The Literate Kitty

Death, Dishonesty, & Disillusionment in Dorset

2012-05-31T17:28:00.001-04:00

An ordinary man leaves his wife after several years of marriage, convinced that his happiness may only be found elsewhere. It’s the classic “greener pastures” syndrome--nothing terribly earth-shattering there. But, when the man stabs his wife in their home, then proceeds to throw her off a nearby cliff--before disrobing and sauntering to the water’s edge, calmly following her into the same body of water--that’s the sort of thing that tends to make people sit up and take notice. And, when only one body--hers--is recovered, well, that’s when things become downright interesting.

This is David Whellams’ Walking into the Ocean...

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When semi-retired Scotland Yard Chief Inspector Peter Cammon receives word he’s being sent to Dorset to look into what appears to be a murder-suicide on the Jurassic Coast, he’s unsure what role they’re expecting him to play. Surely the local constabulary are better-equipped to look into the murder of one of their own than he is?

Nevertheless, duty calls, so he dons his uniform--unremarkable black suit, bowler hat, and umbrella--fills a valise with a few travel items, says his goodbyes to his own wife of more than forty years, and hops in the company car that’s been driven down from London HQ to fetch him.

As Cammon’s long-time partner Tommy Verden informs him along the way, Dorset and Devon are already dealing with a huge problem (miraculously, as yet, kept out of the media): trying to catch a serial killer who’s been cutting a bloody swath through the area’s young female population. (Making the situation even more-than-usually urgent, their part of the English Channel just so happens to be in the running to host part of the upcoming London Olympics swimming events... an honor they assuredly won’t be granted if word gets out that a murderous nutjob is on the loose.) That leaves Scotland Yard--with the highly-respected (if notoriously-difficult) Cammon as its public, on-the-scene face--heading the well-publicized spousal murder, thereby temporarily diverting attention from the Task Force working so feverishly on the serial killer case.

With his purpose thus explained, Cammon sets to work as soon as he arrives. In no time at all, though, he realizes that his single murder will hardly be the walk in the park everyone assumes... namely, because he believes the police have it all wrong following their cursory investigation.

After venturing out on the cliff from which the wife was thrown and having a good look around, Cammon isn’t at all convinced the husband killed himself; he suspects the fellow planned everything--including a mysterious escape made to look like a suicide--to the letter. (Whether the man succeeded in his plans--or died somewhere in the Channel--is unclear, with neither a sighting of the chap alive nor a body having been found.) The couple’s house--possibly the scene of the murder, but certainly where everything started--offers no conclusive evidence, either. From the particular destruction (what was damaged, and how it was done) to the peculiar blood trails (angry patterns that seem to tell some sort of message, in places), nothing adds up to a clear-cut explanation of what, or how, or why.

Unsurprisingly, the local police chief is none too thrilled by what he sees as Yard interference in the form of one Peter Cammon--regardless of the diversion his investigation is providing--and does everything he can to hinder Cammon’s efforts. Fortunately, a couple of cops further down the totem pole don’t share in the chief’s animosity, and offer what help they can, from pulling reports for his perusal to putting him in touch with anyone who might know something... and even, as things progress, to filling him in on the hush-hush details of the serial killer case... because the more he looks at everything and ponders the meanings, the more he’s convinced the two cases are, somehow, inextricably linked.

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I find something inherently appealing about a, erm, “well-seasoned” sleuth. The experience he or she brings to a case is nearly-always invaluable, so more often than not it comes down to how “with-it”--how computer-literate and ‘net-savvy, how comfortable with gadgets and gizmos--an older detective is, and to how accurately said detective’s memory serves, whether he or she is able to solve the big mystery.

In Peter Cammon’s case, there’s certainly no grass growing beneath his feet; he’s technologically-capable and suffers none of those pesky, age-related synaptical problems. That isn’t to say he’s without his own little quirks and foibles, however; Cammon isn’t a “people person”, but is instead quite prickly and awkward. He’s mostly a loner, marching to his own drummer... to a resigned tolerance shown by his long-suffering boss and the (mostly) patient understanding of his wife and two adult children. He is not, as a character, precisely likable, but he is interesting, and that’s fine by me.

The co-mingled cases in Walking into the Ocean are intriguing, as well. Nothing is simple; there are no givens, no easy answers, and nothing so obvious you feel as though the characters should be hit over the heads with bats. Instead, these characters are complex--real people, made more so by occasional, unexpected insights into their lives (including ways not even strictly relevant to the cases)--and their motivations believable, rather than merely convenient for the plot. (Note: A speedy read, this is not; it tends to amble rather than race toward the conclusion, much like its protagonist.)

Walking into the Ocean is the first of three books author Whellams has planned about Peter Cammon’s latter sleuthing career, and if this one’s any indication, the two remaining tales should prove intelligent, challenging diversions, as well. Nicely done, sir.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: Well-hidden Mousies (or, worth the time for patient readers :))

When First we Practice to Deceive... Bad Things Happen, Man

2012-05-24T23:45:00.002-04:00

Decisions... large or small, we make them all day, every day, from what to wear, what to eat, which bills to pay, who to talk to and who to avoid, whether to hit the weight room or the neighborhood pub after work, what show to watch, to whether it’s more beneficial to tell the unvarnished truth about something... or to tell a lie.

It may not come as much of a surprise that life involves so many decisions, but it definitely might give us pause, thinking about how often we choose to gloss over the truth, embellish the facts, or outright fabricate something out of whole cloth.

It’s the latter variety--all beginning with a spur-of-the-moment fib--which fills the pages of author Jeremy Bates’ new thriller, White Lies...

* / * / * / *

Katrina Burton needs nothing so much as to make a fresh start. After having lost both parents in a tragic accident years earlier and more recently losing her fiance, the memories in her Seattle home have become too hard to bear. So, she secures another teaching job, sells her house and most of her belongings, and packs her bags to make the long trek with her dog from the big city to a tiny town on the other side of the state.

Late at night, however, finds her fighting physical exhaustion and road weariness as she tries to make out the unfamiliar highway--twisting and turning as it wends its way through the Cascades--in the sheeting rain. The last thing she expects to see reflected in her headlights is what looks like a hitchhiker trudging through the downpour along the side of the road.

Katrina performs a quick mental battle; leave the man to his fate, drenched and miles from nowhere, or offer a little kindness and rescue him from the miserable conditions? The smartest action--using her cell to call for help--isn’t an option, as the battery died earlier, so, help it is, she decides. (Cue Bad Decision Number One, here.)

Once he’s inside her car, she starts rethinking her hasty decision almost immediately (which by now, of course, is much too late). It’s not that he’s big and imposing; actually, he’s on the scrawny side, and barely into adulthood. No, the problem is that he’s belligerent, lecherous, and very drunk. Seeing no other way of extricating herself from the situation, Katrina makes up a lie about where she’s headed--improvising a cabin-at-the-lake destination--which in turn gives her an excuse to drop him off, protesting and swearing a blue streak at her, at the turnoff to the first little settlement they reach. (This, unfortunately, turns out to be Bad Decision Number Two.)

Normally, that would be the end of things, and so Katrina thinks... until she starts her new job a few days later, only to discover that one of her fellow teachers is none other than the same creep who briefly shared her car--Zach, all cleaned up and not reeking of alcohol. He makes it clear--to her, if not the other staff members--that he most definitely hasn’t forgotten being ejected from her car... and that he’s capable of holding a major grudge. Part of his plan to get revenge? To invite himself and all the other teachers to her “lake cabin” for a weekend fling.

Now, the logical thing for Katrina to do would be to recant, saying something like no smart woman on her own would want to let a stranger know where she lived, or perhaps to laugh and say that he must have just misunderstood her, right? (Yes.) Katrina, however, isn’t really down with the whole concept of logical actions, and she proceeds to agree to hosting a party at an imaginary house she doesn’t own and of which she’s never even dreamed. (You guessed it; Bad Decision Number Three.)

There is one bright spot in the new life she’s (somewhat-clumsily) making for herself: Jack, the intriguing man she met while shopping at the hardware store one day. Handsome, charming, and easy to be around, he quickly becomes a regular fixture in her life... even coming up with a workable, face-saving solution to the party problem with Zach: just find a cabin to rent for the weekend and have the party, with no one being any the wiser.

At first, everything goes according to plan; the guests are enjoying themselves immensely, drinking too much and carrying on like the teenagers they teach throughout the week. When things unexpectedly get a little too out of hand, though--and someone winds up brutally murdered--no amount of frantic lie-spinning or desperate covering-up of the crime (Bad Decisions Number Four, Five, Six, and so on) will suffice to get Katrina out of the horrible mess she’s in.

* / * / * / *

White Lies is the story of a figurative train wreck in action; it’s almost ridiculously easy to see that nothing good can come from Katrina’s little fibs. The mystery is how she never quite seems to grasp that, and in truth, I had a hard time dredging up any sympathy for her, early on. (Granted, I tend to over-think things--including those little white lies which most of us tell--so other readers may or may not not find her so infernally annoying.)

Once I’d gritted my teeth and stopped trying to put myself in her shoes, though, the whole premise became almost undeniably compelling. The snowball effect, brought about by one seemingly-innocent, little white lie, told to the absolute wrong person, makes for a situation as tense and nerve-wracking as they come. I was on the edge of my seat throughout much of this one... and I suspect you will be, too.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: Enthusiastically-shivering Mousies

Fate's a Bitch (and Then Someone Dies)

2012-05-16T01:09:00.001-04:00

Being able to read another person's mind... it sounds like the sort of thing that could come in handy, doesn't it? “What would my friend like more than anything else on her birthday? Is that cute guy into me? Is the boss about to fire me, or give me a raise?” Knowing the answers to such things would be useful.

The sticking point with an ability like this, however, is the matter of control: being able to read someone’s mind on command... but no more. The opposite situation--having zero control over what or when you picked up another’s thoughts--would hardly provide the same usefulness.

Now, imagine if instead of channeling someone's thoughts (fears, hopes, dreams, whatever), what you could read was his or her future... more precisely, the exact day, minute, hour--even method--of that person's death. Such is the life of one very unlucky soul, in author Chuck Wendig’s Blackbirds.

Miriam Black is just a regular twenty-three-year-old girl. There’s nothing particularly striking about her; she’s a little on the scrawny side (from genuine hunger rather than from trying to achieve the emaciated model look), she’s passably pretty (but in truth not much more), and she’s smart enough to get by (but won’t be appending any fancy letters like “PhD” or “CEO” to her name in the foreseeable future). She drinks (a lot), smokes (whenever she can), does the occasional recreational drug, and gets a little wild as often as possible. (Put it this way... if there were such a thing as a “right” side of the tracks, she was born and raised--and is content to remain--on the other side.)

As with most people, though, there’s more to Miriam than meets the eye. For her, it only takes a touch--the merest skin-on-skin contact--and she instantly sees the other person’s moment of death. There’s no blocking it; she’s forced to watch it all play out in her mind’s eye. From car crashes to cancer, heart attacks to murder, suicide to death from sheer old age, she’s seen it all, hundreds, even thousands, of times.

It’s a unique ability (curse, really) that she’s already lived with for several years. (Consider for a second what havoc touching a friend, a relative, a love interest--and seeing his/her death--would wreak on a teenager’s state of mind, and Miriam’s actions become a whole lot easier to understand, if you’re feeling judge-y.) She doesn’t even have the consolation of being able to stop some of the deaths--say, the accidents--from happening. Fate has proven to her time and again that it just doesn’t work that way.

So, she’s built up her defenses as best she can. She has no friends. She doesn’t stay in any place too long. She even uses her ability to her advantage, sometimes. When she sees that the loser who’s been hitting on her in the honkytonk bar will be dying within the next couple of hours after an epileptic seizure, it’s only natural that she sticks around long enough to see it happen (and to relieve him of his cash once it does). A girl has to survive, right?

Everything changes, though, when Miriam hitches a ride one night with a truly nice man. Trucker Louis Darling is an imposing hulk of a man, the sort who can look after himself, if need be... but he’s also kind and gentle and quietly funny. He looks at her and sees someone interesting and worth knowing (and it’s been a long time since anyone looked at her like that).

There’s just one huge problem: the death she sees for him is, perhaps, the worst she’s ever witnessed. In only one month’s time, Louis will be tortured then horribly murdered... right in front of her... and Miriam knows there isn’t a damn thing she can do to stop it from happening.

Or can she...?

Blackbirds is that rare book which gleefully defies pigeonholing. It’s almost certainly not quite what you expect. It’s cold and brutal, grim and oh-so dark (seriously, the shade known as “pitch-black” seems downright happy next to this)... a relentless, take-no-prisoners thrill ride on the seediest side of life. (What, you wanna get off? Tough. This ride ain’t for pussycats, baby.)

So, did I like it? Nope. I loved it. (What can I say? Intense, dark, and disturbing are my bag.) Blackbirds is so much more than just a trippy road story, though. Wendig writes with an eye for realistic settings and an ear for the way people actually talk. He gets the tortured souls, and is content to let them do their thing. He also grasps the natural hilarity which is usually present in even the grimmest of scenes (gallows humor, anyone?), and colors every page with black whimsy. It’s almost as though he lets this story happen the way it wants to; there’s no tidying up the ugliness or toning down the meanness, no diluting of the visceral elements... or of the surprisingly-touching heart at its (very grim) core.

Blackbirds isn’t for everyone. If it sounds like something in your wheelhouse, though, I can pretty much guarantee you’ll feel its impact... long after you’ve turned that last page.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: So many gnarly, chewed-up mousies (it isn't even funny)

The Pet Psychic, the Persian Pussycat, & the Pistol

2012-05-04T01:16:00.001-04:00

Although I’ve always been an animal lover, my heart (surprise, surprise) belongs to cats. That does not, it should be noted, make me a “crazy cat lady” (perceived sanity and gender nothwithstanding). My house isn’t overflowing with feline tchotchkes, nor does my wardrobe contain even one t-shirt covered with kitties frolicking in a field of daisies. (Stray cat fur wafting about is a whole 'nother matter, but we won't go into that.)

So, when yet another feline-centric mystery landed on my desk, I eyeballed it warily. Would it be that rare beast, a genuinely-good book that happened to feature cats... or would it be just another tired schmaltz fest? (I swear, if one more mystery is solved by an adorable cat who walks over and puts his paw on the exact place in a conveniently-unburied letter to name the killer, I’m gonna lob that book at the nearest wall.) (Unless it’s on my Kindle, in which case I shall resort to mentally lobbing it.) Been there, done that.

Hesitations aside, though, the description for Clea Simon’s Cats Can’t Shoot (which is actually the second in a series, following on the heels of Dogs Don’t Lie) sounded intriguing, so I decided to give it a whirl (with my own furry boycat by my side).

~ / ~ / ~
Pru Marlowe didn’t grow up intending to be an animal behaviorist--and she certainly didn’t expect to find herself scraping for work, doing as much dog-walking and poop-scooping as calling on her therapeutic skills, back in the small town she’d gleefully fled years earlier--but such are the surprises life has a way of doling out.
When she receives a frantic phone call from the police--telling her there’s been a cat shooting(?!?)--she’s a little unclear what role she’s to play at the scene. (A behaviorist specializes in observing animals, then determining their emotional and intellectual needs... something which seems impossible in this case.) Nonetheless, she races to the mansion where the shooting took place, outraged and ready to lay into the perpetrator of such a heinous crime. What she finds, however, is a dead man, slumped over his desk, and nothing more.
Perplexed, she waits for an explanation, but when it comes, is even more confused. The cat is quite alive and reasonably well (albeit traumatized, hissing and mreowling from her current hiding spot in the back of the bookcase); she isn’t the victim in question... it seems that she’s the killer.

It sounds too preposterous for words. How could a Persian kitty--this exquisite, pampered pussycat--kill a grown man? Moreover, how could she possibly work her floofy white paw around the trigger of a gun--a dueling pistol, no less--and fire it?
Unbelievably, the police insist that Fluffy (yes, “Fluffy”, pfft) is guilty of the crime, and must be quarantined at the local shelter until she can be studied and, erm, questioned. (At least Pru finally knows where she figures into the picture.)
The next day, when Pru attempts to work with Fluffy, she becomes even more convinced that something hinky is afoot... and is a lot more likely to involve two feet rather than four furry ones. But then, Pru isn’t just your standard animal behaviorist (although she’s very careful to let everyone think that’s all she is). A couple years earlier, Pru discovered she’d been blessed (cursed?) with a newfound talent--leaving her able not only to ascertain what her animal clients were feeling, but to actually hear their thoughts... and to mentally communicate back-and-forth with them. (Unfortunately, this ability isn’t restricted to her clients; she’s also privy to the thoughts of all the birds, squirrels, and bunnies out there--of every animal within her immediate vicinity. That's a lot of noise.)
Curiously, Fluffy seems to be blocking Pru’s efforts at communication... on purpose. What is it, Pru can only wonder, that Fluffy is trying to hide? Does it have something to do with the dead man’s wealthy widow, a nasty piece of work who makes no secret of her intense dislike for the feline? Perhaps it concerns the couple’s Girl Friday, a young woman who may have been involved on a more-intimate level with the dead man--and is now begging to be given custody of the precocious Persian. Maybe the family lawyer, who shares a fondness for old weapons (and had a hand in Fluffy’s adoption), has an idea.
When one of her ex-boyfriends--a former NYC policeman now turned private security something-or-other--shows up out of the blue, asking strange questions (and with a mob boss in tow), Pru knows for sure that something is very wrong. And, when the shelter doctor gives her a deadly ultimatum--either Pru successfully re-socializes Fluffy so she can be put up for re-adoption, or (gulp) Fluffy will be euthanized--she knows it’s up to her, the only one putting the cat’s welfare first, to solve the mystery, clear Fluffy’s name, and save her from certain death.
~ / ~ / ~
The mere thought of being able to converse with my beloved furbaby, as Pru does in Cats Can’t Shoot, is fantastic. (Like most pet parents, I probably have a decent handle on what he’s thinking most of the time, but to know for sure, and be able to hold actual conversations? Whoa.) It’s such a compelling idea, and author Simon handles it in a believable (and very funny) way, always allowing each of the animals that Pru interacts with to maintain his or her own natural mannerisms. (The Bichon Frise, for instance, is a feisty little fellow with plenty of attitude, far more interested in chasing down smells than in letting Pru pick his brain. The Siamese, whose human mommy is sweet but oblivious, is a royal princess, and thrives on being acknowledged as such.) These scenes are absolutely delightful, coming across very naturally rather than feeling contrived.
Pru’s relationship with her longtime roommate, Wallis the tabby, is also fabulously well-drawn. Neither is the demonstrative, touchy-feely sort; they’re prickly, independent mirrors of each other, and Wallis sarcastically offers up tidbits of wisdom in much the way she might bestow the gift of a decapitated mouse head to Pru. (Anyone who’s had a standoffish pet will identify with their relationship.)
But what about the mystery, you ask? It’s a surprisingly good one, with plenty of little twists and turns to keep you guessing until the end, and the resolution (especially the aftermath) delivers a nifty little kick.
Cats Can’t Shoot is a thoroughly-enjoyable read... thought-provoking, interesting, and funny, with a whole lot of heart. I loved it. :)

[Note: Don’t think you “must love cats” to read and appreciate this book; if you’re more of a “dog person”, that’s perfectly fine, since Cats Can’t Shoot features dogs as much as cats. This one’s for animal lovers, pure and simple--all those people willing to open their hearts and homes, and to share them with furry bundles of awesomeness.]

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: Very Enthusiastic Mousies

Monsters, Mambos, & Mayhem in Manhattan

2012-04-19T23:14:00.003-04:00

Running around Manhattan in a dingy pair of track shoes is hardly an activity likely to raise many eyebrows. Neither is dashing about clad in designer-heel knockoffs or sporting a skimpy cocktail waitress get-up, for that matter. But, conducting a considerable amount of all that hustling back and forth at sky level, from one rooftop to another, or mucking about in the subterranean levels, below the deepest subway tunnels? That definitely qualifies as unusual. And, doing it loaded down with an assortment of guns, throwing knives, and other concealable weaponry, in pursuit of creatures straight out of “The Night Stalker”? Yeah, that’s just plain odd, even by New York standards.

It’s all just another day’s work for intrepid Verity Price, though, in Discount Armageddon, the first book from Seanan McGuire’s brand-new (and delightfully off-kilter) urban fantasy series, known as the “InCryptid Novels”. [Curious about her other works? Check out my reviews, here and here.]

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It seems that the rooftop-scaling, underground-prowling Ms. Price came by her fascination with creatures-that-go-bump-in-the-night quite naturally, hailing--as she does--from a long line of cryptid-(monster)-hunters-cum-researchers (or cryptozoologists, to use the proper jargon). Originally part of an ancient order of monster hunters known as The Covenant of St. George, the family broke off following an ethics dispute generations earlier.

Since their acrimonious split, the Prices have functioned independently, trying to maintain a peaceful co-existence with the cryptid population by studying them and searching for amicable solutions to problems between the different segments. The Covenant, on the other hand, holds a grudge like nobody’s business, and their current crop of devotees--who function rather like a modern-day, traveling Inquisition (minus the religious overtones)--have made it their mission not only to rid the world of cryptids, but Prices, as well... forcing the beleaguered Prices to conduct their work (and live their lives) in secret.

And about that whole secrecy thing... not ideal under the best of circumstances, of course, but especially difficult for a willful young woman like Verity, whose grand passion in life happens to be... ballroom dance. (What, you think someone who studies monsters can’t nail the technique for doing a full-on, down-and-dirty Argentinian tango, or a romantic, lyrical waltz? Ha. Feel free to argue that with the girl who began training to fight--and win--before she entered kindergarten.)

As fate would have it, it’s that same love of dance which lands Verity in quite a nasty mess in Discount Armageddon. If she weren’t pursuing her professional ballroom dance career (disguised and under an alias, of course) in New York City--on the opposite side of the U.S. from the rest of her family (and more importantly, from any support if/when things get dicey)--then she also wouldn’t have been conducting solo research there, or been on her own to deal with the sudden rash of cryptid disappearances. (She wouldn’t have found herself face-to-face with a deadly-earnest Covenant dude looking to make a name for himself on his first big solo mission, either.)

Between trying to pay rent (even at a majorly-reduced rate for her not-remotely-legal sublet) and scrounge up enough funds for the competition entry fees and wardrobe expenses (part and parcel in the world of dance) by moonlighting as a cocktail waitress in a sleazy nightclub, and keeping up with the family work (which was a big condition in her being allowed to go off on her own, in the first place), it’s not like Verity doesn’t already have enough on her plate. Whoever is behind the mysterious cryptid disappearances--heavy on single young females, curiously--clearly doesn’t care about making things convenient for Verity, though. And, when tragedy strikes close to home, and cryptids she knows personally start winding up missing (or worse), she knows she has no choice but to get involved.

As rumors of terrible, ancient monsters abound and tensions mount among Manhattan’s large cryptid segment, Verity finds herself being sucked into the center of the maelstrom... and forced to consider allying herself with one of her worst enemies, before every cryptid--and maybe, even, every human--in the city winds up dead. Or worse...

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If her Toby Daye series is “Seanan McGuire having a typical, somewhat-crappy day (week, year) filled with occasional bursts of maniacal laughter to stave off the insanity”, and the Newsflesh zombie books are “Mira Grant (McGuire’s sci-fi alter ego) waking up sweating bullets after a really bad frickin’ nightmare (one full of evil clowns, chainsaws, and the Plague)”, then Discount Armageddon falls more along the lines of “Seanan McGuire enjoying Rainbow Brite daydreams of happy sparkly ponies and cupcakes (until a fluffy kitten accidentally impales her with a claw when leaping onto her lap)”. In other words, it’s a lighter take on monsters and the people who live among them; there’s no intricate world-building, and everything generally moves along at a faster pace, from the relationships to the action. It’s a little bit campy, a little bit pulp... and I enjoyed the heck out of it. (Hey, I live for “So You Think You Can Dance” and “Dancing with the Stars”, so having a kick-ass, samba- and jive-dancing heroine like Verity Price is just plain cool, in my book.) It still has that quintessential McGuire flavor, too, full of wicked smarts, sarcasm, and biting wit, wrapped up in a slightly wonky way of looking at the world. (Again, I so get that.)

If you like your urban fantasy on the light-and-spicy side--or could just use a break from heavier fare--Discount Armageddon should definitely find a spot on your list. It’s delectable entertainment, pure and simple. :)

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: A Fabulously-Fun Mousie

Sailing into Dangerous Waters

2012-04-07T17:14:00.001-04:00

It sounded like the perfect getaway to San Francisco native, Detective Katrina Hunter... a couple weeks off work, taking her prized sailboat out for a leisurely trip down the coast to Ensenada, Mexico.

At least, it would’ve been perfect... were it not for the fact that her fiancé--make that, ex-fiancé--was supposed to have been by her side, celebrating their upcoming nuptials. Or that it was actually a forced vacation, given her mandatory leave of absence from the SFPD after shooting her sister’s scary stalker. Yep, aside from those teensy little issues, everything should’ve been peachy.

Until, that is, her sun-dazzled, weary eyes go and spy what she swears is a mermaid, floating on a patch of seaweed. On closer inspection, the mermaid (rather disappointingly, if not surprisingly) turns out to be a dead young woman, whom Katy immediately reports to the nearest authorities. Unfortunately for her, though, that means the Mexican authorities... an overworked, underpaid--not to mention, rife-with-corruption--police force not known for showing patience (or leniency) to troublesome foreigners... not even, as she soon discovers, to their stateside counterparts.

Such is the stage for author R.P. Dahlke’s newest mystery-suspense, A Dangerous Harbor.

Back on the mainland, Katy assumes she’s in for a succinct, cop-to-cop discussion of events--how she found the body, her initial impressions of the scene, etc. Instead, her reception involves the least-welcoming of welcoming committees, which deposits her in a tiny, stuffy interview room, leaving her there to stew (literally and figuratively) for the next several hours.

Nor do things greatly improve once Chief Inspector Raul Vignaroli finally deigns to commence their little tête-à-tête. (Suave and sophisticated the Mexican-Italian cop may be, but his manners toward her--a fellow officer of the law--are sorely lacking.) And, to make matters worse, the police bring in another American--a scruffy handcuffed man Katy knew very well a long time ago--who’s been living in Ensenada, and is currently Suspect Numero Uno in the dead girl’s untimely demise.

After a grueling grilling by the mesmerizing-but-maddening inspector, both are released, with certain provisions. Her old friend--whose guilt is now in some doubt--has to promise not to flee the area. Katy, meanwhile, finds herself agreeing to remain docked for another week or so... during which time she’ll try to find out everything she can about the others staying at the same marina. The inspector has a likely group of candidates--all of them Americans--in mind; he just needs her to sniff out which among them is the most-likely guilty party. (She could refuse, but since someone from the police chained her beautiful boat to the pier while she was hanging out at the police station, she decides there’s little point. Besides, the man is awfully appealing.)

It isn’t long before she starts regretting her decision, though, as the cast of suspicious characters prove to be anything but helpful. (I was amused to realilze that they reminded me a bit of the “Gilligan’s Island” castaways.) There’s the wealthy, middle-aged (and married) business tycoon who owns the showiest pleasure yacht at the marina, and his much-younger, buxom (and not-his-wife) traveling companion; his stuttering accountant (suffering from a bad case of puppy love for the boss’s Pretty Young Thang) and the man’s bitter, domineering wife, on a crappy little boat that barely stays afloat; the muscle-bound young stud (with an ego to match) who pilots Mr. Big Bucks‘ boat; a laughably-incompetent, middle-aged magician who does tricks by night (and runs scams by day), and his less-than-enthusiastic younger assistant; and the bandy-legged, Mexican local hired to help out while everyone is moored there.

As Katy fends off advances from her exes, lands in the middle of catfights and drunken brawls, receives threatening messages, dodges bullets in the dark of night, worries about angering the local drug cartels, and even learns the ropes of owning a pet when she receives a “Baja fishing cat” (yes, she gets a kitten, and one who likes to fish, at that!), she realizes there’s something even more pressing on her mind... a growing attraction to the enigmatic Chief Vignaroli, who got her into this whole mess in the first place... and who also happens to be the one man she has no logical reason to think she could ever have.

A Dangerous Harbor is the second R.P. Dahlke book I’ve read (the first was A Dead Red Cadillac, check out my review here), and I definitely enjoy her easy style. She favors strong female leads with great senses of humor and some grit... women who don’t require rescuing, instead using their brains to think themselves out of predicaments. Realistic problems, such as prickly family relationships and normal insecurities, add to their believability.

Dahlke also provides her readers with a good sense of place when she writes; here, she describes solo-sailing on the ocean, and gives a nice feel for the Baja area.

One key difference in A Dangerous Harbor is there’s more emphasis on the romance aspect--a slow-burning sexual tension that gets hotter as the story progresses--which I suspect will please a lot of readers.

Dahlke’s books are quick, fun reads, diversions which only ask you that enjoy the ride. No trouble there. :)

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: A Fun Read (worthy of some fine mousie-batting)

Desperate Lives and Deep, Dark Secrets

2012-03-24T18:20:00.001-04:00

The real problem with getting into trouble, as almost every five-year-old knows, is getting back out of it... and the bigger that trouble is, the worse one’s chances of doing so are.

Not that understanding the odds seems to matter much; most of us still manage to get into varying degrees of trouble more often than we ought. It’s the particular sub-groups our troubles generally tend to fall under, though, which can determine the courses our lives will take... from the usually-fixable “sticky situations” and “misunderstandings”, to the unfortunate (and somewhat-more-awkward) instances of “wrong place, wrong time”, all the way to major violations of the law (clearly the worst of the bunch, and definitely best avoided).

Hot on the heels of last year’s brilliant debut The Poison Tree (see my review for it, here ), author Erin Kelly takes a look at all sorts of trouble--and the multitude of repercussions--in her fabulous follow-up, The Dark Rose.

Louisa Trevelyan is a quiet, unassuming woman living a simple, solitary life, but that hasn’t always been the case. These days, her passion involves plants--particularly the designing of lush, new gardens and the renovating of old, stately ones to their former glory--but greenery was the very last thing on her mind twenty years ago. Then, Louisa was a rebellious young girl hellbent on rejecting the silver spoon she’d been born with, and was obsessed with only one thing: the beautiful, fascinating boy who was lead singer in a local band.

When her desperation for acceptance--into the coolly-seductive music scene, in general, and into the heart and life of sexy singer Adam Glasslake, in particular--finally led to her saying and doing things she would forever after wish unsaid and undone, though, everything underwent a drastic sea change. Louisa transformed herself almost overnight, altering her appearance and running off to study plants at school, leaving London, her friends and family, and the previously-alluring world of music far behind... and starting the long, unpleasant, and lonely task of keeping safe one very deep, dark secret.

Paul Seaforth is at a crossroads. A boy of nineteen, on the eve of going off to college to pursue a teaching degree and leaving an unhappy past behind, he unexpectedly finds himself in custody at the local police station, accused of having a hand in the murder of an elderly man. The only way out of his predicament? To rat on his old chum Daniel, a kid who took Paul under his wing several years earlier, protecting him from neighborhood bullies when they were younger... and eventually leading him into his present life of petty crime.

Although most of the affection Paul once held for Daniel is long gone (especially after the last escapade went so horribly wrong), the fact is that Daniel--and Daniel’s no-good father--scare Paul, and testifying against the volatile, dangerous Daniel seems unlikely to result in anything good for Paul’s own health and well-being (or that of his fragile mother, whom Daniel has threatened to hurt).

The cops offer a solution: Daniel can go into a type of witness protection/community service program for safety. He will immediately cut off all ties with everyone he knows--which is primarily his widowed mum and her new husband, an ex-girlfriend (who wants nothing to do with him, anyway), and obviously Daniel and his father--then take a long bus ride halfway across England to a distant (safe) locale where he will live and work until the court date. Paul isn’t crazy about the plan, but he doesn’t really have much choice.

Paul’s new digs (hehe, double meaning there, as you’ll soon see) are in a tiny, out-of-the-way hamlet, and his new job is a daily bus ride away to an even-more remote location. He’s the newest member of a small group of “troubled youths” getting a “second chance” via participation in a labor-intensive work-study program. In their case, that involves a lot of digging and hauling; they’ll be clearing out a decades-overgrown garden at an ancient estate, then helping to recreate the Tudor garden which once graced its grounds... under the tutelage of none other than esteemed garden designer Louisa Trevelyan.

When Louisa first sets eyes on her newest young recruit, however, all thoughts of her fabulous current project momentarily disappear, as she’s transported back to her own youth and that briefly-magical time in 1989 when she was obsessed with Adam and being a part of his world. The new lad--Paul, she has to keep telling herself--looks so much like Adam that it’s uncanny, and Louisa is nonplussed.

Paul--busy getting to know his fellow junior garden laborers and the past transgressions which landed them there--doesn’t think much one way or the other about Louisa, at first, aside from viewing her as one of his bosses on the site. Before long, though, he notices a few things that make him curious about her, and he gradually stops thinking of her as an “older” woman and sees her, instead, as an interesting one.

From that point, it’s only a tiny step--on a particularly lonely, needy night--to fall into a passionate affair... one which gives each of them yet another secret to keep hidden.

What they find, though, is that secrets--no matter how long held--do not like to remain hidden... and that the real power of a secret is in how cruelly it can be used against oneself.

The Dark Rose is flat-out pure psychological suspense of the first order. Told in one of my absolute favorite styles--a non-linear re-telling which hops back and forth between decades as well as points-of-view--the full story takes its sweet time getting to where it needs to go. By so doing, author Kelly never lets us suspect too much; we know exactly what the characters would have us know--and little else--at any given time.

And such characters she’s given us... painfully easy to identify with, for anyone who has once upon a time been nineteen. The freedom and constraints, warring against each other; craving the respect of adulthood, while in many ways still a callow youth; the all-consuming passions, colliding with reality; desperately clinging to big dreams, only to come to the crushing realization they will never come true... all that and more is here, allowing us to feel empathy for Louisa and Paul... and to understand why the things that happen must happen.

The Dark Rose is a darkly-atmospheric tale, full of secrets, lies, and misunderstandings... and when the end comes, the jaw-dropping climax ties all the pieces together in a perfectly unforgettable way.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Mousies

Luck and Loss: Knowing When to Kiss or Run

2012-03-17T15:06:00.000-04:00

Oh, to be one of those lucky ducks who gets all the “perks”... the to-die-for designer wardrobe (complete with smokin’ hot shoes and the coolest “it” bags)... the spacious high-rise apartment (with a stellar view)... 24/7 access to a stable of the hottest sports cars around... a choice of the finest cuisines and wines to be found... even rubbing elbows with the rich-and-famous on a regular basis. Pretty awesome, right?

Nothing comes without a price, though... something which no one is perhaps more aware of that than professional casino “fixer” Lucky O’Toole, back for equal parts fantastic fabulosity and treacherous troubles in author Deborah Coonts‘ latest, So Damn Lucky. (By the way, if you haven’t read the first two books in the series yet, you can find my reviews for them here and then here.)

~ ♠ ♣ ♥ ♦ ~

Lucky’s typical day can best be summed up as “expect the unexpected”, because just when she thinks she’s seen (and dealt with) it all before in her official capacity as The Babylon hotel’s Head of Customer Relations, something new pops up that leaves her scrambling.

Today is no different. After several hours of busywork and “fixing”, she dons some sparkly cocktail togs and heads down the Strip on a task she’s been dreading. Her destination is a downtrodden hotel newly-acquired by her boss (“The Big Boss”)--not to take over, but to bulldoze so he can start from scratch, erecting a glitzy and über-modern tower of excess in its place--and her mission involves catching the midnight swan-song of the joint’s long-running (if mediocre) showgirls-and-magic act.

But, when the popular magician--who just moments before, received a death threat in Lucky’s presence--suffers a tragic accident in the middle of the farewell act, she and the other patrons get an entirely different show than they were expecting to see. And, when Lucky later arrives at the hospital hoping to get a status report, things get even weirder; the magician isn’t at the hospital... nor is he at any of the other area care centers. He’s simply vanished, and she, naturally (being Lucky), feels responsible.

Searching for the Houdini-wannabe isn’t the only thing on her mind, either. Her former neighbor and best friend Teddie--recently upgraded to the status of boyfriend (and hence, the object of her frequent lusty daydreams)--is currently on tour with a much-younger (as well as ridiculously-popular, talented, and gorgeous) female pop sensation. That’s bad enough, but the real problem is he hasn’t been returning any of Lucky’s calls, and she’s feeling woefully neglected. Then there’s her mother Mona--the tempestuous and needy bordello-owner--who just set up house with The Big Boss (with whom Lucky already had a complicated-enough relationship), putting mother and daughter much too close for Lucky’s sanity. Throw in the hunky cowboy who works out of The Babylon for the gaming commission plus the hotel’s imperious (and possibly too-hot-to-handle) French chef--each of whom has a more-than-strictly-casual interest in her--and it’s no wonder Lucky’s a bit more frazzled than normal.

Of course, none of that takes into account the other things that pop up each day to further occupy her grey matter... like the guests who inexplicably wind up naked as jaybirds on hotel property (and must be removed to their rooms post-haste with some quickly-improvised modesty)... or those requiring her to perform gymnastics and a little engineering magic to effect their rescues from complicated sex-toy contraptions. (Fortunately for all involved, Lucky is nothing if not plucky, and manages to handle such awkward situations with aplomb.)

It’s the perplexing mystery of her lost magician--one which sends Lucky barreling all over Vegas and out to the desert, looking for answers way down deep in Vegas’ underground tunnels, around a secret military installation popular among the UFO crowd, and sky-high in The Babylon’s rafters--though, which keeps us guessing. And, it’s that oh-so-tangled love-life of hers which leaves us hoping... hoping that Lucky makes it out of every dangerous situation in one piece, so her search for that elusive happiness can continue in high style.

~ ♠ ♣ ♥ ♦ ~

Now that the Lucky series is three books in, it feels like a pair of well-worn (and outrageously-expensive, obviously) shoes, nice to slip into after a long day. Lucky is as cool as a cucumber, has a super sense of humor (surely a prerequisite in her job), and is surrounded by interesting people who do interesting--and often, hilariously-kooky--things. Everyone is a “character”, from the main players to the bit parts, and that makes for a lot of fun.

So Damn Lucky is a nifty follow-up to the first two books, an easy-to-read romp that asks nothing more than that you sit back and enjoy the ride. (Don’t worry... you will. :))

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: Plenty of Mousies

Forget the Red Coats... the Zombies are Coming!!

2012-02-19T00:44:00.001-05:00

Sure, you consider yourself a broad-minded person, but let’s be honest... no matter how enlightened you may be, it’s almost impossible to feel warm fuzzies toward zombies. That whole “I-want-to-catch-you-and-eat-your-braaaaain!” thing (not verbalized, of course--it’s awfully hard to talk when your own brain is nothing but mush and your lips have long since rotted away--but made abundantly clear via the grasping hands and gaping mouth holes) pretty much precludes anyone “normal” (and living) forming a close and personal relationship with a member of the walking (and putrifying) dead.

Or so I thought, anyway, until I (woo-hoo!) gleefully stumbled upon Scott Kenemore’s Zombie, Ohio: A Tale of the Undead... and what must be the most unusual take on zombies, ever.

Peter Mellor is a popular college professor at a small university out in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio. (Yes, obviously the little town actually has a name, but the point is, it’s not important.) A handsome and charming (if increasingly-dissolute) fellow, he’s the sort that women of all ages flirt with, while other men simply like him too much to be jealous.

Not that poor Peter is in any condition to boast of his past successes or worry about his current problems, though; when we pick up the story, he’s just coming to after a very nasty collision between himself (in his car) and a sturdy oak tree, with no recollection of anything which has just transpired, let alone who or where he is.

Only after stumbling through the snow to a nearby hamlet--where the few people he runs across recognize him and call him by name--does he learn his identity. And, once his predicament is apparent, they naturally proceed to fill him in on the other particulars of his life... plus a whole lot more.

It seems they’re in the midst of a nationwide zombie apocalypse--yes, Peter, those ghastly creatures straight out of George Romero movies really do exist--and the monsters are just as deadly as advertised. Furthermore, the only ways to avoid a decidedly-unpleasant fate at their decaying hands are, short-term, to outrun them (not too difficult, really, barring decrepitude or some physical handicap which puts a hitch in your giddy-up), or, as a more permanent solution, to completely sever the connection between what’s left of their brains and their bodies (shooting them, then lopping off their heads works nicely).

It’s certainly a grisly task--not to mention horrifying, when facing down a creature he used to know in a considerably more-robust state--but really, what choice does he have? It’s survival of the fittest (the least-squeamish, anyway), kill-or-be-eaten-alive, and every human for himself... until Peter makes an even-more shocking realization. (Like waking up to find the world overrun by so-called “moving cadavers” isn’t the absolute high point on the shock-o-meter?? Well, no, actually, turns out it’s not.)

Peter, you see, wasn’t merely lying unconscious beneath that old oak tree. As the gaping hole which he discovers hidden beneath his winter hat--a hole exposing his own grey matter (erm... yum?)--makes apparent, he is himself a newly card-carrying member (if they carried cards) of the brain-munching horde. The walking dead. One of the moving cadavers. A zombie.

After having recently observed--and killed--a few of them under the quick tutelage of the helpful townsfolk, though, he also realizes that he’s nothing like the rest of his “kind”. Where the other zombies are molasses-slow, awkward, lumbering, incoherent, stupid monsters... he isn’t. He can walk (even run, albeit somewhat less gracefully than in his prime), talk, and pass for a normal human. For alive.

As the reality of his altered existence begins to sink in, Peter grasps two things with utter clarity. First, there is no way he can continue among the living. Small changes are already making themselves apparent; sooner of later, someone would surely catch on to the fact that he was more than just a little “off”. The second thing he realizes is that his accident was no “accident”.

What follows, then, is Peter’s journey into the wilds of Ohio (teehee)... from leaving his old life (including a buddy and a girlfriend) behind and learning how to be a zombie (hey, eating brains for the first time is just another one of those “firsts” to be gotten through... right??), to figuring out how to interact with others of his kind (even becoming zombie royalty)... but always, uncomfortably aware that he belongs to neither world entirely.

And, with each new day bringing another threat to his existence--hungry animals amenable to snacking on some zombie flesh, the random gun-toting homeowner who stayed behind to protect his land, gangs of ex-bikers-cum-zombie-hunters looking for a little fun, and plenty of military intrusions, as they strafe the zombies from above and scatter troops below--Peter finds himself asking with increasing frequency, “Who am I, now... and why on earth am I so different?”.

This book could have gone in so many directions; happily, though, author Kenemore strikes a spot-on perfect balance between humor and horror, murder mystery and sci-fi... even, somehow, pulling off a touching little love story amidst the gore fest. He sucked me in from the get-go, then had me alternating between laughing, wincing, thinking, and feeling for this unfortunate man (a lot of unfortunate souls, actually) for the duration.

Whether you like your zombie stories with extra “Braaaaaaaaaaaains!!” or prefer a more thought-provoking take on what it means to be who/what we are, Zombie, Ohio has something for everyone... and it's left me wanting more.

GlamKitty Catnip Mousie Rating: All the Enthusiastic (Ragged, Played-to-Death-with) Mousies there are!!

[Note: I actually read this book several months ago, just after it was released... then life--work, holidays, and just too-much stuff--intervened, delaying what I wish I could have shared with everyone then. Hopefully, this review does it a fraction of the justice it so deserves.]

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

2012-01-29T22:30:00.002-05:00

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

Maybe you'd hole up alone somewhere, helpless against the inevitable. Perhaps you’d go all hedonistic, trying to cram in every fabulous experience possible before time ran out. Or, you might opt to spend all your waking hours 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.

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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.]