Library Limelights 179

Catriona McPherson. Scot Free. USA: Midnight Ink/Llewellyn Worldwide Inc., 2018.

Perfectly hilarious in a Scottish slapstick way. Marriage counsellor Lexy Campbell is almost on her way to the airport now that her divorce from dentist Branston (Bran) Lancer is final. Living in small-town California has been enlightening but she wants to re-establish herself at home in Scotland. Before she can say goodbye to her elderly, last two clients ‪— Visalia (Vi) and Clovis (Boom) Bombaro, whom Lexy is steering through a divorce — Clovis is found murdered. In a rather nasty way, considering he was the proud owner of a successful pyrotechnics company. In short order, Lexy finds herself annoying detective Mike who's in charge, cosigning a bail bond for suspect Vi, and scrambling for a place to sleep. The Last Ditch Motel becomes her temporary home, unfazed by the motel's crazed residents; she loves the town of Cuento despite the blistering hot weather.

Bizarre coincidences pop up as Lexy looks for evidence to exonerate Vi as a suspect, but that's all part of the merriment. Her new neighbours become allies: Noleen, the dour motel owner; Todd, the crazed decorator; Kathi, the germaphobic cleaner; Roger, the gay doctor. Vi's niece Serpentina (Sparky) could be an alternative suspect. Barbara, Clovis' not-so-secret lover, could be another. Mafia connections. Dentists on a golf course. The subtitle says it all: The lighter side of the dark underbelly of the California dream. This is irreverent FUN at a manic pace. I forgive McPherson for being an off of writer because I need more of this.

One-liners:

▪ "You're not a child of the church, are you, Lexy?" (105)

▪ It was a failure of a marriage in most respects, but we really had managed to get in a full lifetime's worth of bickering. (151)

▪ He pulled me closer to him and gave Bran a look that could freeze a wart off. (205)

▪ People are so easy to manipulate, it's a blessing I only use my powers for good. (243)

Two-liners:

▪ "Good," he said with a curt nod. A nod that could have cracked a walnut under his chin. (39)

▪ "But let me give you my card."

I had about five thousand of them left and anyway it wasn't as crass as it seemed because Americans give you their card all the time. (57)

▪ "I still think only Alitalia flies to Rome. Of course, these days everyone with a pilot's licence and a big box of peanuts flies just about everywhere." (244)

Come to order:

Then a door in the blonde wood panelling swept open and the judge swirled in like a dementor—black robe, black eyes, black looks for everyone. The uniforms and the secretary sat up and the little straggle of whoever-they-were in the front row cowered even lower.

We all rose. Because the Honourable Judge Something I Didn't Catch was suddenly presiding. It was exactly like being in an episode of Columbo. Except that I usually understood Columbo, and every word uttered in Judge Dementor's court that morning was beyond me. People stood up. People sat down. They said things calmly, then a bit louder. The judge said numbers, banged his gavel, and it all started again. The only time I had ever been more mystified was watching American football. Here in the court there weren't even colour-coded pom-poms or people being stretchered off to help me decipher the doings. (36-7)

Sympathetic audience:

"What happened?" said Todd.

"Her husband was killed last night. Don't ask me to tell you how. You really don't want it in your heads, believe me."

"Get out!" said Todd. "Is your friend the firework lady? Oh Em Gee. It was all over the front page of the Voyager. She murdered her husband, and she's out on bail?"

"I cosigned the bond," I said.

"You ...?" said Todd. "Well, for God's sake pour us a glass of Chablis and tell us all!"

"I haven't got any Chablis."

"He's probably filled your refrigerator," Roger said. "As you see, Todd doesn't really do boundaries."

"As you see, Roger tends to overpsychologize everyday life," Todd shot back. (61-2)

Phoning home to Dundee:

"Mum, I'm sorry. I zoned out and forgot. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Didn't mean to wake me? What did you think I'd be doing at this time of day? Of course, you woke me."

"I forgot the time," I said.

"Lexy," I hear her say over her shoulder. "She's fine. Just felt like phoning and so she just phoned. Sleep be damned."

"It was a mistake," I said. "I'm sorry, it's been a long day."

"Oh? Another hard day charging fifty pounds an hour for a chat and taking your poor husband's credit card for walkies?"

If she knew how much I really charged an hour, she'd never sleep again.

"I don't have a husband, Mum."

"You've a stubborn streak a mile wide, Lexy. You were the same when you were a wee girl. Buying your own treats. Teaching yourself to read." (215)

Martin Cruz Smith. Gypsy in Amber. (1971) USA: Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2016.

One of Smith's first novels, I had searched for it in vain ‒ out of print ‒ at the time I was devouring his later books (Gorky Park et al). Now finally, a reprint! But whoa, what is this? Roman Grey, Gypsy antique dealer, happens to know the shady guy who died in a spectacular car and van crash; Nanoosh was transporting antiques of questionable provenance, some of them probably intended for Roman's shop. The van coincidentally also had a consignment of antiques. More to the point, in the tangled mess of broken goods and furniture on the New York bridge are the severed body parts of a young woman. Roman's police friend Isadore wants Roman to use his influence in the Rom community to help solve the murder.

Possibly the only parts of this tale that relate to any reality I know are Roman's relationships with the cop and with his girlfriend Dany. The rest drifts around from the exuberant Romany culture to mystic garble to cult mentality. Roman heads off on his own tangent, knowing exactly what he's looking for, without a word to Isadore. Halfway through, he's solved the crime and silently waits for Isadore to catch up. But the forces of evil are after Roman, with some outlandish and macabre scenes to follow. The weak plot demands a credibility stretch here that doesn't work. The book could have been preserved in amber as a curiosity. I'm just grateful that Smith, whose Arkady Renko I love, went on to greater things.

One-liners:

▪ "Amazing what those experts can do: find an ant caught in amber that's been dead, extinct for a million years, and they can tell you all about it." (32)

▪ The girl who gave away her virginity gave away her seat by the Romany fire. (58)

▪ It was impossible trying to tell her that he was separating her from the Gypsy women for her own good. (119)

▪ "It has bat's blood because the bat is the purest of all birds in that it suckles its young." (190)

Two- & multi-liners:

▪ "He's going to try to escape. You don't think he came here deliberately to get his throat cut, do you?" (173)

▪ "You're very sensitive." Roman groaned. "Haven't you ever seen a devil's head before?" (191)

▪ During the day, Priculics was a beautiful young man. At night he was a huge black dog that killed and devoured anything he met. (210)

Celebrating a vindicated soul:

It started as a high, emotional keening, the boy's head thrown back in sorrow as he told of the shock of Nanoosh's death. The Romani tongue, a dark Indian opalescent stone lacquered with singing for the Persians, slaving for the Magyars, and dying in every corner of the earth, filled the room and their hearts. Guttural but light as a bird swooping through the night, traditional and unpredictable, something that delighted in melody and then ignored it for a stronger impulse, made the ring of men and women and the children sitting on the floor all hold their breath. This was their story, their history, coming from the young boy and the old man, and when the patshivaki djili came to its exploding, victorious close with the identification of the murderous gajo, two hundred people were clapping and crying. (126-7)

Will magic rescue Roman?

"He's coming back?"

"Right now. But you've got to promise that you won't do to him what you did to the others."

"Get them out of the way. So they wouldn't have to make a choice, choose." He wasn't making sense, and he struggled to get hold of his tongue. He couldn't afford to lose her.

"Promise?"

Promise? Everyone wanted him to make promises as if he had some power over the way things happened, him tied to Dany and Celie and a poor goat that was worse off than himself. He fought the conspiracy of his ribs and temple and lurched up to his knees. The goat's hooves dangled in all directions like a bagpipe. (200)

Patrick deWitt. French Exit. Toronto: House of Anansi Press Inc., 2018.

DeWitt's books are intrinsically offbeat. This: mother Frances and son Malcolm have a bond forged from the unloved childhood that each experienced. Long after her wealthy husband Frank's death, the elegant Frances becomes a bankrupt Senior. She doesn't bother informing affable, rather insensitive Malcolm of the precarious situation; he's quite agreeable to accompany her to Paris where she intends a last stand. The plan to leave New York upsets Malcolm's girlfriend Susan, although one wonders about her mental acuity in loving this unresponsive man-child. The tiny Parisian apartment they come to inhabit is a far cry from Frances' days of lavish spending. Oh, and their cat called Small Frank gets smuggled in with them as an illegal immigrant.

Their temporary home soon overflows with an assortment of needy or goofy people. New friend Mme Reynard resents the arrival of Frances' old friend and apartment owner Joan; Julius the tentative private eye is jubilantly self-fulfilled at locating the clairvoyant Madeleine. Then Susan arrives with her new fiancé in tow. Frances keeps mum about her ultimate plan, only confiding to Small Frank who then runs away. Childhood reminiscences mingle with mostly pleasant socializing. The drunken last supper is even more entertaining. Plenty of dialogue here among deWitt's patent absurdities. Probably unlike anything you're read before.

Words: (in a dictionary game they played)

secateur - pruning shears

costalgia - chest pain specific to the ribs

remotion - relocation, moving

puncheon - a short supporting (physical) post; once meaning a cask

syrt - in Central Asia, a geographical feature; Latin derivative meaning quicksand

raptorial - predatory

One-liners:

▪ It occurred to her that, so long as she maintained forward motion, her life could not not continue, a comforting equation that conjured in her a sense of empowerment and ease. (78)

▪ They'd become used to Mme Reynard's neediness and had decided the best way to curb it was to ignore her until she began behaving attractively again. (143-4)

▪ Adulthood had no benefits that he could see and he was loath to join that cruel population. (207)

Two-liners:

▪ "She was a demon. And if such a place as hell exists then that's where she collects her mail." (68-9)

▪ "The French love their red tape, don't they?"

"They'd eat it on a plate if they could." (104)

▪ "I don't like these people. They're not normal people." (194)

Strangely smitten:

It was always this way. No matter what she said to wound him, the simple facts hurt her more. Frances would never let go of Malcolm. Susan knew this. She asked Malcolm to leave her alone and he stood to go. "I'm going to kiss your forehead," he said warningly, then he did, and exited the restaurant, forgetting to pay for his Scotch and coffee.

Susan resumed her window gazing. The rain had stopped, replaced by radiant sunshine. Minutes had passed when she noticed Malcolm was standing across the street, watching her. His sunglasses were crooked; steam was rising from his damp shoulders. He was a pile of American garbage and she feared she would love him forever. (20)

The axe falls:

It was grotesque to see a person such as Frances exposed in this way, and Mr. Baker was peeved to be a party to it. He told her, "I spoke to you about this as a possibility for seven years, and as an eventuality for three. What did you think was going to happen? What was your plan?"

She exhaled. "My plan was to die before the money ran out. But I kept and keep not dying, and here I am." She shook her head at herself, then sat up. "All right, then. It's all been settled, and now I want you to tell me what to do."

"Do," he said.

"Yes. Tell me, please."

"What else is there to do but start over?" (25-6)

En route:

Frances purchased two first-class suites from a sad, gray man at a podium. "Passports," he said, and Frances handed these over. When the man noticed Small Frank cradled in Malcolm's arms, he requested documentation for the animal. Frances explained she had none and the man heaved a sigh of spiritual exhaustion. "I can't allow you to bring an undocumented animal on board the ship."

"That's fine," said Frances, and she told Malcolm, "Put him outside, please." Malcolm moved to deposit Small Frank on the sidewalk in front of the terminal.

The man at the podium watched this in silent disbelief. When Malcolm returned, the man at the podium said, "You're just going to leave him on the sidewalk?"

"That's right," Frances answered,

"You're going to leave him on the sidewalk and go to France?"

"Paris, France." (53)