That's the case with two of this month's authors: Laurie R. King and the late Donald Westlake. I am partial to Westlake's Dortmunder series and to King's marvelous creation in Mary Russell as companion and partner to Sherlock Holmes.
This month's third returning favorite is not a series per se, but rather the distinct literary persona adopted by Ruth Rendell when she writes as Barbara Vine, creating a wonderful series of dark suspense novels connected only by their psychological density and her vivid imagination.
* * * *
Donald Westlake created the character of John Dortmunder in his 1970 book, The Hot Rock, and thirteen have appeared since. Get Real (Grand Central Publishing, $23.99) is the latest and perhaps the last—Westlake died last New Year's Eve. Earlier in Westlake's career, there were gaps of five to six years between Dortmunder's appearances, but happily, as Westlake had noted on his own Web site (www.donaldwestlake.com): “I seem to be spending more time with John Dortmunder than I used to...” Indeed, recently the typical wait was only two years between the complicated comic crime capers devised by the devious Dortmunder and his cronies.
* * * *
* * * *
Dortmunder is a professional crook and an ingenious planner who assembles teams of criminals to pull off complex but lucrative thefts. Needless to say, the more lucrative the crime, the greater the risk, and the more complex the caper, the greater likelihood that things will go wrong. How they go wrong and how adroitly Dortmunder manages to counter the fickle twists of fate provides great pleasure.
The fun begins almost immediately in Get Real when Stan Murch's cab-driving mother meets reality TV producer Doug Fairkeep. Murch is a getaway driver, and when Fairkeep deduces just what kind of driver Stan is, he seizes on the idea of a reality show that would follow real life criminals as they plan and carry out a crime. Obviously, that plot has drawbacks, particularly for the criminals filmed committing a crime.
From that seed a mighty con job grows as Dortmunder and his crew try to put together a crime that will at least ostensibly meet Fairkeep's needs and at the same time keep themselves clear of repercussions.
Reality TV is a rich field for Westlake to plow, and he doesn't disappoint as he skewers staff and cast. For instance, reality shows are cheap in part because they don't have scriptwriters. Instead, reality TV has production assistants who do not write scripts, they just make “suggestions.” They don't get the credits or pay that script writers would command. As Fairkeep explains it to Marcy Waldorf: “...reality shows do not have actors and writers because they do not need actors and writers. If you were a writer, Marcy, you would have to be in the union, and you would cost us a whole lot more because of health insurance and a pension plan, which would make you too expensive for our budget..."
No one writes better or funnier caper novels than Donald Westlake, and Get Real is the latest testament to that fact.
* * * *
Laurie R. King struck Edgar gold with her first novel, A Grave Talent, which introduced Kate Martinelli, then broke plenty of rules by launching a new series with her second novel instead of following up on the success of her debut. Her second book, The Beekeeper's Apprentice, introduced Mary Russell, a fifteen-year-old girl who in 1915 meets the retired and reclusive Sherlock Holmes on his Sussex turf.
* * * *
* * * *
From their unlikely meeting sprang a friendship of kindred spirits despite their substantial age difference. That initial friendship has ripened over the course of nine novels into a partnership, and eventually into a marriage, as odd as that might sound to readers familiar only with Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. Most remarkable to me is that King has managed to make this implausible transformation of the misogynistic Holmes entirely credible—that is, she has maintained in large degree the essence of Doyle's creation.
In the intervening years the duo has traveled to Palestine (O Jerusalem), India (The Game), and to the United States (Locked Rooms), where Mary confronted mysteries about her own past. They've also made a notable return to Dartmoor, where Holmes once faced the Hound of the Baskervilles, in The Moor.
If there are Doyle fans who recoil at the idea of Holmes as a husband (and I'm sure there are), they will be further flummoxed by the events detailed in The Language of Bees (Bantam, $25) in which Holmes discovers that he is the father of a grown son, Damian Adler. Five years after Holmes first meets Damian, he shows up in Sussex Downs with a serious problem. His bohemian wife, Yolanda, and their young daughter have gone missing.
The search for the missing mother and child leads Holmes and Russell on a hunt conducted separately and together, aided by the always resourceful Mycroft Holmes. The quest will lead into the dark heart of a religious cult and ritual slaughters at some of England's most unusual prehistoric sites. King, as usual, keeps readers on edge as Russell and Holmes don disguises, make impressive deductions, and deal with dangerous foes.
* * * *
Writing as Barbara Vine, Ruth Rendell has produced a dozen suspense novels, including 1986's A Dark-Adapted Eye, which won an Edgar award, and, a year later, A Fatal Inversion, which won the coveted Gold Dagger award from the Crime Writer's Association in the U.K. Her thirteenth novel as Barbara Vine is as eerie and unsettling as any of its predecessors. The Birthday Present (Shaye Areheart Books, $25), with its deceptively simple premise and alternating narrators, reads like a nightmare where you know something terrible is going to happen, but it's impossible to predict how it's going to unfold or who is going to suffer most.
* * * *
* * * *
The story is narrated in straightforward fashion by Rob Delgado on one hand, and revealed elliptically in tantalizing passages from the diary of Jane Atherton. Together they describe the journey of Ivor Tesham, a member of parliament and a rising young star in the political firmament.
Tesham, Delgado's brother-in-law, decides to give his mistress, Hebe Furnal, an unusual surprise birthday present. The two enjoy so-called “adventure sex,” involving role-playing games, and Tesham hires two men to “kidnap” Hebe off the street and bring her to the Delgados’ house, which he had arranged to borrow for the assignation.
But the kidnapping ends in tragedy. Tesham's role in the whole affair isn't known at first—in fact the police believe that Hebe wasn't really the intended victim. But others know or suspect Tesham's involvement, including Delgado and Hebe's friend Jane Atherton, whom Hebe relied upon to provide an alibi when she left her husband and son to spend time with Tesham.
Tesham's attempts to avoid the repercussions of the tragedy and to preserve his political career seem, against the odds, to be successful and even take a bizarre upturn. With a plot full of twists that play out against a background of privilege and pride, and a bevy of characters seeking to gain from the tragedy, Barbara Vine's craft conjures a dark but satisfying entertainment.
* * * *
* * * *
Hannah Berry's gorgeous graphic novel, Britten and Brulightly (Henry Holt, $20) summons the spirit of noir with rich artistry and sharp plotting. In rain-soaked London, Fernandez Britten is a talented Ecuadoran private investigator full of sorrow. He is tired of living up to his nickname, “The Heartbreaker,” having spent years discovering romantic infidelities and devastating his clients. His only hope is to solve a case with a happy ending, and therefore earn his redemption. Britten's partner, Stewart Brulightly—a prurient being whose incarnation can only be called “unconventional"—urges him to assist a beautiful woman whose fiancee has allegedly committed suicide. Britten agrees, hoping to comfort her. But true to the genre, Berry constructs an intricate labyrinth of family secrets, brutal lies, and stunning revelations that take Britten far from the healing he wants.
Berry's masterful touch takes full advantage of the dramatic moments only graphic novels can evoke. A two-page spread showing Britten bent forward in a downpour induces as much full, suspenseful feeling as a tiny panel showing a baffled cat's shining eyes, and Britten's thoughts capture wis
e, pithy truths: “Absolute morality is a luxury for the short-sighted.” At age twenty-five, Berry has accomplished a complex, visually stunning debut, and readers will look forward to what else her palette can provide.
Copyright © 2009 Robert C. Hahn
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE INCENSE MURDER by I. J. Parker
* * * *
Joel Spector
* * * *
Heian-Kyo (Kyoto): Clothes-Lining Month (March), 1010 A.D.
On a gray spring morning in a week of cold, drizzling rains, Akitada was summoned by his mother. Their relationship was strained at the best of times, but on this occasion she would get him involved in a case that was not only deeply disturbing but nearly ended his career and perhaps his life. He would forever after fear dealings with his parent.
But that morning, unsuspecting, he walked along the covered gallery and saw that the roof had sprung another leak. He sighed; he expected to be told to fix it. They had no money to spend on workmen and no servants able to carry out the heavy work.
Lady Sugawara was at her morning devotions, kneeling and bowing before the small Buddha statue on a shelf in her room. Akitada sat down to wait and looked around. At least the roof was solid here. The house might be falling down around their ears, but his mother's quarters would remain as comfortable as ever. She would not have it any other way.
She made her final bow and turned. “Ah! Akitada, I want you to go to your Cousin Koremori."
O-tomo Koremori was a cousin on Akitada's mother's side and no connection to the Sugawaras, a fact for which Akitada was grateful. Koremori was past fifty now, a wealthy man who had married well, and a recent widower. Since he had lost his only son Akemori in a duel a few years before and was now childless, Akitada's mother had initiated more cordial relations. She expected Koremori to leave his property to her or to her children when he died. Koremori knew it and behaved accordingly. Akitada could not abide Koremori.
He said, “I cannot go immediately, Mother. I am due at the Ministry."
His mother raised her brows. “Nonsense. Why should you not make time for a close family member? Please remember who you are."
What he was was a junior clerk in the Ministry of Justice and in enough trouble already. “I could go after work, Mother,” he said reluctantly.
She frowned. “Very well, but don't forget again like last time. I want you to take him this fan. He admired it the last time he was here. Tell him it's a small present to cheer him up. Oh, and write a suitable card for it."
The fan was his mother's favorite and dated back to better times. That she was willing to part with it meant she was embarking on a new campaign to influence Koremori's final arrangements.
Akitada took the fan, bowed to his mother, and retreated.
* * * *
That evening Akitada arrived at the O-tomo residence feeling resentful. The weather had worsened. Wet, cold, and tired from an unprofitable day in the archives, he did not look forward to this visit and hoped to make it a short one.
Koremori sat behind a large desk in an elegantly furnished study. Handsome shades were lowered to keep the room cozy, and silk cushions awaited guests. Above him hung a scroll with the admonition: “Remember your duty to past and future generations.” When the servant admitted Akitada, he looked up and stared at Akitada with his usual unpleasant expression.
As a child, Akitada had thought of him as a fat toad because of his bulbous eyes and broad face. Today he looked more than usually toadlike.
"Oh, it's you,” Koremori said ungraciously and gestured toward a cushion.
Akitada sat down and sniffed the air. The room reeked. The smell was not unpleasant, just powerful. Some of the redolence came from his cousin's perfumed robe. Sandalwood and cloves. But other scents mingled and Akitada saw that a table held preparations for an incense guessing game.
This game was an aristocratic pursuit in which the participants submitted their own concoctions anonymously, then guessed the ingredients and chose a winner for the best fragrance. Akitada disapproved of such waste of money, time, and intelligence.
He bowed and said stiffly, “My mother sent me, Cousin. She recalled that you admired this trifling object on your last visit and asked me to present it to you.” He took the fan from his sleeve and passed it to Koremori.
Koremori's wide mouth twitched. He glanced briefly at the words Akitada had written on his visiting card and attached to the gift, then laid fan and note aside.
"Tell your mother I am obliged for her thoughtful present.” He stared at Akitada. “So. Still a clerk in the Ministry, are you?"
"Yes, Cousin. I hope I see you well?"
"Never better.” Koremori's lip twitched again. “Be sure to tell your mother. She takes a great interest in my health."
Akitada felt himself flush. Koremori never missed an opportunity to make him feel small and his mother mercenary.
Koremori added, “Apart from her ill-advised marriage, she has always shown proper family feeling."
Akitada did not consider himself related to Koremori. He was a Sugawara. Though innocent, his most famous forebear had been found guilty of treason and had died in political exile to the subsequent ruin of his descendants. Akitada reminded himself, as always, that he had nothing in common with Koremori, either in their values or appearance. Akitada, tall and as slender as a whip, regarded Koremori's short, fat body as just punishment for overeating and indolence. His cousin's luxurious lifestyle was, to Akitada's youthful idealism, immoral and indecent. But remembering his mother, he suppressed his anger and said nothing.
Instead he averted his eyes from the offensive Koremori to look around the room and he noticed the incense table again.
A man given to excess in everything from family pride to fine food, O-tomo Koremori was a connoisseur and passionate practitioner of the incense cult. He spared no expense in this pursuit and was counted among the most knowledgeable experts on exotic ingredients.
The paraphernalia on the table included packets of incense in neatly labeled envelopes or twists of expensive papers. The lacquerware utensils were dusted with gold and silver and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Small ladles of silver and gold lay beside burners of gilded bronze.
Koremori suddenly clapped his hands and shouted, “Out, vile creature!” Akitada jumped, but his cousin was not addressing him. Flushed with anger, he rose to throw his ink stone at a small black and white kitten. The stone brushed the little animal, which squealed and scurried under the desk. Koremori scanned the room.
Akitada said quickly, “It's only a kitten."
"I hate cats. Is it gone?"
"It's gone,” Akitada lied. From the corner of his eye, he saw the kitten emerging and stretching a tentative paw for his red paper card that dangled from the edge of Koremori's desk.
Koremori sat down again. He clearly wanted Akitada gone as much as Akitada wanted to leave. Both tried to find the appropriate words. Koremori said, “I am quite busy at the moment with preparations for another incense party, and the cat could spoil everything if it disturbed the samples."
The kitten snagged the card and withdrew with it under the desk.
Akitada said politely, “Your expertise in that field is well known, Cousin. Under the circumstances, I won't take up more of your time..."
But Koremori had heard the rustling of paper and peered under the desk. He roared, “Kenzo!"
A young boy ran in. His black hair was tied into two fat brushes over each ear, and his bright eyes took in Akitada in a single measuring glance before he told Koremori, “Kenzo's busy, Master. Will I do?"
"Why is this cursed cat running loose in my room?” Koremori pointed under the desk. “Take it back to its mistress this instant! If I ever find it here again, I'll have you whipped."
The boy got to his knees and scooped out the kitten, detaching Akitada's card from its teeth and putting it back on the desk. “Come, little tiger,” he crooned, “let's go into the garden and watch
the goldfish."
Koremori glowered after them. “Did you see that? Not so much as a bow!"
Akitada got to his feet. “I shall give Mother your message, Cousin,” he said.
Koremori nodded. “I wish I had more time to chat,” he said grudgingly. “My household has been standing on its head all day."
As if on cue, the door flew open again, and a very beautiful young woman swept into the room, silk gowns fluttering and long hair trailing on the floor behind her. Her clothes were exquisite, the short sleeves of her embroidered Chinese coat revealing many layers of harmoniously hued robes of the thinnest silk.
"Oh, darling,” she cried, “have you seen my kitten?” She stopped abruptly and looked in consternation at Akitada.
Koremori had turned a deep red. He cleared his throat. “Forgive the interruption, Akitada. This is Yoshiko. Yoshiko, my dear, do not worry. No harm is done. Akitada is only a cousin and he is leaving."
Akitada bowed to the young woman. He wondered what his mother would make of the news that Koremori had a mistress.
The pretty Yoshiko blushed, fluttered her lashes at him, then sank gracefully on a cushion. “Cousin Akitada,” she murmured. “How very pleasant to meet you."
"He is leaving,” snapped Koremori.
Akitada bowed again, to both this time, and departed.
* * * *
When he made his report to his mother, she sat bolt upright. “Who is she?” she demanded.
"I don't know, Mother. Just a pretty young woman. I thought she might be his mistress."
Lady Sugawara hissed. “Mistress. Or concubine? And you say this so calmly? What if she gives him a child? What then?"
Akitada did not care, but he said, “He is no longer young and not at all handsome."
"Fool! What difference does that make? He is wealthy and she is beautiful. You did say she was beautiful?"
AHMM, September 2009 Page 9