Diane Plumley

Laura. Best 100 Mysteries of All Time

by

Laura—Vera Caspary–1943 (it ran as a serial in a magazine in 1942 before being published as a novel)–used paperback

I recently read another Vera Caspary title, Bedelia, and the only similarity to Laura is the author. Bedelia is a nice character study of a beguiling black widow, whose latest husband finally catches on. It holds neither the suspense or surprise that Laura does. Since a great deal of the impact of the novel, Laura, is intertwined with the plot–I’ll need to give a general *Spoiler Alert” for the entire article! That’s assuming you are one of the few people who never heard of or saw the classic film starring Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews, nor saw the billion rip-offs on episodic television.

Read more

Partners & Crime Booksellers Closing

by

Another independent bookstore is ending its run. Partners & Crime follows many other mystery indies that have closed over the last 20 or so years in New York City. Starting with the two Foul Play bookstores, one in the Village, the other on the Upper East Side in 1994, and over a decade later by the first mystery bookstore established in the US, Murder Ink (it had expanded to two stores before the expansion closed in the late 90s.) Black Orchid, closed a few years ago, and now Partners & Crime. The only specialized mystery bookstore left in the city will be Mysterious Bookshop, which moved downtown after the brownstone it was located in was sold. Partners & Crime was in business for 18 years, not a bad run at all. The reason it was able to stay open as long as it did–the original partners all had day jobs as well as part ownership. The digital world has been taking over, and in some ways this doesn’t seem like a bad thing, to one of the owners. The idea that books will now be on the same playing field as music and movies pleases her. Nonetheless, it is sad for those of us who love wandering through the aisles, perusing titles and authors, making selections from what we physically handle rather than reading inane reviews online and choosing that way. Having a live intelligent person who can point out what they have recently read and liked beats amazon’s ridiculous reviews any day.

Read more

Sally A. Fellows: A Good Reader of Books

by

I can’t claim I knew Sally Fellows well. I wish I had been closer to her, that I had been able to attend a mystery convention, Mayhem in the Midlands that Sally helped organize and host. From reports, it was one of the best run and most fun of the various conferences. I met her in the late 1990s at  Malice Domestic, a yearly convention held on the east coast. A history teacher, and a reader, she was well known within the community as a strong reviewer, tough, but fair. When I met her she was using a cane, she was often in pain from back problems, but this didn’t seem to lessen her zest and delight in the panels, authors, and events that comprise a crime fiction gathering. At various times she moderated panels of discussion. A no nonsense individual, you knew when you dealt with Sally, she could be acerbic, even bitting, but never mean spirited. I remember babbling incessantly at one Malice, something that got on her nerves (who could blame her) and she chastised me. For a short second, I felt as perhaps her students did when they weren’t living up to her standards. And her standards were high–for people and literature. They made you want to do better, be a better listener, reader, reviewer. She encouraged new authors, read their works, urged them on. She and Doris Ann Norris (2012 Bouchercon Fan of the Year) were given the dedication in Laura Lippman’s great novel, Every Secret Thing. (On my list of Best 100 Mysteries). Her contribution to the mystery field is vast. Besides her erudite reviews, and Mayhem in the Midlands, her encouragement to new and established authors was well appreciated. Many, many  authors have been expressing sadness and shock at her passing. Far more than I  realized, were touched and impacted by Sally’s gifts.

Read more

Where and When Do You Read?

by

Whether you hold a solid book in your hands or flick your finger across a screen, finding a time and place for reading, often isn’t easy. Although in theory I have more time to peruse material, with no  9 to 5 job, so could slip in reading time whenever I felt like, reality is quite different. In actuality, when I worked in Jersey City and commuted on the subway from Queens, I had more reading time than before or since. 45 minutes both ways meant I went through a couple of  books a week during a reading streak. Naturally, commuting wasn’t thrilling and I’d have preferred not to do it, especially after the very spot I traveled through was blown up during the first attack on the World Trade Center, one hour after I passed by. But if it has to be done, reading is the only way to keep from imagining various torturous ways to kill your fellow annoying passengers.

Now, even if I desperately want to sit and finish a read, I don’t do it. Mostly out of guilt. The guilt from the feeling I should be occupied with other things–cleaning, or cleaning, doing wash, or cleaning. I usually read only before I fall asleep, or if I wake up unable to sleep, or when I wake up in the morning. Notice it all depends on my sleeping pattern? This would change if I had what narrators on the House and Garden network call a ‘soaker tub’. Then I’d be wrinkled and prune-like after hours and hours floating in a pomegranate bath oil laden tub, finishing up a Ruth Rendell or the latest from Elaine Viets. In my teens I’d hang out in the tub reading until my mother was about to send a search party looking for me. But the tub has seen better days, mostly in the 1970s, and the yellow fiberglass isn’t appealing any more. There’s also a porch in the back which has nice lounge chairs. But whoever designed the bunker didn’t take into account heat or cold, so the only seasons one can bear to be out there is the slice between winter and summer loosely called Spring, and the other sliver of time between sweltering heat of summer, and the frozen tundra of winter, called Autumn.  If I find myself available within those time frames, I attempt to relax, reclined, and ready for a good tale. Inevitably there will be interruptions of varying types, from phone calls, dogs peeing, or my mother asking why I’m not cleaning.

Read more

Vietnam Echos in The Mercy Killers By Lisa Reardon

by

Lisa Reardon is on my Best 100 Mysteries of All Time list for her first book Billy Dead. If  I’d read The Mercy Killers before I finalized the list, she may have had two entries. The Mercy Killers is not an easy read, and yet, it compels and rivets the reader with little action other than the characters living their lives, as dysfunctional as they are. The toughness comes from the unrelenting negativity surrounding the crowd at McGurk’s Taproom in Ypsilanti, MI.  The book starts with what feels like a forced addition–forced by an editor or publisher to encapsulate the plot before the story even begins, to give the reader a broad idea of what lies ahead–trouble. And war.

Read more

Amazon Warehouse, Up Close

by
Warehouse in Lower Macungie Township in PA–the hot as hell warehouse inspected by OSHA.

Reading the interesting post of John Pollard, my memory kicked in, and reminded me of my up close and almost personal view of a real live Amazon warehouse, full of books to be pulled, and boxed and shipped to the various customers around the world. I happened upon it, as my husband and I often do, accidentally, while exploring a route to a giant something or other. Could have been a Catsup bottle or milk can or whatever, but after we found it, clicked enough pictures for posterity, I turned around, and low and behold a sign with the familiar word I’ve always associated with oversized super women, Amazon, appeared.  I had the husband adjust our direction to enter the parking lot of a long ugly warehouse with no visible humans, no openings, no windows, unless in the office part, and no activity. For around a minute I thought perhaps it was abandoned. But rounding the end of the warehouse we found a more congenial area, if congenial means one opening, with a couple of people handing out boxes, and, an area with one dinky picnic table, a couple of attached benches, and a lone individual eating. Oh, and did I mention, the spot was entirely caged with open fencing–up to the top–completely enclosed. By golly, no slimy picker person will abscond with the latest paperback, not from this joint!

Read more

Is There a Bumper Sticker–I Brake For Books?

by
Most of our recent road trip stash.

If not, there should be. On our road trips, we happen across books in all sorts of out of the way places-without planning to find a bookshop, or used bookstore. When we pass by a sign that declares–used books, we  brake, as safely as possible, and turn right around if necessary. Sometimes we are horribly disappointed–the shop is closed. Little garage stores, or hole in the walls don’t have regular hours, and even if they do, our cruising along the road can be from 6 a.m. to midnight–we  are oblivious to time. Once in leaving The Road Kill Cafe, on the way to The Pencil Sharpener Museum, we rounded a curve and there was a white outbuilding with a nice sign. We stopped, it looked deserted, but we tried the door

One buck each at small collectibles store in KY

anyway. And we saw books–rows and rows of lovely printed things. A middle aged gentleman joined us, we chatted, and found some wonderful tomes to add to our collection, as well as for fun and reading. We were just in time, he would have closed and locked the door if we’d been any later. His place was more of a storage area, less of a shop, but weaving through white washed church filled roads in New England, a small tasteful sign designated that within this private home, there was also an antiquarian bookman. Sometimes private homes make me nervous, the feeling is too personal and I’m afraid not to buy something, for fear of offending the homeowner. That of course, is completely silly, but it’s my hang-up. My husband has no such trepidation, and sallies forth, eagerly assessing the shelves of neatly alphabetized titles within. We had a terrific time. Half the pleasure of road trips are meeting fascinating individuals along the way. Booksellers without exception, fall into that category.

Read more

Holy Crap! Another Book That Could Be On My List

by

This is the very reason it took me so long to create the Best 100 Mysteries of All Time list. I keep reading. If I keep reading, especially vintage crime fiction, I’m bound to hit a couple of  ‘holy crap!’ books along the way. A ‘holy crap’ is one where at the end I yell, holy crap!  More likely in language a bit more salty. I finished a ‘holy crap!’ book about one hour ago, and felt I needed to express my frustration at not being able to add, switch, change, or somehow acknowledge the book in that list.

But the very fact that so many books are that good, should make me happy. And it does, while reading. However, my thinking tank starts placing it before one book, or after another, knocking something off, but then I think, ‘no, that book was really fascinating, book B should go, and so on.’ And the list would never be finished. I had to end that kind of thinking, and set the list, without room for more reads down the line.

The Chill, Ross MacDonald, 1963 shouldn’t have been that good. I’ve read Kenneth Millar before. Millar as Ross MacDonald has been praised as the next thing to Hammett and Chandler in PI stories. But I’ve not found him that compelling. Good, not great. I think his wife, Margaret Millar is a far superior writer, who although acknowledged by the mystery community, hasn’t the place in history her husband enjoys. They both came from a little Canadian town, married and moved to Southern California, where most of their books are set. His is the straight forward detective tale, hers are more psychological and character driven.  Her stories are haunting, and not easily forgotten. Or they can be funny as hell.

Read more