DDI Hardcastle novels were recommended to me as well-researched books, providing an accurate and realistic picture of London life around World War I. And this book provided that. A lot of research has been done, and it shows. Hardcastle’s Runaway was excellent as a time excursion.
What did not delight me was the main character. I like curmudgeonly heroes just fine (I flatter myself that I’m a curmudgeon myself). But Hardcastle seems to have nothing underneath the crust. He’s crust all through – bullheaded, opinionated, thoughtless of others. He seems to be a type rather than a character. I finally decided all this rudeness was meant to be comic. But it didn’t make me laugh. Maybe it’ll be more to your taste.
I recommend this book from an educational perspective, but
as a work of fiction I found it wanting.
“Is it too far to drive there to-night?” I inquired.
He looked at me in a puzzled manner.
“For this valise,” I explained, “contains all that I immediately need; in fact, I could do without my trunk for a day or two, if it is not convenient to send. So if we could arrive there not too late by starting at once—” I paused.
“It’s two hundred and sixty-three miles,” said the Virginian.
The scene above, (involving lost luggage) near the beginning of Owen Wister’s novel, The Virginian, seems to me to foreshadow a major theme of the novel. This is a panorama painted on a canvas a thousand miles wide. The landscape itself is a character in it. It’s a slow book, episodic and discursive, but that’s because everyplace is a long way from everyplace else, and travel takes time. There’s plenty of space in the intervals for serious thought or deep conversation. You get a real sense of the vastness of the Old West.
Built on a series of previously published short stories, some narrated by a character (unnamed, like the archetypal hero) who comes on stage only when needed, The Virginian has traditionally been regarded as the first serious Western novel (though recent critics have advanced the claims of some book nobody ever heard of, written – of course – by a woman).
I read it in high school, but my memories of it were vague.
I was mostly surprised at how different it was from the TV show, which was
being broadcast in those days (they made Trampas a good guy, for some reason).
What I didn’t remember – or was too young to appreciate then – was what a
beautiful novel it is (in spite of its antiquated style), nor did I imagine how
it would move me.
The Virginian is a young Wyoming cowboy, tall and athletic and handsome. He works for Judge Henry’s ranch out on Sunk Creek. He’s a man of few words (setting the style for cowboy heroes ever since, from Gary Cooper to Clint Eastwood). He is a natural man of principle. He has a sly sense of humor, and delights, with his rowdy friends, in practical jokes and taking people in with tall tales. (The tall tales are an interesting plot element. They serve as a nonviolent means of asserting rank in cowboy society – though they might lead to violence in any case.)
When an eastern schoolmarm from a respectable but impoverished family arrives in the area, the Virginian decides from the moment he sees her that he will marry her. She resists, attracted by his appearance and rough chivalry, but repelled by his low birth. His courtship takes years, and is resolved in an unexpected (and somewhat deus ex machina) manner. But win her he does.
The plot conflict centers on the struggle between the ranchers and the rustlers, whose leader is the scoundrel Trampas, who hates the Virginian mostly because he’s the better man, and they both know it. (Historically, the book was inspired by the Johnson County War of the 1880s and ‘90s. In those terms it’s remarkably biased and unjust. The “rustlers” the Virginian despises were actually often small ranchers fighting the high-handed tactics of the big operations. For a fictional treatment from the other side of the fight, check out Shane, by Jack Schaefer).
The final confrontation with the evil Trampas takes place (anticipating High Noon) on the Virginian’s wedding day.
Once that’s out of the way, movie treatments of this book
tend to wrap the story up pretty quickly. But Owen Wister (once again) takes
his time, bringing the reader along on the Virginian’s and his wife’s honeymoon
(discreetly, of course). That section, which could have been anticlimactic,
instead consummates (if I can be excused for using that word) the main theme of
the whole book, it seems to me.
Because the Virginian and his bride become Adam and Eve in a new Eden – or perhaps Wister (whose opinions on religion, judging by the book, were not very orthodox) had Rousseau’s Noble Savage and the State of Nature in mind. I think he was expounding a vision for America’s future – that the New Man being formed in our wilderness would transform the earth through siring a new, wiser, more natural race of mankind.
Or so it seemed to me.
In any case, I found it deeply moving, even if I didn’t
believe it for a minute.
The Virginian is a challenging book for modern readers, accustomed to fast-paced narratives, to tackle. But if you give it a chance, it’s worth it. I rate it very high.
If you’re one of those underprivileged citizens who’s never enjoyed the Thin Man movie series, starring William Powell and Myrna Loy, you really owe it to yourself to watch them. The first two, at least, are almost perfect of their kind – a hybrid of hard-boiled crime story and screwball comedy, centering on a sophisticated, charming couple who adore each other and excel at repartee.
The Thin Man was Dashiell Hammet’s last and most successful novel, and was adapted (mostly by lightening its darker elements and cutting some stuff the censors wouldn’t approve) into a classic movie by film writers Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich, themselves a married couple. It was so successful that the studio wanted a sequel, and offered Hammett a nice payday to come up with a story. Though delayed by drinking and blackouts, he delivered on time. The “story” he produced – basically a paragraph outline – became the movie After the Thin Man. Hammett’s story, combined with Hackett’s and Goodrich’s initial adjustments, constitute the first half of Return of the Thin Man. The second half is a similar story for the third film, Another Thin Man. At the end, Hammett’s proposal for a third sequel is included – it’s incoherent, inconsistent with the previous stories, and appears to show signs of Hammett’s advancing alcoholism.
The original Thin Man movie ends with our heroes, Nick and Nora Charles, in a Pullman car headed home from New York to San Francisco. After the Thin Man opens with them getting off the train (fans have chuckled for years over the fact that the trip took two years, so that clothing and car styles have changed). Arriving at their home, they find the place packed with Nick’s low-life friends from his days as a private eye – it’s a welcome home party, but nobody even notices their arrival for a while. The party is dampened by the appearance of a dead man on the doorstep, but Nick and Nora are summoned away to her grandmother’s grand mansion on Nob Hill. Her cousin’s dubious husband has disappeared, and she’s suspected of murdering him. Nora’s family strongly disapproves of Nick, but since he’s around, he must make himself useful by locating the errant husband and keeping the police off the premises. There is a murder, and the mystery that follows will involve a shady night club owner and multiple confidence games, before Nick can gather the suspects for the “payoff” scene, revealing the true culprit.
In Another Thin Man, Nick and Nora head back to New York state at the request of Nora’s father’s old business associate. He’s been threatened, and demands that Nick chase off the disgruntled former employee behind the threats. Nick also takes this opportunity to try to learn more about Nora’s family business – something he soon regrets (just out of boredom). Again, murder happens in spite of Nick’s efforts, but he will beat the police to the true solution.
I had looked forward to reading a couple of Thin Man novellas – which is what the publisher’s description calls these works. But that’s not what they are. “Stories” for movies are meant to be brief and spare and devoid of sparkle. Just the facts, ma’am. As such, these stories make rather dull reading.
I was surprised that I have no memory of Another Thin Man. It’s possible I’ve never seen it – or that it’s been so long I’ve forgotten it. Must remedy that.
I didn’t waste any money on Return of the Thin Man, since I got it free from Amazon Prime. But I can’t really recommend it, except to the hard-core Nick and Nora fan, who’ll be interested in the minor ways in which the narratives changed in the transition from story to screen.
I’ve lost all the sequence in the Inspector Skelgill series of novels, having jumped forward at some point and now needing to fill in the books I missed (I think I’ve caught up now). It doesn’t really matter, though, the basic formula doesn’t change – Inspector Skelgill, the crusty, misanthropic Cumbria policeman whose two passions are crime solving and fishing, supported by the attractive female DS Jones and transplanted cockney DS Leyton. In the background is always the unspoken attraction between him and Jones, which he’s too obtuse to follow up. But then women are always throwing themselves at him, and he generally doesn’t bother his head about them either.
In Murder at the Flood he has more than his share. Roger Alcock, a local kayaking outfitter with a reputation as a lady’s man, disappears during a freak flood. When his body is found a couple days later, it looks like he hit his head and drowned, but the pathologist says no. It was murder. Roger Alcock’s widow is an obvious suspect, but Skelgill is reluctant to believe it of her. He knew her as a girl, when he dated her older sister – who has now returned from Australia and taken direct sexual aim at Skelgill. There’s also a female TV reporter who’s willing to scratch his back if he’ll scratch hers – probably in more senses than one.
Skelgill will sort it all out in the end, as he always does.
Good entertainment in a good series. The disturbing stuff happens offstage, and the author happily admits that he edits out the worst language. Recommended, as is the whole series.
A historical mystery set in an intriguing time and place. I figured I’d take a chance on A Bespoke Murder, by Edward Marston.
It’s 1915, and England is at war. In the wake of the sinking of the Lusitania, anti-German sentiment is boiling over in England. Even in London’s posh West End, Jacob Stein’s fashionable tailor shop is smashed up by a mob, and set on fire. Mr. Stein himself is left dead. And his daughter is raped.
But Stein’s death was not random violence. Someone stabbed
him, and made away with the contents of his safe. That makes it look like premeditated
murder. Particularly since Stein was not merely German, but Jewish.
Inspector Harvey Marmion and his assistant Sergeant Joe
Keedy are assigned to investigate. From the beginning, their work is hindered
by the meddling of Stein’s blustering brother, and by the fears of the
traumatized daughter. They will have to descend into the dark world of antisemitic
political groups to unmask the true villain.
In spite of an interesting mystery and an interesting setting, I found A Bespoke Murder a disappointment, for several reasons. First of all, the characters weren’t very vivid. The good characters acted and spoke very much as people do today – even sometimes using neologisms like “hassling” for “bothering.” A fair amount of research must have been done on this book – why not throw in some contemporary idioms in the dialogue? Not a lot, but a sprinkling would have added verisimilitude. And the “good people” were just so pleasant. Very little friction or conflict between them, and few attitudes expressed that would make 21st Century people uncomfortable. The book seemed to me overwritten, and aimed at an unsophisticated audience.
I finished the book to find out whodunnit, but although
there are several sequels, I’m not interested enough in these characters to
I’m always pleased by the appearance of a new Inspector Munro novel by Pete Brassett. The latest installment in the series, set in Ayrshire, Scotland, is Turpitude, and it was as enjoyable as its predecessors.
Inspector Munro is no longer a working police detective. He’s
overage and recovering from a heart attack. But he can’t keep away from the
office, and frankly his old team, led by female detective Charlie West, is happy
to have him on this one.
First of all, a couple garbage workers find three severed fingers in a tin of dog food. Oddly, nobody seems to have been treated for the injury in a hospital, and when they find the victim he’s not much interested in preferring charges.
Then a man walks into a jewelry store and bashes the owner over the head with a hammer. CCTV and witness statements provide few clues to the police.
It’s only Munro’s experience and intelligence that gently lead
the detectives down the right paths to finally identify the culprits,
uncovering an improbable conspiracy with bizarre motives.
As I said already, any time spent with Munro & Co. is time well spent. I recommend Turpitude, in spite of a measure of political correctness.