It’s a pleasure to read books by experienced, masterful story tellers. Here are two.
Daniel Silva published “The Black Widow” in 2016. It’s so up to date that he feels the need to explain that the linking of Islamic terrorists to the Brussels district of Molenbeek in the book was coincidental. The attacks in Paris and Brussels that were indeed carried out by residents of Molenbeek occurred after the book was written. It’s the type of coincidence that results from a thorough study of the relevant places and political situations and makes for a convincing plot.
The black widow of the title is a young woman who seeks revenge against the Western powers after her fiance is killed fighting in Syria. There are such young women, but in this case she’s an Arabic-speaking Israeli who is sent undercover to identify a terrorist mastermind known only as Saladin.
The Dying Detective, published by Leif G.W. Persson, also in 2016, shows that my decision to avoid Scandinavian authors was too hasty. As the title indicates, the story isn’t especially cheerful, but it isn’t permeated by gloom as are some other books I’ve read by Scandinavian writers. Perhaps because Persson is a criminologist, his plot is long on following trails of evidence and police work, and short on creating a depressing atmosphere. He has considerately set the action in the months June to September, so we aren’t forced to accompany the characters on interminable slogs through snow.
The eponymous Stockholm detective is a sixty-seven year old retiree who is given a clue to the solution of a cold case while in the hospital recovering from a mild stroke. Although the criminal raped and murdered a child, the case is subject to a statute of limitations that wasn’t modified in time for this murderer to be prosecuted, even if he’s identified. But since Johansson’s time is now his own, he can delve into whatever interests him, and his old friends and colleagues are willing and able to help him.
Johansson hails from the north, but instead of taking advantage of this connection to immerse the reader in the usual horrors of a northern climate, Persson merely reminds us that it’s important for Johansson to have full use of his right arm in time for elk hunting season.
The Shape of Water is called a novel of food, wine, and homicide in small town Sicily. Published in Italian in 1994 by Andrea Camilleri, it was translated into English in 2002.
It was refreshing to read about a detective who quickly plans a meal of pasta with garlic and olive oil for an acquaintance who drops in unexpectedly. I’m more used to American or British authors who seem to think that not knowing how to boil water makes a male character appealing. As a corollary to being culinarily challenged, these heroes tend to live in squalor, surrounded by old take-out food containers. How could anyone fail to be charmed? Unfortunately, there was much more homicide than food and wine in this book. It would have been interesting to hear more about what the Sicilians eat and how they prepare it.
The plot is convoluted, involving many local big-shots, most of them corrupt. Corrupt authorities are generally treated with great seriousness in the mysteries I read, but Camilleri’s Sicilians are so used to it that it’s become one big joke. It’s the rare honest public servant who is treated seriously.
I used to avoid books by two authors, thinking that they would be like factory products, written to formula. They couldn’t have the uniform vision of a book created by one person. Well, that was silly. Mysteries and thrillers, even good ones, are not generally great works of literature and after picking up a couple of co-authored books without noticing the double attribution, I realized that they were neither better nor worse than books by a single author.
The Book of the Dead, by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, is a good example of successful co-authorship. These two have written a series of novels together, and I happened to read the last one (as of 2006) in a set featuring Special Agent Pendergast and several other recurring characters. I enjoyed it enough to go back and read The Relic, the book in which he was introduced, but I don’t think I’ll read any more of them. Whether because he was in effect created by a committee or for some other reason, in my opinion Agent Pendergast doesn’t come to life sufficiently to support a series of books.
The plots of the books I read were interesting and took advantage of the interests of both authors. Preston has worked at the American Museum of Natural History and its labyrinthine corridors are an important feature of both books. Child is interested in ghost stories and tales of the supernatural and probably contributed much of the atmospherics in both of the books.
The Book of the Dead revolves around the installation of an ancient Egyptian tomb in the museum and the disasters that follow, raising the question of whether there really is a curse on anyone who violates the tomb.
Reading Preston and Child’s descriptions of the curses in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, I was taken back to the experience of walking through an exhibit featuring the Book of the Dead at the Paris Library about twenty years ago. It was the first exhibit I had seen in which entering a room triggered a recording about the contents of the room. As I entered each room (there seemed to be no one else around) a mellifluous male voice speaking BBC English began reciting from the pages displayed behind glass along the walls, things like, “and may the the God Maat devour your soul… and may beetles feast on your entrails…may you be torn apart by wild beasts…”. It was a very entertaining and memorable experience.
I picked up Meryl Sawyer’s 2005 publication “Better off Dead” from a shelf of mysteries and thrillers. It was well on its way to being a decent thriller, with a heroine who is in a witness protection program and the target of a hit team sent by remorseless criminals. Then she meets A MAN, and the plot is put on pause while they rhapsodize about aspects of each others anatomy. The lengthiness and detailed nature of these digressions were surprising until, in the middle of the paperback, I found an inserted page with a message from the editors thanking me for reading this fine romance novel.
So now I know what makes a book a romance novel, but I still don’t quite get Meryl Sawyer. She can write a competent thriller, but she doesn’t make the most of her plot, opting instead to veer off into a romantic ending. Maybe the market for romance is less competitive or better paying.
From Sunday, November 1st through Thursday, November 5th, Alex Kertész mystery “The Wish to Kill” will be free in the Amazon Kindle store.
Hey, it’s free- what have you got to lose?
Nicci French’s “Thursdays Child” is well written and has an interesting plot. That’s the least I would expect from a successful writer in the fifth thriller in the Frieda Klein series. Doctor Klein lives in London. This book takes her back to her home town on the trail of a rapist and murderer and to visit her obnoxious dying mother.
Frieda Klein is a very strange lady. She is a psychotherapist, and comes off as one who is good at what she does and cares about her patients. So far, so good. Although her appearance isn’t described in this book, she’s apparently an amazing beauty, because almost every male character either falls in love with her or lusts after her. She even has a psychopathic killer in her thrall, who pops up to murder her enemies. I assume that her beauty is nothing short of astounding, because she’s completely lacking in charm or humor.
I’m happy to read about beautiful protagonists. Everyone knows that very attractive people are treated differently, so a beautiful hero/heroine adds plot possibilities and reading about extraordinary people is more fun for the reader than reading about the guy next door. But you have to provide a basis for the way other characters react to your protagonist. Even if Klein’s looks were described in detail in previous books, that’s no excuse for leaving readers who haven’t read those other books with no idea what makes her so special.
The overall problem is that Klein isn’t a believable character. I’m left with the impression of a competent psychotherapist who’s basically a grumpy loner. For unexplained reasons she’s irresistible to men, which provides her with the convenience of doing without a car, since she can call one or another of her admirers to drive for hours in the middle of the night to take her where she needs to go.
Tom Piccirilli’s 2009 “Shadow Season” has plenty of rave review excerpts on the cover, and they’re all true. It’s very well done suspense, and has what as far as I know is one completely original facet; the hero/detective is blind, but nevertheless plays his part fully, figuring out who has done what and physically fighting the bad guys. It may even actually be true that someone who was a policeman with fighting skills and good reflexes before he was blinded could hold his own in a close-contact physical fight.
Good as it is, it’s not my favorite kind of reading entertainment because gritty realism isn’t my taste. This brings me to the subject of this post, which is the need for an additional category to describe mystery/crime fiction, a category for books that have minimal gore but are not “cozy”. Why should the fact that I don’t want to wallow in bodily effusions automatically mean that I want to read about women baking cupcakes?
I need a name for books that have entertaining characters, interesting settings, minimal gore, and a protagonist who doesn’t dither. Books like Death of a Gypsy, which I have just published in the Kindle store.