PAGING THROUGH
MYSTERIES
I’m all about my aphorisms. The things I say repeatedly for which my children mock me (there’s a special place in my stomach for dessert; only writers and rock stars can say the Fword; don’t bring a pet home that fits on the grill). One of my adages applies to my favorite mysteries this month: always choose a book by its title.
The paradox in this title, “August Snow” by Stephen Mack Jones (Soho Press) says a lot about its main character. August Snow is a contradiction. Raised in a Detroit home where his Mexican mom’s favorite poets (Neruda, Ines de la Cruz and Paz) share shelves with his African-American dad’s “classic noir gumshoes” (Chandler, Fisher and Himes), excop Snow is neither pure nor white. He calls himself “Blaxican,” and it was my pleasure to meet him in this cracking debut.
After an investigation into corruption in the Mayor’s office, Snow was “unceremoniously fired.” He sued, won “some serious coin,” but was forced to leave the city. He’s back, bringing new life to his neighborhood, and, just maybe, to himself. Mack Jones’ prose is poetic and cutthroat, seemingly paradoxical elements he sees in his Detroit. You should meet this guy.
The title of Deborah Crombie’s “Garden of Lamentations” (William Morrow) suggests sorrow, deep and debilitating, the kind of grief that chokes. It alludes to Gethsemane and all that garden implies — betrayal, sacrifice, forgiveness, love. Crombie weaves these themes beautifully into this enthralling mystery.
Her main characters, London detectives and husband and wife Duncan Kincaid and Gemma Jones, struggle to balance the personal with the professional. Like many of us, the scales frequently tip over into their kitchen. It’s a regular household. They eat “fried eggy bread on Sundays,” toys clutter their floors, and their careers crash into everything. The discovery of a young woman’s body in a private garden in their neighborhood forces Gemma and Kincaid to confront more than a murder.
The title of Clare Mackintosh’s second novel “I See You” (Berkley) suggests voyeurism, paranoia and a strong point of view. It more than lived up to my expectations.
The novel slides effortlessly from Zoe Walker’s obsessive first person narration to the more reasoned perspective of a police officer with her own obsessions. Zoe thinks she’s “going to be murdered.” She’s found her picture on an online dating website that’s a front for murderers and misogynists, but is Zoe paranoid or is someone really stalking her?
The story is set in small places — cluttered kitchens, cramped bedrooms, tiny attics and crowded trains where everyone is looking but no one is seeing (I had to end with an aphorism).