Must-Read Mysteries
It's a fatal attraction. The lure of the mystery novel is twofold: There's the element of surprise (no surprise there), which appeals to our innate and insatiable curiosity, and the pleasantly shivery thrills of vicariously playing hero, victim, or villain. Once you're hooked on mysteries, you can kill yourself just trying to keep up with all the authors, series, settings, and more. What's the solution? Well, our state has produced some fearfully good mystery writers–going all the way back to Fort Worth native Patricia Highsmith, who in the fifties penned Strangers on a Train and The Talented Mr. Ripley, among other books. Since her day, scores of other Texans have similarly taken pen (poison or otherwise) in hand to spin terrifying tales of mayhem and murder. No question that there are serious and pervasive problems in the genre–derivative plots, shallow characters, an excess of gore–but in the following ten modern Texas mysteries, good (as in readability) eventually triumphs over bad (clichés and gimmickry). Note that the list is alphabetized by author, not arranged from best to worst as I had originally planned (too great a challenge!), but all offer moments of bloody good fun. Check the locks, and read on.
Click on the title to buy from Amazon.com. Some books are out of print.
Track of the Cat, Nevada Barr (1993). Set in West Texas' Guadalupe Mountains National Park, this mystery introduced Anna Pigeon, ranger extraordinaire, who discovers a colleague's savaged corpse in a remote area of the isolated park. Did the death result from a mountain lion attack? (Of course not!) Anna is pleasantly cantankerous and wholly believable, and her creator clearly did in-depth research–her descriptions of Texas flora and fauna ring true.
Skinny Annie Blues, Neal Barrett, Jr., (1996). Too many purveyors of the tough-guy genre OD on glib asides and over-the-top machismo. Barrett is an exception. Yes, his protagonist, Wiley Moss, is funny (nonstop) and fierce (when duty calls), but the author's writing elevates the story, which begins with an accidental drowning in an aquarium. And Barrett's a whiz with dialogue and down-home dialect; for example, describing the title character, Moss notes that her breasts were "so feisty I thought they might bark."
The Case of the Hook-billed Kites, J. S. Borthwick (1982). This classy little mystery takes place in a fictitious (but well-drawn) wildlife refuge along the Rio Grande, where a bird-watching expedition loses one of its stalwarts to strangulation by binocular strap. The author is particularly adept at depicting the motley assortment of cutthroat birders and goofy guides. Bonus for readers short on fine-feathered-friend lore: The book is a crash course in Texas birding.
Loose Among the Lambs, Jay Brandon (1993). In a way, this isn't a mystery; there's no murder to start the action. But this book is more compelling and horrifying than scores that pile on the guts and gore. The San Antonio district attorney marshals the city's prosecutors and police to stop a man who has repeatedly molested both boys and girls. When the alleged perpetrator is identified in chapter 1, readers know they're in for some serious plot twisting. Brandon, who lives in San Antonio, is obviously a father; his portrayal of the bewildered victims is at once straightforward and deeply emotional. He's an attorney too, and when it comes to evoking courtroom drama, no other Texas writer comes even close.
A Share in Death, Deborah Crombie (1993). The first of Crombie's increasingly fine Scotland Yard series revealed a confidence rarely found in a novice writer. The author, a Texas native who now lives in McKinney, drew on her years in England to produce an atmospheric and classically plotted puzzler (it even includes the Agatha Christie—style houseful of guests-under-suspicion). Best of all, her likable protagonists are largely angst-free.
Mucho Mojo, Joe R. Lansdale (1994). If you don't like raunch, skip this entry. Lansdale's novels are excellent but X-rated; they start off bawdy and go downhill from there. But those who hang on for the ride will enjoy one heck of a read. The author's duo of anti-detectives is wholly inimitable–Hap Collins is straight and white, Leonard Pine is gay and black. But they share a fondness for troublemaking, scarfing junk food, and living in East Texas (a region Lansdale, a Nacogdoches boy, evokes in all its eerie, beery glory). "Mucho mojo" is right–in this tale of hidden bones and dusty secrets, Lansdale weaves his own distinctive spell.
A Cold Mind, David L. Lindsey (1983). This superior mystery gave us Stuart Haydon, a Houston detective who is rich, melancholy, and darn good at his job, and it also involved a chilling method of murder that still packs a wallop even in the current era of mega-gross-out thrillers. The man can write, and his dark and dead-on descriptions of Houston are all the more amazing given that he's never lived there. (He's a longtime Austinite.) P.S.: Leave all the lights on.
Big Town, Doug J. Swanson (1994). Swanson's series is big on sleaze and smart-mouthing, but he obviously has such a good time spinning his Dallas-set yarns that he's likely to win over even those who prefer cushy, cozy little tales. His ne'er-do-well hero is admittedly flippant, but that's intentional (consider his name: Jack Flippo), and his kaleidoscope of supporting characters are memorably vapid, venal, or va-va-voom. A typical line: "This was a new experience for Jack, sex with a woman who had just sent someone to kill him."
Under the Beetle's Cellar, Mary Willis Walker (1995). The state's most laureled mystery writer, who lives in Austin, produces the Molly Cates adventures–three so far, including her Edgar award—winning novel, The Red Scream. In this book, number two of the series, Molly investigates a mass kidnapping that rocks Texas: A demented cultist has abducted eleven schoolkids and their bus driver and confined them below ground. The standout character is the adult victim, Walter Demming, a misfit and loner who comes to know and nurture the frightened children under his care.
Read "Whodunnit? Who Cares?", in which Anne Dingus despairs about the state of the modern mystery novel, and Mary Willis Walker defends the genre, in this month's magazine.
It's a fatal attraction. The lure of the mystery novel is twofold: There's the element of surprise (no surprise there), which appeals to our innate and insatiable curiosity, and the pleasantly shivery thrills of vicariously playing hero, victim, or villain. Once you're hooked on mysteries, you can kill yourself just trying to keep up with all the authors, series, settings, and more. What's the solution? Well, our state has produced some fearfully good mystery writers–going all the way back to Fort Worth native Patricia Highsmith, who in the fifties penned Strangers on a Train and The Talented Mr. Ripley, among other books. Since her day, scores of other Texans have similarly taken pen (poison or otherwise) in hand to spin terrifying tales of mayhem and murder. No question that there are serious and pervasive problems in the genre–derivative plots, shallow characters, an excess of gore–but in the following ten modern Texas mysteries, good (as in readability) eventually triumphs over bad (clichés and gimmickry). Note that the list is alphabetized by author, not arranged from best to worst as I had originally planned (too great a challenge!), but all offer moments of bloody good fun. Check the locks, and read on.
Click on the title to buy from Amazon.com. Some books are out of print.
Track of the Cat, Nevada Barr (1993). Set in West Texas' Guadalupe Mountains National Park, this mystery introduced Anna Pigeon, ranger extraordinaire, who discovers a colleague's savaged corpse in a remote area of the isolated park. Did the death result from a mountain lion attack? (Of course not!) Anna is pleasantly cantankerous and wholly believable, and her creator clearly did in-depth research–her descriptions of Texas flora and fauna ring true.
Skinny Annie Blues, Neal Barrett, Jr., (1996). Too many purveyors of the tough-guy genre OD on glib asides and over-the-top machismo. Barrett is an exception. Yes, his protagonist, Wiley Moss, is funny (nonstop) and fierce (when duty calls), but the author's writing elevates the story, which begins with an accidental drowning in an aquarium. And Barrett's a whiz with dialogue and down-home dialect; for example, describing the title character, Moss notes that her breasts were "so feisty I thought they might bark."
The Case of the Hook-billed Kites, J. S. Borthwick (1982). This classy little mystery takes place in a fictitious (but well-drawn) wildlife refuge along the Rio Grande, where a bird-watching expedition loses one of its stalwarts to strangulation by binocular strap. The author is particularly adept at depicting the motley assortment of cutthroat birders and goofy guides. Bonus for readers short on fine-feathered-friend lore: The book is a crash course in Texas birding.
Loose Among the Lambs, Jay Brandon (1993). In a way, this isn't a mystery; there's no murder to start the action. But this book is more compelling and horrifying than scores that pile on the guts and gore. The San Antonio district attorney marshals the city's prosecutors and police to stop a man who has repeatedly molested both boys and girls. When the alleged perpetrator is identified in chapter 1, readers know they're in for some serious plot twisting. Brandon, who lives in San Antonio, is obviously a father; his portrayal of the bewildered victims is at once straightforward and deeply emotional. He's an attorney too, and when it comes to evoking courtroom drama, no other Texas writer comes even close.
A Share in Death, Deborah Crombie (1993). The first of Crombie's increasingly fine Scotland Yard series revealed a confidence rarely found in a novice writer. The author, a Texas native who now lives in McKinney, drew on her years in England to produce an atmospheric and classically plotted puzzler (it even includes the Agatha Christie—style houseful of guests-under-suspicion). Best of all, her likable protagonists are largely angst-free.
Mucho Mojo, Joe R. Lansdale (1994). If you don't like raunch, skip this entry. Lansdale's novels are excellent but X-rated; they start off bawdy and go downhill from there. But those who hang on for the ride will enjoy one heck of a read. The author's duo of anti-detectives is wholly inimitable–Hap Collins is straight and white, Leonard Pine is gay and black. But they share a fondness for troublemaking, scarfing junk food, and living in East Texas (a region Lansdale, a Nacogdoches boy, evokes in all its eerie, beery glory). "Mucho mojo" is right–in this tale of hidden bones and dusty secrets, Lansdale weaves his own distinctive spell.
A Cold Mind, David L. Lindsey (1983). This superior mystery gave us Stuart Haydon, a Houston detective who is rich, melancholy, and darn good at his job, and it also involved a chilling method of murder that still packs a wallop even in the current era of mega-gross-out thrillers. The man can write, and his dark and dead-on descriptions of Houston are all the more amazing given that he's never lived there. (He's a longtime Austinite.) P.S.: Leave all the lights on.
Big Town, Doug J. Swanson (1994). Swanson's series is big on sleaze and smart-mouthing, but he obviously has such a good time spinning his Dallas-set yarns that he's likely to win over even those who prefer cushy, cozy little tales. His ne'er-do-well hero is admittedly flippant, but that's intentional (consider his name: Jack Flippo), and his kaleidoscope of supporting characters are memorably vapid, venal, or va-va-voom. A typical line: "This was a new experience for Jack, sex with a woman who had just sent someone to kill him."
Under the Beetle's Cellar, Mary Willis Walker (1995). The state's most laureled mystery writer, who lives in Austin, produces the Molly Cates adventures–three so far, including her Edgar award—winning novel, The Red Scream. In this book, number two of the series, Molly investigates a mass kidnapping that rocks Texas: A demented cultist has abducted eleven schoolkids and their bus driver and confined them below ground. The standout character is the adult victim, Walter Demming, a misfit and loner who comes to know and nurture the frightened children under his care.
Read "Whodunnit? Who Cares?", in which Anne Dingus despairs about the state of the modern mystery novel, and Mary Willis Walker defends the genre, in this month's magazine.
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