‘Cause She’s Still Preoccupied With 1985*

As our society changes, those changes are reflected in crime fiction. That’s a blatantly obvious statement but behind it is a fascinating purpose that crime fiction serves. In reading crime fiction from or about a given era, we get a perspective on that era. For example, if you think about it, several major changes socially and politically happened during the 1980’s and it’s interesting to see how they’re reflected in crime fiction.

One of those major changes was the beginning of the end of the Cold War between the Soviet Union and its allies and the United States and its allies. While the Soviet Union didn’t officially break up until 1993, the process started during the 1980’s. This change had, of course, many effects in the real political, economic, social and military worlds and we see that in crime fiction. For instance, in Margaret Truman’s Murder in the House, US Congressman Paul Latham is shot one night just before his confirmation hearings to become the next US Secretary of State. The first explanation for the death is that Latham committed suicide. But that explanation doesn’t hold much water, especially when it comes out that Latham’s assistant Marge Edwards was about to accuse him of sexual misconduct. Then, Edwards disappears and the mystery around Paul Latham’s life deepens. Georgetown Law School professor Mackensie “Mac” Smith gets drawn into the case when a former student contacts him to tell him that there was a lot more going on in Latham’s life than it seems on the surface. Smith and Latham were friends too and Smith is fairly certain that Latham wasn’t guilty of sexual misconduct, nor was he suicidal. So Smith begins to investigate. He discovers that Latham was involved with Warren Brazier, a successful American business entrepreneur who wants to make inroads into the new economic climate in the Soviet Union. As Smith explores that angle to this case, we see how the end of the Cold War meant a complete renegotiation of the relationship between the US and the Soviet Union.

Even before the Soviet Union officially broke up, there was an easing of restrictions against travel between the USSR and the United States, and this is reflected in crime fiction too. In Robin Cook’s Vector, we meet Yuri Davydov, an émigré to New York City who was lured (or so he feels) by promises of great success. He’s become disenchanted though because life in the US isn’t the “easy ride” he’d thought it would be. In the Soviet Union Davydov was a technician in Biopreprat, the Soviet biological weapons program. He has therefore well-developed and highly professional scientific and technical expertise. But in the US he’s only been able to find work as a taxi driver. So he’s easy prey, as you might say, for a group of skinheads who also feel cheated by “the system.” When they find out about Davydov’s skills, his new associates decide to plan the ultimate revenge against the government: the release of the anthrax bacteria. New York medical examiners Laurie Montgomery and Jack Stapleton become aware of a possible terrorist plot when a carpet dealer dies of anthrax poisoning. Now Montgomery and Stapleton have to find and stop the conspirators before they carry out their plan.

Robin Cook has of course written a number of medical thrillers and so have Michael Palmer and other authors too. Although there’ve been medical mysteries for a long time, the discovery and identification of the HIV virus in the early 1980’s arguably brought a lot of attention to viruses, virus transmission and medical procedures. So it’s not surprising that Palmer’s and Cook’s medical thrillers became popular during the 1980’s. In fact it was during those years that the medical mystery really became what you might call a separate sub-genre. As medical advances took place during that decade, they found their way into those novels.

Another major change of the 1980’s was in the role of women. Of course the women’s movement and women’s issues had been around for a long time before the 1980’s. And there’ve been female fictional detectives for generations. But during the 1980’s more and more female protagonists were not just clever, intuitive and sometimes strong-willed but very strong and independent characters. For instance, Joan Smith’s Loretta Lawson is a visiting professor at Oxford, where she’s met and befriended Oxford don Bridget Bennett. In the course of this five-novel series, which begins with 1987’s A Masculine Ending, we see Lawson’s perspective as an ardent feminist who’s trying to map out a life for herself in a world of new “rules” for women. By today’s standards, Lawson’s militant brand of feminism may seem dated. But series like this one highlight the evolution of the women’s movement as women began to insist on having access to the same power and privilege as men.

Sara Paretsky introduced her private investigator sleuth V.I. Warshawski in 1982’s Indemnity Only. In that novel, Warshawski is hired to find a missing young woman Anita Hill. Soon after she begins her search, Warshawski discovers the body of Hill’s boyfriend Pete Thayer, who is the son of a wealthy Chicago banker. As Warshawski continues her search, she discovers that both Pete Thayer’s death and his girlfriend’s disappearance have everything to do with insurance fraud, union graft and high-level corruption.

In 1982 we also saw the release of Sue Grafton’s first Kinsey Millhone novel A is for Alibi. This novel introduces another strong female protagonist. Although Millhone has been compared to Warshawski (which makes sense since they do have some similarities) she’s quite different in her own way. As this series has continued we see how Millhone has carved out a place for herself as a private investigator in a male-dominated career. These PI’s highlight the journey many women have taken as they’ve negotiated their place in the world. They are not simply “women who act like men so they’ll be taken seriously.” They are strong female protagonists.

The 1980’s also saw the rise of the cocaine trade. Of course, drug smuggling has been around for a long time, but during the 1980’s, drugs gangs and “drug lords” made huge profits from cocaine trafficking. Because of the incredible amounts of money to be made there were gang rivalries and of course murder. In his last novel The Lonely Silver Rain, John D. MacDonald takes an uncompromising look at the ugliness of that business. Travis McGee has just located a wealthy friend’s missing yacht. When he goes on board, he makes the grisly discovery of several brutally murdered bodies. His discovery puts him right in the middle of South Florida’s “cocaine wars” and therefore makes him a target for some extremely nasty people. Of course, this novel is richer than just that plot line, but to say much more gets (in my opinion) too close to “Spoilerville.”

There were other sociopolitical changes during the 1980’s – many more than there is room for in this one post. So grab your down vest, your cassettes and your copy of Back to the Future and share your favourite 80’s themed crime fiction. You can even use your loooong-corded telephone to ‘phone in your thoughts.
 

ps. Yes, folks, that’s a genuine 1980’s vintage Members Only jacket in the ‘photo. The red CD on the left is of Billy Joel’s Концерт (Concert) – from his late ‘80’s concerts in the Soviet Union. The CD on the right is Paul Simon’s 1986 Graceland.

 

 

 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Bowling For Soup’s 1985.

How Do You Think He Does It? (I Don’t Know)*

It’s only human to have negative traits and disadvantages; that’s part of what makes us unique. The same is true for fictional characters. I think most of us would soon get tired of fictional sleuths who were never at a disadvantage and who had no weaknesses. One thing that sets a lot of fictional sleuths apart, though, is that they turn those “negatives” into “positives.” So the very thing that seems to be a real impediment to sleuthing turns out to be quite useful. The sleuth finds a way to use what might otherwise be a real challenge to her or his advantage.

For example, Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot has several “strikes against him,” you might say. The most obvious one is that he’s a foreigner and to many people in his world, that’s a serious disadvantage. But Poirot often turns his “foreign-ness” to his advantage. He’s found that many people are less on their guard with him than they would be if he were English. For instance, in After the Funeral (AKA Funerals Are Fatal), Poirot investigates the death of wealthy patriarch Richard Abernethie. At first, it seemed that Abernethie died of natural causes. But at the family gathering after his funeral, his sister Cora Lansquenet says that he was murdered. No-one wants to believe her at first, but the next day, she herself is brutally murdered. Now it seems clear that she was right, and the Abernethie family attorney asks Poirot to look into the matter. At one point, he’s interviewing one of the suspects about something Abernethie said before his death. That suspect admits to overhearing something and then says,

 

“I’d rather speak the truth. And it’s not so bad telling you because you’re not English.”

 

During one week-end, the members of the family gather at the family home to choose from its contents before the place is sold. Poirot attends this gathering in the guise of a prospective buyer. He’s at his most foreign for most of the visit, and it works to his advantage. No-one thinks that he understands much of what’s being said, so everyone is unguarded. Poirot gets to hear several conversations that he wouldn’t have otherwise been privy to, and one comment in particular puts him on the right path.

Christie’s Jane Marple and Elizabeth Spann Craig’s Myrtle Clover don’t have an awful lot in common, but they are both elderly women. Being elderly can put one at several disadvantages. One’s health isn’t always good, one doesn’t have as much endurance as do younger people, and one’s often more frail than younger people are. But these two fictional sleuths use their age and status as elderly women to their advantage. They’re not really seen as threatening, at least at first, so they often get suspects and witnesses to tell them things that they wouldn’t tell the police. Also, since they’re not seen as threatening, suspects don’t always see just how close these sleuths are to the truth until it’s too late, as you might say.

Dorothy Gilman’s Emily Pollifax does the same thing. For years, Mrs. Pollifax was a New Jersey housewife and later, a widow. But she has a new career now; she’s a CIA agent. Mrs. Pollifax certainly doesn’t look like a CIA agent (if there is a way that CIA agents are “supposed to look”). And that fact actually serves her very well. It allows her to go places, talk to people and carry out missions that wouldn’t be possible for other CIA operatives. Mrs. Pollifax uses her age and her status as a suburban widow to cover her real work, and she comes across as quite non-threatening. As readers of the Mrs. Pollifax novels know, though, those who underestimate Emily Pollifax do so to their regret.

Ian Rankin’s Inspector Rebus has a disadvantage, too. He’s not particularly good at working as a member of a team, and he has trouble controlling his anger. Those are not “positives” when it comes to working on a police force. After all, departmental politics play an important role in criminal investigations. So does the ability to control one’s temper. But Rebus makes his disadvantages work for him. Since he doesn’t “play politics,” he’s not afraid to investigate anyone, no matter how highly-placed or powerful that person might be. And the fact that he’s got what many people call anger issues turns out to be an advantage at times, too, especially when it comes to some of the shadier people he deals with.

And then there’s Mrs. Jeffries, housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon in Emily Brightwell’s Victorian Mystery series. In the Victorian society of these novels, a vast gulf separates the “serving” class from the “well-born” class. Members of the “better class” don’t mix socially with servants and tradespeople. Many of them don’t even regard members of those classes as people, certainly not people in the same sense that their “social betters” are. In a sense, that’s a real disadvantage, as there are many social barriers if one’s a servant of any kind, a delivery person or in sales. But Mrs. Jeffries uses that very fact to her advantage. Since members of the working classes are almost invisible to the upper crust, they often hear quite a lot and see quite a lot. Mrs. Jeffries has a large network of friends and acquaintances in the working classes who help her solve the cases that Inspector Witherspoon investigates. They can do so largely because of the information they learn simply by being “invisible.”

Michael Palmer’s Dr. Thea Sperelakis is also at what you might call a real disadvantage. In The Second Opinion, we learn that she has Asperger’s Syndrome. On the surface of it, that represents real challenges for her. She’s not as skilled socially as those without Asperger’s are, and she has difficulty “reading” people. But the very same disability that represents a challenge to Thea Sperelakis also gives her real advantages. She’s got a phenomenal memory and she’s a brilliant physician. When she returns to her native Boston after a stint with Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), she finds those advantages are crucial in finding out what happened to her father Petros Sperelakis. He’s the distinguished founder of the Sperelakis Center for Diagnostic Medicine at Boston’s world-class Beaumont Hospital. When he’s struck by a car and left in a coma, it looks at first as though it was a tragic hit-and-run accident. Thea’s brother Dmitri, though, believes that it was a deliberate attempted murder. As she begins to ask questions, Thea is convinced that her brother was right. In the end, Thea’s brilliance and her phenomenal memory turn out to be very helpful in finding out who wanted to kill her father and why.

There are a lot of other examples, too, of sleuths who turn their disadvantages into advantages. I’ve only mentioned a few of them. How do your favourite sleuths use their disadvantages to their benefit? If you’re a writer, how do your characters use their negative traits and challenges?

 

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a pair of lines from the Who’s Pinball Wizard.

>Overdone…

>Crime fiction fans, like fans of any other genre, want books that keep them engaged and that offer something new and interesting. Of course, there are only so many believable motives for murder, and there are only so many kinds of believable murder plots. Perhaps that’s why we seem to see very similar themes cropping up again and again in crime fiction. Talented authors can take a theme that’s been done before and make something fresh and exciting from it, but that’s not easy. There’s also the fact that for very good reasons, publishers want to produce books that will sell well, so authors may very well be pressured to write books with certain themes because that’s the kind of book that sells. Whatever the reason, there are some themes that run through quite a lot of crime fiction; one might even say they are overdone. Crime fiction fans (at least the ones I know) get tired of these themes and leery of books that feature them. Here are just a few of them:

The Psychopathic Serial Killer

There have been some truly memorable books that have featured this kind of killer. Thomas Harris’ Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs, for instance, feature Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He’s a brilliant psychiatrist with a fascinating personality and wits to match just about anyone. He’s also a vicious killer. He makes no apologies, really, for the murders he’s committed and is, to put it mildly, a very dangerous person. And yet, he’s not a hackneyed character. He’s interesting. He’s even philosophical.

The killer in Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me is also an interesting person, and not what you would call clichéd. In that novel, Lou Ford is the deputy sheriff of Central City, Texas. He’s got the reputation of being a nice and hardworking, if somewhat dull, person. Then, Joyce Lakeland, a local prostitute, is brutally beaten. While Ford’s investigating that crime, there’s a murder. As Ford is involved with these crimes, we learn that he’s hiding a terrible side of himself that he calls “the sickness.” Lou Ford is a complex character and that’s part of the interest in this novel.

Is it possible to write a truly gripping novel about a psychopathic serial killer? Yes. There are plenty of examples of this kind of character beyond the two I’ve mentioned here. But it’s difficult to do well and with this kind of story, it’s easy to let the plot disintegrate into gratuitous gore.

The “Damsel in Distress”

Suspense adds much to a crime fiction novel and when a character’s in danger, this can ratchet up the pace and interest level. Since women are more likely than men to be raped and are often more attractive targets for carjackings, muggings and so on, a scene in which a woman, say, is taken hostage or otherwise becomes a victim makes some sense. On the other hand, characters in stories with this sort of theme can quickly become stereotyped. Today’s women may still be physically vulnerable in some ways; however, most crime fiction fans want their female characters to show some resilience and mettle. It isn’t necessary for a female character to be unfeminine for her to also be smart, resourceful and capable.

There are some solid examples in crime fiction of “damsel in distress” plots that work. Peter Robinson’s Gallows View focuses on this theme. In that novel, DI Alan Banks and his Eastvale team investigate a series of break-ins, a murder and a spate of voyeurism. In an attempt to find out who the peeper is before those episodes escalate into something worse, Banks works with psychologist Dr. Jenny Fuller to create a profile of the kind of person who indulges in voyeurism. At a critical point in the novel, Fuller is taken hostage. Like anyone in that situation, she’s terrified. But she doesn’t react by wringing her hands and collapsing. She uses her wits and her skills as a psychologist to stay as safe as she can.

That’s also the case with P.D. Martin’s Sophie Anderson. She’s an FBI profiler whose specialty is “getting into the heads” of killers. She’s helped by psychic visions that give her glimpses into the minds of the people she’s tracking. In novels such as Body Count and Fan Mail, she gets herself into real physical danger. And yet, she doesn’t dissolve into helplessness. She’s a smart, quick-witted and capable person who doesn’t sit around and wait for a hero to come and save her. At the same time, she’s not oblivious to the danger she’s in. She feels as vulnerable and frightened as anyone might under the same circumstances.

The Tormented Detective

Crime fiction fans want their sleuths to have some personal history – some backstory. And it can add to a character if she or he has some personal scars. After all, we all have them, so it makes a character more human to have some tragedy in his or her life. Crime fiction fans also want their sleuths to be realistic. It’s realistic that a detective would get so involved with the job that it’s hard to juggle work and home life. It’s also easy to believe that the stress of being a detective can put a lot of strain on a marriage or partnership. That said, though, a sleuth who wallows in personal pain or is obsessed with his or her scars can become clichéd.

Of course there are plenty of very well-drawn and beloved fictional detectives who have a lot of personal pain. Take, for instance, Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander. His wife Mona left him, he’s got a very troubled relationship with his daughter Linda, and he doesn’t take care of his health. He’s got several scars and we see them. But at the same time, he doesn’t wallow in them. He does his job and devotes himself to doing the best he can.

The same is true of Alexander McCall Smith’s Precious Ramotswe. She’s certainly got her share of personal scars. She grew up virtually without a mother, she fled from a terribly abusive relationship and she lost her only child. And yet, she doesn’t let those events define her. She makes the best of life and although she mourns her losses as anyone would, she isn’t self-indulgent about it.

It’s not easy to balance the need for a well-rounded sleuth who’s had a realistic share of life’s troubles with the need to avoid the stereotype of the “tormented detective.” But when it works, the result is a really memorable sleuth.

The Mounting Body Count

A lot of crime fiction involves murder. In fact, some crime fiction readers really don’t enjoy a story unless at least one person dies. And it’s realistic to believe that someone who’s killed could kill again. If you add to that the mounting suspense as first one murder, then another, and then another are discovered, it’s easy to see why some books fall into the “mounting body count” trap. But when too many people end up dead for a reason that doesn’t advance the plot, that plot becomes shopworn.

Of course, it’s possible to have several people die without the plot losing its “punch.” In Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, for instance, there is a “mounting body count” theme. Ten people receive invitations to Indian Island off the Devon coast. For different reasons, they all accept the invitation and travel to the island. On the night of their arrival, one of the guests suddenly dies of what turns out to be poison. During the night, someone else dies. And then other guests begin to die. The survivors have to find out which of them is the killer while at the same time staying alive themselves. Although this plot certainly focuses on more and more people dying, it’s not stereotyped.

There are also several well-written medical thrillers by writers such as Michael Palmer in which a number of people die. In plots like that, the sleuth races against the proverbial clock to figure out who or what is killing the victims. When those plots are written in a believable way, they can be utterly absorbing.

If a number of murders really advance the plot, a high body count can be engaging. Otherwise, the plot can fall apart.

These are just a few examples of themes that have arguably been overdone. What do you think? Which themes do you think have been overdone? If you’re not sure, complete this sentence and you’ll know: “I am so sick of reading about__________.”

>What Did You Expect?

>Most of us rely quite a lot on our assumptions and expectations. We almost have to, if you think about it. We’re bombarded with so many stimuli that if we had to stop and think about each one, we might be frozen into immobility. So we need our expectations. And very often they’re helpful. For example, if you see a sky like the one in the ‘photo, you can make assumptions about the time of day and the weather. That helps you decide what to wear and orients you as to time. Without those assumptions, you’d be reduced to guesswork. It can be very comfortable and safe, too, to have assumptions, since they make our worlds more secure; that’s one reason we depend on them. Our assumptions are important, but they can also make us vulnerable. If we never question our assumptions, we may trust too easily. And when our assumptions are violated, we’re disoriented. We may even feel betrayed or worse. Even when an assumption isn’t fundamental, violating it can still cause confusion and anxiety. Perhaps that’s one reason that so much crime fiction involves violating expectations and assumptions; that rude shock adds interest, tension and suspense to a story.

For instance, in Agatha Christie’s Appointment With Death, Hercule Poirot investigates the murder of Mrs. Boynton, a wealthy American widow who’s tyrannized the members of her family all of their lives. She is a malicious mental sadist who assumes that everyone in the family will be completely under her control. Her expectation leaves her vulnerable, though, as we find out when the family takes a trip through the Middle East. Because Mrs. Boynton expects to dominate everyone, she isn’t aware of how much danger she is in. Then, one afternoon during an excursion to the ancient city of Petra, Mrs. Boynton suddenly dies. At first, her death appears to be caused by heart failure. But Colonel Carbury, who’s in charge of the investigation, isn’t sure. So he asks Poirot to help with the case. Poirot finds that the danger to Mrs. Boynton came from a source she would never have expected.

There’s another case of assumptions making one vulnerable in Minette Walters’ The Breaker. When the body of thirty-one-year-old Kate Sumner is found on a beach near Chapman’s Pool, DC Nick Ingram works with the Devon and Hampshire constabularies to find out how and why she was killed. As the investigators slowly learn about Kate’s life, they find that she had a very dangerous assumption that she was in control of all of her relationships. In fact, Kate’s relationships and the way she dealt with them are a key factor in this story. That expectation that she would be “in charge” made her vulnerable to a killer who was much more dangerous than it appeared on the surface.

One of the reasons that well-written financial, medical and legal thrillers can be so engaging is that they examine what happens when we can’t trust those people that many of us have been brought up to assume we can trust. When we put our health in the hands of a doctor, or our legal matters in the hands of an attorney, or our financial matters in the hands of a consultant, we hope – even expect – not to be exploited. We almost have to assume that the doctor will help heal us, the attorney will represent our interests and the financial advisor will not steal our money. There are far too many of these kinds of novels for me to list them all. A quick review of books by the likes of Michael Palmer, Philip Margolin or Emma Lathen is enough to remind you of the sense of betrayal that happens when people find they cannot trust those whom they’ve expected to be trustworthy. That shock and sense of dissonance often adds a great deal to the tension in this kind of thriller.

Of course, it’s not just victims whose expectations and assumptions can be violated. That happens to sleuths, too, and it’s one reason for which wise sleuths don’t have too many assumptions about who committed a crime. Sleuths who have too many preconceived notions and expectations are likely to miss important clues that don’t fit their assumptions.

For instance, in Dorothy Sayers’ Strong Poison, mystery novelist Harriet Vane is on trial for the poisoning murder of her former lover, Philip Boyes. Almost everyone believes that Harriet is guilty, because the only thing that Boyes consumed on the night of his death that no-one else had was a cup of coffee that Harriet gave him. So it is assumed that Boyes could not have been poisoned in any other way. Lord Peter Wimsey, who attends the trial, becomes smitten with Harriet and determines to clear her name. He and several of his friends work together to find out what really happened when Boyes died. What they find is that the assumption that Boyes could only have been poisoned by the coffee almost cost Harriet Vane her life. In the end, Wimsey is able to show that that assumption was wrong.

In Michael Connelly’s The Concrete Blonde, Harry Bosch is the subject of a civil trial for the shooting of Norman Church. Bosch believed that Church was a serial killer known as “The Dollmaker.” Church’s family brings a wrongful death suit against Bosch, claiming that Church was not the murderer. Bosch, though, is convinced that he was right. Then, another killing occurs that bears all of the hallmarks of “The Dollmaker.” Since Church is dead, he can’t have committed this most recent killing, so Bosch has to re-think his assumptions. He has to do the same thing in Echo Park, when a convicted serial killer named Raynard Waits offers to trade information about earlier killings in exchange for avoiding the death penalty in two new murders. One of those older cases is a case Bosch worked on – the murder of Marie Gesto, who walked out of a Hollywood supermarket one day and never made it home. Bosch couldn’t make an arrest in the Gesto case because he missed an important piece of evidence. He had different assumptions and expectations about that case that led him to another suspect, but he never had the hard evidence he needed to make an arrest. When Bosch finds out about Waits, he has to completely change his view of the Gesto case.

Carole Sutton’s The Ferryman also shows what happens when sleuths rely too much on assumptions and expectations. In that novel, Steve Pengelly moves to the Isle of Guernsey, where he hopes to start a new life. With help from a new acquaintance, Angela Dupont, he buys a beautiful thirty-food sailboat and is soon established in his new place. He begins an affair with Angela, but that affair ends with a violent quarrel when Steve finds out that Angela has been using him until she can find a wealthier, better-situated “catch.” Shortly after their breakup, Angela mysteriously disappears. DI Alec Grmstone bases his investigation on the expectation that people are usually murdered by someone they know, even love. So he focuses on Steve, and the evidence he collects looks suspicious. For instance, there were traces of blood found on Steve’s beloved boat. On the weight of his assumptions, Grimstone prosecutes the case and Steve Pengelly is tried, convicted and jailed. Two years later, he’s still in jail when the body of Angela Dupont washes up at Cornwall’s Fal Estuary. Everyone’s assumptions are turned upside down when it turns out that she has only been dead for a short time. She was killed while Pengelly was in prison, so he could not be guilty. Now, Grimstone has to start all over again on the case.

Of course, sleuths can also use assumptions to their benefit. For example, Dorothy Gilman’s Mrs. Pollifax doesn’t seem to be the type of person you’d fear as an international spy. And in several novels, she uses that to her advantage. She appears to be a nice, non-threatening elderly lady. And yet, she’s quite quick-witted and well able to use the assumptions people make about her and the expectations they have for her against them. The same is true of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. People assume that because she’s elderly and a woman, that she’s not to be taken seriously. And Miss Marple cultivates that “soft” non-threatening exterior when it suits her. But criminals make those assumptions to their detriment…

Assumptions and expectations can add some predictability and order to our worlds. But they can also blind us, so that we can be dismayed or worse it they are violated. What do you think? Which novels have you enjoyed where assumptions prove to be someone’s undoing?

>The Theme of Murder…

>One of the very noticeable developments in crime fiction in the last decades has been what I’ll call “themed” crime fiction. I’m not talking here of larger themes such as holidays, nor am I talking about sub-genres of crime fiction, such as noir, spy thrillers, cozies or police procedurals. I’m referring here to mystery novels that are centered on a topic, such as, medicine, sports, or specialized areas like wine-making. Themed crime fiction has the advantage of drawing those who might not otherwise be interested in mysteries towards the larger genre. It also allows crime fiction fans to learn something about an interesting topic. There are, of course, distinct disadvantages, too. For instance, themed crime fiction can turn away potential readers (e.g. “I’m not interested in football; why would I read a football mystery?”). There’s also a delicate balance required for a themed novel. The focus in a well-written crime fiction novel is on the mystery – the crime at the center of the story – and on the characters involved in it. Too much deviation into, say, the intricacies of a toxicity study (for medical-themed novels) or the details of a wine-tasting event (for vineyard-centered novels) can take the focus away from what’s supposed to be the main idea of a crime fiction novel – the mystery itself. That said, though, themed crime fiction has become increasingly popular, and has meant that many talented writers have been able to reach new mystery fans.

One of the best known themes for crime fiction is the medical theme. I discussed this particular kind of theme in a post from last month, so I’m not going to repeat myself here. Suffice it to say, though, that authors such as Robin Cook and Michael Palmer have made the hospital and doctor’s office some of the most popular settings in crime fiction. Authors such as Kathy Reichs have also popularized medical mysteries (although some say that novels about forensic medicine may deserve their own category). But that theme didn’t start with those authors. Thomas Scortia and Frank Robinson’s 1978 novel, The Nightmare Factor had a chilling medical theme, an deliberate epidemic of a virulent and highly contagious strain of influenza. Even earlier, series such as Helen Wells’ and Julie Campbell Tatham’s Cherry Ames series for younger readers focused on medical settings.

Another popular theme in crime fiction is sports. Sports and crime fiction “fit” together, possibly because sports can be very, very competitive; this allows for many believable motives for murder. Sports also attract gambling, and the win-at-any-cost thinking of some in sports also leads to drug (ab)use, and those also make for compelling plots and believable motives for all kinds of crime. Dick Francis’ Sid Halley novels, for instance, take place in the world of horse racing. Halley is a former champion jockey, but, due to an injury, can no longer ride. So he’s become a private investigator who specializes in solving mysteries related to racetracks, stables and horses.

More recently, Michael Balkind’s mysteries give us a look at the world of professional golf. Balkind’s novels focus on PGA champion Reid Clark, who’s got a reputation for being difficult, although he is at the top of his career. He works with his business partner, friend and agent, Buck Green and investigator Jay Scott. In Dead Ball, for instance, Scott helps Clark and Green investigate the murder of Clark’s best friend, Bob Thomas, who’s found dead on the grounds of AllSport, a large golfing complex he helped to create in New York’s Catskill Mountains. AllSport’s purpose among other things, is to introduce golf to inner-city young people, but when Thomas’ body is found, the facility is locked down until Clark, Scott and Green can find out who murdered Bob Thomas.

Harlan Coben’s Myron Bolitar series is another example of a sports-themed series. Bolitar is a former college basketball star, whose dreams of a professional basketball career ended when he suffered a knee injury. After getting his law degree, Bolitar became a sports agent. Now one of the more sought-after agents in the business, Bolitar frequently gets involved in his clients’ lives. That includes clients who are mixed up in crime. In Coben’s Bolitar novels, the reader goes beyond the basketball court, and gets a look at merchandising, betting, drug abuse, and some of the other less-than-desirable aspects of the world of sports.

Another very popular theme in today’ crime fiction is what I’ll refer to as specialized themes. These are novels that are centered on a particular kind of business, art, craft or skill. One of them is wine-making. Ellen Crosby’s Wine Country Mystery series, for instance, gives readers an “inside look” at the operation of a Blue Ridge Mountains, Virgnia, winery. The winery is owned and operated by Lucie Montgomery, who had been living in the South of France, but was suddenly called on to run the business when her father, who’d owned the winery, died mysteriously. Michele Scott’s Wine Lover’s Mystery series also focuses on making wine and wine pairings, and allows readers to see the inner workings of a large Napa Valley winery, where her sleuth, Nikki Sands, is the wine manager at Malveaux Estates Winery.

Another “specialized” kind of mystery features antiques, antique dealing and antique shops. Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy series is an interesting example of how the antiques trade can lend itself to a crime fiction plot. Lovejoy is an East Anglia antiques dealer who’s rather shady and sometimes unscrupulous. He’s got an almost extrasensory perception, though, when it comes to telling whether something is a genuine, valuable antique or part of a scam. In especially the earlier Lovejoy novels, readers learn the “ins and outs” of the antiques industry, and Lovejoy himself is an interesting sleuth, since he doesn’t exactly keep to the “straight and narrow” path.

A lighter series of novels about antiques is Jane K. Cleland’s Josie Prescott novels. Prescott is an antiques appraiser and dealer Originally with Frisco’s, a large New York auction house, Prescott left the firm when her employer was caught in a price-fixing scam, and returned to her native New England. Now, she works as an appraiser in Rocky Point, New Hampshire. Through Prescott, readers get an “inside look” at bidding wars, antique scams, and other realities of the antique world.

There are many, many other themed novels, too, that feature weaving, knitting, fishing, veterinary medicine and many other choices. The one topic you’ll notice that I haven’t mentioned here is food. That’s because there are so many food-related mystery novels that they deserve their own discussion (my post on this topic from November is here). There’s no doubt, though, that cooking, catering, baking and other food-related business lend themselves to crime fiction, too.

Themed mysteries often appeal to those who might not otherwise enjoy crime fiction. In that sense, they broaden the genre’s audience. They also can provide interesting information, and they often take place in interesting contexts. On the other hand, themed mysteries can focus a story too far away from the center of any good crime fiction novel – the mystery plot itself. What’s your view? Do you enjoy themed novels? What themes do you read if you do?

*Note – You’ll notice that I didn’t mention Agatha Christie’s novels at all in this post. That’s because her novels arguably focused more on situations, characters, relationships and interactions more than on particular themes. We could argue, though, that some of her novels, such as Death in the Clouds (AKA Death in the Air), Murder on the Orient Express (AKA Murder in the Calais Coach), and The Mystery of the Blue Train (among others) were centered on the theme of traveling. Other novels she wrote could be grouped around other themes. But they’re not tightly related within themes, so I didn’t include them. But I couldn’t let a post go by without discussing Christie’s work. : ).