I’m a sucker for meta-fiction, which reflects back on itself like a mirror within a mirror. So when someone comes along with a sequel to Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey which, rather than satirizing the gothic novel, embraces it, validating all Catherine Morland’s forbidding fantasies—I’m all in.
(If you haven’t read the original, Wikipedia sums it up as a coming-of-age story and a satire of the Gothic novel, and that’s all you need to know going forward, except that it’s my second favorite Austen novel, with Emma leading by a nose.)
So: it takes an enormous amount of chutzpah to attempt a sequel to a Jane Austen novel. It takes skill to capture an echo of Austen’s strait-laced prose style while retaining one’s own authorial voice. And it takes an enormous amount of sensitivity, research, and sheer talent to pull it off convincingly.
What if … Charles Dickens were not a name synonymous with Victorian London, but were transplanted instead to 18th century Edo (Tokyo)? You might wind up with something like Jonelle Patrick’s triumphant new novel, The Samurai’s Octopus.
It’s not written in Dickens’s style of course. Patrick’s style is all her own, lucid and sharp-edged as Japanese calligraphy. But it’s Dickensian in subject matter, and in two of its central elements: the scope of character and passion, and the way each character’s fate is ruled by the dead hand of the past.
The past is centered upon one event: murder. The opening presents us with the four classic elements of the murder mystery: the murderer, the victim, the motive for which the murder committed—and the witness. We see the crime through the eyes of the witness, Takahisa Takeda, the impecunious samurai of the title. But he doesn’t know the murderer, the victim, or the motivation. He’ll spend the next sixteen years of his life trying to fill in the blanks. His fortune depends upon the answers.
I’m going to set aside my own giant ego today to shine the light on another writer more than worthy of your attention: Max Eastern.
Max and his wife Nancy Bilyeau are both historical novelists (and friends of mine) in New York. The exciting news is that they’ve started their own publishing company, Admiral Road, and the even more exciting news is that they launch their first novel today, Red Snow in Winter. This means you’re in at the beginning. (The beginning is always the finest place to be, because you hold every strand of possibility in your hand, before the Fates start to prune them.)
And yet more exciting is that I got to read it early, and can recommend it to you with bells on.
Max is a lawyer who’s written about history for several magazines, with subjects ranging from Ulysses Grant and Benedict Arnold to Attila the Hun. But the ace up his sleeve for this World War II spy thriller is that his dad was actually an intelligence officer in the war, and passed along his stories. So, although the book is fiction, it has the ring of authenticity.
Without further ado, my review:
Julius Orlinsky thought his war was over, stuck behind a desk at the Pentagon, near the end of of World War II and on the cusp of the Cold War. He’s dead wrong. On his way home from a party, someone takes a shot at him, and suddenly he’s an intelligence man in the dark—and on the run, but whether it’s from Nazis, Reds, Uncle Sam, or a secret society that holds the secrets of all three, he can’t tell, and he’s running out of time to put the pieces of the puzzle together. His war is far from over.
D.C. is a small town getting smaller every moment. Every shadow holds a threat or revelation, but the wartime past is a vast world of lies, half-truths, and misunderstandings in every shade. That’s the world he’ll be forced to revisit if he’s going to survive.
Max Eastern attacks his story with dry aplomb and a stripped-down journalistic surety, yet it’s got more switchbacks than San Francisco’s Lombard Street, and every curve is taken with his foot on the gas. There’s a certain Hitchcockian lunacy to all the twists and turns in this one. It’ll keep you guessing till the last page.
D.C. had to grow up fast during the war years
But don’t take it from me, take it from these fine folks:
“This is a fast-moving, page-turning espionage thriller set just before the end of the war. Highly recommended for anyone who wants to be kept up at night!”
--Deborah Swift, author of The Shadow Network
“Red Snow is a well-paced thriller capturing the paranoia and moral complexity of WWII’s twilight hours. This is spy fiction that respects its readers’ intelligence, offering a nuanced exploration of loyalty, betrayal, and a little romance.”
--Emilya Naymark, author of ‘Behind the Lie’
“I found a great new-to-me author in Max Eastern. I love how he brought his characters to life and made the situations in this novel seem as though they were happening in front of me.” — Terrie Farley Moran, national bestselling co-author of the Jessica Fletcher ‘Murder She Wrote’ mystery series.
Trust no one
This is one is for lovers of historical novels, thrillers, spy tales, and, yes, romance. It covers all the bases and stuffs all the stockings. You can find it here.
(Audio version of this post available HERE on Youtube.)
Dinner with King Tut is a strange sort of beast: let’s call it an anti-sphinx. Like the sphinx it’s composed of three dissimilar parts—not the face of a woman, the wings of a bird and the haunches of a lion, but science, fiction (but not science fiction) and DIY—where DIY involves the author learning how to knap stones, how to tattoo himself, to style hair like an ancient Roman matron, bake bread for Egyptian pyramid builders, and operate a trebuchet, among other skills once necessary for a precarious survival in different eras at different points on the globe. Also: tanning and trepanning.
And this sphinx not only poses riddles it tries its best to answer them, through the discipline of experimental archaeology. Which, if you (like me) have never heard of this field, you’re in for a series of fascinating discoveries, from a Turkish city where one’s relatives where buried beneath one’s bed to the unusual height of Chinese eunuchs.
When we think of Hawaii we're apt to picture a lush landscape of surfer-size waves, with green palms shading flower-bedecked hula dancers. That's not the setting of Falls to Pieces, where a savage jungle landscape is at war with developers who would pave paradise and put up a parking lot. It's a foe to be respected by Kati Dawes and her daughter Zoe, who have gone off grid and incognito on the island of Maui, hoping to escape their past. But the past catches up, with devastating results. Author Douglas Corleone spells it out at one point: Paradise is safe only in designated places.
When the story opens, two murders have already occurred, driving the plot forward with the fury of Fates. Kati has the unfortunate habit or luck of putting her welfare in the hands of treacherous men, so when the kidnapping which is the axle of this novel takes place, suspects are thick on the ground. Beware: no one in this novel. and I mean absolutely no one, is to be trusted. And Kati's memory is not what it was before she sampled the pharmacopeia from Ativan to Zoloft.
The Wildes seems at first blush to promise a very intimate tale of a very public man, something along the lines of Louis Bayard's earlier novel Courting Mr. Lincoln. until we realize at what point we've been dropped into this tale.
The story begins just before what most people would consider The End of Oscar Wilde: not his death, but his death-in-life, the accusations, the trial for slander, and the consequences. This story could be called the aftermath of Oscar. Oscar, in life always at center stage, must give up the spotlight on this occasion. This time, the walk-ons speak.
The story begins with an idyll, a brief time snatched from time in an Edenic inglenook of Norfolk where the Wildes, along with sundry supporting characters, have decamped, ostensibly to give Oscar the peace necessary to finish his latest play, although other motives are at play. And the novel keeps returning to that time, those events, that last weekend in particular, trying to make sense of it all, of how the family was cast out of Eden forever, when they might have stayed.
You've got to keep an eye on William Martell. He's a master of misdirection. He lays out the evidence fairly but sneakily in each of his novelettes (novellas? long short stories?).
The Shotgun Approach concerns a formerly hit music duo with more than a passing resemblance to Hall and Oates, except the frontman has had his blonde head blown off with a shotgun and his partner is the prime suspect, along with the victim's ex-wife and his former producer, who all, by odd coincidence, are checked into the same VIP floor of the same luxury hotel on the night of the murder.
Hosting the proceedings are a burnt-out San Francisco police detective and her latest partner, who's been assigned the unenviable task of making sure she doesn't kill anyone. No one has had any luck in that department so far.
The Versailles Formula starts with an eerie, haunting image: a ghost patters down a long, dark hallway night after night, past a suit of armor, trying in vain to seize its prize, the portrait of an angel--but always vanishing before he wins his goal. Genevieve Sturbridge nee Planche is back. And solving this mystery will only lead to more mysteries, a trail of bodies, and desperate danger.
Genevieve, of course, is the Huguenot heroine with French heritage and British loyalties, with one foot in the art world and the other mired in espionage. In this third book in the series she's teamed with an army captain almost as stubborn and resourceful as she is. Sparks fly.
(An audio version od this post is available here on Youtube.)
I was afraid the book had gotten away from her. It had gotten away from me, and I thought irretrievably. It begins slowly like one of those austere Chilean warships she writes about, becomes unwieldy, and when the engine explodes, I was sure we were going to the bottom. It sailed into port like a hand in a silk glove. But let me try to be a little more prosaic.
The titular Emilia del Valle grows up in San Fransisco during the 1890s, the last gasp of the gold rush. Her mother, an Irish girl, was about to take her vows as a nun when she was seduced by a Chilean aristocrat who abandoned her and her child. She finds shelter and eventual domestic bliss with a greathearted schoolteacher, but she always harbors a desire for revenge upon her seducer. And she tries to transfer that vengeful desire to her daughter.
With a couple of his recent Sherlock Holmes pastiches, Nicolas Meyer has stepped up his game. Not in terms of plotting or character, at which he has always been the gold standard, or in his channeling of the voice and more importantly the heart of John Watson (for Watson's heart is Sherlock's heart, much as Watson's voice is Sherlock's voice). But the world of Sherlock Holmes is essentially domestic, with criminals who will be dealt with by the courts (once Holmes has revealed then to Scotland Yard). But in The Adventure of the Peculiar Protocols and now his latest, Sherlock Holmes and the Telegraph from Hell, the author moves Holmes onto the world stage, raising the stakes of his investigations enormously.
The plot is simple: what if the outcome of World War I depended upon the contents of a telegram, and Britain were desperate to know the contents of that telegram? Well, it did. The story of the Zimmerman Telegram is historical fact. Meyer's inspired move is to couple that fact to Doyle's (or Watson's) story "His Last Bow," which hints at Holmes's role in the war about to engulf Europe. And thereby hangs a tale that takes Holmes and Watson in their twilight years from London to Washington to Mexico City, dogged by assassins every step of the way.
The truth is, this isn't really a detective story, though it's strewn with Holmes's customary legerdemain. And it's not really a spy story, though Watson can hardly turn around without bumping into a spy. It's a coming of age story for a man in his sixties who has come to realize that his fog-bound streets, hansom cabs, and skills at single-stick are not enough to see him through the dangerous new world of the 20th century. He must confront his own parochialism, the smallness of his lifelong efforts against evil.
Don't misunderstand me. There's plenty of adventure and derring-do in this novel, but there's an elegiac mood to it, too. And that raises it above Meyer's previous efforts. Which makes it all the more worth the read.
[I wouldn't add this in a review for Amazon or Goodreads since I don't think a review should be about the reviewer, but if you're reading it on my blog, you know that I've written some Sherlock Holmes novels myself, and have some idea of the pitfalls involved in this kind of novel. And you've probably heard me mention that Meyer's The Seven Per-cent Solution was the inspiration for my own efforts. So imagine my consternation when, in the middle of editing The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, I learned that Meyer was about to come out with his own Sherlock Holmes meets the mummy tale, The Return of the Pharaoh, and how relieved I was to learn that the pharaoh in his tale was not Tutankhamun and his story was nothing like mine. Which is preface to say that I came upon the story of the Zimmerman Telegram about a year ago and contemplated writing a Holmes short story based on it. I thank procrastination I didn't go ahead with that one.]
Noir is all about bad ideas executed badly under the influence of uncontrolled passion. Andrew Sherman understands that and has crafted a cautionary tale that veers from lighthearted to deadly serious in a heartbeat. The story starts with a cuckolded husband crafting an explosive missive to his rival with every possible opportunity for things to go wrong. Then it interrupts its regularly scheduled narrative to show us how we got to this point.
There’s a healthy dose of Quentin Tarantino in this story, or I should say these stories, tales of domestic quarrels that spark out of hand and brush up against each other in unexpected ways with violent results. Yes, there are murders, but no perfect murders, and it’s the imperfections that provide the sudden turns that in less expert hands would send this story crashing through the guardrails. But Sherman keeps a steady hand on the wheel, even if none of his characters do. A Noir Story is a fine debut, and I look forward to reading Sherman’s next effort.
There’s a tug of war I’m familiar with in writing historical fiction. The writer wants to establish historical setting without overwhelming the reader with historical facts—the furniture without the bric-a-brac. And here’s where Keenan Powell excels with The Sorrowful Girl. From the very first page she makes us feel comfortable in small-town Massachusetts at the turn of the last century.
It's a town mainly populated by poor, hard-working Irish immigrants, at a time when immigrants were hated or looked down on by many Americans. A time of labor unrest and repressive capitalism. Alright, a time perhaps little different from our own. Perhaps the secret to good historical fiction is finding the common denominators between the past and the present.
Or perhaps it’s in fully realized, breathing characters. A girl has been murdered in the woods outside of town. A girl close to Liam Barret, the local policeman who’s put in charge of bringing her killer to justice. We get to know Liam’s history, his hopes and aspirations, and that of his town as the case places him squarely between the Molly Maguires and the political machinery and machinations controlled by the moneyed mill owner who also seems to own half the state.
He’ll have to rely on his wits and his integrity to see him through to the resolution. And even then he may find a compromise is the best he can hope for.
This is the first Keenan Powell I’ve read. It won’t be the last.
Get set for a clinic in the unreliable narrator. And the single location narrative, all in one novella, or is it a novelette? Our protagonist is a well-respected politician with shady secret in his past that has knotted him to a criminal organization. He’s been summoned to an emergency meeting of the organization’s “department” heads. On the agenda: a traitor in their midst has sung to the feds. But who?
The senator knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men, and sets himself the task of discovering the rat before the big reveal. Can he suss out the squealer? Can you? Another entertaining entry in William Martell’s series of Crime Time mysteries.
When Trish MacEnulty writes a historical novel, she’s apt to use a wide-angle lens. So it is with Battle Annie, loosely based on a true character, whose life is fleshed out with great imagination and brio.
From the tenements of Hell’s Kitchen to the upper crust of Baltimore and back again, we follow Annie Walsh, the self-styled queen of Hell’s Kitchen’s brawlers fleeing from a murder rap and everything she’s ever known. The writer builds up the slums of New York in 1895 brick by hurled brick, placing us in the middle of rail strikes and gang wars, contrasted with Gilded Age high society, where survival means learning how to use an oyster fork.
It’s grit, brains, and most importantly the friendships forged in the lower depths that keep Annie and her ward Cora one step ahead of the law. She provides a wider societal vista by the inclusion of socialist champion Eugene Debs, who sees beyond Annie’s rough façade to the leader she can be.
This is a picaresque tale with a lot of heart, well worth the read. If you’re like me, you’ll fall in love with Annie and her company of rogues. And you’ll be left hungry for more.
The Law of Falling Bodies is like cooking a souffle while doing a high wire act. There’s no way it’s going to work. But what if it does? I’m almost tempted to leave my review it at that, but I’ll go further, at the risk of a few mini-spoilers. It does something I normally despise: it turns a murder story into an espionage story. With Nazis.
But: the author pulls it off, largely through the agency of his main character, a thoroughly grounded, down-to-earth, self-deprecating, modest graduate student in physics who is the only person who could ever solve the many mysteries presented to him, in part because he and his antagonist go together like yin and yang.
It’s a spy novel which may also qualify as a cozy mystery. It includes an alluring local cop and an asshole FBI agent who may be allies or enemies. Through it all, it’s strangely believable. This is an overlooked gem. Pick it up now.
Modern society is a minefield, and was even before Covid-19. But there was a lot of discussion at the height of the pandemic as to how writers should handle such an event. Ignore it?—or plunge into it? Steve Goble elects to skip it, but in doing so he (intentionally) shines a light on the aftermath, and what it means to us going forward. The waning of trust—in institutions, in each other seems to have accelerated to dangerous new levels. A lot of readers were waiting to see how writers would handle Covid and the post-Covid arena. If Go Find Daddy, Steve Goble’s third in his Ed Runyon series is any example, I would say—honestly, straightforwardly, levelly. Which happens to describe his hero, Ed.
Ed has left the force, gotten over (largely) his anger issues, and is trying to make it work as a private detective in small-town Ohio. He’s a no-nonsense kind of guy. As he says, “accountants get head-aches from staring at a screen store clerks get head-aches from dealing with assholes all day, I get shot at. No big deal.”
But he’s about to go down the rabbit hole. A cop’s been killed. The main suspect—the only suspect as far as the police are concerned—is a right-wing podcaster who’s made his hatred for cops his brand (thus helping to diminish further our faith in authority), and who’s vanished without leaving a clue, even to his wife and child. Every cop in three states is out for his blood. And now a pro-cop entity online has offered a million dollars for him—dead. No one knows whether the offer is real, whether the organization is real, or a hoax—but it’s drawn every bounty-hunter to the chase.
All of which would have nothing to do with Ed—until he takes on a mission for the fugitive’s wife—to get a vital message to him. If you know Ed, you’ll know why it’s a job he can’t refuse (involving the fugitive’s little daughter) even though he’s going up against the fugitive’s friends and enemies both, all of whom are trigger-happy, none of whom trust each other or can be trusted. Yes. Ed Runyon gets shot at—a lot.
But Ed is a person who can be trusted, a person who holds his integrity dear, a person who can be believed, a doggedly decent man—and that’s the key to the job he’s taken on, and it’s what makes him a hero for this post-Covid age.
This is the third book in the Ed Runyon series. Jump on the bandwagon. Go Find Daddy can be found here on Amazon.
