The wife reckons I bought this because the heroine is a 6’1” redhead. Actually I bought it partly for nostalgia – in the mid-90s I read all the “Carlotta Carlyle” novels I could get my hands on. She’s your typical ex-cop wise-ass Boston PI with the usual complicated love life (her fella, Sam, is a made man) and menagerie of kooky friends and family. In this, the tenth book, she is hired by a nervous Harvard academic who is being blackmailed about an affair he had with a student. The bodies pile up, the dialogue crackles and the climax is satisfying and plausible. If you’re looking for fritterature, this is as good as the Tess Monaghan series…
Favourite quote –
I met Sam even before I met Cal, and I married Cal when I was a green nineteen. Sam knows me. I don’t need to tell him stories about my younger days. He knows them. I am who I am with Sam; no temptation to reinvent myself by leaving out the ugly parts, retelling the tale. It’s easy to misrepresent yourself with someone new. It’s not even lying. You simply don’t mention this error or that lapse. And it’s not really lying, because at that moment you figure you’ll never do anything that stupid again, won’t be that person anymore. You’ll be somebody who’s learned from her mistakes. Sure. Bullshit. Excuse me, but ha.