Crime Fiction: Too Many Cooks and Champagne for One by Rex Stout

In 2008 and 2009, Bantam Books reprinted 10 of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin mysteries in rather handsome two-in-one paperback volumes. One of those -- comprising both Too Many Cooks and Champagne for One -- had been sitting on my shelf, unread, for a couple of years. But I finally took it with me on a recent trip.

Like most mystery-fiction fans, I’d read plenty of Nero Wolfe stories in years past, and was ready to become reacquainted. One of the stories in this paperback, Cooks, was originally published in 1938; the other saw print 20 years later.

My first surprise was that these tales stood up well, despite the passage of so much time. Even though I’d probably read them both before (in fact, I’m sure I read Champagne at some other point in the past), I was engrossed.

The next surprise was not so positive: I found it hard to deal with all the careless prejudice that features in Stout’s fiction, and was a significant part of the period during which he lived and wrote (1886-1975). It made me wonder how best to deal with this issue. We went through the same sort of debate a few years back with sanitized versions of Mark Twain works, and that didn’t seem to go so well.

Too Many Cooks is set at a spa in the American South, where some of the greatest chefs in the world have gathered. Wolfe, who is notorious for not wanting to leave his New York brownstone, has been invited as the keynote speaker.

But murder is on the menu when one of the attending chefs is killed. That event forces Wolfe to delve into the unsavory relationships between this gathering’s other guests, for without his investigative intervention, who knows how long the less-brilliant local authorities might take to solve this case? Wolfe doesn’t want to be away from home too long.

Wolfe and his younger, much more energetic chief investigator/secretary, Archie Goodwin, are their inimitable selves in these pages. The rest of the characters are feisty, opinionated and unpredictable. It will probably occur to the reader that some problems could have been resolved more easily, had there only been computers or cell phones at the time; but, in fact, it’s a pleasure to watch some old-school detecting.

In Champagne for One (1958), the set-up is more contrived. A wealthy New York woman sponsors a dinner and dance for a few residents of a home for unwed mothers -- a charity created by her late husband. One of those young residents, who had threatened to commit suicide, does, indeed, die at the event.

It sure looks like suicide. But Archie Goodwin, who had shown up for this occasion as a favor to an acquaintance, thinks it’s murder instead.

Once you get past the setting (a dance for unwed mothers? Really? Even in the 1950s, this would have been bizarre), Champagne offers a classic Wolfe puzzle. The great man is irritated; he doesn’t like his routine to be interrupted. But he finally puts his brain into gear, interviews everyone concerned, and works his way through both deception and blackmail to get to premeditated murder.

Too Many Cooks is the better of the two tales here, but also the one more tainted by ugly language. The racism on display probably comes from a combination of the times, the Southern location and the presence of many African-American characters.

But it’s not just those players who feel the brunt of bigotry; there are derogatory references made here to Italians as well.

As it turned out, I never got used to such insults. Each time I encountered one, it was like hitting a wall. I lost the flow of the story for a moment, had to swallow hard and then resume. But I don’t know any better way of handling this. The story, a classic of whodunit literature, is obviously a product of its era and place. I wouldn’t want someone deciding for me that I couldn’t read this or another work, simply because of its controversial language. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: The Midwife’s Tale by Sam Thomas and Lady of Ashes by Christine Trent

Both of these historical mysteries focus on women with strong professional lives. But one of them works much better than the other.

Reflecting changes in society, mystery writers have expanded their venues from the days when books cast female protagonists as teachers or nurses. Now, it seems, the sky is the limit.

In The Midwife’s Tale, by Sam Thomas (Minotaur), widowed Lady Bridget Hodgson is a midwife in mid-17th-century York, England. Hers is a traditional woman’s occupation, but one that comes with obligations unheard of today. For example, midwives of that period were required by law to forcibly examine any unmarried woman if someone thought she was pregnant. And if the woman didn’t reveal the name of the father, she was subject to whipping. There’s more--and it’s not pretty. It’s clear that midwifery is a tough job, both emotionally and physically.

Bridget’s friend Esther Cooper is accused, and then quickly convicted, of poisoning her husband. However, Bridget is convinced of her innocence. Unfortunately, her attempts to free her friend bring her into conflict with the local political establishment.

Since this tale takes place during an era of civil unrest involving the conflict between the Parliament and the King of England, there is a strong historical subtext that wraps around the main, fictional yarn. We learn something of the political turmoil, but it’s done with a light hand, and it never overpowers the story.

Meanwhile, in Lady of Ashes, by Christine Trent (Kensington), we find Violet Morgan, an undertaker in Victorian-era London. She was trained by her husband in a field where women are unheard of. When she investigates a series of suspicious deaths, there is someone to stymie her at every turn. What’s more, her husband develops serious social ambitions that come between them.

My main problem with Trent’s novel is that you might mistake it for a primer on Victorian funeral practices. There’s a fine line between verisimilitude and a textbook, and Trent crosses it.

Then, late in its progression, the story starts to read like part of a romance novel. That doesn’t help.

The pleasure of a historical novel is that it lets you visit a time and place that is probably unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have to worry that there might be a quiz on the material. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: The Bones and the Book by Jane Isenberg

It’s not unusual for a historical mystery to be set within a contemporary one. But in The Bones and the Book (Oconee Spirit Press), Jane Isenberg puts a twist on this configuration.

There is indeed an inner story and an outer one here. But this time, both stories are set in the past, which demands rather more of the reader.

The inner -- that is, older -- story concerns Aliza Rudinsk, a young Orthodox Jewish immigrant who leaves the Russian Ukraine in 1890, hoping to find greater happiness in America. When her bones mysteriously turn up in Seattle’s underground streets in 1965, Rachel Mazursky, recently widowed and in need of money, agrees to translate Aliza’s Yiddish diary into English. Rachel winds up anchoring the outer, more recent, story.

As far as I can tell, the main reason for setting Rachel’s story in 1965 is that some people involved in Aliza’s life may be still be alive themselves. That’s necessary for the plot, but not so satisfying for the reader.

Aliza’s life turns out to have been full of toil and trouble -- not surprising, considering the era in which she lived and her particular circumstances. She finds that it’s hard to earn a decent wage during the Gilded Age, even for a talented seamstress like her. It’s hard to find a good man. And it’s hard to make your way in a new country when you are alone and miss your family.

In contrast, Rachel’s existence is much easier, though she has often felt marginalized as an Orthodox Jew in a city where anti-Semitism was once common. Her discoveries about her late husband leave her questioning a lot of what she thought she believed, and difficulties grow between her and her college-age daughter.

The parallel story of Aliza, who evolves into “Fanny,” is by far the more interesting, fleshing out the immigrant experience in a visceral way. Even though we know that she’ll end up dead in the darkness below the streets of Seattle, we root for her as she crosses the United States to try and improve her situation.

Rachel’s story is more ordinary. The arrival in town of an old friend precipitates a crisis; unfortunately, the reader sees it coming long before Rachel does.

But author Isenberg is also exploring a bigger issue here, that of assimilation. As each immigrant group finds its way into the cultural mainstream, the question remains: how long does it take and how much of what makes it unique gets lost in the process?

We are reminded that in every group there are outsiders. Sometimes the cruelest blows come from members of one’s own group who are well along in the assimilation process and no longer want the bother and embarrassment of coping with uneducated newbies with dirty nails.

We do learn at the end of The Bones and the Book just how Aliza/Fanny was killed, but the answer is contrived and less interesting than the journey we took to get there. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Way Too Much of a Good Thing

When I started reviewing books in the mid-1990s, I made no distinction between hardbound and paperback crime/mystery novels.

In fact, I found the general critical consensus on ignoring paperbacks to be elitist and rather offensive. Before I was a critic, I was a reader and, like most fans, I bought paperbacks. Most of the hardbacks I read were ones I took out of the library.

So it made sense, if I was going to do anything of use to readers, to write about the books they might actually buy.

Over time, I found myself gravitating more toward hardcover works, perhaps because many books of interest are first released in that format. My choices of what to review, though, are still determined by subject matter rather than format.

Nonetheless, I find my latest deluge of paperbacks rather problematic.

Here are some quotes from their back covers, the place so many readers go for plot information before they make a purchase:

• “As Garden View Cemetery’s new community relations manager, Pepper is feeling overwhelmed with planning the annual party to attract new sponsors. Luckily, some of the cemetery’s permanent residents have volunteered to give Pepper a helping hand.”

• “Darcy Merriweather is Salem, Massachusetts’ newest resident Wishcrafter -- a witch who can grant wishes for others.”

• “Sarah Dearly is adjusting to life as a fledging vampire, satisfying her cravings at vampire-friendly blood banks.”

• “Practical psychologist Liz Cooper and occult professor Nick Garfield may make something of an odd couple, but things get even more odd when they attempt to solve a mystery while sidetracking a hex from a Santeria witch.”

• “Before Kath can begin to clear [her late grandmother’s] name, she encounters a looming presence in the form of a gloomy ghost.”

• “Meanwhile, Skye is convinced that her house is haunted and is afraid that her fiancé, police chief Wally Boyd, won’t move in until the ghost moves out.”

Do you see a pattern here?

These days it seems a traditional plucky heroine must dabble, to a greater or lesser degree, in the occult.

I understand that paranormal is in these days. I find myself hoping that, as with other fads, if I sit back quietly and bide my time, its day will pass.

I have no problem with the plucky amateur heroine subgenre per se: A young woman is thrust into circumstances beyond her control, and she must solve a murder. These books have sometimes offered a welcome change from the crusty old private-eye stories, in which the protagonist kept a bottle, or three, in his desk, and women were secretaries and/or sex objects.

Of course, even this subgenre has its clichés. Many of the P.I.s of yore were old, but at least as many of the plucky heroines are young.

There are other conventions in these stories as well. Even if they don’t include ghosts, vampires or whatnot, they often require the plucky heroine to move to a smaller town or city, perhaps her hometown of Nowheresville, or sometimes to the hometown of a relative, often an aunt, whose business needs help.

And an awful lot of those businesses are food-related. These women are caterers, bakers, restaurant owners or food critics. Now, I’m as hungry as the next person, but I’d sure like to see some of these women get out of the kitchen. Maybe the next plucky amateur’s aunt could have a hardware store or something ...

The other cliché set-up for so many paperback mysteries these days involves what I would call pets, though some authors see them simply as detectives under veterinary care. For example, one of my new arrivals described its plot this way: “My two cats, Rupert and Isabella, and I have better things to do than tail a reptile from Nob Hill to Fisherman’s Wharf.”

And really, I have better things to do than read about anthropomorphized animals.

Crime Fiction: Skeleton Picnic by Michael Norman

Pot hunting, the age-old business of digging up Native American pottery to collect or sell, is at the center of Skeleton Picnic (Poisoned Pen Press), the second book in Michael Norman’s series featuring J.D. Books, a law-enforcement ranger with the U.S. Bureau of Land Management (BLM) working in the Southwest.

Books, whose life has left him with some pain and sadness, is a character worth getting to know, a man trying to do a tough job in an area where the federal government is frequently reviled.

His current case involves the odd disappearance of well-liked Utah residents Rolly and Abigail Rogers, who do a lot of pot hunting. The Rogerses’ house has also been ransacked, suggesting a serious criminal plan.

Without sounding didactic, Norman explains a good deal in these pages about pot hunting, introducing a quasi-official group of Native Americans with their own ax to grind. The subject is very controversial in that region of the United States, as many residents feel entitled to dig up pots because their grandparents did the same.

As Books investigates, more people are drawn into the story, from the young deputy the local sheriff assigns to this investigation to the local attorney (who’s also Books’ girlfriend) and Books’ own cash-strapped brother-in-law. Adding to the plot complications, Books’ father, from whom he was once estranged, has become seriously ill. So there’s no shortage of emotional strife here in addition to the slowly revealed details of Norman’s tale. It means we get a puzzle to unravel as well as a portrait of complex human relationships, both intriguing.

BLM agents are not thick on the ground in mystery fiction, so it’s interesting for readers to learn about another area of law enforcement.

I have a problem, though, with this novel’s editing. I hesitate to bring it up, because Phoenix-based Poisoned Pen Press usually does a good job. But really, if you are going to feature a family named Rogers, somebody -- the writer? the copy editor? -- ought to understand that the plural is Rogerses, and that the plural possessive is Rogerses’. It’s not just names ending in “s” that are a problem here, either. We’re offered a sentence such as “The Gentrys appeared to be living high and well,” which is fine. But then we get “no sign of the Gentry’s black Cadillac,” which most definitely isn’t.

These sorts of avoidable errors can easily distract readers from the pleasures to be had from otherwise thoughtful books. It’s like going to a nice restaurant, only to note that your server has dirty fingernails. After that, it will be hard to enjoy your dinner quite as much. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: The Gilded Shroud and The Deadly Portent by Elizabeth Bailey

Elizabeth Bailey’s The Gilded Shroud (Berkley), published last fall, was billed as the first book in a new series. But it isn’t the sort of book I usually look for. From the blurb on the back cover, it sounded like romantic suspense -- a genre not at the top of my “must-read” list.

Still, I like English historicals, and this one is set during the Regency Period (1811-1820).

I picked the novel up in the middle of a long, hard week, when all I could think about was how badly I needed a vacation.

Shroud turned out to be the equivalent of a well-run hotel -- a place you’ve been to before, perhaps, but where the rooms are clean and comfortable, the food properly cooked and the management is ever-present but discreet. Maybe it’s not an exciting new destination, but it’s a welcome respite all the same.

Bailey’s story opens with the gruesome death of Emily, the wife of the Marquis of Polbrook. Regrettably, the marquis himself is nowhere to be found, leaving his brother Francis (aka “Fan”) to pick up the pieces. A family heirloom is also missing.

Their formidable mother is on the scene with her temporary companion, Otilla “Tillie” Draycott. A young widow who lost her husband fighting in the former American colonies, Tillie is the focus here. She’s smart, observant, outspoken and not involved in Polbrook family dynamics -- in short, the perfect investigator.

There’s an immediate attraction between Tillie and Fan, so we all know where that’s going.

Nevertheless, the book is well-plotted and quite engaging, filled with, but not overwhelmed by, interesting period details.

The characters are well-drawn and distinct, including the many servants. I was particularly fond of the crusty dowager marchioness; I’ve a soft spot for these tough old birds who don’t cave under pressure. My one tiny complaint is that it is possible to get a wee bit tired of Tillie’s charming “gurgle,” even if it is also a “giggle.”

I probably should have left well enough alone, but I had no sooner finished reading Shroud than its 2012 sequel, The Deathly Portent (Berkley), turned up.

In this second story, Fan and Tillie have a coach accident that interrupts their journey. They find a room -- and a mystery -- at a nearby village, Witherley. The village is all agog over the death of its blacksmith and terrified with the belief that young Cassie Dale, who is apparently gifted with “second sight,” is really a witch who caused the death.

Witherley’s new preacher, Aidan Kinnerton, comes to Cassie’s defense. And so does Tillie. Plus, true to form, there’s Lady Ferrensby, the outspoken old woman who serves as the village patron.

Regrettably, the villagers speak in a peculiar dialect that gets old after a few chapters. A little less verisimilitude would have been welcome.

And there’s only so much of this sort of writing I can take: “Francis was struck anew with the fervent admiration that had been his early reaction to the extraordinary woman of whom he now had possession.”

Still, this is a pretty good mystery. It is well written, the characters are lively and the details unfold at a manageable pace.

Yet I wasn’t very happy. I found myself thinking not of Witherley, but of Pemberley, and another bright and outspoken young woman who attracts a titled husband. And Elizabeth Bennett doesn’t “gurgle.”

Maybe this is a hotel I want to visit only once a year. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: A Play of Heresy by Margaret Frazer

Nobody does the Middle Ages better than the pseudonymous Margaret Frazer. Her 15th-century mystery series featuring Dame Frevisse (which began with 1992’s The Novice’s Tale) is an enchanting modern re-creation of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

Her second, spin-off series, which focuses on Joliffe the Player, offers different challenges. The latest of those books, A Play of Heresy (Berkley), presents a compelling puzzle set against a fascinating background.

The Frevisse series was constrained by the fact that a nun is mostly stationary; she doesn’t get to travel much, and plots depend on people coming to her. (There are, in fact, a couple of Frevisse stories that have her, reluctantly, out of the convent and visiting somewhere else.) But Joliffe, as an actor, is required to be on the road, as was normal for companies of players in 1438. This gives him access to a lot of places and all kinds of interesting situations.

In A Play of Heresy, we find Joliffe at the festival of Corpus Christi Day, and practically everyone in the West Midlands town of Coventry is involved in presenting a passion play. Joliffe is not only part of one such production, but he is trying to figure out who among the players and supporters is more--or less--than he seems.

The plot of Heresy revolves around the death of a merchant who doubled in political intrigue. The subsequent, particularly cruel murder of the chief suspect confuses the issue a good deal. Joliffe’s company is unfortunately implicated in the crimes.

I admire Frazer for her ability to write about history without ever lecturing. In this book, for instance, we learn a little about the Lollards--at least enough to understand why the Catholic Church found them threatening and why Joliffe finds them a complication--but in an accessible sort of way. In addition to acting, Joliffe does a little discreet spying in this tale for a well-connected English bishop, and the first victim, although unknown to him, was part of the same secret group.

There are a number of plot threads here, all intriguing in their own right: the goings-on within Joliffe’s regular troupe; the creation of a remarkable dramatic production by an experienced director, whose mostly amateur cast is endowed with wildly divergent skills; the amorous pursuit of a young widow by two men; and Joliffe’s relationship with the secretive and obsessive Sebastian, who’s also part of the spy network.

One of Frazer’s talents is making even her minor characters distinct and well-rounded. There are no cardboard stereotypes here! These people live and breathe and stride right off the page, which makes them remarkably appealing despite the hundreds of years between their world and ours. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: Following Polly by Karen Bergreen

I know it sounds odd to call a book about a stalker “charming,” but that remains the best word to describe Following Polly (St. Martin’s Griffin), the debut mystery by lawyer-turned-comedian Karen Bergreen.

Usually stories about stalkers are too creepy for me, not the sort of thing I want on my bedside table. But this tale of Alice Teakle, a shy and rather forgettable woman who loses her dead-end job in a Manhattan booking agency, is a different kettle of fish.

Alice has never found her passion. Or, rather, she has never figured out how to achieve it.

Ever since they were both Harvard students, Alice has resented the beautiful, popular and selfish Polly Dawson. Now, after bumping into Polly again, and quite on a whim, Alice decides to follow her former classmate around New York City, hoping to perhaps get a clue about what to do with her own life.

She soon learns, though, that despite the appurtenances of success, Polly is far from being a useful role model. Indeed, not only has Polly offended people right and left, but there is plenty of evidence that she leads a double life. These discoveries do not help Alice find direction; however, they do have a fascination all their own, both for Alice and for Bergreen’s readers.

But then Polly is killed. Alice is the first person to happen upon her corpse, and immediately becomes suspect No. 1. In the aftermath it is up to Alice -- who’s unable to go home, because the police are looking for her -- to use her limited resources to clear her own name and get her life back in some semblance of order.

Not that her life holds much richness or meaning. Or even personal associations. There are basically three main characters in Alice’s life ... well, two people and an obsession:

• Alice’s mother loves her, but her attention has been monopolized by her husband.

• Her best friend is a lawyer who likes to drink, and has a penchant for bad relationships.

• Then there’s her longtime, and unspoken, adoration for another former classmate, who is now a lawyer trying to clear his father’s name in an unrelated case.

Following Polly’s cast is not large, but its players are believable and well-constructed. Bergreen displays a nice touch in weaving the different plot strands together.

And while there is a whodunit to solve in these pages, the more interesting subtext is watching this rather wimpy woman, Alice -- normally part of the background of other people’s lives -- figure out not only how to survive, but to thrive. Maybe the resolution of the mystery is a little too tidy, but it’s so nice to see a semi-loser character like Alice re-create herself that I’m inclined to be forgiving. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: Wicked Autumn by G.M. Malliet

Although I’m often intrigued by new and unusual settings for murder, I remain a devotee of the English village mystery. It offers a delightful combination of the mildly exotic (different foods, different slang, different politics) and the familiar (people in small groups getting along, or not, with each other).

What author G.M. Malliet, who was educated in England but lives in Virginia, has done in Wicked Autumn (Minotaur) is produce an authentic village mystery that also pokes fun at the conventions. And she does it without mockery, which is an achievement.

This story focuses on Max Tudor (great name!), a former MI5 agent turned Anglican priest, who must cope with violence in the quiet village of Nether Monkslip in the south of England. (The name Nether Monkslip practically screams small English village. It’s no surprise to learn that residents there must go to the larger Monkslip-super-Mare to handle some business.)

Max is perhaps a somewhat unlikely vicar, yet Malliet makes his protagonist’s choice of joining the Church seem appropriate, given that he’s endured a violent past that continues to haunt him. The good-looking but celibate Max is an important part of the local community. He is involved in the village, and yet a little bit apart. It has taken him a long time to feel at home, and truly welcomed, in Nether Monkslip -- at least as far as he is willing to reveal himself.

In Wicked Autumn, the murder of an insufferable woman, who was rather a tyrant in village affairs, tears apart the fabric of the small community, and Max, who has finally found some peace, struggles to re-establish it. There’s an assortment of characters who are not quite the ones typically found in an English hamlet, but close enough, in an updated sort of way. There’s the browbeaten widower, known as the Major; the owner of the antique store; a sympathetic woman who runs a New Age business; the village doctor and his sexy sister; a restaurateur with a Continental background; and a woman who spins her own yarn before knitting it into expensive garments.

There’s also the village itself; there’s a lovely interactive map of Nether Monkslip on the author’s Web site, for example, that makes me want to move across the Pond.

Malliet deftly juggles all of her characters, making Nether Monkslip both real and a fantasyland. The murder plot here is quite devious and the motive quite evil, which grounds the story. The quintessential English village mysteries featuring the redoubtable Miss Jane Marple also dealt with the existence of genuine evil, and the need to be vigilant against it.

The author provides a story that works on several levels, including the pleasure of a visit to a traditional English village. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: Hotel No Tell by Daphne Uviller

Daphne Uviller introduced Zephyr Zuckerman to readers in 2009’s excellent Super in the City, which found that feisty young woman becoming the superintendent of her parents’ Greenwich Village apartment building. In the course of that story, she coped with mechanical problems, crime and the arrival of a new boyfriend.

It’s great to have Zephyr back in Hotel No Tell (Bantam); we can always use another good mystery laced with smart-ass New York humor.

Now Zephyr, struggling at 31 with the demands of adulthood, is completing her probationary period as a detective with the city’s Special Investigations Commission. Not quite a cop, Zephyr goes undercover as a concierge at a hotel, looking for a missing $100,000.

The hotel is full of characters; one of Uviller’s strengths is her ability to create distinct oddball types who remain believable. For example, the desk clerk devotes his time to trying to score free products from manufacturers. One of the guests is an elderly Yiddish-speaking Japanese woman with a lot of attitude. Zephyr has a close friend who runs a wedding-planning service, but believes some of her brides die because she is cursed. And so on.

Zephyr eventually finds a link from the hotel to a human egg donation service, which assists women with in vitro fertilization. But that only seems to make things murkier. And since her cop boyfriend has moved out (because she refuses to consider having children), and her closest friends are struggling with the demands of marriage and parenthood and careers, hanging around the fertility service stirs up personal as well as professional concerns for our heroine.

Nothing in Zephyr Zuckerman’s life is easy. And since she is not a passive character, she is sometimes caught between a rock and a hard place. That’s part of the fun here. Wherever she turns, she finds angst and complications.

We eventually find out about the missing 100 grand, but it’s only one thread in an engaging fabric. New York City itself is a character in this story, and it is large, untidy, throbbing with energy and big enough to accommodate all sorts of people. Author Uviller has captured some of that … more power to her. ◊

Roberta Alexander is an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as a member of the National Book Critics Circle.

Crime Fiction: Heads You Lose by Lisa Lutz and David Hayward

(Editor’s note: Today we welcome to January Magazine a new book critic: Roberta Alexander, an editor and mystery reviewer in the San Francisco Bay Area. A former fan of Nancy Drew, Alexander is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and can be reached through her Web site.)

Lisa Lutz broke a lot of rules in her delightful series about the engaging and dysfunctional Spellman family, which ran a detective agency in San Francisco. The stories focused on daughter Izzy’s attempt to create a life for herself under less-than-ideal conditions, while also solving various little mysteries and cases.

Not least of the books’ pleasures was that they allowed readers to comfort themselves with the knowledge that at least their families, however annoying, didn’t spy on each other the way the Spellmans did.

Lutz’s new book, Heads You Lose (Putnam), pushes the envelope in a less successful way.

The story focuses on an orphaned brother and sister, Paul and Lacey Hansen, who run a pot farm in Northern California, and who find a headless body on their property. They think they know who it is. But that man turns out to be still alive.

In fact the story here is soon forgotten, for the twist in this novel is that Lutz invited her former boyfriend, David Hayward, to write alternating chapters. So we get to watch as Lutz sets up a situation, and then Hayward selects a thread from her narrative and spins it out in a different direction. Are these red herrings or important clues? And do the authors care, or are they using this brother and sister, who have frequent disagreements and conflicting desires, as stand-ins for themselves?

Since the co-authors included their comments to one other at each chapter’s end, we get both the story and the back-story. These liner notes are far more interesting than the plot, so after a few chapters it’s hard to remember, or care about, the Hansens and their unidentified corpse.

On the other hand, readers are offered a fascinating backstage view of the writing process as they trace the different approaches of the collaborating authors, their attempts to make the wildly divergent parts of their tale coalesce and their occasional sniping at what seems like unfinished personal business. At one point, for instance, an argument between Lutz and Hayward about how much history they need to give their assorted characters morphs into a disagreement about a trip they once took together.

Whether that’s enough to make up for a meandering fictional yarn is a subject for debate. I would vote for a good story first.

But Lutz is a talented writer, and I look forward to seeing what she tries next.