Article With Intro

Farm Fresh Murder: a Farmers’ Market Mystery

Lynne F. Maxwell

Check out Paige Shelton’s maiden novel, Farm Fresh Murder: A Farmers’ Market Mystery (Berkley, $7.99). This clever new mystery stars Becca Robins, a South Carolina farmer who specializes in concocting superb jams that she markets from her stall in the Baileys Farmers’ Market managed by her sister. Becca’s life proceeds uneventfully until a fellow vendor is murdered, and Becca’s friend, Abner, is framed for the crime. Impelled by natural curiosity and the desire to exonerate Abner, Becca embarks upon a perilous investigation that, fortunately, concludes safely and successfully.

Shelton portrays Becca as a savvy, smart sleuth who at times misses the mark in her pursuit of justice. The plot complexities and red herrings certainly contribute to Becca’s—and the reader’s—false assumptions, all of which renders the book’s conclusion all the more satisfying. Hopefully, Shelton will return soon with more free range murder. Certainly, I will never again venture into my local farmers’ market with the same complacent insouciance, not even to purchase jam!

The Cat, the Professor and the Poison

Lynne F. Maxwell

Leann Sweeney’s The Cat, The Professor and The Poison is second in her Cats in Trouble series. As an inveterate cat-lover, I particularly appreciate Sweeney’s well-constructed cat mysteries. Sometime sleuth Jillian Hart is, by profession, a quilt-maker who frequently donates her handiwork to shelters and friends to comfort traumatized cats. Not surprisingly, Jillian is a cat aficionado, as well, and lives with three remarkable felines of her own. Alas, Jillian is often drawn away from her work in order to rescue hapless cats, and this book demonstrates her innate kindness and concern for needy animals.

Initially, Jillian is puzzled when a neighbor’s cow mysteriously disappears, and the culprit, a mad professor sort, is cornered. He explains that he “borrowed” the cow in order to provide milk for his cats. Eventually, Jillian discovers that he is housing multitudes of seemingly neglected cats on his farm. Why?

You will need to immerse yourself in this book—ideal for animal-lovers—to answer this question. Trust me, you will not casually guess the answer. At times, cats may be in trouble, but, happily, Jillian Hart is on the scene to rescue them.

Murder on the Eightfold Path

Lynne F. Maxwell

Murder on the Eightfold Path begins when yogi A.J. Alexander discovers a body in her mother’s garden. A.J.’s complicated relationship with her flamboyant ex-actress mother is a central point of tension and an eternal trial for the more sedate A.J., owner of a yoga studio inherited from her beloved aunt. It turns out that in fact her mother, Elysia, knew the handsome young victim on an intimate basis—and so did a number of other wealthy, single older women. When A.J.’s boyfriend, police detective Jake Oberlin, places her mother under arrest, A.J. springs into action.

Clearly, despite a multitude of eccentricities, Elysia is no murderess, and A.J. determines to prove it. Unfortunately, her ambivalent relationship with Jake presents obstacles to solving the crime. Ultimately, though, A.J. accomplishes her goal, in the process unmasking an unlikely criminal operation and resolving her confusing relationship with Jake. Yoga has but a small role in this witty mystery, but undoubtedly it will resurface in Killian’s next series novel. In the meantime, Namaste to all of you mystery fans out there.

The Devil

Debbi Mack

In his eighth Jack Taylor novel, Ken Bruen pulls out all the stops. After being denied entry into the US, Taylor comes face-to-face with what appears to be the ultimate nemesis—the Devil himself. Taylor washes his anxieties down with healthy doses of Jameson and Xanax. However, it seems the Devil may have it in for the beleagered protagonist, because people Taylor cares about start dying in gruesome ways. After a time, not even booze and drugs will ease his pain. The book revisits many previous stories in the series, so reading them first may help. However, even if references are lost on novice readers, the story's compelling plot and Taylor's biting anguish and wit will pull them in. As Taylor gathers more evidence that he is, in fact, facing off with Lucifer, the suspense builds as he realizes he must stop him. The question is, how can he defeat the Devil?

Bruen writes choppy, terse prose that can read like poetry. Taylor's pain is masked with bleak Irish humor—sometimes laugh out loud funny. Fans of the series will find this familiar territory, although Bruen has raised the stakes considerably by bringing Old Scratch into the picture. The question of why the Devil would pick on Taylor in particular is raised throughout the book. The satanic character claims Taylor is cramping his style. So why not pick on the Mother Teresas of the world? In an early chapter, the Prince of Darkness says he'll plague Taylor merely for "a spot of diversion." However, could it be that like God, the Devil has a plan and Taylor isn't playing his part? It's one possible interpretation. As such, The Devil goes beyond suspense and noir conventions into the realm of the philosophical.

Hammett at Home

Mark Coggins

891 Post Street #401, San Francisco, California is billed as the home of Dashiell Hammett and his PI Sam Spade. Image courtesy of Google Maps Street View.

hammett_dashiell Dashiell Hammett lived in this building during the period he wrote his first three novels and he put Sam Spade in the same building in The Maltese Falcon. With a close reading of the text, and a comparison of the other apartments in the building, scholars have determined that #401 is the most likely to be Spade’s and Hammett’s, although there are no records of the particular apartment in which Hammett lived.

During the building’s dedication as a literary landmark, I had the opportunity to tour #401 and meet Hammett’s only living daughter, Jo Hammett. Also in attendance were Julie Rivett, his granddaughter, and Richard Layman, his biographer and the editor of both the recent anthology of hammett_maltesefalcon Hammett letters and the memoir Jo published about her father.

Don Herron, leader of the famous Dashiell Hammett San Francisco tour—and author of the accompanying guidebook—was also present. When it came our turn to go up into the apartment, he strongly recommended taking the stairs. Apparently he’d been trapped in the elevator when it dropped to the basement after being overloaded with a mere four people.

hammett_floorplan

Here’s a floor plan that was included in the pamphlet printed up for the dedication.

hammett_door

Inside the apartment we were greeted by Bill Arney, the current occupant of the apartment, Bill’s mother and Jo Hammett herself.

hammett_tub Walking down the L-shaped hallway to the combination living room/bedroom (pulling down the wall-bed transforms it), we passed a small bathroom. In The Maltese Falcon, Spade is fooled by Gutman into thinking that Brigid O’Shaughnessy has secreted some money on her person, so he forces her to strip in the bathroom. He sits on the tub while she does it, with Gutman and the rest of his crew waiting in the other room. Here’s the tub.

hammett_postwindow hammett_hydewindow The apartment is on the front corner of the building, so it has a view of both Post and Hyde. Here’s a view from the Post Street window (left) and from the Hyde Street window (right).

hammett_desk Bill has done some work to restore the interior of the bedroom/living room to the sort of appearance it might have had in Hammett’s time. Left is a photo of a desk he’s set up near the wall-bed. In the photo of the desk, note the book with the alarm clock on top. That book is Drake’s Celebrated Criminal Cases of America which Bill said he had a hell of a time finding. Why bother? Check out this passage from The Maltese Falcon where Spade is woken after Archer is found murdered:

Cold steamy air blew in through two open windows, bringing with it half a dozen times a minute the Alcatraz foghorn’s dull moaning. A tinny alarm-clock, insecurely mounted on a corner of Drake’s Celebrated Criminal Cases of America—face down on the table—held its hands at five minutes past two.

hammett_jo-with-coggins

Finally, here’s the picture I’m most pleased to have captured—a shot of me with Jo Hammett not three feet from where The Maltese Falcon was written!

Mark Coggins is the Shamus and Barry-nominated author of The Immortal Game and Vulture Capital. He lives in San Francisco, and his latest novel is The Big Wake-up.

This article originally appeared in Mystery Scene Issue #89.

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

raven_tenniel

John Tenniel 1858 illustration for Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven."

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore:
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

(Originally published in 1845)

A New Sherlock Holmes

Oline Cogdill

Today we have a guest writer -- Bill Hirschman who has written TV reviews and profiles for Mystery Scene. Bill's last feature was on theater master Rupert Holmes. Bill is a lifelong fan of Sherlock Holmes, a habit he acquired from his father. Bill is a theater critic in the South Florida area; his reviews can be found at southfloridatheaterreview.com. He also is married to our regular blog writer, Oline H. Cogdill.

By Bill Hirschman

In the BBC’s 21st Century reinvention of Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective has traded his pipe for nicotine patches, his laboratory beakers for an electron microscope and his library for the World Wide Web.

But his quirky, anti-social genius is gloriously intact in the three-episode series Sherlock – to be broadcast Oct. 24, Oct. 31 and Nov. 7 on PBS’ Masterpiece Mystery! Check your local PBS affliliate for times and encore presentations.

The creators, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat of the current Doctor Who, have delivered the most ingenious and addictive job of deconstructing and reconstructing Holmes seen on film since 1979’s Murder by Decree.

They are helped immeasurably by the casting. The lanky Benedict Cumberbatch inhabits the preternaturally brilliant but asocial-cripple Holmes who one police detective taunts with appropriate name “Freak. ” The “normal-looking” but equally haunted Martin Freeman is a compassionate and intelligent Watson just back from serving in

Afghanistan.

If Sherlock simply transported the original stories to present day London, it would be a mild curiosity and a transitory trick not worth the viewer’s time. The same can be said if the meat of the show was nothing but clever modern analogs for the original traits and touchstones – although they are fiercely inventive here.

Instead, Gatiss and Moffat have taken the canonical A Study in Scarlet, The Adventure of the Dancing Men and The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans as jumping off points for fresh, sophisticated and intricate detective stories that are organically drawn from the 21st Century. The style of presentation is contemporary film with rapid-fire editing and camera work – and yet, underneath, there is that same adoration of intelligence and adventure that imbued Conan Doyle’s work.

Certainly, there are scores of wrly subtle and not-so-subtle allusions to the canon: The first episode is titled A Study in Pink and the word “rache” is scrawled next to a dead body. When one of Scotland Yard’s detectives notes that the word is German for revenge, exactly as Holmes did in the original story, the new Holmes accurately

deflates the theory.

The updating is simply inspired. Holmes doesn’t shoot the initials V.R. in the wall, but creates the outline of a smiley face, also an emblem of establishment complacency. Watson writes up their cases for a blog, initially started as a therapeutic vent for his psychological pain. The familiar black boxy taxis drop the duo off at 221B, not a

Hansom cab. I won’t even spoil who the Baker Street Irregulars are. And Moriarity is as terrifying a force as he’s ever been portrayed -- but not for the reasons you’d expect.

But the tenor can turn dark and dramatic as the stock Victorian figures become frighteningly realistic and credible as contemporary threats, from the formidable hired assassin in the gloom to the psychotic serial killer to the specter of a urban bombers.

Even darker are the explorations of just how much Holmes’ genius is a personal curse. Lestrade may appreciate Holmes’ gifts, but another detective warns Watson not to get too close because Holmes is a psychopathic as likely to be guilty of criminal violence as his quarry.

And when Holmes seemingly allows a victim to die in order to continue a duel of wits with Moriarity, he is censured by Watson.

Holmes answers, “I’ve disappointed you…. Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

To that end, this updated Sherlock is not so much about differences so much as heavier emphases. On top of the puzzle-solving and superhuman feats of detection, these are character studies of two damaged people who are all the more appealing for their acknowledgement of their wounds and their refusal to seek an iota of accommodation

for them from the rest of the world – no matter the emotional cost.

Credit the cast for the skill to deliver lines without hardly a shred of self-aware archness, such as:

SHERLOCK: (Looking out on the deserted street) Look at that, Mrs. Hudson -- quiet, calm, peaceful. Isn’t it hateful?

HUDSON: (Teasing) I’m sure something will turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder to cheer you up.

SHERLOCK: (Not getting the joke) It can’t come too soon.

Slightly scruffy as if he had no time for vanities, Holmes dresses in a black overcoat with high upturned collar and long muffler. Tall and slender with light blue irises, Sherlock has a mop of unruly black hair as untamed as his intellect his tamed. A lover of technology, he coaxes information from laptops and smartphones like a virtuoso

elicits a masterpiece from a piano. He rattles off long chains of precise deductions at dizzying speed.

While Holmes may recognize stationary as coming from Bohemia, he needs Watson to provide “useless” facts like the Earth revolves around the sun.

The sophistication of the writing is exemplified when a mysterious cerebral man who describes himself as Holmes’ arch-enemy tells Watson that a psychiatrist’s diagnosis that Watson’s limp is psychosomatic is accurate, but not as fallout from seeing the horrors of war, but because he misses the war. And there is a major twist later in the episode that will force you to review the same scene later with an additional piece of information – a deft trick by screenwriters who know how to manipulate the audience.

The three episodes are: A Study In Pink in which seemingly unconnected people commit suicide but which Holmes realizes is the work of a serial killer. The Blind Banker finds Holmes linking murders where the killer has left a mysterious code.

The Great Game (an unacknowledged riff on Kipling’s term for espionage in Kim) depicts brother Mycroft asking Sherlock to recover some stolen missile plans, but our hero is occupied in trying to catch a monster who puts hostages in explosive vests while challenging Sherlock to solve puzzle-like crimes under a literal deadline.

The show was an immediate hit when it bowed in Great Britain in July. Although the three-episode series ends with a cliffhanging standoff worthy of the Reichenbach Falls, the team has been trying to schedule when to produce another three episodes slated for broadcast in England in the fall of 2011. We can hardly wait until it emigrates over

here.

For more information, see www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t4pgh. It has links to Sherlock’s website and Watson’s blog.

Photo: Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman PBS photo

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2010-10-24 05:00:00

By Bill Hirschman