CBRII: How much Agatha Christie can a woman read?

A lot, as it turns out. There’s this ‘antiques shop’ that a friend put us onto. It’s basically a trash and treasure market, for antiques and collectables, housed in a warehouse easily as old as what you’ll find inside it. The first time we went, parts of the roof were falling off and banging against other parts of the roof. There’s a few better spots, but the majority sell their stuff from beneath carefully-erected tarpaulins. For somebody as curious as me, the best part is that the sellers aren’t there. You want to buy something, you take it to the front counter, and the employees handle the rest. Otherwise you can poke, comment and explore to your heart’s content, without feeling obligated to buy that antique breast pump you just sent a picture of to your pregnant friend.

Annnyway, the point of this ridiculously long digression is that, at this decrepit factory of wonders, I came across the entire collection of Agatha Christie novels. This filled me with joy. Eventually, this also filled a shelf of my bookcase.

In the last few weeks, I’ve developed a habit of grabbing a book at random on my way to work. Each book has three of her novels, so I’m going to be well entertained, even if some element of the train system decides it just can’t be fucked working today (unfortunately, this happens semi-regularly, except in the case of the new ticket system, which has yet to work properly on any day).

Hence, I’ve ripped through five of them in three weeks. Onto the reviews!

The Listerdale Mystery.

This is a collection of short stories by Christie, and it becomes quite apparent that she’s just a touch classist. It never quite reaches the level of ‘The higher class are better than the lower class’, but she’s clearly on their side. The Listerdale mystery of the title involves a ‘gentlewoman’ who, along with her children, has fallen on hard times. I enjoyed the story very much – Christie creates a very fairytale atmosphere for this one – but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel an overwhelming urge to tell that woman to just grow up and get a job already. The idea that we should pity people who are too proud to get their hands dirty goes against everything I’ve been brought up to believe, but then, I’m no gentlewoman.

There’s a few other stories in here that echo that idea, if only lightly. Pampered, trust-fund babies get the silver spoon yanked unceremoniously out, but luck is on their side, and they find themselves a golden spoon instead. Initially, this grated, then I remembered these were written in the 1930’s. No, I’m not saying we should make allowances for the time, but rather that, for this time, the stories of the gentry class getting into and out of trouble would be the equivalent of a modern story about, say, a model or fashion reporter getting into and out of trouble. It’s part fantasy, part the author writing what they know. So these sort of stories are just Agatha Christie’s version of chick lit – if I had time to research, I suspect I’d learn some of the tales were originally published in magazines.

Come to think of it, several of these stories, despite being written from a man’s perspective, are ultimately about romance and (in one case) rubbing some snobby twit’s nose in it.

Wow. It’s all chick lit.

At Betram’s hotel.

Miss Marple’s wonderful nephew wants to give her a holiday. Somewhat hesitantly, she asks to stay at Betram’s hotel in London. As a seventeen year old, she spent some time there, and she liked the idea of a week or wandering around, seeing how much everything has changed.

However, while the rest of London certainly has, Betram’s hotel is exactly the same. A few minor changes have been made to accommodate modern amenities, but Afternoon Tea is still the same gentile affair it was seventy years ago, and even the servants are all bright eyed ex-country girls.

But not everything is as lovely as it seems. A crime syndicate is keeping the London police busy, particularly Chief-Inspector Davy (nicknamed ‘Father’). An absent-minded clergyman goes missing. A scandalous woman and her daughter, not so much long-lost, as long-ago-left-behind are both involved with the same man. Then, of course, somebody dies. How this all ties together is a hell of a story.

Christie is a snarky wench. I say that with nothing but love, I really do. Just when I was realising that I’d absolutely hate to live anywhere near Miss Marple, because I’d probably end up kicking her in the face like in Hot Fuzz, there’s a delightful scene that tells me Christie probably would too.

Miss Marple tells Father that she can’t abide interference, that there’s one thing she refuse to do, and that is to interfere with other people’s business. Yes. Miss Marple, the high fricken queen of interference. Ironically, he later describes her as thus: ‘She’s had a long life of experience in noticing evil, fancying evil, suspecting evil and going forth to do battle with evil.’ For all her very decent qualities, she’s still as much a victim to the same self-blindness as many of the people she spends so much time ‘noticing evil’ within. As a character, she’s brilliant.

But I’d still probably end up fly-kicking her in the face. Clearly, I’m evil.

They Do It With Mirrors.

Miss Marple again. Carrie Louise, an old friend, is as sweet and innocent as she is wealthy. She’s got multiple relatives hanging off her, as well as a husband so passionate about the rehabilitation of teenage delinquents that he’s turned their home into a kind of prison alternative, all acting classes and psychologists (I have always had a soft spot for the term ‘delinquents’, ever since it was used as the title of a movie starring Kylie Minogue when she put actress ahead of singer on her resume).

Carrie Lousie’s sister, Ruth, after a long, gossipy review of Carrie-Louise’s life, tells Marple that something isn’t right at Stonygates, something she only senses, and begs their old friend to go down there and ferret out what it is.

I’m too lazy right now to even bother going through all the players in this particular story. Seriously, the family tree practically requires a flow diagram. Let’s just say there were a lot of marriages and people running off with their foreign women and adoptions and a fuck-ton of money, okay? And now Stonygates is just stuffed with these random relatives, who, it appears, all absolutely adore Carrie Louise. And oddly, for a Christie novel, it’s sincere and deserved. Which is why it’s so surprising that somebody is poisoning her. Then to further complicate matters, the brother of Carrie Lousie’s first husband shows up and is promptly murdered.

Some bits of this complicated plot, I guessed. But I’ll admit, I had no idea how it all fitted in. I liked it a lot, but it’s not actually my favourite of the books I’ve read. I’m reviewing that one later.

Mrs McGinty’s Dead.

Poirot! And if nothing else, I’ve learned the poor man would just die if he ever had to live at my place. So it’s fortunate that he’s a fictional character and will thus never be exposed to the barely-controlled chaos that is my existence.

Inspector Poirot is approached by a police officer whom he once investigated a case with. After some idle gossip (and a cute reference to Poirot’s failed retirement growing vegetables, which was the setting of the murder of roger Ackroyd, which I started reading, but didn’t finish), the officer explains the purpose of his visit. About a year ago, Mrs McGinty was murdered and her tenant was arrested. But the officer’s gut is telling him that said tenant isn’t guilty, just basically an idiot who’s always giving the worst possible impression of himself. The officer is planning to retire soon, and Poirot takes on the job, simply because he knows the uncertainty will eat at his friend.

Seriously, do you think Christie planned the throw-away lines that end up being the case-breakers, or do you think they just flowed organically as part of the story? I’m fascinated by the writing process, but no more so with mysteries. Do they start out with the Who and the Why and the What, or are those details uncovered, like some kind of seriously messed up stonework, as the story progresses?

One little line! That’s the key to this one. I didn’t even register the damn thing at the time, I had to go back and re-read it!

In other words, Christie Pwd me yet again.

Partners in Crime.

When one of my earlier reviews of Christie ended up on Pajiba, there were repeated recommendations for the Tommy and Tuppence books.

I get it. Oh yes, I get it so much.

Partners in Crime is a short story collection with an overriding theme, a bit like how Veronica Mars solved a weekly mystery while still trying to figure out who murdered her best friend. In this case, a vast international ring of spies/criminals/generally unpleasant people are using a certain detective Agency to conduct their business. Tommy (with Tuppence’s help) has been asked to pretend to be the detective, and help the Department track down the bad guys.

Because these two are forever playing games, they decide to investigate each crime in the manner of a different fictional detective. Sherlock Holmes, Tornley Colton, even Poirot gets a spin. Embarrassingly, I didn’t recognise half their inspirations, but I’ll be heading to the library soon to get to know them!

This is my favourite of the five. Tommy and Tuppence are adorable. They’re utterly ridiculous, but somehow, those silly quirks really work for them, and it works brilliantly in the setting of these short mysteries (some of which I solved before they did –I scared the hell out of the cat by shouting ‘She’s a TWIN!’ in the middle of one story).

So, to all those people who recommended Tommy and Tuppence – Thank you.

CBRII (book 40): A walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson

I enjoy Bryson’s writing. He’s clever and self-depreciating, and always comes across some deliciously random place or fact that’ll make you giggle. He’s on my list of People I’d Like to Have Dinner With.
In his usual style, the title of his book is a complete understatement. The ‘walk’ in question is the
Appalachian Trial, which is over 2100 miles long (nobody appears to be sure of the exact length) and wanders merrily through fourteen states on America’s Eastern seaboard. The ‘woods’ are the Appalachian mountains, which include such luminaries as the Smoky Mountains national park, the Shenandoah national park, the Delaware water gap and the Mounts Washington, Killington and Springer.
It’s a long fucking walk through some seriously big woods.
Bryson didn’t do the entire walk. In total, I think he did just under half, the bulk of which he did with his old friend Stephen Katz. There’s a very interesting dynamic in this relationship, and one that doesn’t reflect too well on Bryson. See, he decided he wanted to hike the trail, and sent out an email to everybody he knew asking for company. Katz was the only one who agreed. Clearly, he thought it would be an amble through the woods with his old mate Bill, out in the fresh air and doing something physical, possibly even an escape from his own problems, which included alcoholism.
Katz was woefully unprepared for what he was doing, that’s true. Bryson had set himself a mission, and Katz was really getting in the way of that. When you’re worn out, it’s hard to be patient with whingers, too. These things are irrefutable facts.
Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for Katz, given that Bryson would just walk off ahead of him (and, in one terrifying example, lost him completely – so much for the desire to do the walk together to avoid trouble), and basically wrote almost an entire book on how useless he was. I’d love to read a chapter or two from Katz’s point of view.
Ultimately, I suspect Bryson works best with people, but only in the relatively short term. Sticking him in the woods, beautiful as they are, with only one other person for company, wasn’t a great idea. There’s only so many ways you can describe a view. It’s something you’ve got to experience, and descriptions can never do them justice. Without other personalities around, Bryson’s own has to fill the gaps, and, like a blogger who hasn’t left the house much (I’m finishing the cannonball, allright?), he tends to get a bit preachy, particularly on the topic of Americans Don’t Walk Enough.
Bryson has every right to be proud of what he achieved, but I think I liked him better when he had no idea what he was getting himself in for.

CBRII (book 39): Bad boys with Expensive Toys.

I brought it on myself, I really did. Remember when I said I borrowed a book that was a trio of romance novellas to help me pass the time during the study? I actually borrowed two. This was the second one, and it was a LOT better than the first. Like Herpes is a LOT better than say, syphilis (in my mind, I sounded like Jeremy Clarkson then). No, I’m being mean. They’re fun and these ones didn’t make me incandescent with rage.

The good news is, in The World is Too Darned Big, the second of the three novellas, it appears that MaryJanice Davidson has at last discovered the concept of Patents. Unfortunately, she only played lip-service to the concept but hey, it’s a start. Equally unfortunately, she’s still taking a steaming dump over every other aspect of engineering, medicine and physics. I love your work, Davidson, but seriously, stick to the paranormal, where you’re expected to blithely ignore reality.

The Fourteen Million Dollar Poodle, the first of the three novellas (written by Nancy Warren) was actually a lot of fun. Okay, the ‘mystery’ would have been blatantly obvious to a concussed kitten, but the characters were likable and I have a soft spot for dogs. From his aunt, Vince has inherited an utterly pampered poodle called Mimi who only understands French. Vince is a negotiator, so he’s more of a beer and steak kind of man, except Mimi comes with his aunt’s $14 million fortune as well. Luckily, Vince comes across Sophie, a Frenchwoman who used to be a chef but is now a nanny to children about as pampered as Mimi. Desperate, Vince hires her as a dog-sitter. Out of all of them, I think Warren was the only one to actually pay attention to the intended title – her main character is the only one who could be described as a ‘bad boy’ (within the boundaries of the hero of a romance, of course, which means he’s not bad at all) with an ‘expensive toy’ (yep, that’s one pricey mutt).

The third novella, Guilty Pleasures, was written by Karen Kelley, and okay, it had the ‘bad’ boy (again, not that bad), but who knows what that expensive ‘toy’ was. The computer program he’d been developing for the last few years? Way to invalidate his career, writer. The apartment he was living in at the time? That belongs to his sister and new brother-in-law.

Still, the premise was cute enough. At his sister’s wedding, Alex (the computer programmer) spots Kagen and is instantly smitten. Kagen is a successful interior designer and his new brother-in-law’s best friend, but Alex is a slut, so his sister makes him pinky swear to not mess with that. Then sis gives Alex the keys to their new apartment to stay in while they’re on their honeymoon. Meanwhile, her husband is giving the keys to Kagen, so she can surprise the bride with a beautifully decorated home.

Wacky hijinks ensue. Then some more hijinks ensue when they end up challenging each other to some sort of seduction-off (presumably like Zoolander’s walk-off without a catwalk, or David Bowie). Whoever breaks first, loses. Based on what I know about romance novels, nobody ever loses when it comes to sex.

That’s about the gist of it. If you’re looking for an intelligent examination of relations between men and women, move right along. If you’re looking for a distraction from the stench of smoked rodent, well, step on in.

CBRII: Undercover by MaryJanice Davidson

This is a collection of three romance novellas. As I said earlier, I’m currently working my way through a long-term study that means I have to keep an eye on the mice three times a day. With the other eye, I read novels. Since these are just short bursts, I figured novellas by an author whose work I usually enjoy was a great choice.

‘Sweet strangers’ (gag), the first novella, has a complex plot. I’m going to explain it in dot points.

1. Theo Forster, head researcher at a biotech firm called Androdyne has developed ‘modified cells that they can inject into the heart. The cells do the job of the pacemaker’ (direct quote). These cells are called PaceIC.
2. The head of Androdyne, Jekell, made a deal with the chinese manufacturer of existing pacemakers to bury PaceIC for ten years in exchange for six billion dollars (which, probably due to poor editing, later becomes sixty billion).
3. Theo slips a sample of PaceIC into the bag of Renee Jardin. Jekell loses his shit and puts a bounty on her head.
4. Wacky shenanigans ensue. Renee runs into a private detective. Blah, blah, blah, sex on the office floor, mix-up leading to betrayal, usual romance shit.
5. Renee goes to the FDA, who tell Renee that Androdyne was required by law to register with them before manufacturing PaceIC, and they got suspicious when he suddenly pulled it out.
6. For some stupid reason, Renee and the private eye head back to Androdyne, where they run into Theo, who tells them to take PaceIC back to the FDA chick who can ‘reverse engineer it and see that an appropriate company –ah- finds it and puts out their own version within a year’.
7. Blah, blah, gun fight, Jekell is arrested, Renee and the PI go have sex and propose and shit.

Convoluted, hey? I bet Davidson spent hours thinking that one up. I almost feel bad, since one word will tear the whole thing down.

Patent.

Presuming Androdyne owns the rights to PaceIC (which there’s no way in hell they wouldn’t), it wouldn’t matter how many ‘appropriate’ companies reverse engineered it, Androdyne still owns it. They still decide if it’s sold or not. Hell, they can give it out for free, bury it in a vault, whatever the fuck they like until that patent runs out.

Actually, the whole thing is a mess. Let’s go through each point.

1. Cells that ‘do the job of the pacemaker’ already exist. We’re born with them. There’s a patch of them on our heart that send an electrical signal at regular intervals to induce the chain-reaction of a beating heart. Pacemakers are inserted into people when their ‘pacemaker cells’ (yes, that’s what they’re called) get screwed up, and stop regularly firing. I know this partly because my mother has this problem. If PaceIC really existed, it wouldn’t replace the existing cells, it would regulate them. And seriously, inject cells into the heart? Yeah, let’s just put a random assortment of cells into one of our most vital organs and hope it sticks. No fear of immune reaction or anything.

2. Aside from the aforementioned ‘I have the patent, I can do whatever the fuck I like with it’ factor, nobody, at any point in this storyline, mentions a little thing called Clinical Trials, without which, the product cannot be sold. This is done to determine the efficacy, correct dosing regime and side effects, and takes (because these sort of things are considered important) about ten years. So, either Androdyne haven’t done them yet, in which case, the product’s not going to be on the market for ten years anyway, or they have, and everybody knows about it, so there’s no point trying to hide it. Also, if Jekell owns the company, and this product works half as well as those breathless characters make out, he'll rake in well over 6 billion dollars, and earn himself a shitload of lovely publicity in the process.

3. Whatever.

4. See above.

5. Ooh, the FDA ‘had to be informed’. NO SHIT!! Seriously, do people actually believe scientists can go around injecting whatever the fuck they like into hearts and nobody’s going to even question it? *headdesk*

6. See the rant directly under Patent.

7. See item 3.

Unfortunately, these points meant that I read the remaining novellas in a high snit, constantly muttering choice phrases about the author’s inability to do even a basic Google search. The second novella was much more enjoyable (although I’m now wondering what a banking expert would say about the plot). The third novella involved more shitting all over the reality of science – so you’ve now made a compound that speeds up skin regeneration, Theo? That’s nice. What about the nerves? Sweat glands? You know, all the other stuff that’s replaced alongside the skin with grafts. And hey, know what we call cells that grow faster than they should? CANCER! And there’s NO WAY YOU’LL HAVE THAT SHIT TO MARKET BY THE END OF THE YEAR!!! FOR FUCK’S SAKE!! WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF FUCKING REALITY DO YOU LIVE IN?!?!!

*ahem*

This is why the ITGeek won’t let me watch certain movies with him anymore.

CBRII: Feet of Clay and Thud by Terry Pratchett.

I’ve got most of the discworld books, but not Feet of Clay, so it’s been years since I’ve read it.  It’s a Watch book, which is my favourite series.  Instead of the pure satire of the Rincewind books, these are mysteries, set in Discworld.  Occasionally, the ‘mystery’ spans entire countries and involves intricate political maneuvering, but, for the head of the Watch in Ankh-Morpork (Discworld’s largest city), Sam Vimes, it’s all about solving the murder.  That’s not to say that he doesn’t recognise the larger crimes - he’s been known to arrest entire armies because they were about to start a war.

In the first Watch book, Sam Vimes was the alcoholic Captain of the Night Watch, which consisted of three other people.  A dozen or so books later, he’s Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh-Morpork, and Commander of an enormous Watch (so well regarded, in fact, that officers do the training, serve a year or two, and relocate to other Discworld cities, where they are instantly promoted.  ‘Sammies’, these officers are known as).  He’s happily married to Sybil, who just happens to be the richest woman in the city, and the devoted father of Sam Jnr, lover of that fine piece of literature, ‘Where’s my cow?’.

Sam Vimes is my favourite character in Discworld.  He’s not a genius, but he’s tenacious.  One of his nicknames has been ‘Vetrinari’s Terrier’, Vetrinari being the deliciously manipulative Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.  He grew up in the slums of the city, and still has ‘feelings of gilt’ about being a duke, well aware of his good fortune.  He keeps his Beast chained up, and Watches his Watchman.   He rises up.

Feet of Clay is one of the earlier Watch books, not long after Sam and Sybil married.  In earlier books, Sybil was much more in the background.  She was certainly part of Sam’s motivations and the power and privilege her position afforded often came in handy, but beyond that, she could have been anybody.  Later on, her character was developed (and as a side note, I love that, instead of ignoring her ‘blue blood’ history, Pratchett uses it to explain a core of strength that comes to the fore whenever things get difficult.  Sybil’s ancestors gave birth on camels or arranged tea-parties while war raged around them, so she’s more than capable of defending her family with a coal-stuffed dragon, negotiating international agreements or singing dwarf opera to win over a crowd).

But for now, she’s background.  For now, the only reference to Sam’s personal life is his difficulty adjusting to being ‘the master’ and the occasional home-front battle with a member of the Assassins guild.  With that out of the way, we move directly onto the mystery at the heart of the novel, the brutal murder of two elderly men, one a priest, the other the head of the dwarf bread museum.  Oh, and Vetrinari has fallen victim to poison.

Tied into all of this are the Golums, enormous ceramic ‘men’ who are bought and sold amongst the factories to do all the dirty work.  Aside from tackling the obvious questions about the Value of Man (even ceramic ones), Pratchett also touches on bigotry.  Corporal Angua, the beautiful woman and occasional werewolf, despises the Golums, even though she knows that it’s unfair.  Meanwhile, she’s formed a friendship with the Watch’s newest member, Cherry Littlebottom, who has been brought up to fear werewolves, even going so far as to wear a silver vest.  Cherry, a dwarf, is from a culture that does not allow men and women to physically distinguish themselves.  Awkwardly, Cheri, as she renames herself, starts wearing earrings and make up, to the horror of many of her fellow dwarfs (and the desire of others to follow suit).

Comparing this book to later one, I get the feeling Pratchett’s just getting a grip on his characters and their world.  The confidence that defines his later works is here, but it’s just a little wobbly around the edges.  He’s exploring topics like gender and slavery, in unexpected ways.  Secondary characters have vitally important roles.  Here’s where Pratchett decides that yes, he may have a glorious returned king in the mould of Aragorn walking the streets of Ankh-Morpork, but he’s not the hero, and neither is Vimes.  It’s nice to be able to share your admiration with the main character.

There’s so many elements of Feet of Clay that form vertebrae of later books that I couldn’t resist reading one of those books, Thud.  A lot has changed.  Dorfl, the golum of Feet of Clay, is a respected member of the Watch (along with several other Golums).  Nobby Nobs and Fred Colon, are considered dinosaurs, but, to Sam, they are ‘old street monsters’ still deserving of respect.  The changes to Sam and Sybil, I’ve already mentioned. 

If Discworld is just a fractured mirror of our world, in Thud we find the reflection of the endless battle between the Muslims and the Jews, played out as Trolls versus Dwarfs.  Tied into that story is the battle between old traditions and modern life.   Cheri’s innocent attempts to be feminine have not impressed everybody; although the ‘Low King’ of the dwarfs has indicated support, there are others who find it utterly offensive.  City Dwarfs are caught between their way of life and being a ‘true dwarf’.  The Trolls, meanwhile, are experiencing their own political change.  Trolls are, essentially, sentient rock, and every thousand years or so, one comes along who is, not the regular sandstone and basalt, but diamond.  This troll is, automatically, their king. And then, the battle of ‘Koom Valley’, happens all over again.   

Unless, with lots of tongue-in-cheek references to The DaVinci Code, the secret of Koom Valley is revealed, giving a Low King and a Diamond King who believe that keeping your own people alive is more important than killing your enemy, the power to preserve peace.

CBRII Book 35: Finger-licking Fifteen by Janet Evanovich.

Am I right in assuming that the Stephanie Plum series started the whole 'Chick mystery Lit' genre? It was certainly the first one I read that included all the staples: barely competent but plucky and intuitive lead, minimum of one hot man, a grisly death or two, and a metric fuckload of Wacky Characters.
In Finger-licking Fifteen we have:
Stephanie Plum, who became a Bounty hunter way back in One for the Dough, is completely inept at the actual physicality of being a bounty hunter, but she makes up for it with sheer luck and intuition. She is a complete disaster, always getting her cars blown up and something disgusting stuck to her. This book has four cars lost (a VW and one of Ranger's Porches to a firebug, Lula's Firebird and another one of Ranger's Porches to a bomb), and she ends up covered in paint (twice, or was it three times?) and flour.
The hot men are Joe Morelli, who used to be a bad boy when he and Stephanie went to high school together, but turned himself into a homicide cop. Their on-off relationship is currently off. Which clears the playing field (although he's never shown signs of caring anyway) for the super-mysterious Ranger, who was in the special forces, and then an amazing bounty hunter, but now owns and runs his own security firm. This love triangle has been going on for the past 15 books. At this stage, I'm about ready for Ranger and Joe to declare their love for EACH OTHER and leave Stephanie alone and hopefully a little wiser about making a damn decision and sticking to it, already.
The wacky friends: First, there's Lula, an ex-hooker. She's enormous and brash and she witnessed a man getting his head cut off, so now the killers are after her. Then there's Stephanie's grandmother; scrawny and curious and with no regard for any of society's conventions. Lula's started dating an enormous fireman who used to be a wrestler and likes dressing in women's clothes. There's an assortment of people who skipped bail, including an old man who pulled a gun on his dentist's snippy assistant and a flasher with an enormous penis who apparently is something of a highlight for all the housewives in the area.

Evanovich knows how to write. She knows how to write humour and create endearing characters. She knows she's on a good thing here and what to give the fans. I thoroughly enjoyed Finger-Licking Fifteen.
But after fifteen books (and at least three holiday-themed novellas), it's beginning to stagnate. Actually, Stephanie is beginning to stagnate. Ranger, for instance, has gone from a bounty hunter with a vacant lot as his listed address to the owner of a decent-sized security firm in its own seven-storey building. And, by the looks of it, a never-ending supply of Cayennes. Joe has, possibly surprising even himself, settled into a suburban home with his endearingly mad dog. Lula's constantly got a new scheme. Everybody else, if not entirely happy where they are in life, are actively headed in a direction they believe will take them there.
Except Stephanie. She's still wrestling bail-evaders in garbage. It's not like she hasn't been offered opportunities, she even quit bounty-hunting and worked for Ranger in an earlier book. And, like I said earlier, she's still vacillating between Ranger and Morelli. She's still getting her cars blown up, and her apartment set on fire, or whatever disaster Evanovich will have befall her.
Ultimately, I think this book works best if you think of it as a sitcom. But unfortunately, it's becoming one of those sitcoms that are so afraid of jumping the shark that they end up wearing out their viewer's patience.

CBRII Book 34: The Case of the Imaginary Detective by Karen Joy Fowler

There's nothing wrong with this book, there's just not much right about it. Rima Lanisell is the goddaughter of famous mystery writer Addison Early. Following the death of her father (several years after the brother, and many years after the death of her mother), Rima goes to live with Addison.
Rima is supposed to be 29, but there's something incredibly child-like about her. She drifts, and although you might be able to put that down to her understandable grief, it slows the story and sucks all the personality right out of her, an almost unforgivable sin in the central character. Like a ten year old looking for entertainment, she decides she's going to unravel the 'mystery' of her father's relationship with Addison, but she's so inert that in some scenes, she forces herself to take on the characterisitics of her dead brother, and these are the few times the plot actually advances.
There's some cute moments, mostly centred around misunderstandings between the (mostly) female characters, and the ubiquitous role of the internet in everything from modern literature to social interactions.
But overall?
Meh.