A Novel Bookstore, by Laurence Cossé, $15 (c2009)

For the first hundred or so pages of this book, translated from French, I thought the story was unrealistic and off-putting, but there was something about it that kept me reading on. The enthusiasm of the two main characters, Van and Francesca, as they prepared to open their "perfect" bookstore in Paris was contagious. A bookstore with only the best books on offer. Best books, that is, as defined by some of the "best" authors in France. Each one would provide a list of several hundred of his or her favorite titles. The authors would remain anonymous to avoid criticism and hounding.

Why did I originally find this off-putting? Don't I own a mystery bookstore? Isn't it great that someone wants to open an independent specialty bookstore? It wasn't the concept per se, but how the bookstore was coming together. Financial backer and book lover Francesca tore into a vacant space she just happened to have and put in specially designed shelves, seating areas, and an office. Let me say that last thing again ... an office. My "office" consists of a tiny computer desk and chair (regular-sized) in the middle of the store. Customers have to walk around me, apologizing for scooting by. Francesca arranges publicity and advertising for opening day. Our advertising consists of a white board on the sidewalk with artwork done by whichever employee isn't fast enough to outrun me. Oh, fine, you're saying, "sour grapes," and it might be so. But it doesn't negate the impracticality of the bookstore's setup, considering their limited titles and limited number of copies of those titles. (Yes, Cossé tells you the number of copies.)

And what happened to the mystery? The book began just fine. A couple of the authors on the committee, ostensibly anonymous, are maliciously attacked. Although they survive, Van and Francesca worry that other committee members may be next. They wonder how the authors' identities were discovered. So far, so good for the mystery portion, but then "Part Two" begins and the only mystery is about who is telling the story. It appears at first glance that it's a normal third-person narrative, but a mysterious "I" pops up every now and then. This unidentified "I" tells the story of Van and Francesca telling their stories to a police detective, the mysterious (and not very French-sounding) Heffner. For most of the book they tell the patient Heffner the entire -- and I mean entire -- story of how they met, conceived of the bookstore, and began to implement their plan.

Although there was no mystery again until about two-thirds of the way through, I got caught up in the minutiae of bookstore life. Yes, I was finally hooked. What mural should they paint on their walls? (Ours is natural spiderweb.) Why did they leave their overstock in boxes in their storeroom? Didn't they ever want to be able to find anything? Intriguing.

Then there is that annoying romance Van has with Anis, a young woman with commitment phobia in the extreme. Why is that even in the book? What does it have to do with the injured authors? Maybe Anis is the culprit! I perked up again. But there is a passion in the book that is not merely book-related. Although I was amused in many respects by A Novel Bookstore -- a nicely double-entendred title -- it is not a funny book. All the characters are passionate or strangely dispassionate and determinedly serious. The mystery picks up again when the bookstore is accused in the press and on the internet as elitist. Suddenly, Van and Francesca go from being the darlings of Paris to defending their right to have an opinion about what constitutes a good book. Terms like proletariat and leftist are thrown around. How French!

In the end, I was very satisfied with the convoluted but tidy resolution. The narrator's voice gradually becomes stronger and there is a quiet unmasking. Reticences and passions are explained. C'est le livre!

Death and the Running Patterer, by Robin Adair, $15 (c2009)

Australia really is another country! I had difficulty getting into the rhythm of the writing. Was I putting the accent on the wrong word? I don't know. The book is subtitled: "A Curious Murder Mystery," and it is curious indeed.

I was initially entranced by the concept of a running patterer. The book starts off so well with the introduction of an ex-Bow Street Runner who is sent to 1828 Sydney as a punishment for an impolitic action in London. At that time the British Empire used Australia as one gigantic prison, and that is where Nicodemus Dunne is doing his time. His skills as an investigator are recognized by the superintendent of police, Francis de Rossi, so Dunne is released to be a semi-free man.

When he isn't assisting de Rossi, Dunne must earn his keep as a patterer. As you might guess from the word, it has something to do with talking. To inform both the illiterate and the literate-but-too-busy, Dunne gathers all the local newspapers and for a fee reads appropriate sections to his audience. He traverses the city bringing good news and bad, gossip and advertisements.

The current cases involve bizarre murders to soldiers or ex-soldiers of the 57th Regiment. The first man is found slashed to death in an alley next to a tavern. The slash marks indicate some sort of ritual to the killing. Soon there are others, and they are increasingly grotesque. The murderer helpfully also sends clues.

The premise is sound and interesting, but the execution was a little fuddled. There is a lightness in Dunne's demeanor and thinking when he is on stage. On the other hand, there is a grisly darkness when the murders are described. Because there are cultural and class details that need to be explicated, Robin Adair explicates, and explicates, and explicates. I was explicated to death. (Death by explication, hmmm.) I gave up about two-thirds of the way through.

I read the ending. I was not impressed.

There are lots of people who enjoy explication, learning history through mystery. Perhaps this book is for them.

The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters ($16)(c2009)

If you are in the mood for a ghost story and you are willing to read one that is 463 pages long, then this is the book for you. Mysterious things begin to happen in an English country manor house after WWII, but they happen with excruciating slowness.

Dr. Faraday, a country physician, is the narrator. In a very class-conscious society, he is a class "orphan." His mother was a maid in the manor house, but he has out-distanced his humble background by becoming a doctor. Faraday has a memory of attending a town fete on the manor's grounds when he was a child. The grand house impressed him, and he stole a piece of moulding from inside the house as a souvenir. Now as an adult, he once again has an opportunity to visit the house, but this time as a physician.

A good deal of the book details Faraday's growing association with and understanding of the various inhabitants of the manor, which has since become rundown and unmanageable. Mrs. Ayres remembers the glory of the manor. Her patrician manner does not desert her although her fortunes have turned down. Her son Rod is a casualty of the war. His injuries cause him constant pain and the management of a failing estate is a constant source of stress. Rod's sister, Caroline, has a plain face and a good heart. Her prospects of a financially lucrative marriage are dim. She's given up whatever life she might have had outside of the manor to help hold on to the estate. Despite what all three of the Ayres family might wish to do other than live at the manor, the manor is where they remain. It defines them, their class, their noblesse.

Faraday arrives to take care of a newly hired maid who appears to be ill. Instead, she says, she is scared of some "thing" in the house but is unable to be more descriptive. Faraday dismisses her fears as homesickness. Next, Faraday tries to lessen the pain of Rod's injuries and appears to be succeeding, lifting the humor in the household, when an unfortunate accident involving a visiting child occurs. Things go not-so-rapidly downhill from there. First Rod becomes manic about saving everyone else in the house from some malignancy. No one, it appears, is immune, as even the housekeeper and maid become victims of mischievous tinkering. Faraday remains convinced that what is occurring is not the result of anything supernatural but the result of pranks by a disturbed individual or malfunctioning equipment.

There is a twist at the end, worthy of Henry James. Before I go into a spoiler discussion of the ending, let me say that I felt compelled to stay through until the end because I wanted to know how Sarah Waters resolved the story, and I WAS happily surprised. Were the 463 pages worth it? Some might find the suspense exquisite, but I often felt the tedium. Nevertheless, I bet this would be a great read for someone of a more patient inclination.

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Sarah Waters did a great job making the narrator, Dr. Faraday, the ultimate villain. It is HIS growing obsession with the house that magnifies the tragedies that occur. Was he the "you" that Caroline spotted before her fall? I vote yes. Was it the spirit of the dead daughter that haunted the house? I vote for a more poltergeisty thing.
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Rogue Island, by Bruce DeSilva (hardcover, $24.99) (c2010)

Beginning with the title of this book, Bruce DeSilva has crafted a clever and captivating novel. "Rogue Island" is either a bastardization of or a prior name for Rhode Island. Whichever, there are rogues aplenty.

The good guy is Liam Mulligan, a reporter for a Providence newspaper.

Aside: This is the second newspaper-related mystery -- the first was Eyes of the Innocent by Brad Parks, which won't be out until next February -- I've read in just a few weeks, and they are both very good. Of course, they are both tangentially about the woeful news that the papers themselves are making: advertisers are dropping off at a swift rate, subscribers ditto, and lay-offs are inevitable, undermining the usefulness and vitality of this form of daily information. Both books are excellent cheerleaders for keeping the art of newspaper reporting alive and kicking.

Back to the main feature: Someone is burning parts of Mulligan's childhood. Arson is claiming apartment buildings, houses, and other structures well known to him in the Mount Hope neighborhood. And people, some of whom Mulligan knows, are dying: children, an old man, and fire fighters among them. Mulligan's best friend, Rosie Morelli, is the Batallion Chief of one fire-fighting unit, and she is tired, frustrated, and at a loss to stop it. Mulligan begins an investigation that leads him into contact with the local mob and gives him an uninviting look into government corruption.

Mulligan's life is complicated by the impending divorce from Dorcas, his unpleasant, shrewish wife, and a new relationship with a fellow reporter, Veronica. Toss in the requisite sidekick: in this case, the fresh-out-of-college son of the publisher, the eager Mason, nicknamed "Thanks-Dad" by Mulligan. The almost-as-eager would-be photographer Gloria rounds out the main crew.

Mulligan's humorous musings and the descriptions of a decaying Providence are two sides of Bruce DeSilva's writing coin. He can be both wry and wrenching. Parts of poor Providence are sagging, flaking, flimsy, and corroding. The government buildings don't fare any better, adjectivally speaking: drab, grimy, and shit green with padlocked johns that are "fragrant and toxic" at the best of times anyway. Furthermore, Providence apparently is the stolen car capital and the mob likes to rig games there. All this can be gleaned from the first few pages. Nevertheless, you sense DeSilva has a great affection for "Rogue Island."

As a reporter, Mulligan has cultivated sources both legal and extra-legal. He has also upset forces both legal and extra-legal, which gives the book a punch and dramatic uncertainty about which way the story will go. A dynamic debut.

Hypothermia, by Arnaldur Indridason (hardcover, $24.99) (c2010)

Now that it's really cold outside, I suppose I should be reading books set in the tropics. Instead I'm reading Arnaldur Indridason's recent dark mystery set in Iceland. Double-brrr.

Series hero Erlendur Sveinsson -- or just plain Erlendur -- is a loner who, unfortunately for him, is surrounded by people who want him to be more outgoing. His colleagues, his children, his ex-wife, his girlfriend -- and it's amazing he has any of these, given his uncommunicative demeanor -- force Erlendur to confront difficult issues. But mostly, rules and regulations are for other folk.

Hypothermia results from over-exposure to cold. It often leads to death, and in a country with the name Iceland, one would expect a few cases of hypothermia. In fact, Iceland's climate is affected by the Gulf Stream, so the weather is considered temperate. Nevertheless, there are many lakes with incredibly cold water, a brief exposure to which could cause death. And Hypothermia details a slew of disappearances and deaths in the cold of day and night.

The main case is the suicide of a woman who has been depressed since the death of her mother. She chose to hang herself in the family cabin beside the lake in which her father died of hypothermia years before. A persistent friend insists that Maria would never commit suicide, and she goads Erlendur into investigating further. At the same time, an old man comes to see Erlendur, perhaps for the last time. He is the father of a college boy who has been missing for a long time, and he periodically checks to see if any progress has been made in his son's case. Another old missing person's case, that of a shy young woman, also catches Erlendur's attention. These three cases start him thinking again -- although it's never far from his thoughts -- about the disappearance in a blizzard of his own brother when they were both very young.

Indridason is very clever in developing the storylines. However, it is hard for the reader to find a connection with Erlendur, because he is so distant and lacks the ability to carry out the usual give-and-take in relationships. His daughter is trying to stay straight and both she and her brother, both young adults, have formed a tenuous relationship with their father. His daughter wants more from him than he feels comfortable giving. Does she want him to say he's sorry for having deserted his family years ago? He doesn't fully understand her. Hypothermia is about the cold places in the heart that the missing often occupy.

The flawed protagonist is often more interesting than the unblemished heroic character. Sometimes the pull is in wondering when the protagonist will fall flat on his or her face? Sometimes it's in wondering if he or she will overcome the flaws and find a modicum of happiness. We have yet to see in which direction Erlendur turns, but there is a serious attempt in this book to push him towards revelation.

I found the resolution inadequate, but Carolyn loved it and awarded it a star. You say po-tay-toe and I say po-tah-toe.

The Resurrectionist, by Jack O'Connell ($13.95)(c2008)

I've liked Jack O'Connell's books since Box Nine (c2000) presented us with the bleak and ruined industrial community of Quinsigamond. O'Connell defined it as part of an "industrial rust belt." He also said: "God tends to fall asleep in Quinsigamond. And sometimes His dreams are perverse." This fictional city has rotted from the center outward. Its once "normal" constituency and lifestyle has engendered the likes of Bangkok Square, home to all things degenerate and demeaning. Gangs roam the town. Murder hangs its hat and suspicion colors the air there. Although O'Connell does not linger in "Q-town" in this book, he has written convulsively about his creation in his other four books. The only unifying thread among the books is this morally and physically corrupt city. Think "Blade Runner." Think Kafka's The Castle.*

In all of O'Connell's books it feels as though there's a lurking, looming, unexplained presence in the background. The books teeter on the verge of tumbling into techno sci-fi or fantasy. The Resurrectionist is the first book to fall face first into another world.

At the start, we meet Sweeney, a pharmacist, who has moved to the edge of Quinsigamond so Danny, his comatose seven-year-old son, can receive experimental treatment at "The Clinic" that might awaken him. He goes to work at his son's facility so he can be near Danny. He meets an odd assortment of co-workers. It goes sideways, reality-wise, from there. Are the doctors at The Clinic trying to help Danny or destroy him? Are Sweeney's real friends the people in The Clinic or the nasty bikers who terrorize him?

Alternating with Sweeney's story is a summarization of several issues of the comic book series Sweeney was reading to his son before his accident. It tells about the adventures of a traveling band of circus freaks in an area nicknamed Limbo. In fact, the story refers to many geographical areas in our world, but their definitions are stretched and remolded in Limbo. The main character is "Chicken Boy," a human who has a beak and is covered with feathers. Although Sweeney read it to his then six-year-old son, it is clearly a work with adult themes and situations, another hint that perhaps The Resurrectionist's world is tilted a few degrees south.

O'Connell tells us that his book is an exploration of consciousness. What is its nature? Which is the dream: the life the coma victim left behind or where he exists in his comatose state? Who are the freaks: the doctors and other inhabitants of our world or the circus travelers? Here is O'Connell describing his book: "So here is a book about loss and grief and rage. About coma and comic books and pharmaceuticals. About psychotic bikers and mad neurologists and wandering circus freaks." And so much more.

James Ellroy said O'Connell is "the future of the dark, literary suspense novel."

O'Connell's books are rich in imagination and style. He said about himself, "I have spent most of my adult life writing about the intersections between language and reality and identity." I rejoice every time a new book appears, which is far too seldom. It is exciting to see that O'Connell has finally fulfilled the promise of showing us another kind of reality.

*In talking about the comic book series he developed for this book, O'Connell said: "I like to think of it as what might have developed had Kafka snuck up on The Adventures of Tintin creator Hergé, stabbed the artist to death with his own charcoal pencil, and then highjacked the story."