I like these books so much I’ve bought the last two in hardcover. Didn’t want to wait for the paperback or a library hold. Worth every penny – HA. Pun INTENDED.
A friend of mine and I have talked about how Three Pines (the fictional Quebecois town where the mysteries take place) is a place we just want to be. And I’m so grateful every time I get to revisit. I think all the fans must feel the same. And the characters are so likable, I am just happy they exist. I’m reminded of when I first read the Narnia books. Narnia was so enchanting I couldn’t wait to go back. I had a longing for it that would never go away.
Is there a German or Japanese word for “the longing to go home to a fictional place”?
This book is set in Paris. So not Three Pines. But I’m not going to be mad at Paris.
The Gamache books are murder mysteries, pretty traditional in style, with a police officer for a detective, suspense, danger, red herrings, twisty plots and satisfying conclusions. These are bestselling mysteries.
But what stands out about this series is that it is emotional. The books often hinge on the characters being able to express their love for each other. This seems very unusual in a detective book. Gamache is not a damaged, lonely cynic – he’s a loving husband and father and friend. We are in Gamache’s head a lot – and he is doing a lot of emoting and a lot of thinking. I love every bit of it. The books also reference art a lot. There are poets and painters among Gamache’s circle and their art is often woven into the books. The excerpts of poetry and the descriptions of paintings add so much richness. So much life.
Ultimately – and this is a quality of all my favorite books – this book is about relationships. Every thing comes back to the relationships between the characters. That is what matters.
And – this is Paris after all – lots of excellent food.
My two children and I have listened to a lot of audio books. Mostly we listen in the car. Or we used to, when they were at the same school, which is a 20-minute drive from home.
I felt it was a really fun way to avoid conversations.
These are the ones that stand out in my memory.
Mary Poppins and Mary Poppins Comes Back by P.L. Travers, narrated by Sophie Thompson – the books are so different from the movie I think of them as separate entities. Poppins’ character in these is delightfully crabby and flawed. It won’t be to everyone’s taste but I loved the magical quality to these adventures and the collection of strange characters. Thompson is superb.
Masterminds series by Korman Gordon, narrated by Ramon de Ocampo, Tarah Consoli, Kelly Jean Badgley, Mike Rylander, and Maxwell Glick – adventurous, fun, mysterious, suspenseful. These will get you through a long car ride.
My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George, narrated by Jeff Woodman – also adventurous, very scenic, a wonderful imaginative trip
Those are all Ms!!!
Arf and Bow Wow by Spencer Quinn, narrated by James Frangione – the books are narrated by Bowser the dog and that makes them hilarious, only enhanced by Frangione’s voice for Bowser. These are solid mysteries though, with solid danger. Exciting.
Here’s my 14-year-old’s list:
Crenshaw by Katherine Applegate, narrated by Kirby Heyborne – he liked the characters, Crenshaw and the boy. I was often crying while listening to this one.
Inkheart by Cornelia Funke, narrated by Lynn Redgrave – he liked how it was magical but seemed somehow plausible. He also said that although it wasn’t a mystery per se, as you went along you understood more about what was going on and things became clear. This one is looong.
Wildwood by Colin Meloy, narrated by Amanda Plummer – he actually didn’t listen to this one, I did. But he read it and I told him about the audio version. I had a real problem with Plummer as narrator in the beginning. Something about her diction and the emPHAsis she put on certain (wrong) syllables made me want to scream. But the story was enough to overcome that and in time I did come to like some of her voices. A little bit.
An excellent mystery series for young readers. Well… for “young” readers. Young at heart, maybe. Truth is, I’m the only one in my family to have read these. My children don’t necessarily share my mania for mystery. Too bad for them.
Why I liked these books so much:
Fun to read. The stories are quick-paced, energetic and interesting.
These are actual murder mysteries. It’s not very common to have bodies in books written for young people. Not modern books, anyway. But these manage to make the stakes high without being too scary. What I like about this is the author is taking her readers, no matter their age, seriously. There are no winky messages or jokes here that only grownups will understand. The children solve murders. “Grownups always underestimate children. Children never underestimate each other.”
Characters. Hazel Wong and Daisy Wells are one of the best detective duos I’ve ever read. They are best friends at a boarding school in England in the 1930s. Hazel is from Hong Kong and has to deal with being an outsider in a world in which Daisy is a natural insider. Their sparring is funny and insightful and the friendship is nuanced and rich.
It’s a fun way to learn more about a time and place in history. Boarding schools are fascinating to me.
There are more of these books available on the English market than here in the U.S. and I’m wondering how to get my hands on them.
Just finished the audio version of MoonflowerMurders. I was given the hardcover as a birthday gift when I was about halfway through the audiobook, and now that I’m done listening I’m looking forward to reading it or at least part of it to spend more time with the story.
I really love anything that Horowitz writes. I didn’t know it at the time I watched them but he created two of my favorite tv shows: “Midsomer Murders” and “Foyle’s War”. He has written some Sherlock books, and some homages to Sherlock books, and I read those with glee.
Then there was Magpie Murders which introduced protagonist Susan Ryeland. It was like a masterclass in detective fiction. Moonflower Murders is the follow up.
These two books employ a technique that woos me every single damn time – the book within the book. Magpie had sections of a novel; Moonflower has the whole thing. AN ENTIRE DETECTIVE NOVEL WITHIN A DETECTIVE NOVEL. What?!?! I got giddy – GIDDY – when I realized that was the case. And then the interior detective novel features a case history which is like a short story within the book. Swoon.
The layers and the hidden clues and the references to detective fiction are layered like phyllo. The whole thing feels like a game. It makes gentle fun of all the conventions of detective fiction and of writers while at the same time forming a long, twisty love letter to the form.
It’s just so much clever fun. Ryeland is a retired editor who needs to read one of her late author’s books to look for clues to solve a current mystery. The book she reads is in itself an homage to the golden age of detective fiction, in particular to Christie. Ryeland is smart and funny and stubborn, hapless while being aware of her haplessness. Falling into the conventions of detective books while pointing that out while noting how it actually works pretty well that way. It’s so self-referential while using those references to distract the reader and lull them into complacency. The embedded novel is full of word games and references to other detective writers.
Read this if you like a solid mystery that is fast-paced, intricate and well-written. Especially read if you love other mysteries. It is a celebration of mystery books that is at once winky and sincere. It reminds me all the reasons why I love them.
Today my 2-year-old nephew read Brown Bear Brown Bear by Eric Carle to me and it is the last book I’ll ever need to read again, in fact it is the only book that now exists, there are no other books, end of book blog, thanks for playing.
Brown. Bear. Brown-Bear. Whatchyoo shee?
I love it when kids do this. It makes all the readings – ALL THE READINGS – of the same books over and over and over worth it. You can literally see your hard work paying off (in this particular case my sister and my brother-in-law’s work). Look at those pudgy fingers turning pages. Listen to them rolling the words in their mouths. It’s working! They are on their way to reading on their own.
Of course one day you will miss them wanting to read with you… or sit next to you for the time it takes to read a picture book… it’s a whole thing. Cycle of parenting. But anyway.
There are others more iconic, more well-known but for me it will always be Spenser.
I could reread the books but I don’t think I will. I don’t think I want to take the chance that my memories will be tarnished.
I will stick, instead, to what I remember.
I remember their ratted covers lined up, stout and true, on a bookcase in the attic. They were all there, a whole universe over so many volumes, just waiting to dive into. Don’t you adore a series? If you like the first one, my god, the promise in all the rest of the ones on the shelf. More Spenser, Hawk and Susan? More tough-guy antics in New England environs? Why yes, thank you, I will!
I remember my father sitting in their four poster bed reading one of the books. My mother would read it next, or maybe she had already read it. I was intrigued and delighted by any book that they would both read.
I remember the feeling I had when I read books that my parents had read. So grown up. So wise.
I remember what I learned about relationships from those books. About being a tough, cool, sarcastic, loyal Bostonian. About running. About beer-drinking. About violence. The books you read when you’re young do something to you. They change your chemistry a little bit because those reactions are still happening. And because I read them when I did and because my dad died when he did and because they were both from Boston, the images of my dad and Spenser overlap sometimes in my mind. Kind of ridiculous and no, I do not want to pull apart that psychology but thanks so much anyway.
The TV series was pretty good too.
I don’t really want to talk books with somebody who is too good for a book you can buy on the rack at an airport kiosk. I freaking love shopping at those things. You feel more free to buy something that is fun and entertaining because you’re going to be on a plane. We call it guilty pleasure reading. Beach reading. Plane reading. As if something that is easy for us to read is somehow less and we need an excuse for it. Whatever. I don’t have time for those distinctions. Life is too short. Let’s just read good books. And if it’s going to deliver a kick-ass mystery with some fistfights or racy love scenes – why the frick would I be mad at that?
Books that teach us that the hardest two miles of any run are the first and the last. That your friends are the ones who will go to battle for you. That sarcasm is an art form. That loyalty matters. That Boston is a fun place to walk the high-brow/low-brow line. That understated is cool. That coffee and beer are the only two drinks. And to keep one eye on your moral compass at all times.
I’m about to finish up season 6 of Endeavour – and I’ve already watched season 7 for some reason and why can’t I do anything in order, the right way around? – so my time with it, at least for the time being, is about to end. I started with Lewis, then realized it was a follow-up series and went back to Inspector Morse and now have watched Endeavour. I haven’t read any of the Colin Dexter books they’re based on. Don’t know if I will. I like the TV characters so much I might not like the book characters.
I like the emotional undercurrents in Endeavour. All the characters are fighting epic fights on the inside, but say so very little out loud. So much is said in facial expressions. How a person looks at another person through a window. How much whiskey is left in the bottle or how a hat is laid down on a table. Which record is put on the player.
It’s bent.
The world’s bent. Always has been. We can’t fix it.
Mystery novels by Josephine Tey & the Josephine Tey mystery novels by Nicola Upson
I discovered Josephine Tey through Nicola Upson’s mystery series that feature Tey as an amateur detective. I only learned that Tey was a real person when I entered “Josephine Tey” into the search bar on my library app because I couldn’t remember Upson’s name.
It was an upending discovery.
It is a strange thing to realize a character you thought was fictitious lived and breathed. It is also strange to read the fictionalized version of her life first. So for awhile I was binge reading both Tey and Upson’s books at the same time, constantly pulling apart the threads of fiction and reality.
I love Upson’s novels. They imagine the personality and life of a woman who was extremely private. They rely on her novels as much as the scarce known details of her life as scaffolding for a very rich rendering of an unconventional person.
I listened to the audio of a few of Upson’s books (read by the excellent Wanda McCaddon, whose Scottish burr for Josephine’s voice is a delight, though I’m no Scotswoman and I find almost any approximation of that gorgeous accent to be a treat) and was addicted almost right away. They have a heady combination: intellectual mystery, personable main character and rich settings.
Tey lived during the first half of the 20th century. She was a playwright as well as a novelist. Maybe more of a playwright than a novelist. She moved between Scotland and England. Upson places her settings within these frames beautifully. The books explore the world of the theater, of post-war London, of an Alfred Hitchcock movie set, of the Scottish countryside and all are interesting. They describe in Tey a woman who supports herself with her writing (often under a pseudonym) in a world that is changing with a startling rapidity. These are my favorite kind of historical novel – the research is thorough and educational but doesn’t hit you on the head with a “Hey, appreciate all the research I did, writing is hard!” shaped stick. And the prose is just really fluid and beautiful.
But then I found out Josephine Tey was a real person. And that the mystery books alluded to in the mystery books based on a fictional version of her life … exist.
Oh happy day!
And they are wonderful. She was writing at the same time as Agatha Christie, but she is in many ways a renegade. She does wonderful things with the form. It’s as if she turned the thing – the thing that is the golden age detective story – over and over in her hands and then set it back down on the table in a different orientation. And that makes all the difference. When you’ve read/watched/listened to approximately 400 million mysteries, a little difference is significant – and significantly interesting.
And occasionally it wasn’t a little difference either. The Daughter of Time– the British Crime Writers’ Association once voted it greatest crime novel of all time – is truly a masterpiece and truly original.
The writing is intense and psychological. Sentences are beautifully and intricately woven, hanging together like a large piece of filigree.
Agatha was my first love. I fell for her mysteries in a way that changed the way I read forever. And versions of her stories are absolutely EVERYWHERE. I have watched even more Christie mysteries than I’ve read. But Josephine is a new and wondrous love and one that is somehow more wondrous because of how scarce her work is. There are only eight mystery novels and the only movie adaptation I know of is the Hitchcock movie, but I believe that veers pretty widely from the original course.
If you don’t yet know either author, you can maybe proceed with order. Read Tey’s Alan Grant novels in the order in which they were written. Read Miss Pym and Brat Farrar. Then dip into the Nicola Upson novels and decide what you think of the imagined life the contemporary author created for the historical one.
Or maybe do what I accidentally did, because it was kind of fun and trippy. Read them all out of order, sometimes two at a time, reading books as the library holds come in, overlapping the layers of fiction like a collage, getting dizzy with the immersion.
Either way, you have hours and hours of good reading ahead of you.
Take any of McCall Smith’s books to bed. I promise you will have better dreams.
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series has long been a favorite of mine. The books are just so lovely. I like to read before I fall asleep and mysteries are my favorite – but a grisly murder mystery is not always what you want to read just before bed. Enter McCall Smith, who I suspect is the most optimistic person on the planet.
All the Precious Ramotswe (the hero of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency books) books are EXCELLENT. They are not gritty or heart-stopping. They are heart-reinforcing. Read them in print – delightful. Listen to them on audio – narrator Lisette Lecat is perfect. She makes the humor sparkle. If you want an even more wholesome treat, listen to The Mystery of the Missing Lion and The Mystery of Meerkat Hill, two Precious Ramotswe Mysteries for Young Readers.
These books are like getting together with an old, dear friend. It is a place you want to visit. The prose is gentle and thoughtful and the observations about people feel true.
The characters are people I want to know. Their homes are places I would like to visit.
The Department of Sensitive Crimes is the first book in a new series set in Sweden. It has the same generous, optimistic spirit with some slightly darker humor. Sweden is slightly less of a vibrant character than Botswana is in the Ramotswe books.
I enjoyed it a little bit less, but I think I was just missing Precious and Grace.
A mystery book with no bodies may sound like it will be boring. And it will be for some. But I like the substance you find in a book that explores relationships and heartbreak and carefully, gently and with the best intentions, sets things to rights.
Ulf stood quite still. Then he bent down, patted Martin reassuringly on the head and took him back along the path by which they had come – which is, of course, the path that you can always trust to take you back to where you belong.
The Department of Sensitive Crimes by Alexander McCall Smith
Dear Porch on My Grandmother’s Old House in Boston,
I don’t remember you at all; I remember you very clearly. That’s how it is with stories that are told so often you think you remember them. But I couldn’t have – I was too young – could I?
I fell off of you onto the ground below, barely cracking my two-year-old skull (they call it a hairline fracture). There is a charmingly simple but also dramatic story about towels were draped over your railing to dry and I went to imitate my mother and while her body was trapped in the molasses speed of nightmares I, with my shiny brown bowl-cut, slipped through the terrycloth curtain and fell.
Then a trip to the emergency room, a night alone in the hospital for observation, me telling my mother it would be OK when doctors told her to say goodbye.
I remember that moment; I don’t at all. I remember my mother’s pride and fear, but only because she has told me about it. That goodbye scene in TV shows where the loved one is draped over the gurney crying and the bright sickly lights of the ceiling bear down – I can verify that those lights are bright and round and seem to stare down from heaven because I remember it. But of course I don’t.
So. I don’t know if anyone ever let you know what happened, how it all shook out, Porch on My Grandmother’s Old House, but I’m OK. I don’t even remember it now.
Know what’s funny? I remember my dad saying once that I was a very happy baby until I was about two years old. What if that fall knocked something out of me forever? I mean, I’m not an unhappy person. Just saying. It’s a funny little thing to think about.
