AHMM, May 2010
Page 8
I should finish this e-mail and check on Ellen. But the main reason I'm writing is that I've been thinking about this case, and about how April seems like a nice girl despite everything. Hell, even Hansel and Gretel turned out okay. That made me feel hopeful. I mean, no matter how many mistakes Ellen and I make, we won't be as rotten as those parents. So maybe, if we just love Kevin and the new kid like crazy and try not to mess them up any more than we absolutely have to, it'll all work out.
But then I bought this book—Infant Insecurity: Unintentionally Undermining Self-Esteem during the First Six Months. Ellen glanced at it, laughed, and told me not to get worked up over nothing. But I'm not sure it's nothing. I mean, the author has a Ph.D., and he's been on Dr. Phil, and everything. Besides, he makes some interesting points. For example, he says if you scrunch your nose when you change diapers, the kid can sense you're disgusted, and it'll stifle his artistic expression for life. That got me worried. I've been stressed out about the diapers anyway. After all, Kevin's almost a teenager—it's been about a decade since I've changed a diaper, and I was never that good at it. Those adhesive things are tricky. And I can't remember if I used to scrunch my nose, but I do know Kevin's been taking piano lessons for a solid six months and hasn't really gotten a handle on the C scale, and I gotta wonder if there's a connection. What do you think?
The other thing I wanted to say is you wouldn't believe how Meredith is hounding Bolt. When we arrested her, she said she felt faint, collapsed in his arms, and cried all over him. And during the two hours she was in jail, she called him maybe a dozen times. Since she got out, she's been calling him constantly, and dropping by the station to bring him vats of chili and stacks of snickerdoodles. He's not interested—he hates the way she treats April—but the strange part is, ever since she's been lavishing attention on him, some women at the station have started noticing him too. Our senior dispatcher, Sharon, invited him to dinner at her house last night (she's divorced, and she's got a great sense of humor); and Sergeant Clausen, whose husband got run over by a runaway dry-cleaner's truck in the line of duty six years ago, has been talking to him about how she might like to take a vacation in Tahiti, and how she might like company. Funny, isn't it?
I gotta go—Ellen came downstairs a minute ago, and she says she feels sorta weird. Anyhow, if you want to take the Peru assignment, go. There's no reason to stick around in the States because
SEND
—
POLICE NEWSLETTER
—
BIRTHS
To Lieutenant Walter and Mrs. Ellen Johnson
Elizabeth Oriana Johnson
October 26, 2009
8 pounds, 3 ounces
Baby, mother, and big brother all doing fine
Dad queasy but hanging in there
* * * *
ENGAGEMENTS
Sergeant Gordon Bolt to Oriana Johnson
Wedding date TBA
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Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
They ought to constitute an oxymoron, but sometimes humor and murder pair up nicely. This month, we'll look at three new books that blend comedy and criminal mischief: Alan Bradley follows his successful debut novel, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, with a new Flavia De Luce adventure; G. M. Malliet offers an academic sendup with a Cambridge University setting; and while it's not exactly crime fiction, a collection of essays from America's doyenne of legal thrillers, Lisa Scottoline, will certianly tickle your funny bone.
* * * *
Alan Bradley's smart, funny Flavia de Luce again copes with her bothersome older sisters and the adult world in his delightful second novel, the weed that strings the hangman's bag (Delacorte, $24). Bradley's The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie won the Debut Dagger Award from the British Crime Writers’ Association. That was an auspicious debut for the author, now in his early seventies, and his second novel confirms the promise of the first. Bradley plans four more adventures in what he calls The Buckshaw Chronicles, named after the family's home.
Young Flavia, like her sisters Ophelia (Feely) and Daphne (Daffy), has special talents. Ophelia favors the muse of music, and Daphne explores literature at every turn. Eleven-year-old Flavia has a knack for chemistry, especially poisons.
Flavia fell in love with the science the first time she discovered the amazing Victorian chemistry laboratory assembled by her deceased mother's Uncle Tar and left untouched since his death. That laboratory and all its possibilities have become Flavia's sole province in the strange household, and she delights in unlocking nature's secrets.
Sharp-witted, curious, and manipulative, Flavia trades insults and mischief with her older sisters, who often treat her with the kind of cruelty only siblings can manage.
When famous puppeteer Rupert Porson's van breaks down, stranding him and his beautiful assistant Nialla in Bishop's Lacy, they are persuaded to mount a few performances at St. Tancred, the local church. Porson's The Magic Kingdom is a popular television show, and his appearance is a major event in the village.
Needless to say, Flavia is involved from the beginning, helping set up the show, asking questions, and observing everything from the bruises on Nialla's arms to the lack of a wedding ring on her finger. When a fatal fall suddenly ruins Porson's performance before a packed house, the death leaves the police and Flavia wondering if it was an accident or murder. Once again Flavia arrives at the answer before the police, and despite Inspector Hewitt's treating her like a little girl instead of the “seasoned” investigator she is, she helps unravel the mystery.
Bradley is a writer of great charm and insight, and he infuses even minor characters with indelible personality. He peppers his prose with gently funny gems: “Drusilla was a very great reader of English novels. She consumed books like a whale eats krill.” Flavia de Luce, both eleven and ageless, is a marvel and a delight.
* * * *
G. M. Malliet, who once attended Oxford and has a graduate degree from the University of Cambridge, certainly has the proper background for creating the fictional, poor St. Michael's College located at Cambridge. It is there that wealthy alumni have assembled to have their pockets picked by the administration in death at the alma mater (Midnight Ink, $14.95).
St. Michael's, one of the lesser known of Cambridge's thirty-two colleges, has never achieved the fame or the wealth of its better-known counterparts. The college “had been remarkable only in that so many third-rate minds had managed to assemble under one roof.” Now in desperate financial straits, its trinity of leaders—Dr. D.X.L. Marburger, Master of St. Michaels; Mr. Bowles, the college bursar; and the Reverend Dr. Otis, the college dean—hatch a plan to restore solvency. A select (read: wealthy) group of alumni are invited to the college for a special weekend in order that they may repay the honor with generous donations.
* * * *
* * * *
The eight guests are scholars, social celebrities, and Internet entrepreneurs: Sir James Bassett, author, and his wife, India; Lexy Laurant, socialiate (and Sir James's first wife), and her companion, Geraldo Valentiano; Gwennap Pengelly, a television crime reporter; Hermione Jax, an academic of impeccable moral standards; Constance Dunning, American whiner, and her ever-patient husband, Karl; and Augie Crumb, brash American cowboy and dot-com millionaire.
The guests bring plenty of emotional baggage along with their wealth, with the scandalous triangle of Sir James, India, and Lexy leading the way. Among the few collegians still in residence during the summer is the canny Portia De'Ath, a visiting fellow, and the romantic interest of Detective Chief Inspector Arthur St. Just of the Cambridgeshire police.
When beautiful Lexy is found strangled near the college's boathouse, St. Just is called in to investigate and discovers plenty of suspects and uncooperative witnesses, all of whom seem to have perfectly sound alibis. As St. Just delicately probes the tangled relationships among the suspects, both from their collegiate past and their seemingly successful present, Portia provide
s trenchant descriptions based on her brief observations of the visitors.
Malliet is dead on target with her characterizations of the penny-pinching bursar, the muddle-headed dean, and the officious master. Moreover, the writer's splendid array of prestigious alumni gives her ample opportunities for wit and satire. St. Just produces an elegant and convincing solution that unmasks the killer. Malliet's light touch and artful prose echo Dorothy L. Sayers's Gaudy Night.
* * * *
Lisa Scottoline is best known for her legal thrillers, including her eleven-volume series featuring the all-women Philadelphia law firm, Rosato and Associates, and chilling stand-alone suspense novels like Look Again. In why my third husband will be a dog (St. Martin's, $21.99), a collection of her newspaper columns for the Philadelphia Inquirer, Scottoline shows off her funny side. The book is subtitled The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman, and it is clear from the columns that Scottoline's problems may be ordinary, but her responses are not.
Scottoline copes with struggles familiar to us all—an aging parent, a child becoming an adult, marriage, divorce, pets, shopping, minor embarrassments—with a healthy sense of (sometimes exasperated) humor, written in a style that makes you feel like you're listening to a good friend.
* * * *
* * * *
A few clues to Scottoline's mystery-writing habits are sprinkled in various columns: When she gets stuck, she resorts to “mindless tasks” to give herself a break. Tasks like giving her pony, Buddy, a shearing: “Mental patients get better haircuts, and a close second are condemned prisoners."
Her path to success as a writer involved excessive use of credit cards, but eventually her debts were repaid and she qualified for a “starter” American Express card—one with a “thousand dollar credit limit and training wheels."
Fans of Scottoline's novels will enjoy this opportunity to see the very human, very appealing, down-to-earth woman who is the reality behind the fiction.
Copyright © 2010 Robert C. Hahn
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Fiction: DINGEL DANGLES AND THE “UNTITLED: NUMBER 3” CAPER by Richard F. McGonegal
A person can do a lot of thinking in five hours.
That's particularly true if you can't do much else, like when you're in a full-body cast or, in my case, hanging suspended from a ceiling.
I thought about a lot of things.
I wondered how a good idea like breaking into Dinah's Diner through the overhead ductwork could go so wrong. I contemplated how dumb I would feel when discovered with my arms pinned to my sides and my feet dangling above the counter. I crafted countless explanations—none too plausible—for my predicament. And, with a growing urgency to use the restroom, I hoped someone would arrive soon to open the restaurant and spare me from yet another humiliation.
But that was weeks ago.
Now, I was stuck again—this time in a courtroom filled to capacity with bozos and morons waiting to be called before the Honorable Arthur Franklin Lowell III.
I had been seated in the courtroom for hours and was beginning to contemplate the protocol for excusing myself to use the restroom when the uniformed bailiff announced: “Case 08-CR-1022. State versus Thaddeus Dingel."
As previously instructed by my assistant public defender, I rose from my seat in the gallery and joined her at one of two tables facing the judge. Before today, I had met her only once. Her name was Jill Hill—simple, easy to remember, hardly a cumbersome name like mine. Jill Hill was attractive, articulate, and earnest, if inexperienced.
"What have we got here?” asked the judge without lifting his eyes from the document in front of him.
A man I assumed was an assistant prosecutor arose and cleared his throat. “Second-degree burglary and attempted stealing, Your Honor,” he announced.
I didn't appreciated being referred to by the charges against me, but said nothing. Jill Hill had advised silence.
"How do you plead?” the judge inquired.
"Guilty, Your Honor,” Jill Hill answered without hesitation.
The judge finally looked up and focused on me. “Ah, Mr. Dingel,” he greeted. “Your name sounds familiar to me. Have you been in my courtroom before?"
"Once,” I answered, then—prompted by a cough from Jill Hill—added, “Your Honor."
The judge scrutinized my features and scanned his memory. “But you don't look familiar."
"I had a big bandage on my face then,” I replied, then—prompted by a surreptitious kick from Jill Hill—added, “Your Honor."
"Ah, yes,” he said. He leaned back in his massive chair, his befuddlement satisfied. “As I recall, you whacked yourself in the face with a tire iron."
"Your Honor, Mr. Dingel was—"
The judge waved a dismissive hand, silencing Jill Hill. “Mr. Dingel was attempting a classic smash and grab at a jewelry store, but the tire iron bounced back."
"How was I supposed to know it was Plexiglas?” I asked, prompting a whispered shush from Jill Hill.
The judge said nothing. He returned his attention to the document for what seemed a long time, then looked up and said, “It says here you were found dangling from the ductwork in the ceiling of Dinah's Diner."
"Your Honor—” Jill Hill began.
"Counselor,” the judge interrupted. “You've already entered a guilty plea on behalf of your client, so all that remains is for me to assess punishment. Allow me to gather some information directly from Mr. Dingel."
"Sorry, Your Honor,” Jill Hill said penitently.
The judge turned to me. “Mr. Dingel, how long were you stuck in the ductwork?"
I looked at Jill Hill for advice and she nodded for me to answer. “About five hours,” I said.
The judge sat back in his chair. “I can see the headline now—'Dingel dangles from Dinah's Diner ductwork.’”
Laughter erupted in the courtroom.
I was mortified.
"Ah, Mr. Dingel,” the judge said, his suddenly serious tone silencing the gallery. “I'm going to extend your probation, but only because I'm not convinced you merit the costs of incarceration.” He paused and leaned forward. “My advice to you, Mr. Dingel, is to give up your propensity for mischief—for two reasons. First, because if you appear in my courtroom again, I will send you to prison. And second, because you simply are not a very good criminal."
* * * *
"He said ‘Dingel dangles from . . .’ what?” Simon Bopp asked.
"...from Dinah's Diner ductwork,” I replied.
"That's harsh,” Simon sympathized.
We were seated in the dining alcove at Sav-Mor, the gargantuan grocery store where we both worked. The alcove, which featured Formica tables bolted to the floor with plastic seats bolted to the tables, was about half full of people, but Simon and I were the only employees. The other people were mostly older guys who gathered here almost every morning to sip coffee and chat. I never understood the attraction of the alcove ambiance, the Sav-Mor coffee, or killing a couple of hours gabbing with a group of geezers.
Simon and I were on morning break. Our duties consisted mostly of herding carts, sweeping aisles, and stocking shelves, with an occasional perk, like slicing meat for the deli display.
"What happened next?” Simon asked, breaking a lingering silence.
"Everybody in the courtroom—all these jokers and losers—cracked up. It was embarrassing."
"No,” Simon corrected. “I mean what happened next with the judge?"
"He rubbed it in even more. Said something like I wasn't much of crook."
Simon pondered the comment momentarily. “Well, you're not."
"Look who's talking!” I countered. “Who taped an old receipt to a computer at Bargain Mart and tried to wheel it out of the store?"
Simon shrugged. “I figured a receipt's a receipt. I didn't think they'd check."
Another silence ensued before Simon asked, “You get any jail time?"
"Nah. He continued my probation and warned me not
to show up in his courtroom again."
Simon nodded. “You know, you really oughta go back to school—the community college, maybe even art school. You were always good at that artistic stuff in high school."
"I don't know. Maybe down the road. I just gotta make some money right now."
"Well, you better hope for some overtime because your pilfering days are over for a while."
"Not necessarily,” I said.
"What do you mean, ‘not necessarily?’”
"I got an idea for a new caper."
"Are you crazy? You know what'll happen if—"
"Relax,” I interrupted. “I've been thinking this one through and—"
"That's what you said about Dinah's Diner."
"I know,” I said. “But this one's different."
"Different how?"
"I can't tell you a lot, but do you have any idea what scrap metal is bringing these days?"
"Scrap metal?"
"Yeah,” I replied. “Recyclers are paying top dollar. I even read about some guy stealing copper pipes from a house. When the owners came home, they found their basement flooded and their plumbing gone."
"You're going to steal someone's plumbing?” Simon blurted.