The Eighth Detective by Alex Pavesi

Published by Henry Holt and Co. on August 4, 2020

What defines a murder mystery? The Eighth Detective explores that question, and even provides examples of the definition’s permutations, in a plot that seems to be one thing and turns out to be something quite different.

Before his retirement, Grant McAllister was a professor of mathematics at the University of Edinburgh. A fan of murder mysteries, McAllister authored a paper in 1937 that purports to define the mathematical structure of murder mysteries in all their variations. To illustrate some of the key principles of his definition, McAllister wrote seven stories. In the 1940s, he collected the stories and the paper in a self-published volume called The White Murders.

The reader is told that the long-forgotten volume came into the hands of a small press publisher who thought it deserved an audience. He dispatches an editor, Julie Hart, to track down McAllister, who seems to have isolated himself on a Mediterranean island. Hart discusses the stories and the mathematical paper with McAllister in a series of interviews.

The Eighth Detective opens with the first short story that appears in The White Murders. The next chapter relates Hart’s discussion of the story with McAllister. The book then alternates short stories with discussions until it reaches the final discussion, in which Hart reveals the solution to a separate mystery that she has uncovered.

Alex Pavesi scores points for inventing such a clever concept. The stories are ordinary murder mysteries, some better than others. None are particularly impressive but none are unworthy of publication. As Hart reads them to McAllister, she spotlights inconsistencies in the text and wonders whether they are deliberate. McAllister’s answers are vague. At the novel’s end, we learn that we have been deceived about the stories in a way that I won’t spoil. The deception is critical to the plot and to a full understanding of the stories themselves.

The math in the research paper that Hart finds so complex consists of nothing more than Venn diagrams. McAllister defines every murder mystery in terms of four ingredients. With one exception, a story that lacks any of those ingredients is not a true murder mystery. Unsurprisingly, a murder mystery requires at least one murder victim, at least one killer, at least two suspects, and typically (but not inevitably) someone who solves the crime. The categories overlap, so that (for example) the detective or the victim might also be the murderer. McAllister also believes that the main structural variations of mystery stories can be broken down into archetypes. The stories are meant to illustrate seven of those.

Murder mysteries often depend on surprise endings (in many, the killer is the person we least suspect), a convention that, Hart opines, has carried over into the broader crime novel genre, even as traditional murder mysteries have diminished in popularity. The Eighth Detective follows that convention by serving up a couple of surprise endings. One changes the reader’s understanding of Hart (just as Hart changes the reader’s understanding of McAllister), while the other wraps up some dangling clues to an unsolved crime that Hart discovers in The White Murders.

Cleverness is its own reward in crime fiction. If The Eighth Detective didn’t blow me away, and if the “mathematical” analysis of murder mysteries seems a bit simplistic, those faults are easily overshadowed by Pavesi’s careful attention to storytelling details that create, in the end, an inventive novel that is both a murder mystery and a different kind of mystery — the story of two protagonists who each endeavor to keep secrets from the other for reasons of their own.

RECOMMENDED

Private Means by Cree LeFavour

Published by Grove Press on August 11, 2020

Private Means is a novel of first-world problems. An empty nest couple living comfortably in Manhattan complain to themselves about their inability to afford Dolce & Gabbana ankle boot stilettos in camel eel skin (the wife) or a summer home (the husband) because they spend all their income on European cheese, Icelandic yogurt, and grass-fed meat. They consider themselves members of the “intellectual working class” although only one of them works. Now in her 50s, Alice sacrificed a career as a biophysicist to raise children, a choice she regrets. She doesn’t seem to regret the money her husband earns; her frequent dropping of fashion designer brand names makes clear where her husband’s income goes. Her husband Peter is a psychiatrist whose mind is drifting during the endless 45-minute sessions he spends listening to his well-heeled clients complain about their empty lives or the lack of libidinal control that leads to empty remorse.

Both Alice and Peter are tempted to stray, although only Alice — who feels the need to analyze the word “stray” as part of her relentless contemplation of her life — actually carries through with the act, while Peter chooses to relieve his pent-up desire for a flirtatious patient by masturbating on the couch in his office. Fortunately, his patients rarely use the couch.

It has been a couple of years since Peter and Alice had sex, one of the problems they each obsess about but never discuss. Alice feels transformed by her affair until the man who took her to bed meets her again to apologize for seducing her. His apology is condescending and Alice has reason to be upset by his assumption that he took advantage of her. It is nevertheless remarkable, given all the time that Alice devotes to analyzing the encounter and its meaning, that she faults the man for the “depressingly ordinary morality that took over when conformist impulses met disorderly behavior. Couldn’t anything remain unexamined?” Pot, meet kettle.

Peter and Alice live together but occupy different internal worlds. Peter is “so tired of her theatrics — the need to talk when there is nothing to say.” Yes, that’s wearisome after years of marriage, but Peter makes no effort to engage. He shuts down conversations whether or not they are substantive and he makes no effort to shift their direction to something he might find diverting. Peter’s inattention makes Alice feel uninteresting. To be fair, she has little of interest to say and after many years, her neediness and litany of complaints has likely taken its toll on Peter. Alice seems incapable of recognizing that her petty grievances are not Peter’s fault — he’s always snored, she’s simply decided that it should bother her now.

I’m not sure I’ve ever read about two more tedious characters. Even when they have a physical confrontation, they’re too lost in their own heads to really mix it up, and then they each indulge in an eternity of post-brawl self-analysis. When another analyst (a colleague of Peter’s) comes along to dissect the lives of Peter and Alice, her thoughts contribute to the confusion without helping either of them resolve their issues. By the end, Private Means had me wondering whether the unexamined life is not only worth living, but preferable to the self-inflicted misery of unremitting examination.

By virtue of a contrived coincidence, Peter encounters the man who shagged his wife. That contrivance at least created the possibility for something interesting to happen. Sadly, the moment passes without literary consequence. Alice’s desire to compare everything to the murmuration of starlings is, if not contrived, at least forced. Apart from an affair subplot that goes nowhere, the main plot driver seems to be a lost dog, but that thread ties up in way that had me making “what was that all about?” head scratches.

Writers are often admonished to show, not tell. In most fiction, a certain degree of exposition is inevitable and, in many cases, necessary. We don’t necessarily know what a character is thinking unless the character reveals his or her thoughts. Still, interior monologs dominate Private Means to such an extent that they become tiresome. When no thought goes unanalyzed, my wish is to tell the characters to stop thinking so much and to start living. Maybe that’s the point, but making the reader capture the point only after enduring a wearying series of thought balloons risks losing the reader’s effort.

Notwithstanding the negative tone of this review, a reader might find some value in Private Lives. Readers might see themselves in the main characters, as they exemplify the men from Mars and women from Venus that are standard fare for chroniclers of domestic drama. The couple’s musings are occasionally noteworthy, as when they mock self-important food (a natural subject for a cookbook-writer-turned-novelist). Other food references just fill the space between thoughts, and there isn’t much space to fill. There were times when I wanted to close the book and move on to something livelier, but Cree LeFavour’s fluid prose helped me endure. Fortunately, the story and my attention span ran out of gas at the same time.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

When These Mountains Burn by David Joy

Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons on August 18, 2020

When These Mountains Burn is a literary suspense novel that carefully balances plot and characterization. The novel offers a granular examination of Appalachian lives plagued by addiction and loss. The story focuses on a few key characters who are caught in a clash between cultural values that have long informed the region and the drug culture that swallows residents who see vanishing opportunities and have little hope for a better life.

There were good times in Ray Mathis’ life, but it hurts too much to remember them. His wife is dead and his adult son Ricky is a junkie. Ray retired from the Forest Service with an injury and a small settlement. He spends his last $10,000 to save his son from a drug dealer who is holding him hostage for an unpaid debt.

Ray is from a generation that “never had much use for the law.” People in the mountains took care of their own problems. In Ray’s opinion, if someone who deserved rough justice came up missing or got burned out of a house, it would be a mistake to call that lawlessness. “These mountains used to have their own kind of order,” Ray laments. He will eventually take justice into his own hands — a decision that irritates but doesn’t surprise the deputy sheriff who is like a daughter to him — but Ray won’t be pleased with the result of his actions.

Ray is a decent man who endures the changes that have vanquished the kind of self-sufficient life that men of his generation value. Ray feels emotions strongly but lacks the ability to express them. He knows that the strong silent man is actually a weak man, weakened by his inability to speak the truth in his heart.

A second character who gets a fair amount of attention is Rodriquez, an undercover agent who works with the DEA. Taking advantage of the assumption that “men who looked like Rodriguez were drug dealers and rapists,” the DEA uses Rodriguez to gather information about a high-level dealer who uses the Cherokee reservation as a refuge from surveillance.

The third key character, and in some respects the most important of the trio, is Denny Rattler. Denny is a heroin addict and small-time thief who steals enough to pay for his next fix. Denny finds himself in a motel room with a group of addicts, tries to save a man’s life, and is beaten for his trouble. Throughout the story, Denny has serious intentions of cleaning himself up. As is generally true of addicts, he always manages to find a reason to set his good intentions aside in favor of the needle. Even his love for his sister is less compelling than the need to chase the perfect high.

David Joy tells his story in an honest and straightforward prose style that suits the novel's atmosphere. His plot builds suspense as gritty characters circle each other in a dance that brings them closer to destruction. The story gains credibility from its relative simplicity. It is violent without becoming brutal or gratuitous. The ending is satisfying but not artificially happy.  Whether any character will internalize the novel’s traumatic events and emerge as a better person is unclear, although Joy doesn’t foreclose that possibility. Life is hard and the future is uncertain, but perseverance — the novel seems to suggest — carries the possibility of reward, even if it is not the reward we seek or expect.

RECOMMENDED

The Companions by Katie M. Flynn

Published by Gallery/Scout Press on March 3, 2020

The Companions would have benefitted from a more purposeful plot. The story recycles themes that are common in science fiction — storage of human memory in an artificial body, the exploitation of artificial constructs that have a connection to humanity, the faint line that separates what is human and what is machine — yet the exploration of those themes serves an unclear end. While characters occasionally have moral reservations about their conduct, the story never brings into focus the message, if any, that Katie Flynn wants to convey.

Companions are cheap robots that have been programmed with memories uploaded from people who are about to die. They are available for lease, not for ownership. They are said to have consciousness but no soul. Companions are useful for people who are quarantined or living in eldercare facilities. Plenty of people need them because of a virus that continues to do its deadly business. The quarantine is in the background so if you are looking for a story that provides insight into the world’s present plight, this isn’t it.

The story begins with a girl named Dahlia and her companion Lilac. Lilac retains the memory of her death as a teenager at the hands of another teen. She knows her friend Nikki was present when she died but doesn’t know what became of her. Her consciousness was uploaded shortly before her death. It then became the property of Metis, the company that manufactures companions. Flynn largely ignores the legal and ethical questions that surround private ownership of another person’s consciousness, except to suggest the obvious, that it might be a bad thing to own the equivalent of another person’s living brain.

Dahlia and her mother live in San Francisco. Dahlia’s mother resents paying for Lilac, despite purchasing a first-generation unit with an inexpensive processor that does not allow Lilac’s mind to mature. As Dahlia begins to outgrow her need for Lilac, and as it seems clear that Lilac will be recycled, Lilac lets loose the rage that she has kept contained.

From that opening chapter, the novel covers a period of years. For the most part, each chapter is told from the perspective of a different character. Novels that change narrators in each chapter must find a way to build a connection between the reader and at least some of the narrators. Flynn never made me care about any of them. Part of the problem is that few of the narrators felt like a unique individual. With the exception of Gabe, whose uneducated dialect is exaggerated, the characters speak in the same narrative voice. If the chapter headings did not announce the narrator, it would be difficult to understand whose voice the reader is hearing.

In any event, a damaged Lilac visits the person she believes to have killed her human body. She thereafter goes through various incarnations, hooks up with other renegade companions, and deals with an evolving world that eventually decides companions should be recalled and scrapped. A pivotal chapter in the novel’s middle tells of a woman approaching death whose plan to upload her consciousness to a companion is interrupted by an attempt to hijack the companion so that another consciousness will have a body. A later chapter introduces a farmer who takes on the recycling of defective companions as a side job and the daughter who eventually carries on that business. Those chapters also introduce a disturbed child named Andy who seems to prefer the company of companions, if only to have control over a consciousness other than his own.

Because it jumps from character to character, the story has a disjointed feel. Investing in or sympathizing with any character is difficult. That’s a drawback in a novel that is probably intended to make readers feel something for the plight of companions. Lilac turns out to be a disagreeable consciousness; her eventual reinterpretation of her own death made me shrug. A good deal of care went into the construction of a plot that is intermittently interesting, but if Flynn had a purpose in mind when telling this story, it eluded me.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

Luster by Raven Leilani

Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux on August 4, 2020

There is an appealing randomness to Luster, yet every scene in this story of a 23-year-old woman is purposeful. After Edie loses her job as an editorial coordinator for the children’s division of a book publisher, she does food delivery on her bicycle as part of the on-demand economy, joining the other “delivery boys and girls who jet into traffic with fried rice and no reason to live.” She later fills her days with whatever comes along, culminating in a trip to a comic convention that she attends as a black Princess Leia. Along the way Edie observes her environment, frets about her intestines, and questions her choices. A plot that seems to be haphazard and whimsical evolves into a serious story about a black woman who is trying to find a path that will take her beyond condescension and judgment to a destination of her own design.

While still employed, Edie begins having an affair with a middle-aged man who impresses her because he can adequately navigate a wine list. Edie has had flings with pretty much everyone in her office, regardless of gender — she regards opportunities to have sex as the best part of her job — which accounts for her eventual separation from her employment. Edie is sure men lose interest in her when she talks and perhaps that is the way of men, but Edie is so stuffed with ideas that it is difficult to believe anyone would not be delighted to hear her thoughts.

The affair is with a married man named Eric. They meet through an app. Edie worries about their first meeting in broad daylight, the one “where you see him seeing you, deciding in this split second whether any future cunnilingus will be enthusiastic or perfunctory.” Edie is disappointed that Eric takes so long to take her to bed and is thereafter disappointed that he spends so much time traveling on business or doing whatever he does with his wife.

Edie drops into Eric’s home uninvited — in fact, she walks into the house to have a look around, thinking it is empty — and ends up attending Eric’s anniversary party with his wife Rebecca and adopted daughter Akila. Eric and Rebecca are white; Akila is black. Rebecca decides for reasons of her own that she should form a relationship of some sort with Edie, although not exactly a friendship. Rebecca expects Akila to bond with Edie and wants Edie to play the role of “Trusty Black Spirit Guide” in exactly the way Rebecca thinks it should be played, but Akila is thirteen and not about to bond with any adult, particularly not one who has seen her father’s penis.

When Edie loses her job and apartment, Rebecca improbably invites her to move into the guest room. For much of the novel, Edie is trying to figure out how to fit in with the man she sometimes shags, his wife, and the tweener who seems to despise her. At the same time, Edie is painting. Her works are undistinguished, but as she thinks about her life and the circumstances of those around her, she slowly develops a technique that brings an emotional honesty into her creations.

Perhaps Edie is a surrogate for Raven Leilani, at least in the sense that Leilani has certainly learned the importance of taking a hard and honest look at life and to let her critical observations inform her writing. When Edie says about her job, “if a person come to rote work with the expectation that she will be demeaned, she can bypass the pitfalls of hope and redirect all that energy into being a merciless drone” — she is speaking a truth that most people will recognize.

Racism is a central theme that Leilani tackles with subtlety. Before she is sacked, Edie works with a black woman who is enviably better than Edie at being “black and dogged and inoffensive.” Edie’s co-worker criticizes Edie for thinking that by being “slack” and expressing “no impulse control you’re like, black power. Sticking it to the white man or whatever. But you’re just exactly what they expect.” In the other woman’s view, Edie isn’t allowed to be herself, because in a white world, being herself isn’t good enough. Which is, in itself, a form of racism. Edie’s sharp observations of the role black women are expected to play in a business world dominated by white males — particularly white men who are trying to be politically correct and cluelessly botching it — would make Luster worthwhile even if the novel had nothing else to offer.

The behavior of men toward women is another theme. In the dark, “all the wholly unoriginal, too generous things men are prone to saying before they come sound startling and true.” Then they collect their pants and “there is a world beyond the door with its traffic and measles and no room for these heady, optimistic words.” Men are there and then they are not. “I have learned not to be surprised by a man’s sudden withdrawal,” Edie says.

Luster might be seen as a coming of age novel because, while Edie may seem aimless, she begins to understand what is important to her life by the novel’s end. The sentences quoted in this review provide a glimpse of how Leilani focuses so precisely on the world that Edie inhabits, how eloquently she conveys Edie’s thoughts. The novel is wickedly smart, sly, and engrossing. Leilani’s novel may be a debut, but it is written in the assured voice of a seasoned writer who knows exactly what she wants to say.

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