I’ve had a pretty good run on the old reading list of late. Michael Connelly has a new one out, called “The Night Fire.” Harry Bosch, recently retired from the LAPD, is consistently engaging as always. And his new protege, Detective Renee Ballard, breathes new life into what might otherwise be crime fiction tropes growing tired. Hey, every detective with creaky knees needs new blood after a while. Well, new blood and a new t-shirt I guess.
Elizabeth Berg’s latest, “The Confession Club,” is a little bit Oprah-esqe, if you know what I mean: Relentlessly upbeat, with the only male character a homeless vet suffering from PTSD found squatting in an abandoned farmhouse. But hey, if you love the small-town Midwest and can stomach all the kaffee klatsch chatter in the background, then this is the book for you.
A little edgier (OK, a LOT edgier) is Elizabeth Strout’s “Olive, Again,” a sequel to the highly acclaimed “Olive Kitteridge.” Every time Olive mutters “Idiots!” to herself and exits a scene “waving a hand over her head,” I can’t help but see Frances McDormand in my head. Hey, we all could do a lot worse.
BUT…
For my money, the best thing out there lately is Dana Stabenow’s new novel, “No Fixed Line.” If you’re a fan (as I am) of Alaska detective Kate Shugak, you’ll recall that “The Aunties” are the fabric that hold things together in fictional back-country Alaska. In my experience, that’s true in a lot of other places too.
Mary, Rachel, Esther, and great-grandma Hoffman.
This photo was taken the year before I was born.
The year before you were born! I didn’t know they had cameras back then!