An Alpine Adieu and an Ode to Books Too

Reading a favorite book series is like catching up with an old friend.  They tell you their problems, and you tell them yours.  Maybe you're still processing that Corvette that cut you off, or the look that the lunch lady gave you when you said that your mashed potatoes absolutely, positively could not touch your Salisbury steak.  And the books listen without judging you or spilling your secrets or asking for anything in return.  That's why books make the best friends.  And that goes double for whodunits, where discretion means staying on the right side of the law -- not to mention the cemetery.    

So it was with mixed feelings that I began reading The Alpine Zen, the last book in Mary Daheim's Alpine cozy crime series.  Although I was excited to find out how things would end up for journalist-extraordinaire-slash-sometimes-sleuth Emma Lord, I didn't want to say goodbye to Alpine and all the fun, suspense, and comfort that it's given me over the years.  Because a little intrigue and a familiar cast of characters -- no matter how backward or crotchety -- go a long way toward dissolving those day-to-day doldrums.  

Next up: girls trip with Amelia Earhart. 

Friends 'til the End if the End is the Middle

I know, I know.  What's up with the winter reading material?  Summer just started, and it's too early for Christmas in July.  But I have a good excuse for turning to holiday homicide.  It's because I was fleeing Sally Rooney.

Yes, Sally Rooney, acclaimed author of Normal People and Beautiful World, Where Are You, both of which I enjoyed, especially Normal People.  But when I got halfway through Rooney's debut, Conversations with Friends, which is about a college student having an affair with a married man, I had to put it down.  

The college student -- Frances -- is bleeding and in pain (whether or not as the result of sex with the married guy is unclear) and needs to be rushed to the ER.  Now, as you may know, I have a history of not doing well with books about blood.  Add psychological torment, and I'm a goner.  So I closed the book before I could feel that first nauseous twinge and reached for Mary Daheim's The Alpine Winter.  It was the only new, known quantity left on my shelf.  Also, if there's a story that'll cheer me up, then it's one about finding a body after eating turkey and unwrapping mittens.  Books -- much like life -- are all about tone.  And the tone of a yuletide murder peopled by even-keeled characters is preferable to the one of a girl in pain losing her mind.  

Still, I don't like being bested by a book.  It's only happened to me twice, once with The Help and once with a bargain book whose name I can't remember.  (Somehow, some way, I even managed to finish The Bell Jar.)  And I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't curious about how things pan out for Frances.  So maybe someday I'll pick up the thread of Rooney's Conversations again.  (I didn't throw it out like I did The Help.)  But for now I'm ensconced in Alpine and its small-town eccentricities.

Because sometimes cold comfort is the warmest kind.  

And some friends are best left behind.

Sleuth Spoof: Deserts and Daheim: A Case of Killing It

' "What could be more fun than discussing the brutal murder of a friend?" '

So trilled Beverly (Wendi McLendon-Covey) during this week's episode of The Goldbergs.  Adam (Sean Giambrone) had just dragged her to see Clue, and she loved it so much (not, she's quick to point out, the mystery, but the fancy food and clothes), that she wastes no time in planning her own murder mystery party.  The result, of course, is as hilarious as any of the beloved Jenkintown family's hijinks.  But Bevy's not the only one to get caught up in the excitement of a good thriller (whatever her motivations).  

As you know, I'm into whodunits.  These days, I'm reading my way through Mary Daheim's Emma Lord mysteries.  (Daheim, as I've mentioned, also writes the zany bed-and-breakfast books featuring sleuthing cousins Judith and Renie.)  Emma traded city life at The Oregonian for The Advocate in backwoods Washington.  As such, she's an outsider in a small, as she calls it, mountain "aerie," even once she's lived there for years.  People trust her, but she's not one of them.  Despite dabbling in romance with sheriff Milo Dodge, she remains haunted by the one that got away.  Essentially, she's alone, pitting her against her most formidable adversary -- herself.   Although the Emma Lord series is still categorized as "cozy" -- it's seldom gory, it's set in a small town, and the heroine is a small business owner -- it's darker than its bed-and-breakfast counterpart.  But it's every bit as funny.  And although the crimes are compelling, they're not what really draw me.  That honor goes to Daheim's irreverence and offbeat wit, both of which are machete-sharp.  Her descriptions of the local yokels -- foibles, family trees, and all -- create characters that are layered and familiar.  They keep me coming back to this crime-ravaged corner of the Pacific Northwest -- even if I never want to meet these weirdos in person.

Anyway, getting my hands on every Emma Lord title means sometimes buying used (these started coming out in the '90s), which I'm not normally into.  But now when these gently thumbed missives arrive in the mail, I look at them with fresh eyes.  I wonder if the person who read them before me also questioned how one small logging town could be hit with so many homicides.  Or how Francine's Fine Apparel could survive in a place with such high unemployment.

Here I am reading one of them!  Truth be told, this is a staged shot (but then, aren't they all?).  Because this (Colonel Mustard, ha ha) chair, lovely though it is, isn't the most comfortable for reading.  Same goes for the jeggings and jewelry.  But I decided not to show you how I really read, all sprawled out on the couch with unspackled skin and wayward hair.  That wouldn't be fair to you.  Or me. :)    

As for the necklace, it's one I restrung recently.  When I first made it, I used yellow silicone beads, which I'd bought without knowing what they were made of.  They were sticky and, after a few wears, attracted as much dust as a lollipop in a lint trap.  So I made a mental note -- silicone: bad for breasts, bad for beads -- and started again with hard plastic.  I'm happy with the way the "new" necklace turned out.  I especially love how it blends in with my leopard sweatshirt like a camo cactus (the charms are western, even if there isn't a saguaro in sight).

Wild West Wynona Necklace

Sweatshirt: Zulily

So it's no -- surely, you knew this was coming -- mystery why I heart crafts or crafty pseudo-detectives.  Creating something from nothing (or an old something) is a thrill, and sitting back while someone else solves an (entirely different kind of) problem is the ultimate lazy river of vicarious living.  Whether the murder takes place on the side of the road or in a gilded conservatory, it coaxes me out of my humdrum existence -- and then, once the body bag hits, makes me grateful for it all over again!  In the case of Clue, the genre injects a dose of Agatha Christie-level gravitas and glamour.  After all, what little -- or grown-up -- girl doesn't want to be Miss Scarlet?  

Bananas or not, Bev was on to something.

Magical Mystery Story Tour

 Citrus Safari Necklace

Dress: Kohl's

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Nine West, Boscov's

Belt: Izod, Marshalls

Sunglasses: Brigantine beach shop

 Limey Love Necklace

Tee: Wet Seal

Skirt: Ellen Tracy, JCPenney

Shoes: Ami Clubwear (again!)

Bag: H&M

Sunglasses: Brigantine beach shop (squared!)

Fancy Fangs Necklace

Dress: American Rag, Macy's

Shoes: Madden Girl, Marshalls

Bag: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Sunglasses: JCPenney

This week's pieces don't have a whole lot in common aside from being faintly tropical.  So, I'm peeking outside the (craft supply? toy? I can't seem to remember which one I haven't used yet . . .) box in search of a theme to tie this post together.

Just the right time for a triple book report, don't you think?  

I'm about halfway through the third in a trio of cozies -- because what mystery fan doesn't like her mayhem wrapped up in an afghan?  (All the better to mop up the mess with, I say.)  Up for consideration are Mary Daheim's Clam Wake, Laura Levine's Death of a Neighborhood Witch, and Julie Hyzy's Affairs of Steak.  

Happy hour goes homicidal in Clam Wake.  Set in idyllic-meets-creepy island retirement community Obsession Shores in the dead of (hardy har har) winter, this mollusk gets moving when a milquetoast of a man is stabbed on the beach.  Only Seattle sleuths Judith and Renie can schmooze the booze-loving oldsters to find the killer before the next shell shocker -- but not before having a few of their signature wacky run-ins.  Death of a Neighborhood Witch occupies similar territory, shamelessly employing corny humor to describe the murder (also, incidentally, a stabbing) of a one-hit-wonder sitcom star in the slums of Beverly Hills.  This caper is captained by lovable loser Jaine Austen, author of not acclaimed novels, but award-winning plumbing ads (in this book she branches out to mattresses; her Bernie the Bedbug is as cute a creation this side of Disney).  Reading both books was like -- to impose upon a much-loved cliche -- visiting with old friends.  Deranged, dysfunctional friends, but friends nonetheless.  Judith and Renie's irreverence and Jaine's self deprecation are endlessly endearing, softening the (always fatal) blow of the very murders they seek to solve.  Chock-full of puns, caricatures, and other mass market paperback guilty pleasures, these whodunits know how to deliver.  Affairs of Steak, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.  White House head chef Olivia "Ollie" Paras and prickly sensitivity director (yes, that's really a thing) Peter Sargeant discover two staffers stuffed into tilt-skillets (also, apparently a thing), an incident that Hyzy describes in somewhat graphic detail.  Which should have been my first, ahem, clue, that this mystery would be no laughing matter.  With all the pomp and circumstance that we've come to expect from the White House, Affairs of Steak is undeniably the most serious of the three stories.  Hyzy puts the political in party, and I'm not talking donkeys and elephants.  The characters are high-strung instead of silly, career-climbing instead of quirky.  Protocol rules the day, and even the most innocuous conversations are fraught with enough tension to keep the interrogation bulb perpetually burning.  On the up side (for I strive to be a kindly, if not always Pollyanna, blogger), it's more cloak and dagger -- and therefore dramatic -- than its kookier counterparts.  It also seems a little more realistic, what with its earnest officers instead of the usual bumbling cops.  Finally, Affairs of Steak has the distinction of being the only culinary cozy of the triumvirate, complete with recipes.  Death by Chocolate, anyone?

So, which novel most ignited my intrigue, tickled my funny bone, and had me turning the pages long after midnight?  It was a close call (between Clam and Witch, of course, not Steak; that sad sack was never in the running) -- but Daheim's done it again!  Her Clam Wake puts the fun in funeral.

Hey, somebody had to say it.

Critters, Crimes, and Krafty* Times

 

This week's projects are still under construction (a grave misdemeanor during this first week of National Craft Month, I know), so here's a collection of random but nonetheless pleasing images that I may or may not have already posted.  Today's text will be a hodgepodge, too.  But the theme will be bound by this ditty:

Keep it light,
Keep it funny,
Keep it winsome,
Like a bunny.

I thought of that while brushing my teeth.  And so now, in an attempt to keep my ablution-brewed promise, here are a few things that are amusing (or at least to me).

First, I read a fun new author this week.  Her name is Laura Levine, and she writes cozy mysteries about -- what else? -- a sassy sleuth with a cat.  There's something special about Jaine Austen, and I don't just mean her misspelled literary legend of a moniker.  Jaine (not unlike her namesake) is a freelance writer who never met a takeout carton that didn't make her swoon.  With a cushy advertising gig and a jerk of an ex-husband (she calls him The Blob) in her rear view mirror, she's armed with only her cantankerous cat Prozac, her trusty elastic waist jeans, and her wits to navigate the often shark-infested waters of Los Angeles.  I laughed out loud as Jaine dealt with bylines and bodies with equal parts chutzpah, all the while trying not to feel like I was cheating on Mary Daheim's Judith and Renie, my up-until-now unopposed favorites in the category of fictional quirky crime-fighters.  Jaine's capers are made all the more captivating by her single-girl snafus and her frills-free lifestyle, both of which provide endless fodder for the self-deprecating humor that is at the heart of her first-person narratives.  If I ever write a novel, then I'd want it to be like these, a quippy account of self-effacing fiascoes, unpaid credit card bills, and siren-like snacks.  Because when you get down to it, isn't that what life's really about?

On the subject of food (because somehow it's always the subject), the husband and I were watching some Food Network show in which one chef grimly grinned through a mouthful of another's kale-covered cookies when the husband said, "They should have a cooking show where chefs say what they're really thinking instead of pretending to like everything.  They could call it "The Roast."'  I agreed but thought that it should be called "That's So Rare" or maybe even "What's Your Beef?" (you know, if it was meant to be raucous).  Oh, how the meatballs would fly.

And finally, here's the last kernel in this cornucopia of crazy.  I don't think people would call the boss the "head cheese" if they knew what head cheese actually was.  Or maybe they would, given the way some people feel about their bosses.  No . . . wait.  They wouldn't say "head cheese" at all.  They'd say "head honcho" or "big cheese."  Those, now that I think about it, are the sayings.

*I mean no disrespect to the good people of Kraft.  Their products are topnotch and not at all like head cheese.

Book Report: All the Pretty Hearses by Mary Daheim

As I've mentioned before, I'm a big fan of Mary Daheim's bed and breakfast mysteries.  Morbidly funny and funnily morbid, they star innkeeper Judith McMonigle Flynn, a hostess with the mostest who makes homicidal hijinks seem more delightful than deadly.  The books' lighthearted bent is apparent in their titles, which include Nutty as a Fruitcake, Creeps Suzette, Suture Self, and Hocus Croakus as well as twenty-some others.  Daheim puts out a title a year, and I always bypass the latest hardcover in favor of the latest paperback.  This year's was All the Pretty Hearses.  Having suffered through All the Pretty Horses (the highlight of which was Billy Bob Thornton's character's overuse of the word "candyass"), I got a chuckle out of it.

The plot pegs Judith's retired detective husband as a murder suspect, although it soon becomes obvious that he's merely taking the rap to better work on the case from the inside.  Yet as always, it wasn't the plot that kept me reading, but the characters.  Judith's sharp-tongued, toolshed-dwelling mother, Gertrude, is a hoot of a broad who slings one-liners with all the verve of a vaudeville vixen.  But it's Judith's almost equally irascible cousin Renie who really takes the cake.  Successful owner of CaJones Graphic Design (insert laughter here) by day and feisty curmudgeon by night, she puts the "temper" in artistic temperament with her misanthropic mien and colorful candor.  Even more eccentric is her and her psychologist husband's obsession with their stuffed ape Oscar, not to be outdone by their overzealous affection for their wardrobe-wielding pet rabbit Clarence.  Renie also eats like a horse (but never gains an ounce), dresses like a homeless person (despite her collection of designer clothes), and spends money like there's no tomorrow.  Like most sidekick characters, she's more interesting than her comparatively conventional counterpart, Judith.  I'd say that I'd like to read a story starring her, but I suspect that that would spoil the silly.

Book Report: Loco Motive by Mary Daheim

Mary Daheim has long been my favorite mystery writer. Dubbed "the reigning queen of the cozies" by the Portland Oregonian, Daheim spins zany yarns starring nice but nosy bed and breakfast owner-turned sleuth Judith McMonigle Flynn and her cranky cousin Renie. Short for Serena, Renie rhymes with "beanie," but I didn't realize that until too late in the game and still prefer to think of it as rhyming with "Jenny." (Renie with a long "e" makes me think of Beano, which isn't exactly pleasant. Although not altogether inappropriate given Renie's character, now that I think of it.) As for Judith, her crime-solving prowess has reached such renown that her fans have created a Web site devoted to her called FASTO: Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders. Unfortunately for Judith, most people get the name mixed up and exclaim, "Oh, you're FATSO!" upon meeting her.

Loco Motive is chockfull of this signature silliness. Like most of the books in the series, it begins with an appearance from Judith's mother, the cantankerous, toolshed-dwelling Gertrude. But the real fun begins when celebrity B&B guest and infamous daredevil Wee Willie Weevil takes a flying leap off the roof and breaks his leg. The cousins are relieved to be rid of the pest until they discover that he and his cohorts are on the same Boston-bound train as they are. A missing Amtrak attendant, a mysterious camera, and the possibility that Wee Willie Weevil isn't who he says he is converge to deliver another wacky whodunit for Judith to solve.

As a side note, you can always count on plenty of tasty meals in the Daheim adventures. Renie's appetite for food rivals Judith's appetite for mayhem, so lavish entrees, desserts, and snacks abound. Even on the train, the eats were described as delicious. Glamorized or not, I couldn't help but hanker for a dining car dinner.

Now, the conclusion of Loco Motive was a little confusing. There were lots of loose ends and characters to tie up (some literally!) in the last few pages, and I'm not entirely sure I understood it all. But then, I'm not sure that I was supposed to, especially because many of the character connections didn't come to light until that point.

Even so, I enjoyed the ride.

A Little Mystery

This may sound weird, but there are few tales more comforting than mystery novels. Huh? you may say. What's comforting about people getting bumped off? I'm not talking about the murder part, but the way peace is so reassuringly and neatly restored in the last chapter, as the killer is caught, the evil-doers punished, and the good guys allowed to live in peace. It's completely unrealistic, of course, this black and white sort of happy ending. But that's part of what makes it so satisfying. Another thing you can always depend upon in a mystery is some ordinary person cracking the case instead of the police. The police, since the time of Sherlock Holmes and maybe even before, have always been dubbed as bumbling fools.

During the last leg of my craft show this week I finished reading Sweet Revenge, by Diane Mott Davidson. Like most of the mysteries I read, it's what's known as a "cozy," which is to say that it centers around the adventures of a small town heroine, in this case a caterer. (My other favorite cozy series, penned by the hilarious Mary Daheim, stars a bed-and-breakfast owner.) In addition to the blood-curdling plot lines, the Davidson books have the benefit of mouth-watering gourmet recipes, the very same ones used by Goldy Shulz herself, caterer extraordinaire. I have yet to try any, mostly because they're so complicated, but the vicarious experience of reading about them is almost as good.

This is probably a good place to admit that I never figured out this mystery, or for that matter, any mystery I read. My mom claims this is because I don't want to figure them out, instead preferring that "Ohmygosh!" feeling that comes with a surprise ending. But she's being too kind. I know that I don't have the kind of logical mind necessary to decipher puzzles. Of course, sometimes I think that the authors write the stories in such a way that they can't be figured out. There's always some obscure detail surfacing at the eleventh hour, like the victim's great aunt isn't dead after all, but living in Zimbabwe with a plastic surgery-altered face under an assumed name. You know what, though? I think I do kind of like the idea of not knowing what's going to happen next, all the while waiting for the deus ex machina ending to come swooping down to set the world right again.

So, what do you guys like to read? I know this is meant to be a craft and style blog, but there are bound to be some readers out there.