The only good thing about a blog with only a handful of followers is that I pretty much know each one personally! So that's how I know that at least two of my "fans" are beekeepers. (Jeff: meet Scott! Scott, meet Jeff! Jeff: join the blog!) See, if I had hundreds of fans, this blog wouldn't be nearly so friendly!
You might be wondering why I have this bee in my bonnet. I just received two books by Laurie R. King, who writes a series of mysteries about Mary Russell and her husband, Sherlock Holmes. Beekeeping makes an appearance in both The Language of Bees (Bantam; $15; paperback) and The God of the Hive (Bantam; $25). One warning, though: although both have bee-related titles, and a disappearing hive figures in at least the first of the two, murder--not beekeeping--is the major focus of both books. I haven't read either book, but I have read Laurie R. King in the distant past. Her books are satisfying and well-crafted.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Still Midnight, by Denise Mina (Little, Brown; $24.99)
Two masked men enter the well-kept home of the Anwar family, just back from Ramadan prayers at the mosque. The men demand to see "Bob," and when none of the Anwars know who they mean, grab Aamir Anwar, the patriarch of the family, demanding two million pounds for his release and saying the kidnapping was payback for Afghanistan. In the melee, the hapless losers accidentally shoot the hand off of the Anwars' teenaged daughter.
Glaswegian detective Alex Morrow, who rubs virtually everyone the wrong way, should get the high profile case. But it is instead assigned to DS Bannerman, a suck-up colleague with shoddy police skills but excellent skills at self-promotion. Each of Bannerman's missed clues and mishandled interrogations reduce the chances of recovering Mr. Anwar alive. When it becomes obvious that the case is a nearly unsolvable mess, Bannerman takes sick leave, forcing Morrow to soldier on alone and solve the case. Alex's job is made more difficult by family ties she would prefer her police department colleagues not know about.
Denise Mina's latest includes the elements we've come to expect from this excellent writer: a gritty portrayal of Glasgow, an unlikable woman who forces others to take her seriously, and a great plot with a satisfying ending. I've liked her books since first reading her Garnethill trilogy, but a warning: these books are not for those who shrink from really graphic, vulgar language. She freely throws around a word that starts with "c" that is about the last taboo, at least in the US.
Glaswegian detective Alex Morrow, who rubs virtually everyone the wrong way, should get the high profile case. But it is instead assigned to DS Bannerman, a suck-up colleague with shoddy police skills but excellent skills at self-promotion. Each of Bannerman's missed clues and mishandled interrogations reduce the chances of recovering Mr. Anwar alive. When it becomes obvious that the case is a nearly unsolvable mess, Bannerman takes sick leave, forcing Morrow to soldier on alone and solve the case. Alex's job is made more difficult by family ties she would prefer her police department colleagues not know about.
Denise Mina's latest includes the elements we've come to expect from this excellent writer: a gritty portrayal of Glasgow, an unlikable woman who forces others to take her seriously, and a great plot with a satisfying ending. I've liked her books since first reading her Garnethill trilogy, but a warning: these books are not for those who shrink from really graphic, vulgar language. She freely throws around a word that starts with "c" that is about the last taboo, at least in the US.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
New Books: March 2010
Books are stacking up on my shelves, silent evidence that I'm not reading fast enough. I know I can't get to them all, but some by popular authors look like they could be pretty good. Instead of continuing to feel guilty, I'm going to just list them here with a short blurb describing the plot. If you read any of them and find they weren't worth your time, well--sorry!
Deception, by Jonathan Kellerman (Ballantine Books; $28): Psychologist Alex Delaware works with LA detective Milo Sturgis on the murder of young teacher at one of LA's most prestigious schools. A DVD found near her body contains the record of her 18-month nightmare of abuse at the hands of three fellow teachers.
Deep Shadow, by Randy Wayne White (Putnam; $25.95): South Florida jack-of-all-water-trades Doc Ford is diving in a safe little lake when a falling rock ledge traps two of his friends. He comes up to try to get help, but runs into two low-lifes who want Doc to help them dive to the bottom of the lake to salvage a wrecked plane allegedly filled with Cuban gold. With the lives of his pals in the balance, Doc is, as usual, in a mess of hot Florida trouble.
Capitol Betrayal, by William Bernhardt (Ballantine Books; $26): Former senator Ben Kincaid is meeting with the president when a threat to Washington forces their evacuation, along with the president's advisors, to the secure underground bunker. There they learn that a foreign dictator has hacked into the US nuclear defense system and will blow the US to smithereens unless the president does his bidding.
Sleepless, by Charlie Huston (Ballantine Books; $25): When insomnia infects the Los Angeles population. LAPD detective Parker Hess goes undercover to investigate the pharmaceutical company behind Dreamer, the only drug that can help victims sleep. I like Charlie Huston. His Joe Pitt vampire books are among the very, very few vampire books that I read. His Already Dead was terrific.
Rules of Vengeance, by Christopher Reich (Doubleday; $25.95): The plan for a romantic weekend away for Doctors without Borders physician Jonathan Ransom and his secret-agent wife, Emma, come to a bloody end in a terrorist attack. Now Emma is missing, and Jonathan is threatened with imprisonment unless he aids in her capture. His only chance is to think like a spy and uncover what she's been cooking up. Soon he learns that she's in far deeper than he realized and he's been an unwitting player. My husband really liked this book.
Kisser, by Stuart Woods (Putnam; $25.95): Lawyer Stone Barrington's latest assignment, protecting a lip model (seriously!), puts him in the New York world of art, million-dollar co-ops, and family scandals.
Blood Ties, by Kay Hooper (Bantam; $26): Special Agent Hollis Templeton uses her psychic abilities to help the FBI's Special Crimes Unit solve a series of brutal murders.
Treasure Hunt, by John Lescroart (Dutton; $26.95) San Francisco detective Mickey Dade investigates the murder of Dominic Como, a prominent activist, who may have been involved in some unseemly goings-on.
Breathless, by Dean Koontz (Bantam; $28.00): Okay, I read the flyleaf, and I can't begin to describe what this one is about. There's a dog, twins, a veterinarian, the government, a vagrant, chaos theory--I have no clue. I consider it a very bad sign when I can't understand the publisher's description of a book's plot.
Deception, by Jonathan Kellerman (Ballantine Books; $28): Psychologist Alex Delaware works with LA detective Milo Sturgis on the murder of young teacher at one of LA's most prestigious schools. A DVD found near her body contains the record of her 18-month nightmare of abuse at the hands of three fellow teachers.
Deep Shadow, by Randy Wayne White (Putnam; $25.95): South Florida jack-of-all-water-trades Doc Ford is diving in a safe little lake when a falling rock ledge traps two of his friends. He comes up to try to get help, but runs into two low-lifes who want Doc to help them dive to the bottom of the lake to salvage a wrecked plane allegedly filled with Cuban gold. With the lives of his pals in the balance, Doc is, as usual, in a mess of hot Florida trouble.
Capitol Betrayal, by William Bernhardt (Ballantine Books; $26): Former senator Ben Kincaid is meeting with the president when a threat to Washington forces their evacuation, along with the president's advisors, to the secure underground bunker. There they learn that a foreign dictator has hacked into the US nuclear defense system and will blow the US to smithereens unless the president does his bidding.
Sleepless, by Charlie Huston (Ballantine Books; $25): When insomnia infects the Los Angeles population. LAPD detective Parker Hess goes undercover to investigate the pharmaceutical company behind Dreamer, the only drug that can help victims sleep. I like Charlie Huston. His Joe Pitt vampire books are among the very, very few vampire books that I read. His Already Dead was terrific.
Rules of Vengeance, by Christopher Reich (Doubleday; $25.95): The plan for a romantic weekend away for Doctors without Borders physician Jonathan Ransom and his secret-agent wife, Emma, come to a bloody end in a terrorist attack. Now Emma is missing, and Jonathan is threatened with imprisonment unless he aids in her capture. His only chance is to think like a spy and uncover what she's been cooking up. Soon he learns that she's in far deeper than he realized and he's been an unwitting player. My husband really liked this book.
Kisser, by Stuart Woods (Putnam; $25.95): Lawyer Stone Barrington's latest assignment, protecting a lip model (seriously!), puts him in the New York world of art, million-dollar co-ops, and family scandals.
Blood Ties, by Kay Hooper (Bantam; $26): Special Agent Hollis Templeton uses her psychic abilities to help the FBI's Special Crimes Unit solve a series of brutal murders.
Treasure Hunt, by John Lescroart (Dutton; $26.95) San Francisco detective Mickey Dade investigates the murder of Dominic Como, a prominent activist, who may have been involved in some unseemly goings-on.
Breathless, by Dean Koontz (Bantam; $28.00): Okay, I read the flyleaf, and I can't begin to describe what this one is about. There's a dog, twins, a veterinarian, the government, a vagrant, chaos theory--I have no clue. I consider it a very bad sign when I can't understand the publisher's description of a book's plot.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Dick Francis, 1920-2010
Dick Francis, one of my favorite authors, died on February 14 at the age of 89. He had been ailing for some time. He wrote his first mystery, Dead Cert, in 1962; in the nearly 50 intervening years, he wrote more than 40 books. The Washington Post reported that his books sold more than 60 million copies.
I first discovered Dick Francis when I began reading a copy of Banker left unguarded at a family gathering by Louis Massery, my late brother-in-law. I liked it so much that I began working through Francis' previous books, and then reading each new book he wrote. I loved how, despite being murder mysteries, the books had a gentleness to them. His male characters were strong, but not aggressive; cautious, but brave; and sweetly persistent in getting the girl.
As most all of his fans know, he started out as a jockey, becoming so successful that in 1953 he was chosen to ride the Queen Mother's horses in British races. Riding Devon Loch in the 1956 Grand National, the 35-year-old Francis was 50 yards from winning when the horse inexplicably went down. Some theorize that the horse was startled by the roar of the crowd; others thought he tried to jump a "phantom fence." Whatever the cause of the collapse, Francis' disappointment and injuries from previous falls made him hang up his racing career for good. He wrote an autobiography, and then began writing racing-related mysteries.
Several years ago, I interviewed Mr. Francis when he came here to Washington, DC, for a book tour. I met him in his suite at a ritzy downtown hotel. He was older than he looked on book jackets and disarmingly sweet--not at all what I had expected of a wildly successful murder mystery writer. He told me that he had never been educated, having dropped out of school to be a jockey. He said that he would write his books in a very rough fashion, and then his wife, Mary, who had a university degree, would fix them up.
In an obit appearing in the Daily Mail's online edition, Graham Lord, Francis' biographer, said that it was actually Mary, and not Dick Francis, who wrote the books. According to Lord:
Several years ago, Dick Francis and Mary moved to the Cayman Islands. Mary died in 2000, and for several years, Dick did not write any more books. Recently, he began writing with his son, Felix. Their third collaboration, Even Money, came out in 2009. It centered on betting on horse racing, but also included a long-lost father, a wife with mental illness, and various other plots and subplots. The overly-busy story had a Dick Francis-like feel, but without Mary's influence, it just wasn't the same.
I first discovered Dick Francis when I began reading a copy of Banker left unguarded at a family gathering by Louis Massery, my late brother-in-law. I liked it so much that I began working through Francis' previous books, and then reading each new book he wrote. I loved how, despite being murder mysteries, the books had a gentleness to them. His male characters were strong, but not aggressive; cautious, but brave; and sweetly persistent in getting the girl.
As most all of his fans know, he started out as a jockey, becoming so successful that in 1953 he was chosen to ride the Queen Mother's horses in British races. Riding Devon Loch in the 1956 Grand National, the 35-year-old Francis was 50 yards from winning when the horse inexplicably went down. Some theorize that the horse was startled by the roar of the crowd; others thought he tried to jump a "phantom fence." Whatever the cause of the collapse, Francis' disappointment and injuries from previous falls made him hang up his racing career for good. He wrote an autobiography, and then began writing racing-related mysteries.
Several years ago, I interviewed Mr. Francis when he came here to Washington, DC, for a book tour. I met him in his suite at a ritzy downtown hotel. He was older than he looked on book jackets and disarmingly sweet--not at all what I had expected of a wildly successful murder mystery writer. He told me that he had never been educated, having dropped out of school to be a jockey. He said that he would write his books in a very rough fashion, and then his wife, Mary, who had a university degree, would fix them up.
In an obit appearing in the Daily Mail's online edition, Graham Lord, Francis' biographer, said that it was actually Mary, and not Dick Francis, who wrote the books. According to Lord:
Mary was a crucial part of the thriller-writing 'team'. Although partly paralysed by polio and suffering chronic asthma and bronchitis, she researched all the books - in the process becoming a computer expert, photographer, accountant, painter and wine buff, even qualifying as a pilot for the book Flying Finish.
Indeed, as his biographer, I am convinced that Francis (who was poorly educated and not at all literary) did not write the books himself. I am sure that they were written by his clever, literate, university-educated wife but published under his name because as a famous jockey he would sell more copies.
In 1980, Mary told me: 'Yes, Dick would like me to have all the credit for them, but believe me, it's much better for everyone, including the readers, to think that he writes them because they're taut, masculine books that might otherwise lose their credibility.'
When I revealed the truth in my double biography of the Francises in 1999, the Mail on Sunday reported that Mary was 'evasive when asked bluntly whether she is the true author.
She said equivocally, "It is not exactly true to say that I write Dick's books ... I could get him to write you a letter and you would see he can write". The amount of sharing we do is, to my mind, sort of private. We would really like people not to press us too hard on this".' The truth is that Dick Francis hated writing and took little pleasure in the success of the books. His first love was horses and he once said: 'My life ended when I stopped racing.'
Several years ago, Dick Francis and Mary moved to the Cayman Islands. Mary died in 2000, and for several years, Dick did not write any more books. Recently, he began writing with his son, Felix. Their third collaboration, Even Money, came out in 2009. It centered on betting on horse racing, but also included a long-lost father, a wife with mental illness, and various other plots and subplots. The overly-busy story had a Dick Francis-like feel, but without Mary's influence, it just wasn't the same.
Friday, February 12, 2010
The First Rule, by Robert Crais (Putnam; $26.95)
I blow hot and cold on Robert Crais. He can always be counted on for a solid detective story, and when I'm looking for a solid detective yarn, I know I can count on his LA-based Elvis Cole series to deliver. But he's no John Sandford or Michael Connelly. I don't yearn for his books, the way I do theirs.
His latest focuses not on Cole, but on his sidekick, Joe Pike. The story is good, but Pike himself is a caricature. Pike learns from some cops that an old friend, fellow mercenary Frank Meyer, has been killed in a home invasion, along with his wife, young boys, and the nanny. The cops think Frank must have been involved in something nefarious, because the crime fit the pattern of six previous home invasion/murders where the victim was also a criminal. But Frank lived a clean life, or so Pike thinks. He sets out to learn why Frank was targeted and to wreak vengeance on those who killed his guy.
Pike has always been the strong, silent type, which is okay for a sidekick, but doesn't work so well for a main character. It's hard to care about a character who refuses to speak. This is a guy who has been on "missions as long as a week, and never uttered a word." A good guy to have watching your back, but not very compelling as a main character. He does warm up a bit when he meets a pit bull and a baby, but these flashes of humanity are too rare to compensate for the over-the-top taciturnity. (If that's not a word, it should be.)
His latest focuses not on Cole, but on his sidekick, Joe Pike. The story is good, but Pike himself is a caricature. Pike learns from some cops that an old friend, fellow mercenary Frank Meyer, has been killed in a home invasion, along with his wife, young boys, and the nanny. The cops think Frank must have been involved in something nefarious, because the crime fit the pattern of six previous home invasion/murders where the victim was also a criminal. But Frank lived a clean life, or so Pike thinks. He sets out to learn why Frank was targeted and to wreak vengeance on those who killed his guy.
Pike has always been the strong, silent type, which is okay for a sidekick, but doesn't work so well for a main character. It's hard to care about a character who refuses to speak. This is a guy who has been on "missions as long as a week, and never uttered a word." A good guy to have watching your back, but not very compelling as a main character. He does warm up a bit when he meets a pit bull and a baby, but these flashes of humanity are too rare to compensate for the over-the-top taciturnity. (If that's not a word, it should be.)
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Recent comments
Two comments from mystery lover DB:
1. Alan Furst has a new title coming out in June, titled Spies of the Balkans. He is always worth a read. Great atmosphere. DB
2. Has anyone heard anything about Robert Harris' new title Conspirata? I have enjoyed his earlier works. DB
1. Alan Furst has a new title coming out in June, titled Spies of the Balkans. He is always worth a read. Great atmosphere. DB
2. Has anyone heard anything about Robert Harris' new title Conspirata? I have enjoyed his earlier works. DB
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Twisted Tree, by Kent Meyers (Houghton Mifflin;$24)
I have to admit, the cover of this book initially kept me from reading it. The photo of a horse, taken at sunset or sunrise, seemed more like something trying to appeal to the tweens who watch Saddle Club on Discovery Kids than to grownups looking for a good read. And it wasn't just the cover art that was off-putting: the jacket describes the plot as revolving around the kidnapping and murder of a young woman suffering from anorexia. Like many people, I generally hate books in which children or teens are the victims. So it's a wonder that I read the book at all.
But I'm so very glad that I did. Twisted Tree is one of the best books I've read in a long while. I'm hard pressed to choose what aspect of the book I liked the most: the structure, the setting, the language, or the characters. The weakest part, actually, is the murder plot. It ended up being almost unnecessary, and the book would have been stronger had Meyers found some other way to unify the vignettes that comprise the book.
So here's the set-up. Hayley Jo Zimmerman is slowly starving herself, with the encouragement of the people she's met on a "pro-Ana" website. (These are sites on which, unbelievably, anorexics support each other in their quest to continue to lose weight.) Hayley Jo doesn't know that the virtual friend with whom she's become closest (and shared a fatal amount of identifying information) is actually a fat creep who has been murdering other anorexics in the northern plains. By the end of the first chapter, Hayley Jo is basically out of the book.
Each subsequent chapter focuses on someone else living in the area around Twisted Tree, South Dakota. Although each person has had some tangential contact with Hayley Jo in her short lifetime, she is certainly not central to the action. There's the story of Angela Morrison, a young bride (later, the mother of Hayley Jo's best friend) who slowly goes crazy living on a rattlesnake-infested ranch with her husband Brock. Or Sophie Lawrence, who looks to all of Twisted Tree like a saint for tending to her disabled stepfather, while actually tormenting him in private to make up for how he abused her when she was a girl. And one of my favorites: crazy Shane Valen, whose great-grandfather settled the land, and who--well, I'm not going to give his story away. ("The thing about weird sonsabitches is they stick to their weird," the sheriff muses about Shane. "You can trust them. Normal people keep their weird hid, so if it ever gets out you have no idea where it'll go.")
The aspect of the book that I found the most amazing, however, is how each detail, no matter how small, ends up being significant in some way. A marble, two dusty golf bags, some old names carved in a school desk--they appear, and reappear, in a way that speaks to Kent Meyers' precision and--for lack of a better word--control over his writing. I cannot even contemplate the effort it must take to keep track of so many of what might just seem like throw-away details. It reminded me of the movie Crash, one of my favorites, where all the stories end up with overlapping details that you don't even pick up on until you see the movie for a second time. In a similar fashion, my second reading of Twisted Tree unearthed details that I missed the first time because I hadn't realized their significance.
If I were Kent Meyers, I would demand that my publisher change the cover art, rewrite the flyleaf, and pay for a huge book tour in which the book gets as much publicity as is possible. This book simply blew me away.
But I'm so very glad that I did. Twisted Tree is one of the best books I've read in a long while. I'm hard pressed to choose what aspect of the book I liked the most: the structure, the setting, the language, or the characters. The weakest part, actually, is the murder plot. It ended up being almost unnecessary, and the book would have been stronger had Meyers found some other way to unify the vignettes that comprise the book.
So here's the set-up. Hayley Jo Zimmerman is slowly starving herself, with the encouragement of the people she's met on a "pro-Ana" website. (These are sites on which, unbelievably, anorexics support each other in their quest to continue to lose weight.) Hayley Jo doesn't know that the virtual friend with whom she's become closest (and shared a fatal amount of identifying information) is actually a fat creep who has been murdering other anorexics in the northern plains. By the end of the first chapter, Hayley Jo is basically out of the book.
Each subsequent chapter focuses on someone else living in the area around Twisted Tree, South Dakota. Although each person has had some tangential contact with Hayley Jo in her short lifetime, she is certainly not central to the action. There's the story of Angela Morrison, a young bride (later, the mother of Hayley Jo's best friend) who slowly goes crazy living on a rattlesnake-infested ranch with her husband Brock. Or Sophie Lawrence, who looks to all of Twisted Tree like a saint for tending to her disabled stepfather, while actually tormenting him in private to make up for how he abused her when she was a girl. And one of my favorites: crazy Shane Valen, whose great-grandfather settled the land, and who--well, I'm not going to give his story away. ("The thing about weird sonsabitches is they stick to their weird," the sheriff muses about Shane. "You can trust them. Normal people keep their weird hid, so if it ever gets out you have no idea where it'll go.")
The aspect of the book that I found the most amazing, however, is how each detail, no matter how small, ends up being significant in some way. A marble, two dusty golf bags, some old names carved in a school desk--they appear, and reappear, in a way that speaks to Kent Meyers' precision and--for lack of a better word--control over his writing. I cannot even contemplate the effort it must take to keep track of so many of what might just seem like throw-away details. It reminded me of the movie Crash, one of my favorites, where all the stories end up with overlapping details that you don't even pick up on until you see the movie for a second time. In a similar fashion, my second reading of Twisted Tree unearthed details that I missed the first time because I hadn't realized their significance.
If I were Kent Meyers, I would demand that my publisher change the cover art, rewrite the flyleaf, and pay for a huge book tour in which the book gets as much publicity as is possible. This book simply blew me away.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Doors Open, by Ian Rankin (Little, Brown; $24.99)
Three guys, three different reasons to steal priceless art. Former software whiz kid Mike MacKenzie can buy most anything he wants, but he's bored, restless, and looking for adventure. Boring, divorced banker Allan Cruickshank needs cash to pay for his sons to attend their outrageously expensive private school. And Professor Robert Gissing has a cause: the "repatriation" of art being stored or displayed privately.
The three joke about how to go about stealing art from the storage rooms of Scotland's National Gallery, but soon their talk moves from fantasy to an actual plan. They can't pull it off on their own, however, and turn for help to Chib Calloway, a rough type with ready access to extra manpower. Adding Chib to the caper is a mistake-he's a cutthroat, take-no-prisoners gangster with money problems. Add an art student with a demanding girlfriend, a detective trying for advancement, a Hell's Angel nicknamed Hate (due probably to the fact that both of his hands are tattooed with the word) to the mix and the plot just gets better and better.
In 2007, Ian Rankin retired Edinburgh Detective Inspector John Rebus after more than 20 books written over 20 years. Doors Open, a stand-alone mystery, was published as a 14-week story in the New York Times Magazine. The story's origin as a series is clear from each chapter's cliff-hanger ending. Rankin is beloved among mystery fans on both sides of the pond. Even if you thought Rebus was a bit of a crank, you'll love his latest.
The three joke about how to go about stealing art from the storage rooms of Scotland's National Gallery, but soon their talk moves from fantasy to an actual plan. They can't pull it off on their own, however, and turn for help to Chib Calloway, a rough type with ready access to extra manpower. Adding Chib to the caper is a mistake-he's a cutthroat, take-no-prisoners gangster with money problems. Add an art student with a demanding girlfriend, a detective trying for advancement, a Hell's Angel nicknamed Hate (due probably to the fact that both of his hands are tattooed with the word) to the mix and the plot just gets better and better.
In 2007, Ian Rankin retired Edinburgh Detective Inspector John Rebus after more than 20 books written over 20 years. Doors Open, a stand-alone mystery, was published as a 14-week story in the New York Times Magazine. The story's origin as a series is clear from each chapter's cliff-hanger ending. Rankin is beloved among mystery fans on both sides of the pond. Even if you thought Rebus was a bit of a crank, you'll love his latest.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Poe No-Show
There's a real mystery afoot in Baltimore this week. For the past 60 years, a mysterious figure has visited the grave of Edgar Allan Poe on January 20, his birthday, leaving three roses and a half-full bottle of cognac.
This year, no one came.
According to the Washington Post, the Baltimore Evening Sun first reported on the mysterious offerings in 1949. The tradition has continued since then, with the identity of the stranger the subject of intense speculation on the part of Poe fans. One "suspect" mentioned fairly recently is Baltimore poet/performance artist David Franks, who, according to the Post, "once photocopied his private parts on a Xerox machine at a Social Security office and put the images on display. Decades ago, he posed as a disabled poet in a wheelchair, solicited donations from the crowd, then thanked everyone and got up and walked away."
I couldn't make that up if I tried!
Franks died last week at age 60. If he was the mysterious visitor, his death would explain the no-show on Poe's birthday Tuesday.
I guess we'll have to wait for a year to learn if the tradition was merely interrupted this year, or if Poe's birthday will be celebrated (wait for it!) nevermore.
This year, no one came.
According to the Washington Post, the Baltimore Evening Sun first reported on the mysterious offerings in 1949. The tradition has continued since then, with the identity of the stranger the subject of intense speculation on the part of Poe fans. One "suspect" mentioned fairly recently is Baltimore poet/performance artist David Franks, who, according to the Post, "once photocopied his private parts on a Xerox machine at a Social Security office and put the images on display. Decades ago, he posed as a disabled poet in a wheelchair, solicited donations from the crowd, then thanked everyone and got up and walked away."
I couldn't make that up if I tried!
Franks died last week at age 60. If he was the mysterious visitor, his death would explain the no-show on Poe's birthday Tuesday.
I guess we'll have to wait for a year to learn if the tradition was merely interrupted this year, or if Poe's birthday will be celebrated (wait for it!) nevermore.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Robert B. Parker, 1933-2010
One of my favorite authors, Robert B. Parker, was found dead this morning at his Cambridge, Massachusetts home. According to news accounts, Parker, age 77, was found by his wife, slumped over his writing desk.
Parker wrote over 50 novels, 37 of which starred Boston PI Spenser. Other series included the Jesse Stone mysteries, some of which were made into t.v. movies starring Tom Selleck, and the Sunny Randall series.
I liked his books for their well-plotted mysteries and the consistency of his books. Although tending to be a tad formulaic, fans could count on Spenser to speak with a directness that was endearing, even if his girlfriend, psychologist Susan Silverman, was a neurotic pain in the neck. Perhaps my favorite character, though, was Spenser's sidekick Hawk, whose supreme coolness was unmatched in the mystery world.
Parker has long been a mainstay of the mystery world, and I'm so sad that he's gone.
Parker wrote over 50 novels, 37 of which starred Boston PI Spenser. Other series included the Jesse Stone mysteries, some of which were made into t.v. movies starring Tom Selleck, and the Sunny Randall series.
I liked his books for their well-plotted mysteries and the consistency of his books. Although tending to be a tad formulaic, fans could count on Spenser to speak with a directness that was endearing, even if his girlfriend, psychologist Susan Silverman, was a neurotic pain in the neck. Perhaps my favorite character, though, was Spenser's sidekick Hawk, whose supreme coolness was unmatched in the mystery world.
Parker has long been a mainstay of the mystery world, and I'm so sad that he's gone.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Given Day, by Dennis Lehane (Morrow; $27.95)
I didn’t get to Dennis Lehane’s latest when it came out in 2008, but since he’s one of my favorite mystery authors, I decided to get caught up. The book is quite a departure from his previous books— Mystic River; Gone, Baby, Gone; and Shutter Island (soon to be in theatres)—all fabulous, all on my mental list of the thousand or so best mysteries of the modern era.
The Given Day is not a mystery, but is instead a historic novel focusing on the rise of labor unions after World War I. Officer Danny Coughlin is Boston Police Department “royalty”: the son of captain and the godson of lieutenant. The department has reneged on its pre-war promise of raises, sick pay, and covering the cost of uniforms and weapons, and Danny and the rest of the rank-and-file are getting tired of hearing the excuses. Dad and Uncle Eddie promise Danny a gold shield if he brings them information about the what officers are involved with the increasingly militant Boston Social Club (and other “Bolsheviks.”) As Danny tries to infiltrate the budding union, he finds more sympathy for their cause than for the need of department management to maintain control. The beat cops and management are on a collision course that threatens to alter the course of labor history.
Lehane skillfully weaves several subplots into the story of the police unions. Luther Lawrence, pitcher for a black baseball team, winds up on the lam in Boston after some trouble in Tulsa, where he had to leave his wife and baby. Nora O’Shea, a young Irish woman living with the Coughlins loves Danny but is engaged to his toady of a brother, Connor. And Babe Ruth, who plays against Luther in a pick-up game one day, learns that he might not always be a Yankee. Set against the backdrop of the influenza epidemic, the upcoming Volstead Act, and the racism of the early 20th century, The Given Day is a richly textured, well-plotted joy.
The Given Day is not a mystery, but is instead a historic novel focusing on the rise of labor unions after World War I. Officer Danny Coughlin is Boston Police Department “royalty”: the son of captain and the godson of lieutenant. The department has reneged on its pre-war promise of raises, sick pay, and covering the cost of uniforms and weapons, and Danny and the rest of the rank-and-file are getting tired of hearing the excuses. Dad and Uncle Eddie promise Danny a gold shield if he brings them information about the what officers are involved with the increasingly militant Boston Social Club (and other “Bolsheviks.”) As Danny tries to infiltrate the budding union, he finds more sympathy for their cause than for the need of department management to maintain control. The beat cops and management are on a collision course that threatens to alter the course of labor history.
Lehane skillfully weaves several subplots into the story of the police unions. Luther Lawrence, pitcher for a black baseball team, winds up on the lam in Boston after some trouble in Tulsa, where he had to leave his wife and baby. Nora O’Shea, a young Irish woman living with the Coughlins loves Danny but is engaged to his toady of a brother, Connor. And Babe Ruth, who plays against Luther in a pick-up game one day, learns that he might not always be a Yankee. Set against the backdrop of the influenza epidemic, the upcoming Volstead Act, and the racism of the early 20th century, The Given Day is a richly textured, well-plotted joy.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Deeper than the Dead, by Tami Hoag (Dutton; $26.95)
Tami Hoag’s books are one of my few vices. Equal parts mystery and romance, they are long enough to last a whole snowy weekend, infinitely readable, and with plots that don’t require a lot of effort to figure out.
So I was thrilled to learn that, after a two-year hiatus, Hoag was back with a new mystery. In Deeper Than the Dead, four 5th-graders stumble upon the body of a dead woman in the woods, her eyes and mouth glued shut and her ear drums ruptured. (A nod to the “no evil” monkeys.) The students’ teacher, Anne Navarre, does what she can to help them through the aftermath of this horrific discovery. She works with the local cops as well as a FBI agent, Vince Leone, who examines the pattern of this and similar murders to make conclusions about the killer. This being 1985, profiling was just starting to be used to help solve crimes, and not everyone is on board with the help Leone can offer.
Faced with a handsome young cop or an injured FBI agent twice her age, I’ll leave it to you to guess which one the lovely Ms. Navarre falls in love with. Alas, the book is not one of Hoag’s best, but it’s still a decent page-turner.
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