The Literate Kitty

Down the Rabbit Hole to Hell

2012-02-05T20:12:00.001-05:00

If Charlie Hardie--the hero of author Duane Swierczynski’s Fun & Games--was channeling Bruce Willis as tough cop Officer John McClane in all his Die Hard, “Yippee-ki-yay, m***...!” glory (and believe me, he was), then the follow-up, Hell & Gone, finds him walking as well in the footsteps of Willis’ conflicted convict James Cole from Twelve Monkeys, with a bit of Alice in Wonderland (well, if Alice were a bruiser sporting a five-o’clock shadow) and its down-the-rabbit-hole trippiness thrown in for good measure.

Intrigued? You should be, because Swierczynski is the real deal when it comes to delivering pulse-pounding, visually-dynamic, explosively-energetic, and insanely-addictive action-suspense-crime-fiction thrillers. And, as outrageously good as the first in the Hardie trilogy (see my review here ) was? I think the second, Hell & Gone, is that much better.

✠ ✠ ✠ ✠ ✠ ✠ ✠

Hell & Gone picks up right where the previous book left off, with Hardie in a world of hurt after having been beaten to a pulp and left for dead at the end of Fun & Games. The so-called “Accident People”--an elite group of hit men and “fixers” who hire out to the highest bidder (and whose dastardly plans it just so happens he singlehandedly foiled)--really aren’t the sort of folks you want to get on the bad side of... so naturally, that’s precisely where Charlie happens to be sitting (or lying in a semi-conscious state, if you want to get nit-picky about such things).

Nor are the Accident People the type to waste an opportunity when one arises. If they think you may be of potential use to them, they’re more apt to stab you with a series of big pointy needles laced with heavy-duty knockout drugs, patch you up a bit, then stuff you in the trunk of a car and drive to what feels like the ass-end of nowhere, than they are to just kill you outright.

When Hardie finally climbs out of his drugged stupor (one he’s convinced must’ve lasted only a few days, although the truth turns out to be scarily different), he discovers that he’s in a prison--but not the type with row after row of barred cells and hundreds of yelling inmates. This prison is something much more disturbing, as is the fact that one of the Accident People--one with whom he already has a less-than-chummy relationship (hey, poking someone’s eye out tends to put a crimp in the ol’ let’s-be-pals bit)--is sitting across an interview table from him... smiling.

She tells him she has some bad news and some worse news for him. The bad news is that yes, he’s in a prison, a highly-secret place in an (undisclosed) underground location, the sole purpose of which is containing the most dangerous, heinous criminals from around the world. The worse news is that he, Hardie, is the new warden of the joint. The real kicker, though, is that just in case he or anyone else gets any crazy ideas, the place is equipped with a special “death mechanism”; any attempts to escape will trip the mechanism, and everyone inside--everyone--will be killed.

Oh, and if he refuses to play along, to act as warden in this creepy gulag? His wife and son will be the Accident People’s next targets.

It's an impossible predicament for a man used to thinking with his fists, but he has no choice but to go along, biding his time in this bizarro place until a window of opportunity presents itself. So, he tries to figure out his “staff”, four scary-weird guards he’s sure he doesn’t like. He observes their prisoners, and wonders what each has done to earn the distinction of “worst criminal on earth”. He sees the various methods of punishment (torture) the guards use on the prisoners... and experiences the distrust the guards have for their new boss.

And, as endless days pass in their windowless world, he starts to question just who is the worst of the bunch: the ones with the electric batons and spiffy uniforms, or the ones behind bars...

✠ ✠ ✠ ✠ ✠ ✠ ✠

To call this an “action” crime fiction book is like referring to a Lamborghini as “transportation”; it’s a balls-to-the-wall, super-charged, badass-rocket-launch of a thrill ride that grabs you by the throat on the first page and doesn’t let up until the last one (and not even then, really, since there’s still one more book to go).

Swierczynski has a knack for making everything seem perfectly plausible, thanks primarily to his irresistible “everyguy” hero. Like the John McClane character from the Die Hard movies, Charlie Hardie is just an ordinary dude; sure, he’s tough and can handle himself, but he doesn’t have any super-knowledge or super-powers. He may have the bad luck (in spades, actually) to find himself in the middle of some seriously-tight jams, but he also has the determination and instincts to get himself back out. And, although this couldn’t be further from a touchy-feely book, there’s no doubt Charlie cares about stuff, and about people, in his way. His inner monologues--which let us know just how close to the brink of insane fury, crippling uncertainty and despair, or near madness he is at any moment--show an intelligent man all-too aware of his of lifetime of mistakes, now reconciled to living with his shame. Factor in his smart-ass sense of humor, and you’ve got a hero worthy of the big screen in Hardie.

As much as I’m dying to know what happens next in this wickedly-entertaining conspiracy-theory-on-rails trilogy, having to wait a bit gives me the chance to catch my breath. I’m sure I’ll be needing it for Swierczynski’s grand finale. ;)

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: A Veritable Surfeit of Extra-Potent Mousies!

Four Days to Die

2012-01-29T22:30:00.001-05:00

Say you knew with absolute certainty the day--down to the hour--of your death... how would you spend those last months, weeks, days, or hours?

Maybe you'd hole up alone somewhere, helpless against the inevitable. Perhaps you’d go all hedonistic, trying to cram every fabulous experience in before your time ran out. Or, you might opt to spend every waking hour preparing yourself physically and mentally to "rage, rage against the dying of the light".... on the off-chance that you could somehow change the outcome.

Door number three is the choice one woman picks in Lisa Gardner’s positively chilling new thriller, Catch Me.

After dealing with an abusive mother for her first several years--during which time the woman did things so awful to her that she's blocked all memories of them from her mind--it's safe to say that twenty-eight-year-old Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant's life has been anything but a bed of roses. Fortunately, she was taken in by an aunt who provided a safe and stable home, and for the first time Charlie was able to have friends.

Randi, Jackie, and Charlie were inseparable throughout school, to the point that most people in their small New England town referred to them as a single entity, RandiJackieCharlie. Although they drifted apart afterwards--what with college, relationships, and jobs--they continued to feel the bond, wherever they were.

Until two years ago on the evening of January 21, that is, when Randi was shockingly murdered. An investigation produced no results, and life for Jackie and Charlie--sadder, emptier--went on.

Then the unthinkable happened, exactly one year later, and Jackie was murdered in identical fashion. Another investigation followed, again with no answers, leaving Charlie the sole surviving member of RandiJackieCharlie.

Now, January 21 is just four days away, and Charlie is through being a victim.

The last 361 days have been spent planning and preparing. She moved to Boston to gain anonymity. The local gym has become her second home, the place where she toughens up with intense boxing training and practices self-defense moves, as has the firing range, where she's become proficient with a handgun. She's wary of everyone and everything, a haunted shadow of her former self.. but she's still alive, and determined to stay that way.

Just in case things don't go the way she's planned, though, Charlie writes out a detailed account of everything to date--from the first murder to her own, prospective one--and hand-delivers it to one of Boston's finest, Detective D.D. Warren (chosen after much online research as the person most likely to care about finding out what happened to Charlie, in the event of her demise).

D.D. is a good choice for the job. She's seen almost everything during her years on the force, plus she still cares about trying to make things right in the world. Not even D.D., though, has encountered anyone quite like Charlie, or anything like her predicament, before.

Nor can the already-overworked detective--who has a newborn at home--devote all her time and energy to Charlie's situation; among her cases is an ongoing and troubling one requiring urgent attention. Someone has decided to target Boston's pedophile population, and is systematically killing them off... quietly, neatly, and without a trace (other than a cryptic note left at each scene). While no one is likely to shed many tears over the victims, the fact remains that murder is murder, and she can't very well let a vigilante run loose.

As D.D.'s team delves more deeply into the particulars of the pedophile murders--and as she struggles meanwhile to uncover Charlie's secrets, in an effort to pinpoint why the young women are being killed--something rattles D.D. to her core. The pedophile killer’s M.O. seems to fit with everything she’s learned and observed about Charlie... making her wonder if Charlie--formerly an abused child, herself--has decided to take matters into her own hands and right a few wrongs on her way out.

There are less than four days left for the team to catch a killer... or a pair of them.

There are many superb thriller writers out there, and Lisa Gardner, with her D.D. Warren series, has earned herself a spot on my list of must-reads. She brings an immensely-powerful quality to her storytelling--an indefinable something that never fails to hit me on a gut level... not for lurid, gory scenes, but for a raw, emotional intensity that I can feel. (Put it this way: she’s one of the few authors that always leaves me incapable of reading anything else for a few days afterward; such is my need to absorb/recover from her stories.)

Catch Me is no different. Charlie’s present situation, when viewed alongside her early years, is striking. Here is a young woman who’s been to hell and back... a journey which can’t help but leave scars. The complexities of how she’s dealt with the damage--and how deeply the changes which followed as a result now lie--are both fascinating and harrowing. Yes, she tells her story (to us, and to the detectives) compellingly... but how much can we trust, or believe, her? What portion of her tale is reality, and what part subterfuge? Is evil something which can be overcome... or, once touched by it, is it forever imprinted on one’s psyche, waiting to come out and be visited upon others? We can’t be sure.

There’s a nice contrast, as well, with the recent changes in D.D.’s life, from driven working woman to new mom struggling to juggle demands she never thought she’d be facing. That she’s able to separate the truth from the misdirection in these co-mingled cases is a real triumph.

I sort of hate to say it, for fear of jinxing things, but this just might be my favorite Lisa Gardner tale yet... and that’s no small feat.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: Potent Mousie (Don’t Miss ;))

NOTE: Catch Me will be released on Feb. 7, 2012.

Lipstick Red & Dead- The Caddy in the Lake

2012-01-21T22:09:00.000-05:00

Wise-cracking detectives--from the rank amateurs who somehow stumble into the practice of investigating, to the licensed professionals with their fancy gizmos and snazzy Yellow Pages listings--are a dime a dozen in mystery novels... but a wise-cracking, ex-fashion-model, crop-dusting sleuth? That puts a quirky new spin on the genre, in R.P. Dahlke’s peppy debut, A Dead Red Cadillac.

Lalla (short for--or preferable to--Eula May) Baines is reaching a memorable conclusion to her thirty-ninth year. Still limping around, recovering from a recent on-the-job accident--one which ended spectacularly when she crash-landed her plane in a big field of tomatoes around Modesto, California--while dealing with all the usual problems such as difficult employees and an irascible boss (who happens to be her dad), and still smarting from her second divorce (from another of the two-timing losers she seems to gravitate toward), the former-model-cum-crop-duster is primarily concerned with avoiding the traditional fanfare around entering her fifth decade. (Honestly, looking in the mirror each day is all the reminder she needs of this aging stuff.)

As luck would have it, something does come up to (mostly) detract from the unwanted birthday hoopla. Unfortunately, that something involves Lalla’s beloved ’58 Cadillac--a pristine, candy-apple-red-and-chrome classic, which she hadn’t yet realized was missing from its parking spot in the barn--when it’s found submerged in a nearby lake, its signature tail fins sticking up... and one very-dead little old lady--a woman too small to even be able to see over the dashboard of the bulky car, no less--buckled in behind the wheel.

The police, after officially determining that Lalla had neither means, motive, nor opportunity to do in the harmless, widowed piano teacher (who was never much more than a casual acquaintance to her, anyway)--and certainly no reason to destroy her prize Caddy in the process!--persuade Lalla to help them with their investigation.

It seems the deceased’s favorite nephew has recently arrived from Oklahoma for a visit, and--seeing as how he was in the middle of going through his dear aunt’s house when the police showed up--they thought it prudent to bring him in for questioning. The problem is, he’s not saying much, so they figure that, since he’s asking to see/meet Lalla, anyway, she might as well help them find out whatever she can. The sooner she gets some answers from the prodigal nephew, the sooner they’ll release the Caddy to her, that’s the deal. (And no, it doesn’t exactly hurt that the nephew turns out to look like someone who poses as the cowboy hero for the cover of romance novels.)

Not that he’s the only suspicious character around, though; when someone with ties to the dead woman breaks out of prison after twenty years and turns up in town, Lalla’s suspect pool doubles. It grows even larger when she gets wind that a rival crop-dusting operation--and coincidentally, the dead woman’s ex-employer--may be involved in drug-smuggling and who knows what else.

Throw in a missing bag of money (which everyone seems to be looking for), some old love affairs, a handful of cross-dressers, a showy fifth-wheel motorhome, a twenty-year-old unsolved murder, an excitable Chihuahua, a sheriff for a BFF, and the teenage-model-wanna-be goddaughter who idolizes her--plus getting threatened, shot at, and run off the road--and poor Lalla has more than enough to occupy her mind besides her birthday.

Problem is, now that she’s actually hit 40, she’d sorta like to make sure she lives to see 41...

A Dead Red Cadillac may be Dahlke’s first published work, but it doesn’t read that way; the author is assured in her storytelling, crafting a witty, breezy, and thoroughly-entertaining lark peppered with interesting characters in a unique setting... and even tossing in some (much-appreciated) surprising twists along the way.

(Mystery fans-on-a-budget, take note, too: both A Dead Red Cadillac and its sequel, A Dead Red Heart, are each currently available on Amazon for Kindle/Kindle apps at the bargain price of only 99 cents, making these a real steal... of the not-so-criminal variety.)

Wedding Day Blues: The Case of the Down Under Runner

2012-01-15T00:01:00.003-05:00

Of all the things that could go wrong on your wedding day, being jilted would have to rank right up at the top of the list as the worst.

Learning that you'd been dumped via a Post-it note stuck to the fridge would certainly add a whole new level of awful, though... and finding out your formerly-significant other had also just absconded with your life savings? Well, that would pretty much be the icing on top of your suddenly-useless wedding cake.

Putting your broken heart and humiliated pride aside for the moment, though, the real issue would be, what would you do next?

Aussie author Jennifer Rowe blithely offers up one possible scenario in the clever and cheeky new caper, Love, Honour, and O'Brien.

Holly Love had always considered herself a happily-ordinary sort of girl, with average looks, respectable intelligence, and a certain degree of competence in most things. No, she wasn't likely to win any beauty pageants, earn big money appearing on a TV quiz show, or find herself ensconced in a cushy office with a large staff at her beck and call, but she had friends and family who appreciated her and a steady job handling the invoices for a busy Melbourne office supplies company, which in turn allowed her to rent a little place of her own.

In her eyes, though, the biggest measure of her success was actually her fiancé--hunky, successful, self-made businessman, Andrew McNish. The fact that he knew she was the one for him after only a couple short months together made it that much sweeter... until, that is, the whole wedding day fiasco, complete with vanished bridegroom, Post-it note apology, and emptied-out joint bank account.

When Holly factors in her sudden loss-of-domicile (because of course she'd let her apartment go, since moving in with her new husband was imminent) and loss-of-wages (since of course she'd given notice at her job, as the newlyweds would soon be living and working together in a whole new town), the prospects for her immediate future add up to a very grim picture, indeed.

Deducing that feeling sorry for herself won't go far in putting a roof over her head or food in her belly, she decides to try to get some answers, instead. First stop, a pay phone, where a directory search points her to a slew of private investigators, each promising results and assuring confidentiality.

Holly's chosen-at-random p.i.--one Mick O'Brien--is as scruffy and shady as they come, but his world-weary air and seen-it-all eyes convince her that if anyone can track down her wayward, scallywag-of-an-ex-fiancé, he is the man to do it.

There’s just one small problem. When she goes to his office a couple days later to see if he’s had any luck, she finds a hungry parrot, some junk.. and one now-very-much-dead private eye.

Things being what they are--Holly, with nowhere to stay (aside from her ancient Honda, which is less-than-homey) and literally no money (having hired the detective with the last of her cash), and some of O'Brien's eccentric neighbors (an elderly dominatrix and a kooky psychic), persuading her to stay on at his place overnight (well, honestly, it was just easier to let them think she worked for him than to admit hiring him to find her sleazy ex)--she soon finds herself in the strange position of considering filling O'Brien's shoes... taking over not only his office space/living quarters, but also taking on his job.

And yes, the fact that the first of O'Brien's clients whose calls she fields is a woman, demanding a progress report on her case... a case which involves finding the handsome, charming, long-lost brother she had just recently found, but who was now suddenly missing (along with some of her family heirlooms and money)... well, it's only natural that Holly would find herself sort of sucked in to the whole bizarre idea.

When her amateur investigating lands her in the middle of one huge mess of certifiable craziness, though--and when scary men with guns start chasing and threatening her--she starts to rethink this whole finding-Andrew-at-any-costs-and-masquerading-as-a-private-eye idea. Of course, by then, she's in way too deep...

Love, Honour, and O'Brien is one of the most-delightfully droll books I've read in a long time; it had me chuckling from beginning to end. Holly is a great "everygirl" sort of heroine--plucky and determined to make the best of things, even if that means taking over a dive apartment in the middle of nowhere (a hamlet in Australia's remote-but-scenic Blue Mountains, actually) and accidentally finding herself running the anything-but-lucrative business (for which she has no training or special aptitude) of its deceased owner.

Full of loopy characters--from the aforementioned hokey (but accurate) psychic, the white-haired provider of sexual services, and the know-it-all parrot, to an Elvis impersonator (who drives a hearse), a velour-track-suited health care worker, a mousey little exterminator (with a voluptuous--and possibly-cheating--wife), and a somewhat-inept gang of mobsters--and scene after scene of hilarity and mayhem, Love, Honour, and O’Brien is a fast-paced, frothy treat... and I’m eagerly looking forward to seeing what the talented and inventive Ms. Rowe serves up next.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.5 mousies

The Proud, the Prejudiced... and the Murderous?

2012-01-13T00:32:00.000-05:00

It is, I’d wager, the rare person who hasn’t read an awesome story, only to turn the final page, realize there’s nothing more, and wail, “But... what happens next?!?”

Leading the pack in the insatiable wishing-for-something-“more” department is Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. That delightful classic alone has spawned countless prequels, sequels, and “inspired-by” tales, ranging from prim-&-proper continuations of the same story lines, to mysteries putting Elizabeth Darcy’s keen mind (and fine eyes, no doubt) to the test, to bawdy bedroom romps and zombie battles--the likes of which must’ve surely made Miss Austen do several spins in her grave.

The resulting works, as one would imagine, vary wildly in their successfulness; not every idea translates well (the zombies--much as I enjoy reading about their insatiable brain-munching and the thought of such a quirky mashup--got old very quickly), while others sort of ooze inappropriateness (graphically-smexy scenes featuring heaving Bennet parts and pulsating Darcy pieces have a rather high ick-factor for me).

When an undeniable master of her craft--in this case, the highly-acclaimed British mystery writer P.D. James--decides to take on Austen, though, that’s the sort of thing to make me sit up and take notice. A closer look at her spin on the genre, then, with Death Comes to Pemberley...

James picks up the tale in 1803, six years after the Darcys and Bingleys said their joint “I do’s”. Since then, Elizabeth has settled nicely into her role as mistress of the posh Pemberley mansion (with very few, cough--Lady Catherine De Bourgh and Mr. Collins--detractors), and she and Darcy are the doting parents of two small boys. The Bingleys, meanwhile, have an estate located at not-too great a distance--as well as three young children of their own--which adds immeasurably to the happiness of both couples.

Things are presently a bit hectic, as final preparations are underway for the yearly, not-to-be-missed shindig at Pemberley, Lady Anne’s Ball. The swanky soiree, held in honor of Darcy’s late mother, will be a nice break from all the anxieties over thoughts of more war.

Not quite everyone known to the Darcys is invited, however. Since that fateful day more than six years ago when Darcy simultaneously bailed out/forced the cad Wickham to make an honest woman out of Elizabeth’s hopelessly-flighty younger sister Lydia, the two couples have maintained a mutual policy of no contact.

Ah, but things have a way of changing. On the dark-and-stormy eve of the big ball, a coach suddenly barrels up the mansion’s driveway with an hysterical Lydia on board... claiming, as she throws herself out of the carriage in a flurry of sodden flounces and salty tears, that Wickham and his friend have just been murdered, somewhere on the grounds of Pemberley.

Darcy and erstwhile family friend Colonel Fitzwilliam spring into action, mounting a

search in the woods... whereupon they stumble across the body of one very dead Captain Denny, in the arms of a bloodied and drunken Wickham, loudly wailing that he has just killed his only friend.

The festivities, naturally, are kaput, as anyone who might know something, have seen something, or been party to something must be questioned... from the staff at the nearby hotel (from whence the ill-fated trio obtained the coach in which Lydia planned to crash the ball, and where Wickham imbibed mass quantities of alcohol), to Colonel Fitzwilliam (out on a lengthy--and curiously-timed--walk in the storm), to Wickham (who--once sobered up enough the following day--insists that Denny must have run into a startled poacher or other scoundrel before Wickham caught up with him).

Darcy may have managed to pull some strings (especially those on his purse) in the past for the ne’er-do-well thorn in his side, Wickham... but no amount of money or favors will help now. Guilty or innocent... only the lawyers, the judge, and a jury of his peers are left to decide Wickham’s fate--not to mention, the reputation and happiness of the Bennet and Darcy families--this time.

There’s a lot that’s all sorts of wonderful about Death Comes to Pemberley. First, of course, is the quality of the writing; P.D. James is no slouch, and her words manage a poetic sort of ease while maintaining the proper tone. The story is a fabulous homage to Austen; James not only highlights all the salient details of the assorted relationships and events from P&P, but she goes on to embroider and expand upon them with descriptions and characterizations of which Miss Austen surely would’ve approved--even, in a couple of places (and much to my delight!) bringing in characters from other Austen works for brief appearances. This is the way to treat fans to a little of the “what happens next” we’ve always craved!

The mystery--which is quite a good one, by the way--remains true to everything we know of the characters and their histories. Elizabeth doesn’t suddenly fancy herself a detective or anything convenient like that; instead, the mystery plays out as another troublesome event in her life to be gotten through. There are some really well-crafted courtroom scenes, too, and it was fun contrasting them in my mind with similar scenes from modern mysteries and legal thrillers.

My only quibble (which, admittedly, is rather a strange one, coming from really-enjoys-the-dark-and-gloomy me) is that there’s a bit of a pall overhanging Pemberley for most of the book. That isn’t to say the humor so treasured in P&P is absent here, though--quite the contrary; several passages had me grinning, and a few made me laugh outright. Still, the overall tone definitely seems a trifle grim. (Granted, there isn’t any dancing here--what with the ball being pre-empted by that pesky murder--nor any picnics, visits to the seaside, or rampant flirting, so perhaps a bit less effervescence is to be expected.)

If you’ve never “gotten” the allure of Jane Austen and her brilliant P&P, this one isn’t going to change your mind. But, if you’ve always harbored the hope that someone would finally do justice to Austen’s vision, pick up Death Comes to Pemberley pronto.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4 Mousies

The Demons within... and the Monsters without

2012-01-01T22:41:00.000-05:00

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” ~Friedrich Nietzsche

Those ominous (if somewhat cryptic) words are most often seen as a kind of warning, cautioning us to guard ourselves against the dangers of lingering too long in the presence of evil lest it rub off, infecting us with its insidious malevolence.

Sage advice, to be sure. But, what happens to someone who’s already been exposed to more than a taste of genuine evil... is that person more, or less, apt to become a monster, in turn?

That question is at the core of much-lauded British crime author Val McDermid’s latest tour de force, The Retribution.

❖ ❖ ❖

It’s the beginning of the end for Bradfield PD’s special murder squad, long helmed by the determined Carol Jordan and manned by her elite group of detectives. Despite being able to boast of an enviable success rate, intradepartmental politics have effectively pulled the plug on her unit, and it’s about to be disbanded and reassigned.

Rather than cleaning out their desks with a sad little whimper, though, her team would like nothing more than the chance to go out with a bang, thumbing their noses at the higher-ups who made the foolhardy decision. And, it appears they might be able to do just that, when a clue in the murder of the third prostitute over the last couple of weeks makes it clear they have a serial killer on their hands.

There’s one small problem, though. Carol’s superior has forbidden her from seeking out her go-to profiler, long-time acquaintance/friend, clinical psychologist Dr. Tony Hill, who--for all his oddities, eccentricities, and utter lack of people skills--is a spot-on judge of the criminal mind. No matter that Tony repeatedly offers his help pro bono, either; Carol pointblank refuses to accept it, asserting that he is a professional and should rightfully be paid for his services.

Enter Carol’s top detective, Paula, who goes behind her boss’s back for the sake of the case and enlists the doctor’s help, anyway. Suddenly, the old team is back together one last time. Good thing, too, because their killer is definitely escalating, leaving none of Bradfield’s female sex workers safe.

Things have also been changing (at a glacier’s pace) on a more personal level... but just as Tony and Carol are finally at the point where they’re able to contemplate the next move (literally, in this case, as the specter of moving in together--as housemates--approaches), a case from the past comes back to rip their fragile hopes, plans, and dreams to shreds. One of the most sadistic and brutal killers they’ve ever put away engineers an unbelievable escape from prison... leaving no one, anywhere, safe.

Jacko Vance, the handsome, charismatic former Olympian and popular TV personality--who, it turned out, was also a sick and twisted sociopath who got off on murdering teenage girls in his spare time--has been incarcerated for the past decade. Despite occasional reports from the prison’s psychologist of his supposed rehabilitation, however, Jacko actually spent his time behind bars doing everything but feeling remorse; he was quietly hatching--and patiently enacting--an elaborate plot to break out.

Once free, Jacko is determined to exact his full measure of revenge on everyone who had a hand in putting him away before he pulls a disappearing act. He wants retribution... and the members of the not-quite-defunct special murder team--particularly Carol and Tony--are at the very top of his to-do list.

The duo have long hunted and studied monsters while doing plenty of battle with their own personal demons, but they’re about to go head-on with the unspeakable embodiment of their worst nightmares. What emerges from such a clash can only be damaged, at best... or utterly and completely broken, at worst.

❖ ❖ ❖

Val McDermid holds a place on my shortlist of must-read-immediately authors; from the first, I’ve been captivated by her Carol Jordan/Tony Hill stories and her stand-alones.

The Retribution is no exception. It’s as full of adrenaline-fueled action, heart-stopping fear, and mind-bending twists as anyone could hope for from a crime thriller. But, what really sets McDermid apart for me is how masterfully she’s able to illustrate that it is the individual’s mind in which all of the really important action--the thought processes, rationalizations, mental arguments, soul-searching, and internal monologues which drive everything else--take place... and the terrifying realization that it is also the one area to which no one else can ever truly be privy.

McDermid’s characters aren’t touchy-feely sorts; rather, they’re prickly and temperamental, the type of people whose life experiences have honed their edges into sharpness rather than wearing them down and leaving them dull. Carol and Tony have always been prime examples, but never more so than here, when everything in their lives--down to who they are, the tragedies and experiences which helped to shape their personalities, what they believe in, and what they hold dear--is in danger of being tested, perverted, and possibly lost forever. This case--visceral and brutally-emotional-- is the one which will determine more than any other the paths, together and separate, the rest of their lives will take.

I wouldn’t recommend reading The Retribution if you haven’t followed the Carol Jordan/Tony Hill series; too much of the emotional impact of seeing what they--as well as other members of the team, who by now feel like friends--go through, would be lost. Instead, if you’ve not read these compelling, intelligent books before, start at the beginning. But, if you’re a long-time fan like me, pick up The Retribution as soon as you can get your hands on it. It’s powerful stuff.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 5 out of 5 mousies

Murder in the Mountains... a Snow-Covered Mystery

2011-12-26T21:32:00.002-05:00

In the dead of winter, Norway is a land of ice and snow. It has never been more so though, than during what is proving to be the worst blizzard in several decades--a complete and utter whiteout, the likes of which not even the old-timers can recall.

Hardly the ideal conditions for traveling by rail through the high mountain peaks, of course, but for the passengers of train 601, en route from Oslo to Bergen, such is their nerve-wracking--if temporary--predicament... until everything goes topsy-turvy, and train 601 jumps the icy tracks and smashes into a snowy embankment, stranding all aboard in a tiny, remote town situated 1,222 meters above sea level, while the biting winds and blinding snows rage all around.

Miraculously, it appears that everyone (aside from the train’s unfortunate driver) sustained only minor injuries, and all two-hundred-sixty-nine passengers are transported from the wrecked cars to the town’s one hotel, an historic mountain lodge fortuitously located nearby.

Typically, surviving an accident of this nature and finding suitable shelter would be the worst of the ordeal; after that, it would just be a matter of waiting for the blizzard to subside so that alternate transportation arrangements might be made. Fate has other plans in mind for the passengers of 601, though; when morning breaks, they make an unpleasant discovery... the body of one of their fellow passengers. Murdered.

More death awaits and, as the body count rises within the claustrophobic confines of this small, snowed-in hotel, it falls to one extremely-reluctant woman to catch a killer... lest she end up numbered among the dead, herself, in Norwegian author Anne Holt’s latest (and literal, hehe) chiller, 1222.

✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻

Although 1222 has a sizable cast, the backbone of the story is definitely Hanne Wilhelmsen, a middle-aged, retired police inspector now wheelchair-bound, paralyzed from the waist down after being shot in the line of duty. (Note that I didn’t refer to her as the “heart and soul” of the story; Hanne is a fascinating character, but warm and cuddly, or pitiable, or even particularly likable, she is not. She has always been brusque, standoffish, and ill-tempered, apparently, and the constant physical pain she now endures has only exaggerated those qualities.) The very last thing Hanne wants to do is conduct any sort of investigation (into the murder of a clergyman, no less!), but once word gets out that she’s a retired inspector, it becomes clear that’s just what she’ll be doing.

Alternately helping and hindering her along the way are a motley assortment of characters. The hotel manager is an attractive young woman who shows surprising leadership qualities as she (mostly) succeeds in getting a couple hundred confused and unintended “guests” to go where they need to be and more or less behave themselves. Out of the many doctors who were on the train, one in particular is interested in helping Hanne--an indefatigable and somewhat-irascible fellow who also happens to be a dwarf. Then there’s the local chap, a lawyer who heard the crash and rushed out to aid in the rescue efforts, but found the weather too formidable to return to his home afterward, and is now stuck in the hotel with everyone else. Finally, there’s a scroungy young teenage boy in whom Hanne has taken a professional interest--clearly a runaway, untrusting of adults, but also obviously smart and capable--who is co-opted into helping her.

The makeup of the other passengers is no less curious, with an exceptionally-high preponderance of both doctors and clergy (each group having been headed to Bergen for large conferences), and relatively few people not tied in some way to either group. And then, there are the mysterious passengers (or cargo) on the last car on the train... a car with armed security guards, whose contents (human or otherwise) no one else on the train has seen, either before or after the accident. (Rumors, of course, abound on the nature of the last car... but rumors are not answers.) All anyone knows for sure is that the top floor of the hotel was sealed off before the rest of the train’s passengers arrived... and the last car was emptied before anyone else was rescued.

When a second and then a third body are found over the next couple of days--as the hotel is completely snowed under, with no one able to enter or exit whatsoever, and all outside communications are likewise down--mass fear, paranoia, and even outright revolt threaten the fragile co-existence of everyone (still alive) in the hotel. If Hanne can’t force herself to do what needs to be done with regards to ferreting out the killer, there’s no telling how much higher that body count will go before the once-in-a-century blizzard finally wears itself out.

✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻

I love winter, in all of its bitter cold, blindingly-white snow, and early dark glory, so it should come as little surprise that stories set in the frigid months--especially those in which the weather is truly key to the action--have always been among my favorites. There’s just something about such cruel starkness mixed with such incredible beauty that I find utterly compelling. Happily, 1222 delivers in a big way.

This is more than just a thoroughly-engrossing atmospheric tale, though; 1222 is also a really well-done mystery/psychological thriller, with a little twist on the classic locked-room mystery (a la Agatha Christie, et al) plus a neat spin on the going-stir-crazy-in-a-hotel theme (think Stephen King’s The Shining). To top it all off, we even get a protagonist who actually feels original, and an admirably-interesting cast of secondary characters, to boot.

Unputdownable from beginning to end, 1222 is definitely a must-read for thriller fans.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Mousies for thrillers

Destiny Takes Flight on the Wings of a Song: Intrigue in Appalachia

2011-09-28T00:57:00.003-04:00

Take some garden-variety youthful rebellion, then throw in a heap of raging hormones and rivalries old and new, and you’ve got the makings for the sort of angst-y drama which plays out everywhere, every single day.

Add a few unearthly mysteries, a wealth of beautiful lyrics and exquisite music, the unmatched splendor of (mostly)-unsullied nature, and a small, enigmatic race of people into the mix, though, and the end result is something quite different... something which can only be found, in fact, in a place like the bucolic Great Smoky Mountains of Eastern Tennessee, in author Alex Bledsoe’s newly-released novel, The Hum and the Shiver.

~ / ~ / ~ / ~ / ~

The tale begins with what appears to be a festive event--a big parade, welcoming the return of still-wounded war hero Private Bronwyn Hyatt to her Cloud County, Tennessee home. In reality, the very last thing the twenty-year-old soldier with the shattered leg wants is fanfare, but--as someone points out to her--a parade isn’t actually for the benefit of the person riding on the float; it’s for everyone in the crowd. So, she dutifully grits her teeth and smiles through the pain, waves to the crowd, and rushes through the mandatory speech, waiting for it all to be over.

A canny observer--say, Don Swayback, the burned-out reporter from the small weekly newspaper one hamlet over, or even new-to-the-area (but observant) preacher, the Reverend Craig Chess--might notice one element curiously missing from the crowd: the distinctive faces of the locals. The reason for that is simple; their celebrations with Bronwyn (the ones glad of her return, anyhow) will take place later, far from the eyes and ears of the horde of media representatives who’ve converged on the tiny mountain town en masse to record the hero's homecoming.

Bronwyn’s “people” aren’t the stereotypical hillbillies that outsiders expect, nor are they quite like anyone else. She is part of the mysterious Tufa, a small group comprised of two clans who--like the Native Americans--were already long-settled in these misty hills when the first Europeans arrived hundreds of years ago. With their characteristic dark hair, perfect white teeth, and similarly-good looks visibly setting them apart from the rest of their Appalachian neighbors, the mystical and poetic Tufa quietly live out their lives, rarely straying from their community... except, that is, for the occasional rebel like Bronwyn Hyatt.

Were it not for her career-ending combat injury, the headstrong Bronwyn would still be off fighting... if only to stay away from everything which first drove her from her mountain home. The matriarchal Tufa have big plans (of the ”taking her rightful place” variety) for the Hyatt family’s only daughter--plans which Bronwyn is in no hurry to fulfill. Nor is she down with the whole idea of being forced to marry another Tufa just to pass along the bloodline--particularly not when that seems to mean being paired off with her abusive ex-boyfriend, the handsome but sadistic Dwayne. Getting away from all the omens, visions, and other portents of tragedy and unhappiness so much a part of Tufa life wasn’t a bad thing in Bronwyn’s mind, either.

Regardless, her return signals that destiny will be resuming its course. Bronwyn spies a new charm hanging on the front porch... the type of magic used to ward off death. She barely makes it through the front door before learning that one of the female elders has already scheduled a meeting, and that a “haint” has been coming around, waiting to impart who-knows-what alarming news from beyond the grave. Dwayne stops by, renewing his wholly-unwanted attentions. Most unsettling of all, however, is the discovery that she has lost her music; she can no longer play her mandolin nor remember the words to any of their songs... and a Tufa without music coursing steadily through his or her veins might as well be dead.

No matter what Bronwyn might prefer, things are, indeed, coming to a head... and soon. The question is whether or not she can regain the music that is her life’s blood, gather the courage to take her place among her people, and even, perhaps, open herself up to love, in order to meet her destiny.

~ / ~ / ~ / ~ / ~

Big props go to author Bledsoe, because The Hum and the Shiver is that rare beast--a work that actually feels fresh and original, instead of being simply another well-executed copy of something popular.

Why, exactly, is it so special? There’s hardly a dearth of strong, young female voices out there in the crowded field of fantasy fiction. Still, Bronwyn manages to earn her place among the better ones as a complex, multi-dimensional character--one far from perfect, but eminently-relatable, likable, and funny, in all her imperfection.

The mystery of the Tufa and their way of life is key as well, of course. (No, I’m not even going to hint at what that’s all about; let’s just say that the journey taken to get to that answer is at least as important as the answer itself.) The author paints a fascinating picture of these remote people, then adds shade and depth by exploring their treatment of one another and outsiders’ attitudes toward them... while still leaving plenty of things we don’t understand to future books.

Above all, though, it is the uniqueness of the setting which really makes this story come alive. Sure, we have scads of urban fantasies set in metropolitan areas (hence “urban”) to choose from, but there aren’t many genuinely rural ones--and certainly very few in the Appalachians. It is a backdrop painted not only with broad brushstrokes of vibrant color, as seen in the extraordinary people and their intensely-moving music, but also tinted with the delicate wash of muted pastels, in the weatherworn hills as old as time itself.

The Hum and the Shiver is a thoroughly-satisfying read... leaving me eagerly awaiting a return visit to see what happens next.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Mousies

Finding Strength Born of Earth, Blood, and Tears

2011-09-22T19:53:00.004-04:00

It is often said that there is no rest for the wicked, and--regardless of whether you interpret it (as I do) to mean that evil never sleeps (but is always lying in wait, ready to attack)... or you prefer the biblically-derived (with oodles of hellfire-and-damnation implicit) interpretation which posits that evildoers will eventually find themselves forever in torment--it’s a saying which has the ring of a truism.

The equally-important corollary, of course, is that the good guys--namely, the police, watchdogs (be they canine or human), and other assorted heroes and super-heroes--manage to get precious little rest, either, since they must needs be ever-vigilant against the sundry forces of all that lurking evil.

Imagine, then, always having to straddle a line between the two sides... being viewed by certain segments as a savior, while others pegged you as a monster. That’s the uncomfortable (not to mention exhausting) position which Victory “Vicky” Vaughn finds herself in once again, as she tackles both prejudice and the baddest of ancient baddies in Nancy Holzner’s third “Deadtown” tale, Bloodstone...

~ / ~ / ~ / ~ / ~

Fresh off saving the residents of Boston--both the “norms” and the “PAs” (short for Paranormal Americans, a designation which includes werewolves, vampires, and zombies)--from the united forces of the evil Morfran (sort of like the granddaddy of all demons) and her own (possibly)-very-distant-cousin Pryce, just one short month earlier, Vicky has barely found time to work on getting her own life back to normal.

Her vampire roommate, Juliet, is still missing (in addition to being wanted by the law), which--given the political and social climate in most of Beantown--is cause for considerable concern. Relations with her older sister, Gwen, are still strained, to say the least. Other areas of her life are faring better, though. Vicky’s hunky werewolf boyfriend, the successful paranormal-lawyer Kane, has healed nicely from his wounds, and their relationship is on an upswing. Things are likewise going well with her job, serving as Boston’s only professional demon-slayer-for-hire.

Naturally, the fact that anything is going well means it’s about time for some new evil to hit town, destroying the fragile sense of calm and normality (or at least, as normal as things can be, ever since the bizarre plague that turned two thousand Bostonians into zombies overnight a few years earlier). This time round, evil rears its ugly head in the form of a brutal killer known as the South End Reaper.

Despite the lack of any evidence whatsoever linking the mutilations and deaths of three humans from Boston’s south side to members of the paranormal population, it is nonetheless the city’s “monsters” who are bearing the brunt of this latest escalation of fear and rampant hate. Radical groups are calling for removal of all the PAs, and the mayor has ordered the police to take drastic measures, putting Deadtown’s residents under lockdown and enacting a strict curfew within the zone. (The reaction in Deadtown, unsurprisingly, is less than ecstatic.)

With tensions growing--and additional murders by the Reaper a gruesome certainty--the whole city seems poised for a meltdown. And, when the long-lost Juliet suddenly reappears--horribly weakened (possibly even dying?), yet somehow, caught up in the middle of everything--Vicky knows that she can’t just sit by and watch things get progressively worse.

Enlisting the aid of her stalwart little group of go-to friends and family--Kane; her indomitable Aunt Mab; the diligent detective (and briefly, potential love interest) Daniel; and the hulking, monosyllabic, and mysterious bar-owner, Axel--as well as looking to some unexpected sources--her teenaged zombie ex-intern, Tina, and Tina’s goth friends; her still-more-estranged-than-not sister, Gwen; and even her own young niece, Gwen’s daughter Maria--Vicky can only hope that she'll be able to scrape together enough mental, physical, and emotional firepower to get to the bottom of the murders, save Juliet (if possible), and bring the ancient evil out into the light of day in order to eradicate it (simultaneously vindicating Deadtown's hapless denizens).

No sweat, right? Well, not exactly, because if she doesn’t succeed? Not only will there no longer be a Deadtown... but there won’t be a Boston left to speak of, either.

~ / ~ / ~ / ~ / ~

Bloodstone is another highly-satisfying tale in what has proven to be a compelling and intelligent series, and it may be my favorite “Deadtown” story yet, actually. Holzner continues to build on her small but strong cast of main characters, providing each of them a little more depth with every book, as well as offering up some tantalizing new characters in minor roles (characters that could easily be featured more prominently, because they’re so interesting). By turns funny, sarcastic, anxious, angry, sad, and even, occasionally, a bit wistful, Vicky and company are well worth spending quality time with, always.

Speaking of interesting, there’s a lot of cool mythology in Bloodstone--English as well as Welsh, this time. The new historical elements the author introduces mesh nicely with what we already knew from the previous books, and help set up future actions (it seems inevitable that there will be an ultimate showdown at some point); by the conclusion of this book, I think I’ve worked out who will be involved.

If you’re a fan of urban fantasies but haven’t yet tried the “Deadtown” series, now is a great time to take the plunge.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.25 out of 5 Mousies

[Note: Bloodstone will be released 9/27/2011.]

Jack-o'-Lanterns from Beyond: Beware the Pumpkin Man

2011-09-18T23:18:00.004-04:00

As summer eases into fall, we’re treated to a fabulous array of seasonal delights... brisk days warmed primarily by the sight of sun-dappled, multi-colored leaves, making their last (and grandest) hurrah; the smell of woodsmoke permeating the air by night, as fireplaces and wood stoves are brought out of semi-retirement; farmer’s markets piled high with enticements ranging from bags of shiny apples, mounds of gourds, and jugs of sweet cider, to paper cones filled with still-warm, freshly-roasted nuts; and a general desire for coziness, such as can be found in cuddly sweaters and mugs of hot cocoa.

Amusements are likewise in abundance when autumn rolls around. Homecoming festivals, arts and crafts shows, beer-and-sausage-themed “Oktoberfests”, and, of course, everything that Halloween brings--from the costumed day/night itself, to the various haunted houses, hayrides, and quirky regional offerings (corn maze, anyone?), that take place in the weeks prior.

Something a bit darker and more sinister returns with a vengeance this time of year, as well--a yearning for the chills and goosebumps brought on by the scariest of ghost stories... and the bloodthirstier, the better. Enter John Everson’s The Pumpkin Man.

~ ☠ ~ ☠ ~ ☠ ~ ☠ ~

Jennica Murphy has definitely had better weeks. Still reeling from her father’s gruesome murder only months earlier, the young schoolteacher receives--in the space of just a few days’ time--the additional blows of being “let go” from her teaching position and the news that her apartment building will be going condo... both, effective immediately.

Fortunately, her best friend and roommate (and equally-fired teacher from the same school), Kirstin Rizzo, has a plan: with nothing tying them to Chicago, they should make use of Jenn’s recent inheritance--a house off the coast of California, which belonged to her father’s also-recently-deceased sister, Meredith Perenais--in order to regroup. What better place to take stock of one’s life than on the beach, with scores of hunky guys around, Kirstin argues (blithely ignoring Jenn’s insistence that her aunt’s house isn’t likely to be on that sort of beach).

Jenn, sad to say, is right, as they discover after arriving in San Francisco and making the three-hour drive north to remote River’s End; the old house sits alone on a rocky outcropping near the ocean, set apart from the rest of the tiny town (which itself boasts little more in the way of “excitement” than a general store and a small dive bar). Still, the accommodations are free, and the girls agree there’s much to be said for a change of scenery.

The house is hardly what they expected, either. A quick tour leaves them in no doubt that Aunt Meredith was not only a witch (something that Jenn had grown up knowing in only a vague sort of way), but that she was a very ardent practitioner of witchcraft, instead of just a dabbler... and that her specialty was in the darkest of dark arts.

The townspeople, naturally, have long been well-acquainted with the unusual proclivities and habits of the entire Perenais clan (of which Meredith was the last surviving member), and they greet Jenn and Kirstin with rather less than open arms (if the repeated messages of “Leave here now,” are anything to go by).

The reason for their hostility is simple. One of the Perenaises--Meredith’s husband George, actually--was the infamous Pumpkin Man, a sort of urban legend-turned-horrible-reality who terrorized tiny River’s End for several years, stealing a child away each October... even as he innocently sat carving his beautiful pumpkins by day down at the pumpkin lot. But, when the townsfolk finally got their proof--the (headless) body of one of the missing kids turning up, with bloody shards of pumpkin nearby--it was all over for the Pumpkin Man. An angry mob lynched him, thus putting an end to all the terror... or so they thought.

Now, after more than twenty years, the Pumpkin Man has apparently returned from the dead. This time, though, his targets aren’t children, but rather the parents of those children killed so long ago. He’s leaving the bodies of his victims--their heads replaced with intricately-carved pumpkin likenesses--right out in the open. The townsfolk are convinced that Meredith is responsible for his bloody return... and Jenn and Kirstin have just landed in the middle of this dreadful mess.

To get away from it all for a bit, the girls head down the coast, where they soon hook up with a couple of guys. Suddenly, things are looking up again, and the foursome make plans for the following weekend.

Unfortunately, that’s when everything goes really wrong. A little fun with Meredith’s old witchboard spooks everyone. Grisly discoveries in the basement sicken them. And then, someone--one of them--dies, another victim of the Pumpkin Man.

As the last person still alive with any Perenais blood running through her veins, Jenn knows that somehow it’s up to her to figure out which of the black spells from Meredith’s vast library might undo the unspeakable evil which is her aunt's legacy. Otherwise, every single person in town--Jenn included--will soon wind up with very dead, with a pumpkin head of her or his own.

~ ☠ ~ ☠ ~ ☠ ~ ☠ ~

First off, let me say that--much like with horror movies--I have rather different expectations when it comes to horror stories than with other genres. I still look for the writing to be good and the plot entertaining, of course, but with the emphasis placed on the scare-your-pants-off scenes instead of on depictions of personal growth, meaningful conversations, or the like. In that regard, The Pumpkin Man delivers, for author Everson crafts plenty of ghoulish, spine-tingling scenes full of shocking and vivid imagery. The level of suspense is high throughout, too, never making anything (or anyone) too obvious.

My one (big) problem concerns the “love connections”, because it is the arena of romantic relationships wherein Everson's weakness lies. (And no, I’m not talking sex scenes or feelings, here.) The rapidity with which the couples supposedly form their bonds (which are only a part, yet an integral part, of the story)--combined with Jenn's junior-high-schoolish thoughts and the (by turns) stilted/cheesy dialogue between the lovers--make for some groaningly-bad scenes, unfortunately.

Still, it is that time of year, when the days grow shorter, the nights grow longer... and curling up under a cozy quilt in the wee hours--when there’s not a sound in the house (save, perhaps, for the eerie scratching of an occasional branch against the window)--is the only thing you want to do. The Pumpkin Man should do nicely for that. You'll certainly never again look at a pumpkin pie in quite the same way.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 3 out of 5 Mousies

[Note: The Pumpkin Man will be released 10/15/2011.]

Good Golly, Molly: Runaway Brides and Tong Wars

2011-09-13T19:22:00.003-04:00

When it comes to books, I rarely do “charming” or “cute”; that sort of unrelenting cheer (and overly-pat endings) just isn’t my style. Give me something with a little bite, a sharp edge, every single time.

Still, I’m willing to make the occasional exception, and Rhys Bowen’s “Molly Murphy” mystery series has been one of those. With a feisty protagonist--an independent young Irish immigrant who takes up the unlikely job of sleuthing so that she can put food on her table and a roof over her head, and an irresistible setting--New York City, circa the early 1900s, this has been a fun little series with much to recommend it.

All of that may be about to change, though, on the heels of Bowen’s tenth entry in Molly's ongoing saga, Bless the Bride...

* ~ * ~ *~ *

It’s 1903, and our intrepid redheaded detective is on the verge of getting married (hence the dreadfully saccharine title, which if not part of the series would have sent me running away as fast as possible) to her NYPD sweetie, fellow-Irishman Captain Daniel Sullivan.

Apparently the couple have reached an agreement; Molly will give up her (hard-won) job as a private detective once she becomes Mrs. Sullivan. In reality, though, it seems that Daniel expects her to have already given up her work, since he’s bundled her off to the countryside to his mother's home, where they’re presently engaged in the sewing of wedding garments and her trousseau (a task at which, as it happens, Molly is really quite dreadful).

Molly gets a momentary reprieve from the onerous stitchery tasks (and from Mrs. Sullivan’s little jibes at her future daughter-in-law) when a letter from good friends and neighbors, the delightfully-eccentric couple Sid and Gus, arrives. The women want to host a little pre-wedding bash for Molly, and to let her know that a job offer (something secret! urgent!) has just come in. Molly quickly hops on the next train back to the city.

The case isn’t at all what she was expecting, though, when what turns out to be the male secretary of her prospective client leads her through a warren of strange streets to an address in Chinatown, where wealthy businessman (and tong big-wig) Lee Sing Tai resides. Mr. Lee wants a “missing” (stolen? lost? misplaced?) jade necklace found, and insists that he needs a woman’s--Molly's--touch. Almost against her better judgment, Molly agrees... figuring that the money she’ll earn will make a nice little nest egg to bring to her newlywed life.

Things get a bit more complicated the next day, however, when Molly returns to Mr. Lee’s with news of her failure. It turns out the jade job was little more than a test; the real job is to find the woman who was wearing the necklace... Mr. Lee’s bride-to-be (recently purchased from her family and brought over from China), who is also “missing”.

Trying to do the honorable thing by sticking with the case--although Molly is, understandably, appalled by the whole concept of a bartered bride--she searches high and low for the missing girl. In the process, she encounters not only a culture whose ways are foreign to her, but also forms of shame and degradation she’s never seen... opium dens (with their nearly-comatose clientele), religious persecution (in the guise of overzealous missionaries), prejudice (from members of all the neighboring groups and from within the Chinese community itself), brothels filled with Chinese women (forced into the trade by the Chinese men who had secretly arranged their passage), the practice of importing “paper sons”, and tong wars.

She finds a few things she’s rather more familiar with, too... police corruption, protection rackets, and murder. It will take a healthy dose of good ole Irish luck, along with the skills she's learned in the business, if she wants to locate the missing woman and solve the murder (keeping innocent people from going to jail)--without Daniel’s knowledge--in time to make it to her wedding.

* ~ * ~ *~ *

There is, as usual, plenty of good stuff to be found in Bowen’s latest “Molly” tale. The historical details about Chinatown and New York City during this era are fascinating--particularly the cultural insights. The immigrant experience is always one I’m keen on reading about; in the U.S. we were all, at one time, immigrants (aside from the Native Americans, of course). The case itself is an interesting one, too, as it hinges on differences in perception and mores.

Another element which has consistently been a plus is the depiction of the struggle for women’s rights. The bohemian Sid and Gus are ardent supporters of the suffrage movement, which allows them to provide a bit of perspective on that important topic, even as they inject a bit of comic relief via their crazy schemes, eclectic tastes, and wild parties.

Unfortunately, it's the heroine with whom I really feel letdown in Bless the Bride. Yes, Molly takes the case--even though she knows how displeased Daniel will be if he ever finds out (which, of course, he eventually does), but the fact that she does so is almost unbelievable, in light of how extraordinarily worried and even guilty she seems to feel about it.

Where is the spirited Molly who would’ve (in previous books) stood up to Daniel, never acquiescing to his request to turn her back on her job (and for “request”, read demand or expectation)? She says she doesn’t want to sit at home planning dinner parties and improving her stitching after the wedding... yet her protests seem like so much lip service, since she does nothing to ensure that Daniel hears her.

And then, there’s the wedding (which is hardly a spoiler, since you know all along it’s going to take place)... and the living arrangements... and the plight of a little girl from earlier books... and... well, it’s all just too much schmaltz for me, in the end.

Color me disappointed with this one...

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 3 out of 5 Mousies

Remembering 9/11: The Day That Changed the World

2011-09-11T14:10:00.005-04:00

As I sit sniffling at my computer, reading countless articles and blog entries about this, the tenth anniversary of the day that will forever be known simply by its date-- “9/11” --it hits me anew how much this changed not just our world, but all of us. In that one horrific day, the last vestiges of our innocence literally went up in flames, leaving only indescribable sorrow, bitterness, and an increased awareness of evil in the remaining ashes.

★ ~ ★ ~ ★

Ten years ago saw me far removed (in body) from the shocking events which would take place that day. I was nearing the end of a seasonal job in a midwestern state, preparing to pick up stake and move again in just a few weeks’ time. I’d been to Washington D.C. on a couple occasions (once for business and once for pleasure), but hadn’t yet ventured to New York. I barely knew anyone there at the time, either--one relative, a few business acquaintances. Still, having seen numerous TV shows and movies, as well as having read so many books set in New York, I--like probably the majority of Americans--had at least a passing familiarity with it, and certainly felt a connection to it.

On the morning of 9/11, I was engaged in the most prosaic of activities--picking up a few notions (thread, buttons) in the fabric department at Wal-Mart--when I heard the news coming over the p.a. system, interrupting the piped-in Muzak. (It’s actually a wonder it even penetrated my brain; I have an uncanny ability to block out advertising, deejay patter, and most other interruptions on radio or TV.) I can still remember my head jerking up, my ears straining to make sure I’d really heard what I couldn’t possibly have just heard, that a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center's Twin Towers, even as the rest of me--my limbs, my breathing--simply stopped. I don’t think I moved for at least the next five minutes (aside from breathing, which of course resumed--albeit uncomfortably shallow and fast).

I have only the vaguest recollection of racing back to the apartment in a daze; fortunately, it was only a few miles away. I know I was paying a lot more attention to the radio than to the road and any traffic.

For the rest of that day and on into the night, we sat glued to the TV, seeing images of the smoking towers, hearing report after report of planes missing and then presumed hijacked, watching in disbelief as one--then hours later, the second--tower fell, seeing the Pentagon in flames, and listening to the plight of Flight 93. (It seems almost unspeakably sad to say that tales of the bravery of passengers on that doomed flight--passengers who managed to foil the hijackers!--was a tiny bright spot on such an impossibly awful day.) The next day was much the same--visions of smoking rubble and reports of casualties... and the shedding of so many more tears. It would be, actually, a very long time--even in the distant midwest--before things felt sort of “back to normal”... or as “normal” as things can ever be, in this scary, post-9/11 world.

★ ~ ★ ~ ★

This was not, of course, the first time a radical faction had chosen extreme and violent means to deliver a message of hate and intolerance. It wasn’t the first time planes had been hijacked with tragic results, nor the first time bombs had killed scores of innocent civilians in a metro area. It was, however, the largest of such heinous plans to be executed, and with such massively-devastating results. And it, perhaps more than any previous hate crime, changed the way we see our world.

On this sad day of remembrance, I shudder to think about those who view this day as a cause for celebration of the lives, and hopes, laid to waste ten years ago... those individuals who actually believe that violence is some sort of solution. May they never again achieve such horrific results... and may the rest of us find it within ourselves to continue believing in the power of peace and promoting harmony, in the hopes of one day making our world a better, not worse, place.

Beware the Darkest Dark of Night

2011-09-09T23:27:00.017-04:00

A nearly-packed plane en route to Atlanta, departing several hours late from Denver, takes to the skies in the wee hours of a cloudy night with a passenger list ranging from the merely-inconvenienced and tired to the openly-disgruntled and testy. It will soon turn into a flight like none of them has ever experienced... nor even dreamt of in a nightmare, for that matter.

The switch from the rocking evening shift to the easy-listening, night-owls-only one is currently in progress at KMRT, a tiny radio station in small-town Jesman’s Bend, Colorado. Those loneliest hours of the night before dawn are about to become a whole lot lonelier.

A handsome--albeit somehow “off”--young man, gloating over the fact that his identity as the city’s infamous killer, the “Mummy-Man”, is still unknown, gains entry into the home of his latest, soon-to-be-very-unlucky victim. Unbeknownst to the killer, he will shortly be getting more--and less--than that for which he bargained.

A middle-aged widow--who staves off the loneliness by listening to (and conversing with) all the voices in her head (voices of all the children she and her dead husband never had)--contemplates how to spend the following day. In her wildest dreams, she could never have envisioned how the next 48 hours will be spent.

And thus begins the first in Peter Crowther’s new, apocalyptic “Forever Twilight” sci-fi series, Darkness Falling.

✈ ... ☎ ... ☠ ... ✇

Things are going... well, if not precisely smoothly, then at least more or less predictably for everyone, considering the pre-dawn hour (when few people are awake by choice). Things are humming along mostly okay, that is, until an ear-shatteringly loud boom and a sudden, blindingly-intense flash of light obliterate everyone’s ability to see, hear, move, or think... to do much of anything, in fact, but breathe.

When the sound and light finally recede, the world is tomb-like, blanketed by both an unnatural darkness--a complete and utter absence of any form of light--and an absolute and eery silence.

It resembles a tomb in one other way, as well; it is almost entirely devoid of living, breathing human beings.

The passengers left on the jet can now be counted on one hand. Likewise, with the inhabitants of admittedly-small (but not that small) Jesman’s Bend. The same seems to be the case wherever you look, actually; nearly everyone, everywhere, has just disappeared... vanished without a trace, into the murky darkness.

Twenty-four hours go by, and then, something strange happens (as if this empty new world didn’t already push the very limits of bizarre); people start returning.

The problem, for those who remained when the others did their presto-magic disappearing acts, is that something just isn’t right about those who’ve come back. (Things such as the dark sunglasses, gloves, and strangely-awkward gaits are obvious clues to that particular bombshell). No, it’s pretty much as wrong as wrong can be, especially once it becomes clear that not only are the returnees altered... but that they seem to have some mighty evil plans in store.

✈ ... ☎ ... ☠ ... ✇

Author Crowther shows an impressive patience when setting things up, letting us get a real feel for the main characters (so that the choices they make and the sometimes-extreme actions they later take will ring true? so that we’ll be invested in them as people, instead of thinking of them only as convenient props for something to happen to?), and his restraint is effective, allowing, as it does, for a wealth of tension and suspense to build up. Once things start happening, though, it’s a no-holds-barred, full-on frontal assault of action, terror, and (okay, let's be blunt, here) gore. (If you can’t handle any ookiness whatsoever, then this isn’t for you. Trust me.)

Darkness Falling is, without a doubt, one of the spookiest, creepiest books I’ve ever read. Ever. (I mean that in a good way, though.) Drawing from those fabulously-fun (and much beloved-by-me in reruns) TV frightfests from days gone by--think “The Twilight Zone”, “Kolchak: The Night Stalker”, and “Tales from the Crypt”, here--then pulling in elements from some of the better sci-fi/horror movies and sci-fi/thrillers, and finishing it all off with dollops of relationship drama and tongue-in-cheek humor, Crowther delivers some creepy-cool fun.

As mentioned earlier, if “gruesome” isn’t your bag, you’ll want to steer clear. If, on the other hand, you like to throw a little eyes-wide-open-and-breath-held-in-wincing-anticipation reading into the mix, now and then, this one should find a place on your list.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4 out of 5 (goosebumpy) Catnip Mousies

[Note: Darkness Falling will be released 9/27/11.]

Sons, Daughters, & the Deep Blue Undersea

2011-09-04T00:16:00.002-04:00

It’s always something, when it comes to life in Faerie... and for a knight who’s only recently added “Countess” to her growing list of names and titles, truer words were never spoken.

Sir October Daye is still getting used to all the changes that have taken place since she unravelled the nefarious plot against her liege, Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, and his wife, Luna. Their daughter--the insane, angry, and unhappy Rayseline--has fled to parts unknown. Sylvester has seemingly aged overnight, and Luna now wears a mantle of sadness instead of her former kitsune disguise.

Things have altered for Toby, as well. After being hit with deadly elfshot during the last skirmish, she underwent some major (magical) resuscitation efforts--courtesy of her freaky-powerful (but rarely-seen) mother, Amandine--which left her... well, rather different than she was before... and she’s still trying to come to grips with what all of that means.

Not everything’s doom, gloom, and thirty-nine shades of awful, though (thank Oberon). Toby has the running of her newly-acquired knowe, Goldengreen, to keep her busy. Sylvester insisted she learn how to use a sword (which, let’s be honest, is a pretty savvy move, given how often she ends up staring down some Big Bad), so she’s (okay, grudgingly) taken up training like an Olympic hopeful and is in the best shape of her life. There’s also the squire that she’s finally been persuaded to take on (much to everyone’s delight). Oh, and a love life. She (woo-hoo!) even has one of those now, too.

This is where that “it’s always something” comes in, though... the point where Toby’s world turns upside down once more, in the fifth of author Seanan McGuire’s continuing tales of Toby and company, One Salt Sea.

✠ ~ ✠ ~ ✠ ~ ✠

Upon receiving a summons to an official to-do by her perpetual nemesis, the Queen of the Mists, Toby--along with the rest of the queen’s subjects--learns some very troubling news. The sons of the queen’s undersea counterparts, Duchess Dianda Lorden and her husband Patrick of the Undersea Duchy of Saltmist, have been kidnapped... and the Lordens believe the Queen of the Mists is behind it. They’re so sure of that, in fact, that they’ve sworn to go to war against the kingdom of the Mists unless their sons are returned, unharmed.

The promised war will commence in just three days’ time... and if it does, the land fae will almost certainly lose, because they’re ridiculously outnumbered (not to mention out-prepared) by the undersea fae.

Toby, naturally, is the obvious choice for the sorts of sleuthing and saving-of-everyone’s-magical-butts that this type of hellish situation requires. Fortunately, she has her trusty, go-to crew to aid her in yet another seemingly-impossible mission, including Sylvester and all of Shadowed Hills; her own subjects at Goldengreen; her sidekick Quentin; her former-fetch-cum-roommate-and-friend, May; her very old friend (and Raysel’s ex), Connor; The King of Cats, Tybalt, plus his nephew Raj; reliable bridge troll (and capable cabbie) Danny; and, last but never least, her kinda-sorta aunt, the sea witch monster known as The Luidaeg. If Toby has a chance in Hades of somehow preventing the impending war, she’s going to need every single one of them.

Unfortunately, the odds are stacked against her but good (or bad, which is actually a lot more accurate). For one thing, it means that Toby--who already spent fourteen miserable years living as a fish in a koi pond (thanks to a really nasty enchantment by Sylvester’s evil brother, Simon)--will somehow have to figure out a way to get herself down to the deep-undersea realm of Saltmist in order to conduct the investigations which only she is qualified to do. (Yay, fun.)

There’s another problem, too, of course. Someone is prepared to do just about anything to stop her from succeeding in her mission--the person (or persons) who abducted the children, knowing full well such a horrible act would be the catalyst for major war between the two realms. Whoever it is can pass easily between the worlds of land and sea... and clearly will go to any means necessary to see the goal through to the bitter end.

When members of Toby’s little group of friends and family become targets, too, well, that's when the glove--or in her case, the leather jacket--comes off. Sir Daye is willing to go to any lengths and do anything to protect those she holds dear... anything at all.

Anything.

✠ ~ ✠ ~ ✠ ~ ✠

Once again, McGuire graces us with a completely unputdownable book in the continuing (and rather delightfully, Shakespearean-titled) saga of Toby Daye. (Okay, I lied; technically I did put it down. I’m not a speed reader, so 368 pages at one sitting--especially with so much pesky, real-life stuff constantly intruding--isn’t actually possible for me. But, it was just a little white lie so you’d get the idea, capiche?)

McGuire’s Faerie is a complex and endlessly-fascinating place, full of countless species of fae, all of whose actions are governed by complicated (and to us, sometimes a tad nonsensical) practices, laws, and rules of etiquette. To really get it, be prepared to immerse yourself in the lore... and yes, a la Tinkerbell, to believe.

As fabulous as the world she’s created is, though, the characters remain an even-bigger draw for me. Toby is very, very real--heartbreakingly-so, oftentimes--and feels, by now, like an old friend. Her joy (not that there’s overmuch of that, mind you), her anger, her confusion, and her fears all come across pitch-perfectly, lending the stories a gut-level emotional punch. Her relationships with the others are likewise well-expressed... particularly those with The Luidaeg, Sylvester, Quentin, and Tybalt.

Like each previous entry in what has thus far proven to be an almost-impossibly brilliant storyline--vast in scope as well as heart, One Salt Sea delivers the goods, big-time. There’s suspense and action galore, friendship and love (of so many awesome varieties), knowledge and understanding gained, and loss--always so much loss--as we watch the worlds of Faerie struggle to remain relevant and to survive.

It’s nice to think that love and the forces of good might someday overcome all the evil out there. If it eventually works in Faerie (which still remains to be seen), then maybe--just maybe--it might one day work for us, too.

I’m holding out hope, for both our worlds... and I know that Toby is, too.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 5 (Exceedingly-Potent) Catnip Mousies out of 5!!

[Note: One Salt Sea will be released on September 6, 2011.]

High Heels, Ebony Paws, & Vegas Gold, Baby

2011-08-31T23:46:00.007-04:00

When an intriguingly delectable-sounding blend of mystery, sly humor, Vegas glitz, and cats (yes, CATS, people!) landed on my doorstep, it seemed like a no-brainer.

There was, however, one small hitch: the book in question--Carole Nelson Douglas’ Cat in a Vegas Gold Vendetta--was actually the twenty-third in a long-running series... of which I’d read nary a one. (In fact, I possessed not even the vaguest general knowledge about it; no handy clues had ever seen fit to make their way into my subconscious via some sort of bookstore osmosis, sadly.) I would be a tabula rasa, trying to get caught up on all the important whos and whats in a hurry... and having nearly two dozen books’ worth of elapsed history to contend with was, frankly, more than a little daunting.

Still, that “But this is right down my alley!” refrain kept playing in the back of my mind, so I decided there was nothing to lose... but potentially, a fun, new-to-me series to find.

~^.,^~ ~^.,.^~ ~^.,.^~

Freelance-public-relations-whiz-cum-amateur sleuth Temple Barr is a snappy-thinking (and even snappier-talking) young woman who (apparently) keeps finding her diminutive self in the middle of all manner of mysterious mayhem. By her side (literally) is the eponymous kitty and her roommate, one Midnight Louie, feline sleuth extraordinaire. (Louie, it must be noted, is quite the thinking cat, and--while he only communicates with “his Miss Temple” in the usual meows, trills, purrs, and paw action--entire chapters are devoted to his thoughts about the various goings-on and to recounting his own detecting exploits. They're fabulously true-to-feline form and a hoot to read.)

Other recurring characters include one boyfriend (fiancé in this latest outing), the popular late-night radio talk show host Matt Devine; one ex-boyfriend, the Lazarus-like magician Max Kinsella (more about that in a minute); and not-quite-nemesis (but not-nearly-friend, either), police detective Carmen Molina.

Vegas Gold begins with Temple receiving her first formal request to do some p.i.--not p.r.--work, for one of her least-favorite people... an aging B-movie starlet who goes by the highly-unlikely name Savannah Ashleigh. Savannah is convinced that the recent death of her wealthy, bed-ridden aunt’s loyal handyman was not the accident which local police have deemed it. Furthermore, Savannah fears that her defenseless aunt may be in line for the same fate--a scenario made more believable in light of the fact that Aunt Violet has yet to sign her will naming an heir, something which has the vultures (aka relatives) circling.

Violet, meanwhile, is frantic about her cats, whom she insists have been disappearing, and she implores Temple to find them. (As a point of special interest to animal lovers, eccentric Aunt Violet is a one-woman cat-rescue operation--with somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty or so feline companions sharing her home--and her untimely demise with no will in place would not bode well for her furry family.) Naturally, Temple agrees to do whatever she can for Violet and her cats.

With her PR business running smoothly plus the new side job to keep her occupied, it’s really Temple’s personal life that’s hitting a pothole-the-size-of-Rhode-Island bump in the road. Her ex-flame (“Mystifying Max”, the magician) suddenly pops up--months after what everyone believed to be his certain demise during an illusion-gone-wrong--suffering from amnesia. The only thing he's sure of is that someone wants him dead... something which Temple is determined to prevent.

That’s not all for the tiny tornado otherwise known as Temple, though--not when a third mystery rears its ugly head. Another body is found in one of Detective Molina’s old cases--and both Temple and Max find themselves drawn into her investigation. (Now is a good time to point out that this case--as well as Max’s current predicament--began in previous books and are recurring plot lines. Fortunately, the author does a pretty good job of providing enough background so that newcomers aren’t completely clueless... while longtime readers won't be buried by endless repetition, either.)

Meanwhile, on the furry front, Midnight Louie (aided by his Girl-Cat Friday, the delightfully-sassy Louise) is occupied with the imminent peril faced by Violet’s clowder (that’s the term for a group of cats, by the way)... and with how to rescue each member before so much as a whisker can be harmed.

Will Temple figure out what’s going on in Violet’s house before she suffers an unfortunate “accident”? Can Temple’s loves--past and present--somehow put aside their petty jealousies and rein in the raging testosterone long enough to keep their girl out of harm's way? Will Max be able to walk away from a killer again... or has his luck finally run out? And, can Midnight Louie and company rescue the rescues... before it’s too late??

~^.,^~ ~^.,.^~ ~^.,.^~

As a general rule, I steer clear of anything that sounds too “cute”--which is the category I usually lump all those mysteries with “themed” titles into. (Ones about desserts, knitting, and shopping spring to mind.) Thus, it was with some trepidation that I agreed to read Cat in a Vegas Gold Vendetta; cat or no, the potential for death-by-cute-overload worried me.

Happily, that didn't prove to be the case. Sure, Temple is a little breezy--it is Vegas, after all--but the author has created a smart, funny, spunky, determined, and genuinely nice gal in Temple, and I really like her. Her suitor situation is an interesting one, as well, what with two desirable fellows alternating between friends and lovers... and I’m curious about how everyone got to where they are now over the course of the preceding (gulp) twenty-two books.

Of course, the piece de resistance is undeniably Louis, the clever detective (who just happens to perambulate on four furry paws). Douglas lets him be a cat--a smooth-talking (to other felines) and urbane black-furred gentleman, who still retains his streetwise ways--and it’s clear she really “gets” cats, both in what they actually do (such as observing the ritual of turning in circles before lying down) and how they might think if they shared our vast vocabularies (that the prescribed three turns are an important ritual in tribute to Bast, the Cat God). Midnight Louie’s personal thoughts, as well as his interactions with other cats, are both fascinating and utterly delightful, and cat owners are sure to fall in love with this ebony charmer.

On the whole, Cat in a Vegas Gold Vendetta is a fun book with a lot happening--perhaps a somewhat-challenging read for newcomers, but spot-on perfect for longtime fans. I know that I have definite plans to catch up with Midnight Louis and his Miss Temple again in the near future. :)

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4 out of 5 Mousies

Prowling the Streets in Search of Justice: A SuperHero is Born

2011-08-25T15:18:00.004-04:00

Growing up, I idolized Wonder Woman. She had it all--awesome strength and beauty, intelligence and kindness. To me, she was female perfection.

Ever practical, I knew I’d never achieve that ideal (she was just fantasy, after all), but following her tireless quest to rid the world of evil and replace it with love and peace allowed me to envision a place and time in which women enjoyed real power and respect (and could fix problems without a lot of senseless bloodshed).

It's never all about thrilling feats of derring-do, of course. There’s a bit of melancholy attached to any superhero story too--sometimes a sense of loss, and always feelings of loneliness. Nothing comes without a price.

Raymond Benson explores what it would be like to become an all-too-human superhero in his new book, The Black Stiletto.

✒ ~ ✒ ~ ✒ ~ ✒ ~ ✒

Martin Talbot is a just a regular Joe. Ordinary-looking, middle-aged, and divorced (with shared custody of an only daughter), he’s not the sort to inspire second glances. Methodical and careful, he works at a large accounting firm by day, then returns home at night to a modest home in the Chicago suburbs.

He has no major complaints about his lot in life--aside from being sad about his mother’s condition. Judy Talbot, the lively woman from his youth, is now an elderly woman--still physically-fit for her age but mentally-felled by the onset and progression of Alzheimer’s--living in a nursing home... a woman who only sometimes recognizes her own son.

Martin thinks he knows Judy--the single-parent mom he grew up with as well as the befuddled and distant woman she’s become. He is about to find, however, that he knows nothing at all...

After a surprise visit from her lawyer one day, Martin finds himself checking on Judy’s old (long for-sale) house. Dutifully following the instructions she’d penned years earlier in a note the lawyer gave him, Martin winds up in a secret closet buried deep in the old house’s musty basement--a tiny room he never knew existed.

The furnishings in the hidden room are sparse: a few boxes filled to the brim with journals dating back some fifty years, and--curiously--a couple of leather costumes (Halloween? bondage fetish??). Knowing that whatever he’s just found can’t be the sort of thing Judy would want the nosy realtor stumbling upon one day, Martin loads the dusty lot into his car.

What he learns when he cracks open the first diary beggars belief, though; his parent-- perfectly-ordinary, suburban-mom Judy Talbot--lived a whole other life before settling down... a life in which she was (according to what she wrote in her journals, anyway) none other than the infamous Black Stiletto, masked crusader notorious for taking on Communist spies, the Mafia, and other assorted thugs and baddies, from the late 1950s to the early ‘60s.

Martin voraciously pours over every word, and as the tale--an ancient, unsolved mystery as far as the authorities are concerned--is told, the truth comes to light for the very first time. In young Judy’s own words, Martin sees how an abused girl--finally pushed too far--took matters into her own hands, escaping from a life of unhappiness into one that was completely foreign to her... then somehow managing to pick up all the pieces and reassemble them into something new.

As the fantastic tale continues, Martin reads that his mother wasn’t content to be just a survivor; she had a burning desire to see justice done, too... eventually, opting to go outside of the law to achieve it. As impossible as it seems that his cookie-baking mother was once a vigilante wanted by both the police and the FBI, there it is, laid out in black-and-white... and somehow, it has the ring of truth to it.

Unfortunately, Martin isn’t the only one in on the secret--something he unhappily discovers when one of the Black Stiletto’s worst enemies suddenly shows up in the Windy City, hell-bent on settling an ancient score. This enemy isn’t one to worry about any pesky little details, either, like whether or not the Black Stiletto’s son and granddaughter are in the way.

Can the mild-mannered son of the former heroine/vigilante save the day... or does the septuagenarian Stiletto have one final trick up her cardigan sweater sleeve?

✒ ~ ✒ ~ ✒ ~ ✒ ~ ✒

The Black Stiletto is a mesmerizing tale. The fact that it’s actually told from several different points of view--and that it goes back and forth between present and past--is an interesting (as well as effective) way to relay the story. It allows us to get a handle on who Martin is, then to feel his frustrations and uncertainty when everything in his life starts changing. He’s not a bad guy, and when he thinks selfish thoughts or has trouble coping with his teenaged daughter’s opinions and plans, it’s understandable.

Of course, the primary focus is on Judy. Seeing how such an iconic (in the framework of the story) character comes into existence is absolutely fascinating, and reading the words of a teenager is an unexpected (but oh-so-appropriate) choice--certainly much more affecting than if the tale were written as the memoirs of an old woman. The writing in the journals consistently sounds like that of a young (and, early on, innocent and naive) girl, a tone which lends her tale--that of the creation of an alter ego more Catwoman than Wonder Woman--a genuine poignancy. From the early tragedies and hard times that shaped the determined young woman and tough avenger she would become, to her invincible good cheer and can-do attitude, you can’t help but root for Judy, and like her.

Another element worthy of mention is the setting--notably that of 1950s New York. It just feels like author Benson must have surely gotten the details right, with the flavors, sights, and sounds of the city, as well as the overall look and tone of the era, and it was fun immersing myself in a time so foreign.

The Black Stiletto is a cool blend of smooth mystery-suspense with some dark comic-book spice, and I enjoyed every bit of it.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.25 out of 5 Mousies

[Note: The Black Stiletto will be released September 5, 2011.]

A Girl, a Boat, a Hero... and the Fate of the Universe?

2011-08-20T00:00:00.000-04:00

Showy meteorite displays on opposite sides of the world... a couple of driven scientists, trying to pinpoint the source of a group of unusual gamma rays, located far away in the solar system... the recent influx into the rare jewel market of some beautiful (but deadly) gemstones... a curious (and tenacious) young girl who sets out on a fishing boat from the coast of Maine to find her fortune... and the (former) CIA operative trying to put all these pieces together and make sense of things, before it’s too late for everyone: this is Douglas Preston’s action-packed, sci-fi adventure thriller, Impact.

★ // ★ // ★ // ★

Abbey Straw is a college student like so many of her peers, just going with the flow--but dissatisfied with her options. What she wants is to be an astronomer (which, unfortunately, isn’t what she’s been going to school for), so she drops out one day with only a vague idea of finding some long-buried treasure off the coast of Maine to fund her dreams. When she happens to witness a fabulous meteor shower one night--and also manages to catch the meteor’s fall with her camera--she can hardly believe her luck. It’s like an omen; this is what she’s meant to do: triangulate the coordinates of the landing using the images she’s captured, find the meteor somewhere out there (in the hundreds of small islands off the coast), and make her fortune. So, after enlisting the aid of her best friend and borrowing her father’s small fishing boat, she sets out.

Aerospace engineer Mark Corso feels like the opportunity of a lifetime has just fallen into his lap when he’s given the prestigious job recently--and tragically--vacated by his mentor, who was killed during a home invasion. The feeling of destiny soon intensifies--even as it also morphs into a certain amount of uneasiness--when he receives, shortly thereafter, a mysterious parcel in the mail. It contains an encrypted hard drive--stolen from his new place of work--and is chock-full of unusual, highly-classified images from the Mars mission... images that shouldn’t be. The sender? His dead mentor.

Wyman Ford, an ex-CIA operative, receives an urgent summons to the Washington, D.C. office of the president’s top science advisor, where he’s given a hush-hush assignment: locate the source of a new gemstone known as “honeys”, which have taken the market by storm--a beautiful stone, exact origin unknown... that just so happens to be radioactive (in other words, deadly to the wearer, with the potential to make some very nasty dirty bombs). Once Ford finds the honey mine(s), he is to report back to Washington, so they can decide what to do next.

None of these three people has ever met, but they’re about to independently discover perplexing clues to the same large puzzle... one with deadly implications, for each of them... and perhaps for the entire planet.

★ // ★ // ★ // ★

I’ve read a lot of things by Douglas Preston--books penned by him alone, as well as several collaborations with his frequent writing partner, Lincoln Child (going all the way back to 1995’s fabulous Relic)--so I knew about what to expect: a solid tech-y background with some interesting science stuff, a host of realistic characters to keep up with, plenty of drama and action, and a few spine-tingling chills. And, in many ways, Impact lives up to the long tradition I associate with this author.

The book has a fascinating premise--one that doesn’t go in entirely-predictable directions, thank goodness. It’s definitely action-packed, with some key scenes reminiscent of those from the Indiana Jones franchise (yay!), and others drawing from sources like “The Perfect Storm” and “Cape Fear” (again, cool!). As for the characters, Ford and Abbey, in particular, are drawn extremely well, and their relationship--once they eventually meet--works quite nicely.

It’s not a “perfect” book, though. Chief among my complaints is that it’s a slow-starter; I had to talk myself into trudging through the first fifty or sixty pages until my interest finally caught and held. (That kind of start doesn’t tend to put me in a very good mood.) The Corso character isn’t as strong as the other two leads, either, so those sections continued to be somewhat frustrating for me. (Maybe he’s exactly as Preston saw him--an annoying wienie--or maybe he just strikes me that way, I don’t know. Regardless, he grates on my nerves.) Finally, the ending feels a tad abrupt, with a little extra tacked on after that. (Let’s just say it’s not the cleanest job of setting out the grand conclusion.)

Still, Impact provides a good-enough ride overall that I think anyone who enjoys action/adventure-thrillers with a science twist should enjoy it (provided they have patience through the draggy beginning, that is). As for me, I’m holding out hope that Preston’s next solo adventure is just a little bit better.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 3.5 out of 5 Mousies

The Boy who Was Born a Man (Reacher's Early Years)

2011-08-16T18:02:00.004-04:00

You might think that hearing about the continued exploits of a world-weary, tough-as-old-boots hero who’s seen and done just about everything there is to see and do during his five decades of tramping around the earth (and is thus, very rarely surprised by anything or anyone) would start getting a little old, some fifteen books in.

You’d be wrong to think that, though--at least, when the heroic fellow in question is none other than Lee Child’s veritable force-of-nature and one-man distributor of revenge and retribution, ex-military policeman Jack Reacher--because, like fine wine, Reacher just gets better with age.

Of course, there’s also the fact that age is such a relative concept with someone like Reacher... a point brought home rather persuasively in the newly-released (and first ever!) short story about him, Second Son, which provides a very different look at the stalwart fellow than we’ve ever seen before.

This mini-Reacher feature (hehe, couldn’t resist) covers only a couple of days’ time, yet it manages to paint the perfect picture of a younger Reacher--who, as we soon see, is really just a (somewhat-)smaller version of his present self.

Set in 1974, when Reacher is a boy of thirteen, Second Son offers a glimpse of what life is like for him and his family when they’re newly re-stationed on Okinawa. It’s an interesting time; President Ford has just taken over for President Nixon, and the U.S. military is, at long last, focussed more on peacekeeping than on active combat duties. For a military family such as the Reachers, it all means a whole new way of thinking about friends and enemies.

Or... maybe not so much, when Reacher and his older brother Joe immediately find themselves in the middle of a mess of trouble, both the usual hazing-of-the-newcomers variety, as well as something with far-more serious and wide-reaching (sorry, no pun intended this time) implications.

At the same time, Reacher’s father finds himself caught up in a worrisome, politically-charged situation (snafu, anyone?), and Reacher’s mother has personal issues of her own to deal with... leaving Reacher to sort out everyone’s problems as best he can. (See, it really is the same old, same old for our trusty man of steel.)

✠ - ✠ - ✠ - ✠ - ✠ - ✠

Second Son may be but a tiny piece plucked out of the Reacher time capsule--I read it in its entirety during one powerwalk on the treadmill--but as informative blasts-from-the-past go, it’s a good one. I loved seeing Reacher (yes, always just Reacher) as a barely-teenaged boy/man, with his practical-thinking skills already honed to a fine edge, and that lethal combination of unemotional common sense and impressive brawn ready and able to solve any problem, even then.

It’s nice getting to spy on their family dynamic, too... and to walk away with a better feel for where the pragmatism and integrity which guide the Reacher we know and love actually originated. Having this little bit of “firsthand” knowledge kind of fills in those small gaps and rounds out his character--making this both an effective and entertaining piece... and a must-read, for Reacher fans.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.5 out of 5 mousies

[Note: This short story is currently only available as an e-book.]

Play Us a Song of Death

2011-08-12T00:42:00.000-04:00

Things would be tidier if the monsters in our midst were easier to spot. If they were hideously ugly, spoke only nonsense, had atrocious taste in music and art, and were so thoroughly detestable that not even their own mothers could be relied upon to love them unquestionably... then the rest of us would be safe(r) from them.

We know that’s not the case, though. Spend a week following the news, and it’s clear that most of the people who commit those heinous acts look and seem like the rest of us. From the inconspicuous wallflower to the movie-star-attractive, the soccer mom (or dad) to the designer-clad, the lover of pop (or rock or country) to the opera buff... oh yes, we’d be hard-pressed to pick the monsters among us out of the crowd. Such is also the case in P.J. Parrish’s latest thriller, The Killing Song.

* / * / * / * / *

In his professional life, thirty-five-year-old Matt Owens has it made. He enjoys his job as a reporter for a Miami paper and has a Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism hanging on a wall at home to show for it. His personal life is another matter, though. With a failed relationship recently behind him, most nights find him home alone, nursing a bottle of whiskey, rather than out on the town with friends.

When his sheltered baby sister Mandy graduates from college, it seems like the perfect opportunity to shake up both their routines a little, so he invites her down from North Carolina for a visit. Her trip is a success; Mandy is thrilled by everything in exotic and colorful Miami, and the pair happily explore neighborhoods and beaches by day, before hitting the clubs each evening.

On her last night in town, Matt--ever the indulgent big brother--agrees to just one more drink so Mandy can shake it on the dance floor a final time. Idly sipping his drink, his eyes wander over the crowd, people-watching. When the song ends, he looks around for her... but she’s nowhere in sight.

He pushes through the sweaty throng, searching; he checks the restrooms and looks outside on the street, in case she’s already waiting. Finally, he’s forced to conclude that she has vanished into thin air, and he contacts the police.

News comes the next morning: a body fitting Mandy’s description has been found. She’s in a derelict hotel, a few hours dead. Her clothing is nowhere to be found; the only item of hers at the scene is her iPod.

A few days later, he plugs it in, hoping to reconnect with a part of her by listening to the music she loved so much. Much to his surprise, the last song played wasn’t something by Lady Gaga or Shakira, but an obscure oldie by the Rolling Stones, entitled “Too Much Blood”--a gruesome song about a man who brutally kills his girlfriend in Paris-- something Matt knows Mandy would have loathed.

Convinced the song must have been added to Mandy’s iPod by the killer, Matt googles first the song, then murders in Paris... adding all the details of the crime he can think of to narrow the search parameters. What he eventually comes up with stops him cold: the murder a few months earlier of a young American woman in Paris, the body left just as in the Stones’ song. Both the description of the body and the crime scene sound like those in his sister’s case. It can’t be a coincidence, so he makes immediate plans to go to France.

In Paris, he soon finds more than he bargained for--multiple unsolved murders, each with a musical clue left at the scene. Eve Bellamont, the detective in charge of the investigations, is convinced that an even-older murder--one she’s been obsessed with for the past five years--is part of the same horrible pattern, as well.

As Matt and Eve pursue the cryptic musical clues, their search crosses the Channel into England and Scotland, too. Horrified by how many victims this sadistic monster has already killed--and by the thought of all those still in peril--the duo frantically chase down leads, getting one step closer to their prey with each note of music... desperately hoping to find him before they hear his next song playing.

* / * / * / * / *

With The Killing Song, the two sisters who write together as P.J. Parrish take a break from their popular Louis Kincaid mystery series and deliver something a little different. On the whole, it’s an enjoyable read--although to be honest, I don’t yet feel the same sort of connection with Matt that I feel to Louis. Matt is interesting enough, a smart and flawed character, and he’s believable; what’s lacking for me is the same level of emotional intensity.

Looking at it as a one-off (at least for now), though, The Killing Song is easy to recommend. The story alternates between perspectives, first seeing through the killer’s eyes and then through Matt’s, and it’s an effective technique, because we always know more than either of them... while still remaining in the dark about how the last few pieces will fit together (until near the end). The use of music throughout is compelling, as are the settings--from the vivid colors of Miami, to the varied neighborhoods of Paris (including fascinating trips through ancient burial sites, both above and below ground) and the surrounding countryside, to London, all the way to a remote corner of Scotland. My favorite part, though, is the relationship between Matt and Eve; Parrish doesn’t go the route seen in most stories, but gives us something unexpected... and welcome.

Overall, this is an interesting police procedural/thriller with some really good suspense... and it holds out promise for future adventures.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4 out of 5 Mousies

Deadly Games in the Hollywood Hills

2011-08-06T23:21:00.003-04:00

With a nod at the oft-quoted U.S. Supreme Court Justice Stewart (who famously said that even though he didn’t know the precise definition of “pornography”, he knew it when he saw it), I’m not always sure what constitutes “pulp fiction”... but I think I know it when I see it. (Thanks for that go to Quentin Tarantino and his oh-so-helpfully-named cinematic masterpiece... not to mention, pretty much every other movie he’s had a hand in.)

Until recently, my exposure to the likes of anything pulp-y was confined to watching such Tarantino-esque films on the jumbo screens at the multiplex. (The sheer outrageousness and larger-than-life everything in a pulp movie is positively tailor-made for a place which proudly serves up jumbo buckets of glistening, artery-clogging puffs of corn and carry-on-suitcase-sized boxes of Junior Mints.)

What I’d never done, though, was to read anything in the genre... but, figuring that you never know what’s gonna float your boat until you try it (well, aside from something like Brussels sprouts, which I’m positive beyond a shadow of a doubt I can’t stand, despite the fact that they’ve never actually passed my lips), I was open to the idea.

So, when the description for crime writer Duane Swierczynski’s latest book, Fun & Games, came along--and intrigued me, with its mix of familiar-enough territory (noir-ish mystery) and the promise of a little extra kapow (over-the-top action scenes in a bizarre-o setting)--I decided to take the plunge.

▼◊ ▲ ◊ ▼ ◊ ▲ ◊ ▼

A little drive-by, for starters...

First off, a quick check that the key ingredients are all present and accounted for, in the very best pulp fashion. Hardboiled action hero? Check; Charlie Hardie is an ex-Philly-cop, as tough as old boots, who’s trying to escape a lot of bad memories by consuming copious amounts of booze. Beautiful woman-in-peril? Check; Lane Madden is a beautiful, famous young starlet, on the run from some very bad people. That brings us to... Bad Guys? Checkity-check-check. There are at least three extremely-evil guys (well, make that two guys-and-a-gal) who want nothing more than to see Lane dead. Finally, fantastic locale? Check, if the fabulous homes in the hills of Hollywood count.

Now, let’s put everyone in motion...

Charlie Hardie has completely turned his back on his old life, following the brutal murders of his partner--and his partner’s wife and daughters--during a drug case gone tragically wrong. He currently makes a living as a house sitter, a job that lets him be a rolling stone, always on the move with gigs all over the country (and as far away from Philadelphia as he can get). It’s easy enough; he secures the property, makes it obvious the house isn’t vacant, then spends the rest of the time watching old movies and making his way through as much bourbon as possible. (No matter that the pay isn’t great, since he carries all his worldly belongings in a couple suitcases.)

He flies into L.A., thinking this latest job doesn’t sound like much of a challenge: watch the house of a famous musician who’s off working on the score for another blockbuster movie. (The fact that it’s an “upside-down house”, with three of the floors buried underground, would seem to make things that much easier.) And, when he sees the huge screens and amazing sound system in the media room on arriving, he decides this job will be just about perfect.

There’s just one teensy little problem: after being in the house for only several minutes, he’s attacked (impaled, actually) by a terrified young squatter... who turns out to be a considerably-worse-for-the-wear Lane Madden, gorgeous A- and B-movie actress (whose exploits are fodder for all the tabloids), insisting that “They” are out to kill her.

Initially, Hardie--while sort of preoccupied trying to stop the vast quantities of blood from leaking out his chest--thinks he has just another drugged-up (and crazy-ass dangerous!) starlet on his hands. Who in his right mind would buy her story that a group of hit men have been trying to kill her all morning, and to make the death look like an accident? Gradually, though, he realizes there might be some awful truth to the wild tale Lane’s telling him... especially after the power is cut, the phones are jammed, and someone drives off in Hardie’s rental car. (And don't even ask about the poor delivery guy who shows up unexpectedly with Hardie's wayward suitcase.)

Once these so-called Accident People successfully break into the house, making all-too clear their intention of killing both Lane and Hardie, all bets are off; Hardie’s not about to let another innocent person get whacked when he’s around. (At the very least, he's willing to die to prevent it from ever happening again...)

▼◊ ▲ ◊ ▼ ◊ ▲ ◊ ▼

What I can’t tell you about Fun & Games are all the specific moments of terror... anticipating the hammer to drop, the boogieman to get in, and the blood to flow. The chases are thrilling; there’s a very strong you-are-there sensation when reading, and you feel and “see” everything on a visceral level. This one grabs you by the throat from the start, and doesn’t let go until the bitter end. It’s larger-than-life, as promised, full of scary-creepy, heart-pounding, adrenaline-fueled fun.

Swierczynski doesn’t just dish up some killer action, though; his Hardie is hardboiled-with-a-heart (a Bruce Willis character--smart-ass wisecracks included, thank goodness--if ever I’ve seen one), and Lane is sympathetic, too (in a suitably-spoiled, Lindsey Lohan way). As for the hit squad, well, they’re a nifty blend of all those really nasty baddies straight out of the better shoot-em-ups, and the fact that the leader of this particular group is a very smart and determined woman? Totally cool.

Fun & Games is the first in a trilogy featuring Charlie Hardie, and I’m kinda looking forward to seeing what other insanity Swierczynski has planned for him. Every once in awhile, you just need to let loose and go on a wild and crazy ride.

Whatever else it is, let’s just say... this one’s definitely not Brussels sprouts. ;)

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4 out of 5 Mousies

The Last Resort... and Second Chances

2011-08-01T00:36:00.005-04:00

Words can have multiple meanings, and sometimes, the differences are subtle. Take “exhaustion”. We hear the word, and tend to picture a body utterly worn out by some sort of grueling physical activity, such as that of a workman who pounds nails into roof shingles for a living, after spending eight hours in the blazing July sun, or maybe a triathlete at the end of his/her race.

Exhaustion doesn’t manifest itself solely in the physical sense, though. Emotional exhaustion--that hollowed-out feeling which follows a period of intense grieving, for instance--can leave the body feeling just as fatigued as physical activity, and the same is true for mental exhaustion--such as when a person has thought long and hard about every aspect of a seemingly-insurmountable problem, in the fruitless search for a solution.

Any one of them--or a combination thereof--can lead to burn-out, that state of being completely fed up--with a job, a relationship, a situation... or with life itself. A dangerous thing, burn-out.

Jussi Adler-Olsen’s The Keeper of Lost Causes is the tale of a man experiencing burn-out... and how he eventually finds his way again.

~ # ~ # ~ # ~ # ~ # ~

It's a given that no matter how good things might seem, there’s always something (or someone) waiting to knock the wind out of our sails. Carl Mørck, a highly-regarded homicide detective in Copenhagen’s police force, was no different. His team had an excellent record, and Carl enjoyed the respect of his peers. So his personal life was somewhat less-than-idyllic, with a wife who moved out (but refused to divorce), leaving him responsible for a surly teenage son. On the whole, though, he was happy enough.

Until one day, that is, when everything was turned upside down during what seemed like just another routine murder investigation. In the span of a few seconds, Carl was shot, one of his partners was killed, and the other suffered injuries which would leave him paralyzed. And Carl, who failed to draw his weapon, now blames himself for the whole pathetic mess.

Returning to work following his leave of absence finds Carl a changed man. Gone are his curiosity about cases, his sense of humor, and his will to be a part of things; instead, he's a bitter, burned-out, unapproachable shell of his former self--and a man around whom everyone else soon learns to steer clear.

This new-and-unimproved Carl is the last person in the department that anyone would expect to receive any commendations; forced into an early retirement, sure, but promoted? Never... yet that’s what happens, when his boss informs him that he’s been chosen to head the newly-established Department Q, a division created to investigate cold cases of significance from all over Denmark.

There's a caveat, of course. His new office is buried all alone in the basement, in a former grave for used office furniture, and manned by a staff of one. (Well, make that two, after Carl finagles an assistant for himself out of the boss.)

Carl continues to while away the hours doing puzzles, playing video games, and napping--just as he’s been doing ever since coming back on duty--while blithely ignoring the fifty case files that were delivered to his new digs. His assistant is another matter, though; Assad needs more of a challenge than swabbing the floors and running around headquarters searching out files and making information requests (the tasks for which Carl hired him). So, when Assad asks if he can look through a few files in his spare time, Carl figures it can’t hurt.

Turns out Assad has unexpected depths and insight (secrets, too, but that’s something Carl doesn’t discover until much later), and he becomes intrigued by one case in particular--the mysterious disappearance some five years earlier of an attractive young politician named Merete Lynggaard. Before long, Assad is pestering Carl every few minutes (or so it seems) with questions about the case file. Meanwhile, Carl’s boss makes it clear he expects regular progress reports from the basement. And just like that, Carl finds himself getting pushed into the Lynggaard case.

The case, he has to admit, is interesting. The young woman vanished without a trace from a ferry one day. No one saw anything, so it’s been generally assumed that she must have gone overboard and drowned.

The lack of evidence leads to unanswered questions. Could this seemingly-successful and happy woman have been a suicide? If it was murder, then why? Or, if she was abducted, then how/what/why did that occur?

Carl’s malaise ebbs away, as he and Assad go over everything again. Slowly, a different picture emerges, and the more scraps of information the pair manage to cobble together, the more certain Carl is of one thing: Merete Lynggaard didn’t drown, as people have been content to believe... but something far, far worse took place that day.

And he’s convinced of one thing more: she’s still alive, somewhere... for now.

~ # ~ # ~ # ~ # ~ # ~

Adler-Olsen really knows how to ratchet up the tension, and does so from the get-go in The Keeper of Lost Causes, successfully maintaining that same intensity and sense of urgency until the end. Alternating between episodes in the past and the present (for both Carl and Merete), the story ever-so-gradually takes shape and form for us. We learn how events occurred; we see why certain choices were made (although we can’t put everything together for quite some time).

Make no mistake, The Keeper of Lost Causes paints a grim picture--particularly in regard to Merete. The horrible conditions she has endured are harrowing. Hers is the story of a woman, caught up in the worst-possible nightmare, clinging desperately to her fragile sanity... because that is all she has left to call her own.

Carl Mørck’s story is nearly as haunting, as he deals with demons from his recent past (which continue to gnaw away at him even when he sleeps). The realities of having a paraplegic best friend and a dead one--both conditions for which he feels responsible--are heartbreaking, and how he copes feels very honest and true.

The author also does justice to his lesser characters, from the supporting to the most minor; we get a very good feel for what each person is like, and what attitudes, biases, and motivations each has, which further contributes immediacy and connection to the story.

And finally, there’s Denmark itself in a key role, from the clogged city of Copenhagen, with its many diverse neighborhoods, to the small, remote towns, and all the country roads in between. For me, a story is incomplete unless it provides a genuine and vivid sense of place... something which this one does, beautifully.

Jussi Adler-Olsen has long been an award-winning, bestseller crime writer throughout Northern Europe... finally getting the chance to take other markets (including the U.S.) by storm. For anyone who can’t get enough psychological suspenses or police procedurals, his introduction is long-overdue... but oh, so very welcome.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.75 out of 5 Mousies

Note: The Keeper of Lost Causes will be released Aug. 23, 2011.

The Wolf and His Elf

2011-07-24T17:37:00.002-04:00

Fairy tales--and those who enjoy them--fall into two distinct camps. There are the frothy, don’t-worry-because-nothing-too-terrible-could-ever-possibly-happen stories, with their shiny-happy people and dreamy, feel-good endings. A bit of harmless frippery, if you will;

pleasant but predictable, they’re perfect for Pollyannas and anyone in need of a few warm fuzzies.

And then there are those tales which avoid all light like the plague, opting instead to hurtle straight into the darkness. Here we find the ugly, wicked, and terrifying, with their nightmare-on-acid settings and less-than-peachy-keen endings. Unsurprisingly, it is these latter--the moody, atmospheric stories--which really resonate with me. (Well, what did you expect? One look at my über-furry boycat, and it’s obvious he’s over-qualified to provide all the warm fuzzies I’ll ever need. ;))

To say I was excited to hear about a new, modern-day fairy tale coming down the pike, then, would be something of an understatement. (The fact that it was penned by an award-winning author with a prodigious number of works already under his belt? If I’d needed any more persuasion, that would surely have done it.) I bring you Reginald Hill’s The Woodcutter...

❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅

Once upon a time, there lived a boy who became a man and found all of his dreams coming true. Raised the son of an humble woodcutter in the wilds of Cumbria, young Wolf Hadda decided to leave his bucolic home in order to make his way in the world... with the hope that he might one day claim the hand of the fairest maiden in all the land--Imogen, the beautiful and headstrong princess who lived in the mansion on the other side of the woods.

Luck was with the young Wolf, who--after mysteriously disappearing for a few years--became a hugely-successful entrepreneur, with a business boasting publicly-traded stocks and offices around the world. The fair princess agreed to marry the newly-flush and important Wolf, and before long their beautiful London home was graced with a little princess of their own to spoil and adore. Friends gravitated towards them; they were a powerful and handsome couple, and everyone wanted to bask in their presence and to share in their good fortune.

Little did Wolf know it was all but a house of cards, nor that it takes but a mere knock at the door to topple such a flimsy structure...

When we pick up the story, Wolf has just been accused of a heinous crime and is subsequently unceremoniously hauled off to jail. He‘s furious, of course, but assumes the police will realize their mistake soon enough and release him. That isn’t to be, however; before the day is done, they find more than enough evidence to back up the claims. Wolf, it becomes clear, isn’t going anywhere.

Matters only continue to get worse. No one--not his friends, not his employees nor business associates, not even his own family--seems willing to believe his protestations of innocence. Even after being seriously wounded in a freak accident while in custody, Wolf receives no pity. He convalesces in hospital until he’s ambulatory, then it’s a quick trial and off to prison he goes, to serve out a lengthy sentence. That fairy tale life he was living? Up in a puff of smoke. And from that point forward, the formerly-charmed Wolf retreats into a den of silence, which no one is able to break.

Until seven years later, that is, when--for reasons of his own--he decides to open up to Alva Ozigbo, the young psychiatrist newly-appointed to the prison. After a rocky start, the two of them make progress... so much so, in fact, that they develop a tentative friendship based on an uneasy-but-mutual respect. When Wolf comes up for parole, Alva (or Elf, as he calls her) persuades the board that he is well and truly rehabilitated and safe to return to society.

The outside waiting for Wolf is a vastly-different place from the one he inhabited during his on-top-of-the-world fairy tale years, though. This world seems a brutally-grim one; he has no money, his companies are gone, his (former) friends have shunned him, and his wife has left him to pursue greener pastures. It is also to this same unhappy tableau that the Woodcutter returns.

During Wolf’s disappearance as a young man bent on making his fortune, he was known not by his name, but rather, simply as the Woodcutter. The jobs for which the Woodcutter was paid handsomely were on the far side of the law... and now he’s back in action once again, this time seeking revenge on those who engineered his downfall.

Can Elf’s belief in Wolf chip away at the Woodcutter persona and stop him before it’s too late and the quest for vengeance has ruined whatever good remains in him? Or, will each swing of the Woodcutter’s ax bring him closer and closer to the jagged edge from which there is no return... leaving only the grimmest of endings to this fairy tale?

❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅ ~ ❅

It took me several pages to get into The Woodcutter, and I was getting a wee bit worried. (Past that point, it quickly became apparent how absurd that fear was--but for those first few pages, it was a little dicey.) Once things started rolling, though, and I understood who the players were and got a handle on what was going on, I was all in; this is one of those rare books with an almost magical power to suck you in and then keep you in a state of nervous dread and anticipation until the very last page.

Everything--for me--is “right” about this book. Complex (but realistic) characters, which don’t rely on easy stereotypes for categorization. Believable emotions and reactions, which ring true to each character’s nature. Fully-realized plotting, which takes numerous and unpredictable twists, turns, and detours... but winds up precisely where it feels as though it ought. And everything, everywhere, gloriously dark and broody.

Speaking of atmosphere, this one does it brilliantly (or so I’m assuming, having never been to Cumbria--or England at large, for that matter). Hill offers a stunning depiction of his native land, from the lushness of the densely-wooded forests to the dangerous-but-undeniable allure of the rocky cliffs and craggy hills surrounding it all; from the clear icy-blue of the skies to the crisp bite of the cold air and the frigid crunch of the layers of snow and ice. The attitudes and responses of small-town folk are spot-on, too, with their wary distrust of outsiders and their hearty (if unobtrusive) support, once earned.

As for how to classify The Woodcutter? It’s a fabulous mystery, certainly, and a cracking-good psychological suspense. It is, by turns, humorous and shocking and unnerving. It's a very human story, about falling in--and out--of love, about scaling the peaks and plummeting to the very bottom. It's a modern work, with classical sensibilities. And, it is a lyrical piece, full of rich prose and immense beauty... as befits, of course, any true fairy tale worth its salt.

It is, in a word, perfection.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 5 (out of 5) Enthusiastic Mousies!!

Note: The Woodcutter will be released August 2, 2011.

The Stolen Life

2011-07-20T20:56:00.003-04:00

What are we, if not the sum total of our memories?

Whether for good or bad, everything we’ve done, seen, and experienced to this point has had a hand in shaping who we are. It’s not just the “juicy” bits that matter, either, such as how our recollections of those historic “firsts” (first kiss, first time going to a funeral, first time having sex, first time getting really drunk, first time falling in love, etc.) may have affected our future actions. Rather, it’s the memories of all the mundane stuff--our everyday interactions with others, the patterns and routines we take for granted--which play the biggest role in filling in the details, making us “us”.

But what would happen if we didn’t have that built-in store of experiential memories, of things big and small accomplished and lessons learned, guiding us? How would the absence of things remembered affect how we see ourselves... and what havoc would it play with our sense of reality, and sanity?

These are the questions asked in S.J. Watson’s quietly-explosive debut, Before I Go to Sleep...

§ ~ § ~ § ~ § ~ § ~ §

Just like the rest of us, Christine Lucas wakes to pretty much the same routine every morning. She gets up, has breakfast, dresses herself, then goes about her various chores and tasks for the day.

That’s where the similarities come to an abrupt stop, though, because unlike the rest of us, when Christine wakes up in the morning, she has no idea who she is or how she got there.

Oh, she knows how to do certain things. She can find the closet and pick out something to wear, she knows how to put on makeup, and she can cook and clean and take care of the basics. What she can’t do is recognize the face of the man lying in bed next to her each morning (that would be her husband). Nor does she recognize herself when she looks in the bathroom mirror; the reflection looks much, much older than she thinks it ought. The house, the furnishings, her clothes and jewelry? None of it is familiar to her. Her past--her childhood, teenage years, adulthood? A blank slate.

Are these the tragic results of serious drug abuse? Perhaps signs of early-onset dementia? No... but it has been Christine’s way of life for the past eighteen years, now, and with the dawn of each new day, she is frustrated all over again, saying:

“All I want is to feel normal. To live like everybody else, with experience building on experience, each day shaping the next. I want to grow, to learn things, and from things.”

Christine’s day goes something like this (and remember that this is ANY day. EVERY day.): After getting out of bed and finding her way to the bathroom (because that, at least, is universal behavior), she’s greeted by a collection of photos, tacked to the perimeter of the mirror. They hold a sampling of her own history--shots of her in college, dating her (now-)husband Ben, out with friends, on vacations, etc.--and they aren’t meant to remind her of the past she can’t recall, but rather to re-teach it to her anew each morning. During the uneasy breakfast which follows (with the attractive stranger who has assured her that he is, indeed, her long-wed partner, despite the fact she remembers nothing whatsoever about him), Ben proceeds to fill in some of the blanks, including the all-important “how did this happen?!” (which he explains as the freakish result of a hit-&-run accident). When he finally heads off to work, he leaves behind a scrapbook (full of more photos), his emergency number programmed into a cellphone, and a list of suggestions for things she might do that day (simple household tasks such as “do laundry” or “unload dishwasher”, by and large, since she would have no idea where she was to go out and do anything outside of the house). And after all that, she does... well, she can only guess what she typically does to fill up the remainder of the day and night, because by the time she’s woken up the next morning, every bit of her memory--including whatever took place the preceding day--has been wiped away once more.

Nearly twenty years go by like that... until one day, she gets a call on a cellphone she finds hidden in her purse. This isn’t the phone Ben gave her... and the voice on the other end isn’t his. It’s someone claiming to be her psychiatrist, Dr. Nash, calling her with a reminder of their weekly session.

Christine is utterly discombobulated, but when the voice tells her to look up their appointment in the diary she carries in her purse--and she proceeds to find the diary and then the notation, just as he said (“Nov. 30th, seeing Dr. Nash”)--she agrees to meet with him. (She’s rather more troubled by the second line of the note--the part she doesn’t recite to the doctor when she finds it, which reads, “Don’t tell Ben”--but keeps that to herself.)

Dr. Nash explains that they’ve been meeting once or twice each week for the past several weeks. He’s a neuropsychologist who specializes in memory loss, and as her particular type of amnesia is extremely rare, she makes an especially-interesting subject for him to study.

And they have, it turns out, been making some progress. Dr. Nash has persuaded Christine to keep a journal; she writes in it following their sessions, then hides it away before she goes to bed at night. Dr. Nash then calls her the next day, explains all over again who he is and where her journal is, after which she rereads everything she’s already written... and by so doing, “learns” all that has gone on over the past couple of weeks (rather than just what Ben told her, yet again, before leaving for work that morning).

Much of what she reads in the journal is, of course, just a rehash of what Ben had said only an hour or two before... but not everything. As the weeks pass, she notices a few inconsistencies. Sometimes, the story Ben tells her isn’t quite the same as other times. And every once in awhile, he lets something slip, answering a question he typically sidesteps--something which he doesn’t have to worry about beyond the next few hours, since he knows she won’t remember it past falling asleep that night. (That would still be the case, too, were it not for her secret journal... and the fact that some of her memories are, very gradually, starting to come back to her.)

But, it’s only when she digs out her journal one morning following Dr. Nash’s call and finds the words “DON’T TRUST BEN” written in bold letters in her handwriting, that she’s truly frightened. It was one thing to keep the sessions a secret, but why isn’t she supposed to trust him, this man who is devoted to her and has stood by her through so much? Why has he lied about certain things--to protect her from some incredibly-painful knowledge, which will hit her with all the force of fresh, horribly-tragic news each time he tells her... or because he’s trying to keep something hidden from her? And, what part does Dr. Nash play in everything--well-meaning doctor, callous researcher, or scoundrel with nefarious intentions?

As yet more conflicts arise between the life she lives each day, the accounts she reads in her journal, and her spotty memories that go in and out, Christine’s greatest fear is that she--and that all-important journal--will be found out before she figures out what, exactly, is going on. The one thing she’s sure of is that her life hinges on keeping that secret...

§ ~ § ~ § ~ § ~ § ~ §

Before I Go to Sleep is the rare books that works brilliantly on multiple levels. Above all, it’s chockfull of gut-clenching, heart-pounding terror; the idea that anything could happen to you, or you could be told anything, or forced to do anything--but would be completely unable to remember any of it the very next day--boggles the mind with horrible possibilities. As we watch things unfold through Christine’s eyes, figuring out only slightly more than she does, we can do naught but cringe in anticipation of what evil showdown is surely to come.

This is also an intimate psychological portrait of a woman in crisis. Christine is a completely sympathetic character; now middle-aged, she’s no one special or famous, just a normal woman with a job and family, going through all the regular ups and downs, who finds herself suddenly, inexplicably in the middle of a horrific set of events... which she has, apparently, been in for a very long time, already. Her first-person narrative of waking up, clueless, is harrowing... and her gradual realizations and later, her regained memories, make the experience that much more chilling.

But it’s the little observations, particularly about aging, which manage to pack the surprisingly-hefty emotional wallops, here. Christine’s daily struggle with meeting her 47-year-old self--and finding it so different from the 29-year-old self she vaguely recalls, with its smoother skin, thicker hair, fewer lines, and lack of saggy anything--is particularly affecting, and the fact that she goes through it again and again? It just hurts.

I really hated putting Before I Go to Sleep down. I hated putting it down to go do some actual work, I hated setting it aside when my eyes refused to stay open any longer (regardless how much caffeine I was pumping in my system)... and I hated reaching the last page, when the journey came to an end. This one’s a Must-Read, folks.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 5 out of 5 Mousies!

Affairs, Brawls, & Crimes... This Ain't Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood

2011-07-14T16:16:00.009-04:00

What do any of us really know about our neighbors... or more to the point, what do we think we know about them? This is a question I’ve had (alarming) reason to consider recently, and the answer, I fear, is that we don’t know very much, at all.

It wasn’t always like this; in the past, people tended to stay in one place longer, which gave them more opportunity (and reason) to get to know their neighbors better. That's all changed over the last half-century, though; we’re constantly on the move, and the bulk of our communications occur electronically. All those getting-to-know-you cliches (which I'm only familiar with from Classic TV) like summer block parties, visits from Welcome Wagon ladies bearing casseroles and cakes, and cozy afternoon coffee klatsches are now just quaint relics of a bygone era. As for borrowing a cup of sugar (a couple of eggs, milk, whatever) from the near-total stranger down the hall (or across the street)? Not only is that a totally foreign concept to us, but it's a whole lot of iffy when it comes to safety concerns.

What we're forced to rely upon, then--instead of any first-hand knowledge--is a bunch of assumptions and impressions based solely on casual observations (and precious little in the way of meaningful personal contact). So it's really no wonder we’re surprised or even shocked when we happen to find out what actually goes on behind our neighbors’ closed doors... as is the case with a small group of neighbors in Ruth Rendell’s latest psychological thriller, Tigerlily’s Orchids.

❅ - ❅ - ❅ - ❅ - ❅ - ❅

It’s easy enough for those of us who’ve never been part of a close-knit community to move in somewhere and adhere to the correct degree of polite friendliness (a nod hello in the hallway or on the street) while maintaining the appropriate distance (not venturing into someone else’s personal space or yard). Things are considerably more difficult for someone used to a lot of contact with those around him, though, because the desire for connection is strong.

Twenty-something Stuart Font has been living in his Litchfield House flat in London for several months, when it occurs to him that he knows next to nothing about any of his neighbors. (Not, mind you, that he fancies any of them to be particularly fascinating; it’s just that he grew up attending parties and, well, knowing people, and finds himself missing the interaction.) The only thing for it, he decides, is to host a housewarming party (for himself), a meet-&-greet set to cool music and fueled by copious amounts of alcohol and chichi hors d'oeurves. (Contributing to his sudden yen for bonhomie is the fact that he's currently jobless--by choice--and, aside from semi-regular assignations with Claudia, his married paramour, finds himself in the undesirable position of being bored and lonely.) So, he proceeds to invite all the other residents of the building, as well as the neighbors across the street and to either side.

As far as Stuart--an uncommonly handsome young man (and preternaturally aware of that fact, if we're being honest, here)--is concerned, the guest list (which he’s only able to assemble after perusing the names on the mail slots, because it isn't as though he's ever really wanted to know these people before) is sorely lacking. There’s the middle-aged woman, Ms. Rose Preston-Jones--a New-Agey vegan who works as an alternative healer--sharing Flat 2 with her little dog, McPhee. Flat 3 is occupied by a fussy, middle-aged teacher (Marius Potter), who divines things from passages out of “Paradise Lost” in his spare time. A married couple by the name of Constantine--Michael a doctor and Katie a writer--occupy Flat 4. Flat 5 is home to the three silly young college girls--Noor Lateef, a pretty Indian girl; Sophie Longwich, a sort of plain, mousy girl; and the one he calls “the fat girl” (because she’s a stone or so over his “ideal”), Molly Flint. The final apartment--Flat 6--is inhabited by perhaps the most intriguing (or at least, the strangest) of his fellow Litchfield House residents--Ms. Olwen Curtis, a retired woman whose answer to every question is “Not really,” and who stumbles around 24/7, reeking of gin or vodka.

Next to and across from Litchfield House, Stuart invites couples Jock and Kathy Pember, and Ken Lee and Moira Jones, as well as Duncan Yeardon, an elderly man puttering around by himself in a three-story house. Next-door to Duncan is an Asian family about which Stuart isn’t entirely certain how or if to invite, as there seems to be an older man and a handful of young adults, possibly (or not) related. (One of the females is, however, of especial interest to him--a beautiful young woman whom Stuart thinks may actually be his equal in the good-looks department.) He also toys with the idea of inviting the coarse building porter (Wally Scurlock) and his blowzy wife, but concludes that that really isn’t necessary.

Other main characters (though not on Stuart's guest list) include Freddy Livorno (the cuckolded chap married to Stuart’s mistress), some local shop owners, a couple of the college girls’ boyfriends, and Stuart’s mother (a doting woman now growing weary of her beautiful son's indolent ways).

And then, there is us to consider, for we readers have a role to play, too; we're virtual voyeurs, gleaning whatever tidbits we can from the biased observations made by each character... separating the wheat from the chaff, as it were, then trying to ascertain wherein the true nature of each character actually lies (since we're the only ones with access to everyone’s perceptions and actions).

But back to the party (which is, in truth, but a very small portion of the story). It is actually the preparations for the party--but even more so, the aftermath of what happens during that one fateful night--which set the tone and propel the action for the rest of this twisted tale of randomly-intersecting lives. [No, I really can't tell you what happens at the party, and I certainly can't tell you what happens after that. Suffice it so say that it's the culmination of several perfectly-ordinary acts--combined with a few rather-more-extraordinary ones--which will have you waiting with baited breath for each of the many axes to fall.]

One thing's for certain; following Stuart’s bash, the neighborhood will never be quite the same again.

❅ - ❅ - ❅ - ❅ - ❅ - ❅

As is generally the case with a work penned by the über-prolific Ruth Rendell (who also writes as Barbara Vine), the devil is in the smallest of details in Tigerlily’s Orchids... and only becomes apparent once the (seemingly) most-insignificant of them are considered and put into proper context. And what a lot of details there are, here, as we flit from one neighbor to the next, spying on the actions and thoughts of each. (Sound exhausting? Don't worry, it's not. In fact, it’s just the opposite--wonderfully exhilarating, waiting and watching from the relative safety of the sidelines as things inevitably take their course.) There's genuine pathos--most notably in the plight of Olwen Curtis, whose goal is to (literally) drink herself to death. There's a fair amount of humor, too, as Rendell repeatedly skewers how each character sees him-/herself.

Besides offering these deliciously-naughty peeks into such outwardly-normal(ish) lives, Rendell also paints a poignant picture of a modern neighborhood trying to survive, illustrating how the realities of tough economic times have such profound impacts on the lives of residents and business owners alike.

With a splendidly-eccentric cast which includes star-crossed lovers, ethically-challenged professionals, a sexual deviant, a lonely busybody, multiple thieves, a host of enablers, several criminals, a desperately-unhappy victim, a couple of incredibly vain and self-centered individuals, someone with a death wish, and at least one murderer, this microcosm of a modern neighborhood has a little bit of everything. And the realization that these could very well be my neighbors, or yours, is what makes this tantalizing tale so fabulously chilling.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 5 out of 5 Mousies!

Some Secrets are Better Left Unknown

2011-07-07T01:35:00.000-04:00

Belonging... that sense of security we get from being included in something. We always have a need for it and, whether the end goal is being allowed to hang with the “cool kids”, getting to spend time with that dream guy or girl, or gaining admission to a prestigious club, our reasons for desiring it are much the same: we’ll be better/happier/more successful than we are now, if only we can manage to fit in. If we can belong.

Not every group requires that sort of overt acceptance. Take, for instance, family. There’s seldom any shortage of angst or aggro among relatives, but those problems typically stem from issues other than any question of belonging. Whether we like it or not, sharing space on a family tree means we’re automatically part of the group.

To someone who’s adopted, though, the situation isn’t quite so cut and dried, because familial belonging involves more than just so many years of common experiences or time spent living under the same roof. The question of identity goes deeper than the rhetorical “Who am I?” (asked at one time or another by pretty much everyone); adoptees also find themselves wondering, “Where did I come from?”.

There are no easy answers, of course--not for anyone. But sometimes, we’d be better off not asking the questions, at all... a case Chevy Stevens makes in her latest thriller, Never Knowing.

§ - § - § - § - § - § - §

Sara Gallagher is a typical young woman, dealing with an imperfect life. In her early thirties, she owns the house which she shares with six-year-old daughter Ally (from a previous relationship) and their beloved French bulldog, Moose; she runs a successful small business (repairing and restoring old furniture); and, she has--at long last--found a guy who really seems worth all the effort involved in settling down.

Not everything is so peachy, though. Sara has plenty of issues to deal with... hence the weekly visits to her therapist, where she can discuss her obsessive-compulsive behaviors, the episodes of paranoia, the panic attacks, and her anger-management problems (which occasionally culminate in violence).

Then there’s her family situation, which is a total mess. As the elder sister--who was adopted before either of her two natural-born sisters came along--Sara has long dealt with being treated differently. Although her adoptive mother has always tried to smooth things over, she can only do so much to counteract her husband’s obvious dislike of and disappointment with Sara... and their behaviors are repeated in how the other two daughters treat Sara, as well.

It comes as no big surprise, then, that Sara grew up dreaming of her “real” parents, fantasizing about a fabulous couple who were forced to give her up... but who will surely return to swoop her up into their happy family someday. Even now, at thirty-three, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s meant to find them.

So, after going through an especially rough patch with her family, Sara decides to start the wheels turning to find her birth mother. She fills out the paperwork, submits it, then waits--anxiously wondering what she’ll find.

When the report arrives, it’s incomplete; she has a name--Julia Laroche--and number for her birth mother, but the spot for the father’s info is blank. Still, it’s more info than she’s ever had, so, after marshaling her courage, she dials the number... only to be told in no uncertain terms that she is never to call again.

She’s crushed, of course. She mopes and feels sorry for herself, but eventually bucks up once more, telling herself she has nothing to lose. And, a couple of long car trips (and the services of one private eye) later, finds Sara meeting Julia, face-to-face... and learning a truth more awful than anything out of one of her worst nightmares.

Julia, it turns out, is the sole survivor of a sadistic serial killer--a man who has plagued the wilds of Canada for almost thirty-five years. Unlike all the other young women the so-called Campsite Killer has targeted, though, her mother got away--but not without suffering, first. Before she escaped the madman, Julia was raped... and Sara is the (very-unwanted) product of that horrifying act.

When news of Julia’s whereabouts (she had changed her name and moved following the initial attack and all the press which followed) is somehow leaked--with Sara being linked to Julia (and to the infamous killer)--and posted all over the internet, all hell breaks loose. Her family is shocked and angry--over things that aren’t remotely her fault. Her fiancé is upset, because he didn’t want her to pursue finding her birth parents, in the first place.

The very worst part, though, is what Sara now fears most--that her daughter Ally’s existence will become common knowledge, too... and that the boogeyman will be coming for them.

It soon becomes clear that a reunion with the family he never knew about is precisely what Daddy Dearest has in mind... and that Sara is far more like this man with whom she shares DNA than she is different from him.

§ - § - § - § - § - § - §

Stevens employs a little gimmick for telling the story: it unfolds through a series of transcripts from each of Sara’s sessions with her therapist. (Sara is the only one speaking in the transcripts, so it’s still primarily first-person--except for when she directs comments or thoughts to her therapist.) Stevens used the same formula to very good effect in her first book (Still Missing, reviewed here), and so far, it’s working for her.

There’s much to like in Never Knowing. It builds--and maintains--a high level of suspense throughout. The basic premise--the shock of finding out you’re the child of a brutal serial killer--is novel; it hasn’t been done to death already. It’s genuinely chilling, seeing how easy it is for the killer to contact her, and for him to elude capture. And, Stevens provides an excellent feel for place that really adds to the story; the vastness of British Columbia--and the remoteness of so much of it--contribute to the mounting terror.

Knowing that Sara’s trying to cope with some genuine mental health issues (both before and after finding out about her biological father) adds yet another interesting layer. (Note that the book doesn’t delve into any actual therapy; it just gives a sense of how someone with stuff to work through might deal with being put in an untenable situation.)

But, there are also some sticking points for me. Sara’s stubbornness--her (frankly)obnoxious and selfish insistence on hounding a woman who clearly doesn’t want to get to know her (regardless of the reason)--rankles with me. (I know, I know--there wouldn’t have been much of a story if she hadn’t forced her way into Julia’s life... but still.) I don’t completely buy the relationship between Sara and her fiancé, either; it feels a bit thin. Finally, the whole thing would have benefitted by being pared down a hundred or so pages; even though the tension is maintained, some passages get a mite repetitious.

Overall, Never Knowing is a bit of a mixed bag... but it’s definitely an interesting take on a serial killer tale, and well worth reading for fans of psychological suspense.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 3.25 out of 5 Mousies

Blood Will Out, In the End

2011-06-29T00:17:00.003-04:00

While it’s virtually impossible to argue with the literal meaning of the saying “blood is thicker than water”, the figurative meaning is another matter entirely... for it’s wholly up to the individual, whether or not he/she would be more apt to side with kin, or with friends, in the event it came down to an either-or decision.

Me? I’m a firm believer in the notion that true “family” is made up of those we love best (which, as far as I’m concerned, has nothing whatsoever to do with the likes of shared great-uncles on a family tree or any of those dreaded annual get-togethers). Call it modern thinking, or perhaps simply pragmatism, but there you have it.

Of course, I realize that probably isn’t the norm. Family is the be-all, end-all for an awful lot of people out there; it’s a kind of invisible bond which inextricably links them together -- regardless of whether they have anything (aside from genetics) in common, or whether they even like each other or not. For such people, it’s the condition which shapes their identities and forges their characters, more than any other.

But what happens when someone finds out that he/she has a less-than-desirable relative -- not just the annoying one who laughs too loudly at his own jokes or who insists on gossiping for hours on end about her neighbors, but one guilty of doing some very, very bad things? Might having such unpleasant knowledge of one’s relative be the tipping point, when blood ties cease to matter... or would it tend to cause the person to cling that much more tightly to the traditional definition of “family”?

Award-nominated thriller author Mark Billingham delves into these complex issues in his latest tour de force, Bloodline...

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Fifteen years ago, London was rocked by a series of brutal murders which left seven young women dead before it was all over, and the man responsible -- Raymond Garvey -- was captured, tried, and sentenced to life in prison for the crimes.

At the time, Murder Squad Detective Tom Thorne was just a relative newbie, one whose part in the case consisted solely of knocking on a few doors and making some routine telephone inquiries. Still, the very nature of the murders made up the sort of horrible crime spree that neither he nor any of the other officers working the case -- nor the public, for that matter -- would soon forget.

And now, fifteen years later, history seems to be repeating itself.

When the first body is found, no one thinks much of it; the case initially appears to be a run-of-the-mill domestic squabble gone tragically wrong. But, when a second body turns up -- with scene-of-crime details nearly identical to the first case -- Thorne realizes that nothing is going to be simple about this situation at all. Not only must these two murders be related, but the marked similarities between them and the earlier Garvey killings is simply impossible to ignore.

There’s just one minor problem, though: Garvey isn’t out of prison, so it certainly can’t be him, recreating his previous crimes. In fact, Garvey isn’t even alive; he died in prison three years ago, from complications during a surgery.

That leaves a copycat killer, obviously... except that for this particular criminal, it’s clearly a bit more personal. This time, the killer isn’t just targeting women... he’s killing the offspring of Garvey’s original victims.

This time, it’s about family.

As Thorne works to juggle the demands of his own increasingly-complicated domestic problems with the mounting sense of urgency engendered by the rising body count -- while frantically trying to ensure that the remaining children don’t become victims, themselves -- we can only watch with growing horror as each piece of the puzzle falls slowly, irrevocably into place.

Decisions -- and mistakes -- will be made; no one is precisely what he or she seems to be, and the killer isn’t exactly going to wait for the police to catch up.

The seeds of evil and revenge were sown long ago... and this is the time a bitter killer has chosen for the harvest.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

With Bloodline now the eighth book in the series (or at least, the eighth one in the U.S.; as European readers are no doubt already aware, Billingham will actually be up to book number ten when his latest entry releases in the U.K. in August), I’ve been a huge fan of Billingham -- and his Tom Thorne character -- from the very start. (He’s one of those authors whose complete works have a permanent home on my bookshelves, if that gives you any indication.) His plots are consistently intriguing, his writing is smooth and effortless, and he never fails to offer up a host of compelling characters worthy of following through to the end.

Anchoring it all, of course, is Thorne... the work-weary, perpetually-melancholy, habitually-introspective, and always-prickly chap who has seen, perhaps, a bit too much of the worst that humanity has to offer. He is unforgettable in his quiet solitude, touching in his sadness and guilt, charming when his sense of humor peeks out, and endlessly fascinating when getting to the crux of whatever matter is at hand... and he achieves a sort of perfection in his very imperfection.

If you’re a fan of thrillers and mysteries but haven’t read Billingham, you could certainly do worse than starting with Bloodline... but I would urge you to go all the way back to his first Thorne book, Sleepy Head. My bet is that you’ll be hooked. :)

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Mousies!

When Nothing is What it Seems: Lady Julia's Return

2011-06-24T23:18:00.000-04:00

When it comes to fictional detective couples--at least, in the romantic sense--it’s pretty slim pickings, isn’t it? There’s Agatha Christie’s Tommy and Tuppence, Dashiell Hammett’s Nick and Nora Charles, and... well, that pretty much exhausts the list of familiar suspects.

Television offers up a few more examples. There were bonafide couples Jonathan and Jennifer Hart (“Hart to Hart”) and Stewart and Sally McMillan (“McMillan and Wife”), along with those will-they-or-won’t-they, did-they-or-didn't-they pairings of Laura Holt and Remington Steele (“Remington Steele”), Amanda King and Lee Stetson (“Scarecrow and Mrs. King”), David Addison and Maddie Hayes (“Moonlighting”), and currently, Kate Beckett and Richard Castle (“Castle”).

It’s a tricky proposition, and one which shouldn’t be that surprising, when you think about it. Unless a writer starts with an already-existing couple--two characters in a relationship which comes with built-in expectations of certain behaviors, plus a high degree of familiarity (in all senses of the word)--he or she runs the risk of ruining a vital element that causes the readership to clamor for the next book, or the viewers to continue to tune in like clockwork each week: that delicious, perpetually-unfulfilled sexual tension between the characters, which we find so mesmerizing.

The hard truth is that no matter how much we might claim to want an end to all that unrealized longing--that sense of “Do it, already!”--there isn’t, necessarily, much further for the characters (or their relationship) to go, once the deed has been done. (As the best example of such coupling ruining the whole feel of a story/show, I offer up "Moonlighting", again; once David and Maddie did away with the perpetual yearning, the magic pretty much died right along with it.)

Such thoughts were, therefore, skipping around my mind when I picked up Deanna Raybourn’s The Dark Enquiry, featuring recently-married sleuths Nicholas Brisbane and Lady Julia Brisbane. As the fifth entry in her fine Lady Julia series, Raybourn faced the unenviable task of returning the Brisbanes to normal life, following their meeting and courtship (in the first three books), and their honeymoon (in the fourth). Would she be able to keep the spark--such a big part of her earlier books--alive... or would the spark prove to have exhausted itself? Would the playfulness and charm still be there, or would everything be sort of flat? Clearly, nothing short of diving feet-first into the book would do, if I wanted to find the answers to my questions...

✵ ~ ✵ ~ ✵ ~ ✵ ~ ✵

Freshly arrived back in London in 1889 after a triumphant return from their honeymoon/latest case in India, finds the Brisbanes attempting to settle into some sort of “normal” married life. They’ve taken a house of their own, which Julia is trying--somewhat unsuccessfully--to staff (having brought only Aquinas, her long-time butler from her previous marriage, and Morag, her rather-unpleasant, ex-prostitute-cum-ladies‘ maid, with her).

Brisbane, meanwhile, has opted to keep his former digs, and is in the process of turning them into a place of business for his--well, make that, “their”--private detective practice. Julia has finally managed, it seems, to persuade him of her invaluableness to his profession, and insists he consider her his partner in business, as well as marriage.

Naturally, Brisbane is reluctant about the whole arrangement... but somewhat helpless, as always, to Julia’s methods of persuasion (not the least of which is her absolute refusal to take “no” for an answer). So, while she muddles through some of the peskier domestic issues, he works at setting up their offices (including the addition of a darkroom, for Julia’s particular use).

They haven’t long to wait for their first client, though. After Julia happens to spot her elder brother, Lord Bellmont, furtively leaving the offices as she’s approaching them one day--a visit which Brisbane blithely denies when she questions him somewhat obliquely later that same day--her suspicions and insatiable curiosity are aroused.

What follows comes as no surprise to anyone who’s followed the vivacious Lady Julia’s antics; she (of course) simply dons another of her masculine costumes and trails Brisbane when he goes out that evening. His (their) destination? The private Ghost Club, in which a French madame holds forth each night, conducting by-invitation-only seances for an exclusive, all-male clientele.

Perhaps Brisbane is attempting to prove the woman a fake, Julia guesses. After all, he is half-Romany, blessed (or cursed, as he would have it) with the sight, himself. Bellmont, she assumes, probably wishes to have the woman exposed after she defrauded either him or his wife. Pleased that she has figured things out on her own, a mustachioed Julia settles in for an evening’s enlightenment.

The reality, as you may have guessed, is nothing of the sort. (Julia is quite bright... but also rather prone to jump on the first feasible--even if utterly wrong-headed--solution, and then to hang onto it for dear life, until the point at which she’s figuratively dragged kicking and screaming from the idea.)

No, when Brisbane finds her out, while at the Club, and the pair of them proceed to witness an accidental death--which is far more likely to be a murder, given the circumstances--Julia (and we) realize that something much more serious than phony messages from the beyond is afoot... and that someone with deadly intentions is playing for keeps. The problem, of course, is figuring out just game, precisely, is being played... before it's too late, and someone else dies.

As the intrepid, newly-married duo hare all over London and the surrounding countryside--bickering and fighting just like always (before making up in suitably-rewarding fashion)--we can do little more than watch with bated breath as they meet up with sundry scallawags, curmudgeons, spies, charmers, a camp of gypsies, and (as always) several of Julia’s many siblings... never quite knowing from what direction the latest surprise--or danger--might come.

✵ ~ ✵ ~ ✵ ~ ✵ ~ ✵

But, I'm sure you're asking, what of the end result of Lady Julia and Brisbane’s first official case as partners (aside from catching the baddies, of course)? Have they--and has Ms. Raybourn--successfully overcome the bugaboo of seeing a relationship that moves into permanent territory also turn into the death knell for a series? As far as I’m concerned, The Dark Enquiry absolutely ensures that they’ve escaped that dreadful fate; the duo are as much fun as ever, with Julia’s snappy/sarcastic banter and Brisbane’s long-suffering impatience in fine fettle, here. These two aren’t the sort to settle peaceably into yawn-inducing domestic bliss, or to fawn over each other with any of that awful saccharine-sweetness. Their humor, intelligence, quirkiness, and prickliness continue to rule the day, and I’m already looking forward to seeing what their next outing brings... certain that it will be another delightfully-cheeky romp.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4 out of 5 Mousies!

Father's Day (A Day Late... but Worth It)

2011-06-20T15:20:00.004-04:00

For Dad...

I love that you never once told me I “couldn’t” do something... only that I “could”.

That you never made me feel as though I was anything less than wonderful in your eyes.

That you bragged about all my accomplishments, however great or small, to your friends.

That you took me to pick out my first CAT... just the two of us! >^.,.^<

That you were kind and generous to everyone you met.

That you happily ate every Easy-Bake cake I placed in front of you. :)

That you loved to read, and to discuss books with me (even if I was just waxing ecstatic about Nancy Drew).

That you taught me self-reliance.

That when I look in a mirror, the features reflected back at me are yours.

It’s been almost thirteen years now, but not a single day has gone by without my thinking of you... and missing you.

So, here’s to you, Dad. xoxo

Grrrr... (Father's Day Placeholder)

2011-06-19T08:54:00.003-04:00

Due to unforeseen circumstances-- a forgetful mother? (well, perhaps that shouldn't come as such a surprise)... the vagaries of the postal system? (a likely suspect, given the "quality" of mail service out in the boonies, where my mom lives)... bad luck (well, obviously, right?)-- the Father's Day post I've had planned all week will now be delayed (until such time as I receive the photographic accompaniment without which said post just wouldn't be complete).

So, anyhoo, the best-laid plans (and all that jazz)... [grrrrrrr...]

Until then, how about my boycat with his daddy?

(first meeting, at the breeder's)

(2010, just bein' silly on Daddy's lap)