Read this book if: You’ve been wondering whether the detective novel was really, truly dead. (It’s not.)

Don’t quit reading until at least: The end of part 1, chapter 6.

The first novel of a four part series, The Cuckoo’s Calling introduces us to our star Cormoran Strike, who is tasked with solving a mystery that he does not believe to exist. Newly homeless and sleeping in his office, Strike has no choice but to accept when lawyer John Bristow offers multiple times the going rate for an investigation into his sister’s recent and infamous death. While Lula Landry’s death was surely a suicide, Strike nevertheless doggedly chases down the truth on behalf of his new client. As any good detective in any good mystery novel, Strike harbors a ruthless drive for justice that is a greater motivator even than payment – would we have it any other way? He is joined in his journey by Robin, his secret-weapon of a secretary that comes to him from a temping agency, more competent than he could have ever hoped for.

J.K. Rowling writes this novel under the pen name Robert Galbraith, and you will find her style- nostalgically reminiscent of Harry Potter’s saga- in the atmosphere of every chapter. Scenes of gritty human reality are set against an incongruously cozy and warmly lit backdrop. However antagonistic the exchange between characters may be, the reader is treated to a setting that would satisfy any tourist visiting London for the first time. Strike spends many afternoons in snug, softly lit London pubs… complete, of course, with rain against the windowpane. A reader may recall Holmes sitting in his chair by the fire, smoking, while clients burst unannounced through the doorway and shake rain, sleet, snow, and clues from their hats. Again and again, Rowling’s settings are cheerfully uncaring when it comes to the details of her actual plot, which will ring true for any reader who has spent any amount of time in a large city.

Strike spends a great deal of time relentlessly tracking witnesses of the night Lula Landry allegedly committed suicide. Each interview is hard-won and heavily preambled, and immensely gratifying once it is finally delivered. Each player is researched on Robin’s desk computer, carefully noted and stored away in Strike’s manilla envelopes, described and then described again through the differently colored lenses of their friends or coworkers. By the time the character is in front of us, he or she has been stretched into a caricature that we ache to compare to the real thing. And Rowling delivers; Strike drags us along at a limping pace and sits us down in a very exclusive seat at the table for every questioning. The reader is a fly on the wall while Strike questions tired-eyed policemen, distracted starlets, and the raw-nerved beneficiaries of every trust fund in London. Each person of interest is more self-superior and elitist than the last, so that their disarming becomes a psychological battle with an invaluable reward – honesty.

*The following section addresses the end of the novel but will not reveal any specific details*

This is first and foremost a mystery novel, and – although the “dots” are (arguably) all present and accounted for- I think a reader would do best to just enjoy the plot and allow Strike to connect them. He is the one getting paid, after all. The resolve isn’t neat or tidy, but it is exhaustive, and delivered in such a ruminating monologue that I think all of our Sherlock Holmes fans will be truly proud. I believe that you’ll thoroughly enjoy this read and will be eager- once finished – to pick up its sequel, The Silkworm.

If you’d like to read along: In June 2020, I will be reviewing Sharks in the Time of Saviors, by Kawai Strong Washburn.

Read this book if: You’re tired of writers equating “strong female lead” to “she’s mean to everyone she meets.”

Don’t quit reading until at least: The end of Chapter 3.

The Kitchen God’s Wife is a story told over two generations of women- a mother, Winnie, born in China, and her daughter, Pearl, born in America. Narration from Pearl bookends the novel but does not comprise much of the actual plot; we learn mostly from Winnie about her life before she came to America and the events leading up to Pearl’s birth. Winnie confesses her story candidly and informally, often referencing forward and backward in time and dropping hints at future storylines only to pick them up later. She narrates as though speaking directly to her daughter, a device Tan uses expertly to give the reader that claustrophobic feeling of family. The story is comprised of characters that Pearl knows only in their roles as mother, father, aunt, and uncle, who now take on full color as individuals. It is full of pointed warnings and lessons, with one or two “back-in-my-day” comparisons. Nonetheless, the reader is as captivated as Pearl would be, finally hearing all the before-censored chapters of her own origin story.

Winnie was first raised in Shanghai where she loses her mother early. Her father, distant and inaccessible to her, sends Winnie to live on Tsungming Island with her uncle and his wives. She describes the trauma of losing her mother with an ache that only sets the stage for later painful experiences. She is married young to Wen Fu, who – at first decidedly charming – proves to be an abusive narcissist and remains our villain throughout. While Wen Fu’s character is not overly complex, his abuses of Winnie are elaborate, often having subtle and twisted psychological effects. After the start of WWII Winnie is forced to follow him around China as he travels as a pilot. Throughout her telling, Winnie’s experiences of war, her inescapable marriage, and the ill-fated lives of her first two children take on an almost muffled quality. She becomes battle worn, and the concept of strength is explored in depth.

Winnie frequently cites luck and fate as cause for her stifling circumstances. The superstition in this novel gives it a spark of real magic – everyday magic that had the potential to free Winnie at any time, giving the reader a sense of hope that I really leaned into. She says, “I began to look at everything in my life two ways: the way it happened, and the way it didn’t,” and indeed, we are often treated with two versions of a given event separated only by a single lucky or unlucky decision. If she had accepted a marriage to the Lin boy instead, for example. Or if she had not dropped a pair of scissors at precisely the unluckiest time. Most often the magic is dark, creating pitfalls. Buying a car from someone who has died in the war could lead the buyer to also die. Using scrap metal from downed planes to build new things will only bring down more planes.

In the end it is the women, even the ones shunned by society, considered ‘unlucky,’ that pull and push each other to freedom. The heroes in this story are heroines. They are first introduced as cautionary tales – even some of their names, such as ‘Beautiful Betty,’ have a fable-like quality. They are women that did not follow the laws of superstition. But these characters help Winnie forward. Winnie fails to see herself as a heroine in this story, as her view is too marred by mistakes she believes she has made. It is up to the reader to recognize her as such.

If you’d like to read along: In May 2020, I will be reviewing The Cuckoo’s Calling by Robert Galbraith.

Read this book if: You’ve read one too many uninspired thrillers by Gillian Flynn wannabes and need a reprieve.

Don’t quit reading until at least: The end of chapter 4.

W. Bruce Cameron’s The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man follows the story of our hero and narrator, Ruddy McCann, lifelong resident of sparsely populated Kalkaska, Michigan. McCann has fallen from grace as a young football star and now spends his days bouncing at the Black Bear, a struggling bar which has been owned and operated by his own family since his childhood. By night he repossesses vehicles from people delinquent on payments – it’s a job he excels at… and relishes. Unexpectedly, Ruddy begins hearing the voice of deceased Alan Lottner, a murdered real estate agent from a neighboring town, in his head. Alan went missing under suspicious circumstances and is rumored to be guilty of a heinous and terroristic crime. From within Ruddy’s head, Alan urges our reluctant hero to solve the mystery of his disappearance and clear his name while Ruddy begins to question his own sanity. Jake, the aggressively lazy but unwaveringly companionable mutt, is an anchor to Ruddy among the shifting motives and loyalties of those he loves.

It is this book’s dry, candid sense of humor that makes it irresistible. Cameron does not rely on the shock value of some contrived sadistic crime to keep you reading – instead he performs that rare magic trick of talented writers: he echoes your own thoughts and feelings back to you through the filter of a character that still feels entirely novel. To boot, Ruddy is helplessly likeable; most of the laughs come from his frank and unblinking observations (although he is only sometimes in on the joke). Ruddy bulldozes his way along several simultaneously unfolding plotlines, including the search for Alan’s killers, his crush on already-engaged Katie (it’s complicated), and his sister’s search for happiness and her courageous bid to save their bar, the endangered Black Bear. All these tightly intertwined plotlines move the story forward at a harried downhill pace – but you’ll find yourself engaged, not exhausted.

You won’t be slowing down to explore the scenery or get to know anyone through any long-winded descriptive prose in this book. The players are off and running often with nothing more than a few flippant brush strokes, left to define themselves through action and dialogue. Still, they feel real – Ruddy’s sister Becky has “a tapeworm or something that was always draining the fun out of her, turning her dour and sad.” His best friend Jimmy “had even been in a TV commercial once, though his career as an actor was somewhat hampered by his inability to act.” Cameron gives you these essentials and then allows you to move on, letting you get to know the characters all on your own.

I will admit, I haven’t felt this enamored with every W. Bruce Cameron novel I’ve read. There tends to be a sugary-sweet overtone to some of his work that prioritizes likeable heroes over interesting ones, and recognizable villains over complex ones. Even in Midnight Plan the resolve feels a bit cute, relying on some unlikely coincidences and luck to deliver a harmless finale. But ultimately the magic here lies in the narration. You will love spending time with this book, and although the story stands on its own spectacularly and doesn’t conclude with any pandering cliff-hangers, you will find yourself eager to follow up by reading its sequel, Repo Madness: A Novel.

If you’d like to read along: in April 2020, I will be reviewing The Kitchen God’s Wife by Amy Tan.

Read this book if: You like a good survival story, but wish it would also hurt your feelings.

Don’t quit reading until at least: The end of chapter 7.

Delia Owens’ debut novel, Where the Crawdads Sing, is the fictional story of Kya, dubbed ‘Marsh Girl’ by residents of Barkley Cove, North Carolina. In it, young Kya survives alone with little to no means on the marshy coast outside of town. She endures – among other things – child abuse and neglect, abandonment, and severe poverty. Retreating is her only defense and loneliness becomes a necessary but largely comfortless ally. Folded into the story is the mystery of Chase Andrews’ death. Chase is the foil to Kya’s character; he is (at least relatively) wealthy, popular, and accepted, and as the town mourns his loss they cast about for a convenient scapegoat.

If you’ve ever suffered a rejection, Kya’s story will scrape the wound open again and pack it with salt. Merciless in its many heartbreaks, delivered one after another, the first half of this book is really going to hurt. You’ll keep coming back for the descriptions of the North Carolina marsh, which are so vivid you will put the book down feeling as though you’ve made each of Kya’s gritty little discoveries (rare and precious bird nests, feathers, and shells) yourself. Delia Owens is a published wildlife scientist and zoologist and gives real-life depth to her descriptions of swamp life. Luckily for her readers, Delia also proves to be an incredible artist and her descriptions do not dry out as a consequence of their scientific accuracy. I promise.

Though well done, the mystery of Chase’s death feels secondary to the story of Kya’s personal development. The mystery is tidily solved and its resolution subtly foreshadowed. It is satisfying. However, I found myself more invested in realizing a resolve to Kya’s abandonment, feeling impatient when the story alternates back to the detectives and their progress every other chapter.

While Tara Westover’s Educated can’t be brought into comparison because it is a non-fictional autobiography, I did find myself drawing parallels between the stories – particularly in the slow instinctual development of the two young girls’ (Kya and Tara’s) emotional defense mechanisms, and the compassionate but frustrated empathy that they bring to the reader. I would say that if you appreciated Educated, then you may find yourself similarly satisfied by this novel. 

If you’d like to read along: in March 2020, I will be reviewing The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man, by W. Bruce Cameron.