Library Limelights 173

B.A. Paris. Bring Me Back. USA: St. Martin's Press, 2018.

Good reason for this bestseller .. it's a riveting suspense thriller that could be subtitled How to Drive a Man Mad. After a heated argument, Finn McQuaid's girlfriend Layla disappears from a highway rest stop in France. Twelve years later we don't know what really happened that night, but Finn is happily about to marry her sister Ellen. They are living in a small Cotswold village, often visited by his old friend Harry. Finn's occasionally violent temper seems well put to rest. The creepiness begins when small Russian matryoshka dolls appear in Finn's life and he is electronically contacted by the presumed-dead Layla. Finn keeps it all secret, not wanting to upset Ellen; gradually he becomes conscious that he wants it to be Layla, his great love.

Throw in Tony, a police inspector who became a friend after the long-ago event, and Ruby, local pub owner and past casual affair of Finn's, and it's a small cast. Oh, and let's include the reclusive couple across the street. Finn is being forced to choose between his two loves if indeed "Layla" is not a macabre prank someone is elaborately playing; his suspicions run wild. Layla refuses to meet with him in person until he proves he still loves her by getting rid of Ellen. The author makes seamless transitions between Now and Then, unfolding their history. If ever there was a non-stop page-turner, this is it.

One-liners:

▪ Your naivety both appalled and charmed me. (19)

▪ "I'll try not to be too long," I promise, eyeing the Russian dolls balefully, wondering how it's possible for them to emasculate me just by being there. (96)

▪ Twelve years of dust has obliterated all color from the room and the pervading air of neglect and abandonment shocks me to the core. (102)

▪ I remember Harry saying, all those years ago, that Layla had bewitched me. (175)

Two-liners:

▪ I feel torn between my desire for Layla and my desire to protect Ellen. Now, more than ever, I need to tell Tony. (195)

▪ "Get out. If you ever come near us again, I'll call the police." (244)

Mistrust:

"That's enough, Ruby," I hiss, leaning in close to her. 

She looks at me in alarm. "What do you mean?" 

I reach out and grab her wrist. "Enough of the games. You've had your fun, now that's enough." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Trying to split up me and Ellen." 

"Look, Finn, I'm genuinely happy for you and Ellen. I wasn't being funny or anything." She tries to draw away but I hold her wrist even tighter, aware of my other hand clenching around the Russian doll. A woman pauses in her conversation and looks over at us. I take a breath, steadying myself. (67)

Temptation:

It would be so easy, a voice whispers. All you have to do is move one hand to the back of her head and press it into your chest so that her nose and mouth are covered, and slowly tighten your other arm around her. At one point, when she realizes she can't breathe, she'll struggle. But not for long; your height and weight will ensure that it's over quickly. Then, when the police ask, you'll lie to them as you lied to them before and tell them that she suddenly collapsed, that she must have had a heart attack. (186)

Ultimatum on the table:

She comes back to tell me that nobody knows where he is or when he'll be back, just that he walked uncharacteristically out of the office two days ago. I ask her if he checks in from time to time and she says he has once, so far. She promises to tell him that I need to speak to him next time he phones. I hang up, uneasiness spreading through me. First Ruby, then Ellen, now Harry. All three of them have gone somewhere, yet no one knows where. Is there some kind of conspiracy going on? Has all this been about Harry and Ellen, as I'd once thought? But where does Ruby fit in? Or maybe she doesn't, maybe Ruby is simply away on holiday somewhere. The only two things I know for sure is that I'm on my own and that time is marching on. (239)

Beverley McLachlin. Full Disclosure. Canada: Simon & Schuster, 2018.

Former Chief Justice of Canada's Supreme Court slipped smoothly into a new career with a first-rate legal mystery. Defence lawyer (and narrator) Jilly Truitt agrees to represent Vincent Trussardi, accused of the brutal murder of his wife Laura. Jilly's office partner Jeff and her longtime lover Mike are among the skeptics advising stay away from it. Assembling a convincing defence looks almost hopeless, the circumstantial evidence is so strong. And Trussardi, claiming innocence, offers little to assist any reasonable doubt for his trial. But Jilly is ambitious and stubborn; an insecure childhood of foster homes drives her to prove herself and her small, upwardly mobile legal firm.

For a debut novel, McLachlin reveals a fine hand in character study and courtroom technicalities. In the plot, not quite so much. Experienced readers will spot clues to coming surprises. Then again, some surprises seem a bit overblown for belief. Would the prosecutor, Cy Kenge in this case, not have pursued a certain DNA result? Reference to a true-life Canadian murder case struck me as a bit over the top. I never came to grips with Trussardi's character; he is described by others but his own words are veiled; his acerbic sister is much more three-dimensional. Nonetheless, hungry readers will want more of Jilly.

One-liners:

▪ We're both damaged goods, but we've both come through, if not intact, at least without diagnosed afflictions. (43)

▪ "For all his hollow core, he's capable of considerable rage, my brother." (97)

▪ I try to imagine my social worker―the soul of middle-class morality―in bed with a man. (85)

▪ Every visit, Edith finds a way to tell me it's time to have the tattoo removed. (85)

Two-liners:

▪ Prisons run on the dignity game―we take it; you keep it if you can. Most people can't. (4)

▪ You don't need to know me, I think. I'm your lawyer, not your confidante. (124)

▪ "Some things just aren't fair, including the English language. French is better―some really important things get to be feminine." (156)

The Crown prosecutor:

Cy makes light of his limp, says it's made him strong, but the burden of his body shapes his life and colors his moods. Most think of him as acerbic, some view him as shifty, a few call him downright mean. Slippery Cy, they whisper in the corridors of justice, and walk the other way. 

Not me. It wasn't easy, learning to be a criminal lawyer. I bumbled, lost more often than I should have. I was on my way down, another dropout from the cloistered criminal bar. No one cared. Except Cy. After pummeling me in court, he would offer coffee and a postmortem. Between banal bits of legal gossip, he slipped in morsels of advice: Think through your case, know your defense, look the jurors in the eye, don't talk down to the judge. And, by the way, never let the bullshit get you down.

Cynical cross-examination:

"Lots of blondes come by the motel?" 

"Yeah, every day." 

"A lot of them look alike?" 

"I guess you could say so. You know, with peroxide hair and face-lifts and Botox, you don't know what you've got anymore when it comes to a woman." 

Jeff gives the witness a conspiratorial smile―I know what you mean―and then closes in for the kill. "All you know, then, is that one of the thousands of blond women wandering North Vancouver that day may have―and we're not even sure about that―spent two hours with Trevor Shore?" 

"Uh," Gates stammers. "I guess that about sums it up." 

"Thank you, Mr. Gates." Jeff sits down with an elegant furl of his gown. Across the aisle, Cy stares stonily ahead. (260)

Belinda Bauer. The Beautiful Dead. 2016. USA: Atlantic Monthly Press, 2017.

Eve Springer is a feisty, hardworking, on-camera TV journalist under continual pressure to perform, and that depends on being on the spot as fast as possible after a crime occurs. What no one knows is the domestic stress and sacrifice she returns to after a long day's work ― caring for her father Duncan who is well along the path of dementia. Then a serial killer targets her to be his assistant; as an assistant who can properly publicize his exhibits of dead bodies. Eve is repelled but has to question her moral judgment as the murders increase and rival networks threaten her livelihood. Even so, many likeable characters warmly fill these pages.

When Duncan becomes a hostage, Eve has no choice. Her totally callous boss is ecstatic at their exclusive; Joe, her cameraman and best friend, is skeptical. Police inspector Huw Rees and his team are finally able to ID the maniac who considers himself an artist. Mounting twists and turns at a rapid pace lead up to a virtual cliffhanger. For Eve's safety, Rees provides "close protection," i.e. a bodyguard, a great addition to the story. Bauer knows how to keep the reader glued to the action, gentle humour notwithstanding, no disappointment here.

One-liners:

▪ Apparently, men grew wiser with every grey hair, while women just grew invisible. (31)

▪ Sometimes she ate beans and fish fingers right out of the frying pan and felt like a cross between a cowpoke and a caveman. (171)

▪ He reckoned art was just a trick played on people with more money than sense. (267)

▪ For the first time in her life, Eve realized that nobody was going to ride into town on a white horse and end this nightmare. (273)

▪ But if she were saved, her father would die. (314)

Two-liners:

▪ It had become their family motto.

Just keep going. (23)

▪ "Don't sneak up on me!" Eve yelled. "What's wrong with you?" (194)

Receiving the press:

The middle-aged man who opened the door was short, round, and wearing a red onesie that made him look like Yosemite Sam. 

"Mr Barr?" 

"Yes." 

"We're terribly sorry to intrude—" 

Without warning, the man threw a bucket of water over them. 

"Fucking vultures!" he said, then slammed the door. 

"Shit!" hissed Joe. He turned away and frantically checked his camera, while Eve stood, open-mouthed, looking at the front of her soaked coat, feeling the icy water run between the buttons, under her breasts and down her stomach. 

"Camera's screwed," said Joe. He looked at Eve. "You OK?" 

She nodded slowly. Then she muttered, "Bastard!" and reached for the bell again. 

Joe's hand stopped hers. "Leave it, Eve." 

"Fuck that!" She shook him off angrily and punched the bell with her forefinger. (63-4)

Deathly delusion:

Picasso and Da Vinci and Rembrandt had daubed a crude approximation of life. 

They were mere painters: he was an artist 

Only he had ever dared to mould life into death ‒ and back ‒ in a transformation that was so fundamental that the world could not yet appreciate his genius. 

No wonder he was misunderstood! The law sought to protect its own petty boundaries. It took a visionary ‒ a seer ‒ to discover new worlds, to open eyes to extreme possibilities. Where he led, others would follow. All a master needed was disciples to spread his word. 

And Eve Singer was his disciple. (189)

Dementia:

Eve helped Duncan upstairs and back into bed, and then sat slumped on the end of her own bed, with her hands twisted in her lap like a hopeless madwoman in an old painting. 

Her father was still in there. 

Somewhere. 

For a moment he'd been back with her, perfectly normal and gentle and present. Then he had disappeared again ‒ dragged back into himself by some demon that had incubated in his brain, and now had the run of the place. 

And the worst thing about was ‒ he had known! 

Eve had always imagined Duncan existed in blissful ignorance of his own condition. But for a few horrific, nightmarish moments, he'd known exactly who he was, and what was happening to him ... And yet had been no more able to hold on to reality than a feather on the wind could chart its own course through the skies. (203)

Temper, temper:

Eve hurled her mug across the living room. It exploded above the fireplace, leaving a Rorschach of dregs on the wallpaper. 

"He's been watching me!" she shouted furiously. "He's been in my house! There was a fucking Yankee candle in my hall!" 

In the wake of her outburst there was a sudden, crunching silence. Activity in the house stopped, and the three men exchanged nervous glances, as if they all secretly knew that a woman was made of sugar and spice and all things nitroglycerine. (212-3)