Following a four-page Raymond Chandler chronology, a dictionary-style guide to his life and work includes exhaustive plot summaries (e.g., six-and-a-half double-columned pages on The Big Sleep), identifications of major and minor characters, family and professional associations (e.g., Cissy Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Alfred A. Knopf, Billy Wilder, Alfred Hitchcock, Joseph T. Shaw, Robert B. Parker), and such topics as Alcoholism, Cannibalized Stories, PhD Dissertations, and Women Mystery Writers. This very useful source is spiced by the sort of quirky opinions common to single- author reference books. (Is it really fair to say that John F. Kennedy was "hardly ethical in recommending [Ian Fleming's] From Russia With Love"?) One monumental factual howler, the claim that Hammett "wrote the movie script of City Lights, a Charlie Chaplin masterpiece (1931)," should not detract from an otherwise estimable reference.

Though some of her plays are undeniably criminous (The Little Foxes and Watch on the Rhine are covered in Amnon Kabatchnik's Blood on the Stage), Lillian Hellman's greatest interest to mystery scholars is her long association with Dashiell Hammett. This highly readable, well-documented, and balanced biography recognizes both Hammett's seminal contribution to her writing career and her own importance in managing his literary affairs in the latter part of his life and after his death. The author defends Hellman against charges of being an incorrigible liar, particularly as reflected in the memoirs she wrote late in life, stating that she was almost obsessively concerned with truth and that her factual misstatements can be attributed to the acknowledged use of fictional techniques in her memoirs and an admittedly bad memory for dates and details.

The setting for Hearse and Buggy is Heavenly, Pennsylvania, a tradition-bound Amish town that deviates from its name in this fascinating book. Author Laura Bradford has done her research, bringing the Amish culture and mores alive for her readers. Her series debut showcases Claire Weatherly, a recent refugee from a barren marriage to a Wall Street executive who scarcely acknowledged her existence. When her aunt invites her to move to her bed-and-breakfast in Heavenly, she jumps at the opportunity to begin her life anew by embracing simplicity. Of course, even simplicity isn't as simple as it sounds, and her new life as owner of an Amish specialty crafts shop is more complicated than she expects, as murder intrudes upon the previously peaceful town.

Bradford skillfully portrays the cultural dissonance between the Amish and "the English" (the Amish term for outsiders) as suspicion runs rampant. To complicate matters, a handsome new police officer, Detective Jakob Fisher, has just joined the force after spending many years in the NYPD. Fisher is a native of Heavenly but renounced his Amish heritage in order to become a New York cop. As a consequence, even his family shuns him. Fortunately, though, he and Claire form an alliance and manage to find the truth. Hearse and Buggy is a powerful beginning to a promising new series, and I hope that Laura Bradford becomes a prolific writer posthaste.

A Sinister Sense is Allison Kingsley's second Raven's Nest Bookstore Mystery. Recovering from heartbreak, series star Clara Quinn is starting over, having taken up temporary residence in her widowed mother's home in Finn's Harbor, Maine. She assists her cousin, Stephanie, as a clerk in her cousin's bookstore. What is most memorable about Clara and select members of her clan is that she possesses the "Quinn Sense," a sort of intermittent psychic power. And she certainly has occasion to employ her powers as she encounters a disproportionate number of murders.

In this engaging book, Rick Sanders, Clara's burgeoning love interest, is, preposterously, implicated in a murder, and the police chief and mayor are happy to wrap up the case and look no further. Clara, then, must conduct her own investigation in order to free the innocent Rick. She and her lifelong accomplice, Stephanie, concoct a singularly ingenious scheme to trick the true perpetrator into incriminating himself. With the additional assistance of Rick's ungainly dog, Tatters, they succeed, much to the chagrin of the police chief. A Sinister Sense is hilarious, and it nicely evokes the nuances of family closeness and complicity.

In Pulse, from Edgar and Shamus winner John Lutz, private investigator Frank Quinn makes his seventh appearance, investigating killings which suggest the return of cross-dressing serial killer Daniel Danielle. Lutz makes it personal for Quinn, as the killer's victims all bear an uncanny resemblance to the PI's paramour and colleague, Pearl.

Lutz has an unsettling ability to draw readers into the story, as he details the actions of the murderer and his victims prior to, and, especially upsetting, during, his heinous crimes. Readers become deeply involved in the grim tale, but can only watch helplessly as the killer cuts a bloody swath through New York City.

A major aspect in any work by Irish playwright, screenwriter and director Martin McDonagh is great gobs of pitch black humor.

Comedy so dark and yet so rich that it is nearly impossible to stop a laugh, a giggle, a guffaw from escaping.

Wit like a bar of chocolate that is 98% cacao, which means it is indeed an acquired taste but one that can be savored.

I use that allusion to chocolate for a reason because no matter how horrible the events in one of McDonagh’s works become—and they can get pretty dreadful—there also is a bit of sweetness somewhere to temper all that dreadfulness.

Sometimes you have to look closely for that sweetness, but it’s there, from the dysfunctional mother and daughter in his brilliant play The Beauty Queen of Leenane to the torturous—and torturing—soldier mourning the death of his best friend, who happens to be a cat, in the equally brilliant play The Lieutenant of Inishmore. At the heart of his fascinating and bleak play The Pillowman is a heartfelt relationship between two brothers.

In his second feature film as a screenwriter and director, McDonagh allows that bit of sweetness to seep into Seven Psychopaths courtesy of Bonny, the beautiful little shih tzu who is adored in the most profanity-riddled terms of endearment that owner Charlie Costello (Woody Harrelson) can muster.

Bonny is the only love of Charlie’s life and the little guy’s kidnapping pushes Charlie to brink of uncontrollable revenge and violence. Not that Charlie, clearly the main psychopath in all this, was all that clear-headed to begin with.

Before I go any further, I must say that while there is a lot of violence and blood in Seven Psychopaths, Bonny—who acts as the film’s moral center—is never harmed. If he were, I don’t know how I could have explained that to our little Houdini, the black and white fluff ball of love at left. Bonny is the tan and white dog.

Bonny is the latest target of a rag-tag gang of dognappers that include Billy (Sam Rockwell) and Hans (Christopher Walken). The pair kidnaps dogs and then returns them for the reward money. That’s all well and good until they take the wrong dog, the beloved Bonny. Somehow the hard-drinking screenwriter Marty (Colin Farrell) is drawn into the scheme.

The movie is called Seven Psychopaths for a reason and there are indeed seven. Some are real; others are figments of Marty’s imagination and part of the screenplay he can’t quite get off the second line of his legal pad.

A Buddhist psychopath who then becomes an Amish psychopath and finally a Quaker psychopath is a running gag throughout the movie.

McDonagh seems to be having a lot of fun with his many allusions to genre standbys of action films and crime dramas. His deranged wit mixes the sensibilities of Guy Ritchie and Quentin Tarantino with his own approach.

Those who appreciate Pulp Fiction, 2 Days in the Valley and Dexter may find much to like in Seven Psychopaths. A movie with the name Psychopath in its title and starring Walken and Harrelson almost seems redundant and both actors make the most of their roles. Harrelson—who is psychopath No. 3—is clearly the worst of the lot and his performance often borders on the clichéd, but that seems to be the point. Walken almost tamps down his usual crazy persona as he plays a loving husband whose wife is dying of cancer.

Grungy handsome Farrell again shows that he’s not just a pretty face but an insightful actor who can toss off witty one liners as well as show that there is a writer hiding behind Marty’s alcoholic haze.

I am beginning to think that Rockwell never plays a normal character, but that is fine. His out of control Billy, who has a lot of secrets, is one of his best psychopaths. And the bunny-cradling Tom Waits, as another psychopath, is searching the world for his true love who dumped him, breaking his heart but leaving him surrounded by rabbits.

Seven Psychopaths is not all dark humor. It also is a violent, bloody movie. Still, only one death—and, no, it is not an animal—is gratuitous and chilling and seems so unnecessary. At the same time, this scene reinforces that Seven Psychopaths is about some very dangerous people from whom no one is safe.

But Seven Psychopaths also is about the unconditional love of little Bonny...well, that, and McDonagh’s dark humor.

Seven Psychopaths rated R for strong violence, bloody images, pervasive language, sexuality, nudity and some drug use.. Running time: 110 minutes.

Photos: Top: Woody Harrelson and Christopher Walken in Seven Psychopaths; second photo: Colin Farrell, Christopher Walken, and Sam Rockwell; third photo: Bonny; fourth photo: Houdini Cogdill-Hirschman. Photos of Seven Psychopaths courtsey CBS Films.

In a neat bit of literary detection in The Baker Street Journal, Charles Press has identified the author of the earliest known Sherlockian parody as J.M. Barrie, best known today as the creator of Peter Pan, and a close friend of Arthur Conan Doyle. Herewith, the piece which first appeared in The Speaker, November 28, 1891, four years after Holmes first appearance in print and just four months after “A Scandal in Bohemia,” appeared in The Strand.

Detail of the poster for the play Sherlock Holmes starring William Gillette, 1899.

I am the sort of man whose amusement it is to do everything better than any other body. Hence my evening with Mr. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes is the private detective whose adventures Mr. Conan Doyle is now editing in the Strand Magazine. To my annoyance (for I hate to hear anyone praised except myself) Holmes’s cleverness in, for instance, knowing by glancing at you what you had for dinner last Thursday, has delighted press and public, and so I felt that it was time to take him down a peg. I therefore introduced myself to Mr. Conan Doyle and persuaded him to ask me to his house to meet Sherlock Holmes. For poor Mr. Holmes it proved an eventful evening. I had determined to overthrow him with his own weapons, and accordingly when he began, with well-affected carelessness, “I perceive, Mr. Anon, from the condition of your cigar-cutter, that you are not fond of music,” I replied blandly—“Yes, that is obvious.”

Mr. Holmes, who had been in his favourite attitude in an easy chair (curled up in it), started violently and looked with indignation at our host, who was also much put out.

“How on earth can you tell from looking at his cigar-cutter that Mr. Anon is not fond of music?” asked Mr. Conan Doyle with well-simulated astonishment.

“It is very simple,” said Mr. Holmes, still eyeing me sharply.

“The easiest thing in the world,” I agreed.

“Then I need not explain?” said Mr. Holmes haughtily.

“Quite unnecessary,” said I.

I filled my pipe afresh to give the detective and his biographer an opportunity of exchanging glances unobserved, and then pointing to Mr. Holmes’s silk hat (which stood on the table) I said blandly, “So you have been in the country recently, Mr. Holmes?”

He bit his cigar, so that the lighted end was jerked against his brow.

“You saw me there?” he replied almost fiercely.

“No,” I said, “but a glance at your hat told me that you had been out of town.”

“Ha!” said he triumphantly, “then yours was but a guess, for as a matter of fact I—”

“Did not have that hat in the country with you,” I interposed.

“Quite true,” he said smiling.

“But how—” began Mr. Conan Doyle.

“Pooh,” said I coolly, “this may seem remarkable to you two who are not accustomed to drawing deductions from circumstances trivial in themselves (Holmes winced), but it is nothing to one who keeps his eyes open. Now as soon as I saw that Mr. Holmes’s hat was dented in the front, as if it had received a sharp blow, I knew that he had been in the country lately.”

“For a long or a short time?” Holmes snarled. (His cool manner had quite deserted him.)

“For at least a week,” I said.

“True,” he replied dejectedly.

“Your hat also tells me,” I continued, “that you came to this house in a four-wheeler—no, in a hansom.”

“——” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Would you mind explaining?” asked our host.

“Not at all,” I said. “When I saw the dent in Mr. Holmes’s hat, I knew at once that it had come unexpectedly against some hard object. What object? Probably the roof of a conveyance, which he struck against when stepping in. Those accidents often happen at such a time to hats. Then though this conveyance might have been a four-wheeler, it was more probable that Mr. Holmes would travel in a hansom.”

“How did you know I had been in the country?”

“I am coming to that. Your practice is, of course, to wear a silk hat always in London, but those who are in the habit of doing so acquire, without knowing it, a habit of guarding their hats. I, therefore, saw that you had recently been wearing a pot-hat and had forgotten to allow for the extra height of the silk hat. But you are not the sort of man who would wear a little hat in London. Obviously, then, you had been in the country, where pot-hats are the rule rather than the exception.”

Mr. Holmes, who was evidently losing ground every moment with our host, tried to change the subject.

“I was lunching in an Italian restaurant today,” he said, addressing Mr. Conan Doyle, “and the waiter’s manner of adding up my bill convinced me that his father had once—”

“Speaking of that,” I interposed, “do you remember that as you were leaving the restaurant you and another person nearly had a quarrel at the door?”

“Was it you?” he asked.

“If you think that possible,” I said blandly, “you have a poor memory for faces.”

He growled to himself.

“It was this way, Mr. Doyle,” I said. “The door of this restaurant is in two halves, the one of which is marked ‘Push’ and the other ‘Pull.’ Now Mr. Holmes and the stranger were on different sides of the door, and both pulled. As a consequence the door would not open, until one of them gave way. Then they glared at each other and parted.”

“You must have been a spectator,” said our host.

“No,” I replied, “but I knew this as soon as I heard that Mr. Holmes had been lunching in one of those small restaurants. They all have double doors, which are marked ‘Push’ and ‘Pull’ respectively. Now, nineteen times in twenty, mankind pushes when it ought to pull, and pulls when it should push. Again, when you are leaving a restaurant there is usually some one entering it. Hence the scene at the door. And, in conclusion, the very fact of having made such a silly mistake rouses ill-temper, which we vent on the other man, to imply that the fault was all his.”

“Hum!” said Holmes savagely. “Mr. Doyle, the leaf of this cigar is unwinding.”

“Try anoth—” our host was beginning, when I interposed with—

“I observe from your remark, Mr. Holmes, that you came straight here from a hairdresser’s.”

This time he gaped.

“You let him wax your moustache,” I continued (for of late Mr. Holmes has been growing a moustache).

“He did it before I knew what he was about,” Mr. Holmes replied.

“Exactly,” I said, “and in your hansom you tried to undo his handiwork with your fingers.”

“To which,” our host said with sudden enlightenment, “some of the wax stuck, and is now tearing the leaf of the cigar!”

“Precisely,” I said. “I knew that he had come from a hairdresser’s the moment I shook hands with him.”

“Good-night,” said Mr. Holmes, seizing his hat. (He is not so tall as I thought him at first.) “Goodnight, I have an appointment at ten with a banker who—”

“So I have been observing,” I said. “I knew it from the way you—”

But he was gone.

Look for “The Authorship of the Earliest Known Sherlockian Parody,” by Charles Press in The Baker Street Journal, Winter 2011. It’s an interesting article in an always enjoyable publication.

This article first appeared in Mystery Scene Winter Issue #123.