Leporidae, you say, not me.

The Rabbit Factor (2020) by Antti Tuomainen

Good Reads meta-data is 301 pages, rated 3.78 by 5,053 litizens.

DNA: Finland.

Verdict: A hoot and a holler! (The highest rating.)

Tagline: The Rabbit did it, twice.

Actuary is McKinsey-managed out of his 15-year position after being tortured by an open plan office with weekly ‘soft flow’ training sessions to release his inner creativity.  The open plan office makes it impossible to concentrate on all the possibilities and assign them values, and the soft-flow training induces nausea in his hyper-rational mind.  He has no inner creativity, nor does he want any.  

At age 39 for the first time in his life, he is unemployed.  Well, no problem, as long as people die there will be work for actuaries.  He thought. He was half right.  People still die, and more to come, well, to go.  He was half wrong because the schools are churning out more mathematicians than anyone knows what to do with.  Employers don’t want experienced actuaries who are set in his ways, they want young and strong employees desperate for their first job.  Having never spent a Euro in vain, Actuary sits tight on his savings and waits, and waits, and waits with Schopenhauer to keep him company.  Hmm.

Then things get worse.  His seldom-seen brother dies. Oh, well, he will do the duties that need to be done in a cost-efficient way.  It is then that he discovers he now owns his brother’s adventure park, and also his debts, both white and black. Then there is the rabbit.

The ride is slow and unsure, and then wild and unpredictable. Despite the odds, which he has carefully calculated, Actuary discovers things about the park, people, himself, and life.  His reaction to art and the artist are charming, if life threatening.  I will never smell a cinnamon bun again without flinching.  

The managementese interspersed throughout alone is worth the cover price. A close second are the musings of Schopenhauer — in both incarnations — that are interspersed in the text.  But then there are Actuary’s efforts to reduce his decisions to Gaussian equations!  

Loose ends remain. Johanna runs the kitchen with an iron hand in an iron glove and never wastes anything. That combination made me wonder what she did with freezer man.  

This is the third title I have read from this author, and I am very glad I did. The first was so-so, but I liked the north woods setting and finished it.  Another was more diverting and I finished that, too, but this is the cake-taker. No, not the cinnamon bun-taker.  No way! I have my eye on its two mammalian sequels.  Stay tuned for further updates. 

Life is a beach!

Palm Beach, Finland (2017) by Antti Tuomainen 

Good Reads meta-data is 332 pages rated 3.66 by litizens. 

Genre: krimi.

DNA: Finland.

Verdict: Loved it. 

Tagline: Goofy did it!

Book and author

It is all in the title. An enterprising entrepreneur, enthused by an MBA to think big and bold outside the box (aka reality), opens a resort on the Baltic Coast of Finland. He has invested in cabanas, floats, sailboards, tanning mirrors, sand pails, outsized towels, surfboards, pedal boats, sunbrellas, banana chairs, floppy hats, the whole Waikiki beach shebang. However, banks do not lend outside the box, so he borrows the money outside the box of legality.  The debt collectors cometh.

She works there as a life saver,  never mind that few can swim in the Baltic Sea…and survive without wearing two wet suits even in high summer. Beach resorts must have lifeguards. Having inherited her father’s cottage nearby and jobs are few, lifeguard it is for her, while she sets about renovating the house. Then one day she came home from work and to find a deadman in her open doorway.  Who was he? Why was he there?  What happened to him? Will there be more trouble? WTF?  

It makes no sense to her, and so she gets on with her life.  The local plods are at a loss and so in the time-honoured tradition of real life, they blame the victim, no not him, her. They begin surveillance, not to protect her from another incursion, but to implicate her in the crime. To add to the fun, they call her in for questioning time and again hoping to catch her in a contradiction. All this pointless activity is noticed at the National Crime Agency which sends in an uncover agent to sort things out.

While Undercover is chatting her up in a bar, her garden shed explodes. Ditto WTF!  Undercover is pretty sure she had nothing to do with this second event, but the local plod are sure she did….  Another touch of realism when the cops work against each other rather than the krims.

I enjoyed the trip through the north woods, and the portrayal of the Laurel and Hardy villains.  But, mystery remains, I never did grok why Anton was there in the first place.  Maybe I blinked. 

He’s here, there, and nowhere!

Edogawa Ranpo, Gold Mask (1930).

Good Reads meta-data is 240 pages, rated 3.38 by 168 litizens.

Genre: krimi.

DNA: Japan.

Verdict: A Nō pastiche with added Gaulic.  (Get it?)

Tagline:  Arsène did it

He’s here. He’s there. He’s everywhere. Gold Mask is supervillain. The amazing he does immediately. The impossible takes no longer. Acrobatics. Ventriloquism. Legerdemain. Sleights of hand. Plans made years in advance. He learned a lot from Fantômas, all 32 volumes. 

He’s altogether too bad to be true as he runs rampant in Tokyo. He is Arsène Lupin of 24 novels.

Comes complete with footnotes to Leblanc stories.

The dialogue put me in mind of silent movie inter-title cards.

Edogawa Ranpo,

The feline cognoscenti say it is not his best work.  

The book was recommended by Snowy the cat who is usually a more reliable source than Good Reads reviews. 

Ouch! Hot!

The Burning Stones (2023) by Antti Tuomainen

Good Reads meta-data is 251 pages, rated 3.56 by 231 litizens.

Genre: krimi.

DNA: Finland

Verdict: A light touch.

Tagline: The forest primeval. 

When a sauna is maxed with an occupant who cannot get out, this victim watches as the stove slowly gets hotter and hotter with no water on the coals, and…kaboom.  Victim Number One is well done.  

Turns out he was in contention for the CEO job at the very company that made that exploding stove. Two things follow: a crisis in selling those stoves and suspicion falls on the next in line for the CEO position: herself.  Moreover, there is circumstantial evidence associating her with the crime scene conveniently left for the police, unaccustomed to investigating such a scene, to find. They find it and congratulate themselves on their genius.  

The race is on between the police making a case against her, did I mention that the second in line is 50-year sales rep, a woman, no? Well she is. She competes with the police to find the real killer, since it is impossible, so Aristotle said, to prove conclusively something that did not happen, namely her guilt.  Go ahead, try proving Aristotle didn’t say that!

Being a novice she hits a few snags, takes a few wrong turns, fishes for the usual red herrings, and implicates herself unwittingly in a second murder of a member of the board of the sauna stove manufacturer. Saunas are dangerous!

What I like is the setting of village Finland 50k from Helsinki in heavily wooded lake country in the last days of summer. The days are Finnish hot (18-20C) and the nights chilly.  The slanting sun brings out the colour in the early fall foliage.  All of that is nicely done.  There is also a lot about how a sauna works.  My only experience of a sauna was in grad school where one was available in the men’s locker room and I used it after weekly Wednesday night volleyball games a few times.

Antti Tuomainen

What I found confusing was the proper names for places (lakes, villages, resorts, people) with all those double vowels, diacritics, and polysyllabic built words. In the luxury of hindsight I also questioned the speed with which our Heroine jumped to conclusions.  A 50-year old experienced sales rep would surely realise there are twists and turns in dealing with people, even though she was anxious to exonerate herself.  There was also a distracting subplot involving her wayward husband whose whole life centred around F1 racing, she thought.  While I found some of the detail of that fixation interesting it wore me out.   

Soap Box

Black River (2022) by Nilanjana Roy

Good Reads meta-data is 368 pages, rated 4.09 by 503 litizens.  

Genre: krimi.

DNA: India.

Verdict: G4 (= gritty, gruesome, garish, gory).

Tagline: TMI is not enough.

Nilanjan Roy and the book

It opens with the murder of woman and then a child. It gets worse after that.  Dirty doings in Delhi ensue.  It follows as the night the day the obvious perpetrator did it, and 360 pages later we get to him.  Those 360 pages pile on detail after detail of the injustice and oppression and squalor of Indian life for many people, especially for women, so who else could be the villain but a rich oppressor.  

A police officer is introduced earlier in the proceedings but I lost track of him in all the G4 tsunami that followed.  The policing does reappear about 150 pages later, and I liked the portrayal of both the investigator from Delhi and the local as they assess the situation.  But in the end that did not seem integral to the story or the plot or much as the sermon on the evils of the society. 

Oh dear!

Edmund Crispin, Holy Disorders (1945).

Good Reads meta-data is 272 pages, rate 3.64 by 1640 litizens.  

Genre: krimi.

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: Once is enough. More than. 

Tagline:  Yes, there is more, and more, and more. 

An egotistical Oxford don spouts literary quotations alternating with Dad jokes as a complex, convoluted, and confused plot slowly unfolds, very slowly, consisting of fantastic twists and unbelievable turns.  I could not decide whether to call it tedious, trying, or tiresome.  Maybe the whole trifecta!

It strives to be humorous but stops short at annoying.  The first chapter which I read on a Kindle sample was amusing and so I took the bait, but the air went out immediately after that. It is the second in a sequence of ten or so but this one is enough for me.  More than….

Harlem

Harlem Shuffle (2021) by Colson Whitehead.

Good Reads meta-data is 318 pages, 3.73 rated by 8591 litizens.

Genre: krimi.

DNA: Harlem 1960s.

Verdict: Harlem Cycle rechauffée.

Tagline: Welcome to Harlem.

Harlem 1960 is a world of its own, and this account is richly textured and detailed with blood and gore for those that like that on the page.  Stability in this world is achieved by blind eyes and payoffs.

Navigating these shoals, riptides, cross currents, and squalls both white and black is Furniture Merchant who would like to be honest, but, well, temptations and pressures are many in the levels of this world.  By day he sells recliners, sofas, wingback chairs, and by night he fences stolen goods, arranges robberies…but only because, he tells himself repeatedly, to help out his troublesome and always in trouble Cousin.  

Furniture Man is an honest crook in a warped environment where the racism is palpable.  Take a wrong turn and walk into another neighbourhood and the cops pounce on a black face on the wrong side of an invisible line.  It pays to know the rules, and the most important ones are unwritten and almost never said.  

***

The detail is so rich, the dialogue is so dense with the street idioms of the time and place, the racism so omnipresent that I drowned in the text, and flicked pages to stay afloat.  Not only does every character have a backstory, though admittedly many recur, so do most objects.  

There is as much violence, gratuitous as well as purposeful, in the book to remind me of Chester Hines’s Coffin Ed and Gravedigger Jones books of the Harlem Cycle set in the same milieu.  

Pel(mel)

Pel and The Death of a Detective (2000) by Juliet Hebden 

Good Reads meta-data is 224 pages, rated by 4.33 by 3 litizens.

Genre: krimi.

DNA: France: Burgundy: Gauloise.

Verdict: Is this the end of Pel?

Tagline: Incroyable!  Pel stopped smoking…for hours on end. 

Everiste Clovis Désiré Pel, Commissionare, Police Judiciare, Dijon is nearing the end.  The moody, irascible, sharp-tongued, hypochondriac considers giving up the struggle, the struggle against the judiciary, the struggle against the rules and regulations, the struggle against the well armed villains, the struggle with the hapless civilians who see nothing, hear nothing, and know nothing when questioned by police officers. (And perhaps also the struggle against we readers who want more and more of Pel and we want it now!)

All these frustrations came to a head for Pel when one of his detectives is killed in action because, he thinks, of misinformation supplied by a rule bound bureaucrat who is more interested in photo ops than crime fighting. No, not the egregious Misset, the bad penny who always lands on his feet somehow, but his number one, Daniel of the movie star good looks, which proved no protection against bullets. 

Pel has earned a rest after 25 books and two generations of writers chronicling his trials.  Here near the end the thin veil is dropped and Dijon is named as the locale.

Much as I enjoy the hunchbacked, balding, diminutive chimney that is Pel, I found this title to be overdone.  There are so many back and side stories at the start I needed GPS to navigate. However, it is also true to say that (nearly) all these threads are drawn together at the end, but even so it was hard going wielding a mental machete to get to the end. 

Who locked the door?

The Saturday Morning Murder (1988) by Batya Gur

Good Reads meta-data is 304 pages, rated 3.68 by 811 litizens.

Genre: Krimi.

DNA: Israeli.

Verdict: heavy duty procedural.

Tagline: slow and unsure wins the race.

When the Psychoanalytic Institute in Jerusalem is opened early Saturday morning one of its most illustrious members is found dead. It is a job for Michael Ohayon, chief inspector, who is always exhausted and frequently distracted but seems to have a bottomless budget.  

The first question is practical, how was the misdeed done?  It sorta looked like suicide but the absence of the gun blunted enthusiasm for that conclusion (though we know that is not always decisive, see The Silence of the Rain discussed elsewhere on the blog).  Then the next question is why.  What was the motive?  Was the perpetrator someone off the street or a member of the Institute. The security of the building is proof against an intruder, so then an insider, or – just to complicate things – an outsider with access to an insider, must be a murderer!

On it goes with a cast of blue herrings: a soldier, a confused patient, a jealous rival, an inept analyst, an Arab gardener, and more in a rich cast. In the end, well, read the book.  

It has much back-and-forth in Jerusalem at all hours, which I found more interesting than the de rigueur backstory of Ohayon.  The trope is a variant of the locked room murder. In this case the locked Institute.  It is also a variant of the isolated locale, since the Institute is staffed and frequented by very few. Then there are the stock uncooperative witnesses whose next scheduled meeting is far more important than apprehending a murderer in their ranks.  

There are some loose ends to this casual reader: the lecture notes seemed to have been stolen twice.  I never did find out what was in the lecture manuscript that was so important.  Though the solider was treated carefully, not so the far more formidable judge.  

Batya Gur

In short, it has the usual ingredients of a police procedural and they were well handled, so that I kept reading.  I will likely try another in this long running series.  This one, by the way was the first. 

Get that stick on the ice!

I Hate Hockey (2011) J’häis le hockey by François Barcelo

Good Reads meta-data is 112 pages, rated 3.20 by 60 litizens.  

Genre: krimi.

DNA: Québec.

Verdict: This is an adult?  

Tagline: Take a deep breath; slow down.

How can any Canadien hate hockey?  Least of all a Québécois?  In the Eastern Townships there is only one sport – Le hockey!  And it is not a sport but a way of life!  Or so everyone feels, except our Hero.  He blames hockey for ending his marriage, because his wife was a fanatic for the game, and he could never quite manifest sufficient interest in it to satisfy her. He blames hockey for the estrangement of his teenage son, who is embarrassed by a father who doesn’t skate. He blames hockey for losing his sales job because he could not talk the sport with customers.  In short, he couldn’t keep his stick on the ice.  Worse, he doesn’t want to do so!  

Yet, by dint of a cosmic misalignment, he is suborned into acting, emphasis on ‘acting,’ as coach for his son’s hockey team in one match, because the league rules requires adult supervision and no one else is available.  This is one fish out of water, or on ice, or something. 

The players are so good they don’t need a coach except for compliance. However he discovers that the real coach died, unexpectedly. That is, he was murdered. Specifically, beaten to death by one or more hockey sticks! Tabernac

It is told in a frenetic style of the early Woody Allen, which was at first entertaining, bemusing, then exhausting, soon annoying, and finally irritating.  Hero jumps from one ill-founded conclusion to another with Olympic speed absent Olympic grace.  

François Barcelo

A 100 breathless page monologue with Romeo and Juliet ending that bears no relation to previous pages. The end.