Category Archives: Tony Hillerman

‘Cause One Can Teach the Other One*

writing-across-cultural-barriersIn a recent, very interesting post, crime writer and fellow blogger Angela Savage made some important points about writing across cultural boundaries – that is, writing about a culture of which one is not a member. In that post (which you should read), Savage addresses the question of whether it’s appropriate to do that.

It’s not really an easy question, actually. On the one hand, there’s the argument that writers should write whatever they want, using whichever characters and so on they want. To argue otherwise is to argue for censorship. And there is merit to that argument – a lot of merit.

But (and this is a very important ‘but’), with every right comes a responsibility. Think of every right you have, whether it’s voting, self-expression, or something else. You’ll see that there’s a corresponding responsibility. So what’s the responsibility in the case of writing cross-culturally? As Savage argues (and she’s right), writers are responsible for understanding that other culture, and listening to (and incorporating) the narratives of its members. That is, the writer needs to acknowledge being a non-member and, thus, being responsible for gaining an understanding of that culture before making assumptions and writing about those assumptions.

We see all sorts of examples of that understanding, too, in crime fiction. For instance, Savage’s own series takes place in Thailand, and involves many Thai characters. Savage herself is Australian, as is her sleuth, Jayne Keeney. However, she lived in Southeast Asia (including Thailand) for some time. What’s more, she actively seeks out and listens to input from Thai friends and colleagues as she writes, and integrates their linguistic and cultural narratives into her work.

And she’s by no means alone in that sense of responsibility. John Burdett’s Bangkok series features Royal Thai Police detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep, who is, among other things, a devout Buddhist. Burdett is British-born, but lives in Thailand for part of each year. Before writing his series, he became thoroughly familiar with the Bangkok culture, Thai beliefs and traditions, and of course, the language. The narratives of the Thai people are woven into this series because Burdett has taken the time to understand them.

As fans can tell you, Tony Hillerman’s Joe Leaphorn/Jim Chee series takes place mostly on the Navajo Reservation in the Southwest US. Both of his protagonists are members of the Navajo Nation; in fact, both belong to the Navajo Tribal Police. And if you’ve read this series, you’ll know that many of the characters who people the Hillerman series are Navajo (some are members of other Native American Nations as well). Hillerman himself wasn’t Navajo. However, he lived for years in that part of the country. What’s more, he spent a great deal of time among the Navajo people. In fact, he was granted the status of Special Friend of the Dineh (Navajo people). And he always had a sense of responsibility about the people who inspired his novels. Several authors’ notes he wrote include caveats about the limits of his understanding. I know what you’re probably thinking, fans of Arthur Upfield’s Napoleon ‘Bony’ Bonaparte. In fact, Hillerman felt the same way and, more than once, acknowledged his debt to Upfield.

Paddy Richardson is a native of New Zealand. Her books mostly take place in that country, but she’s also experimented with characters from different cultures. In Swimming in the Dark, for instance, we are introduced to Ilse Klein and her mother Greta. They are from Leipzig, in what was once East Germany, and emigrated to New Zealand to escape the Stasi, the dreaded secret police. In one plot thread, we learn about their lives in Germany, and their adjustment to life in a completely different culture, with a different language. Later, Ilse becomes a secondary school teacher, which is how she meets fifteen-year-old Serena Freeman. At first, Serena is one of her most promising students. Then, she suddenly seems to lose interest in school, and Ilse becomes concerned. Then, she disappears, and Ilse and Greta are caught up in the mystery. Before writing this novel, Richardson spent time in Leipzig. She understands the culture, and ensured that her story was culturally accurate.

Stan Jones’ series features Alaska State Trooper Nathan Active. Active is Inupiat, as are many of the other characters in the novels. Jones isn’t, although he’s lived in Alaska most of his life. Jones’ time in Alaska allowed him to get to know many of the Native people who live in the far north, and he’s used that cultural understanding to create his characters. His author’s notes include really helpful information, and reflect his sense of responsibility to present the culture in authentic ways.

There are many other writers, too – I’m sure you could think of more than I could – who are members of one culture, but write about members of another culture. Do they have a right to do that? They do if you believe in the right to self-expression. But at the same time, there is a very strong argument that they also have a responsibility to do so in a way that reflects respect for and a thorough understanding of that other culture. It’s not an easy issue, but the underlying right-and-responsibility dynamic plays an important role.

What do you think about all of this? If you’re a writer, do you write about members of different cultures? How do you inform yourself?

Thanks, Angela, for the inspiration. Folks, do go have a look at her excellent post. And if you haven’t tried them, I recommend her Jayne Keeney novels very highly.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from No Doubt’s Different People.

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Filed under Angela Savage, Arthur Upfield, John Burdett, Paddy Richardson, Stan Jones, Tony Hillerman

I Was Just a Kid, They All Called Me ‘Sidekick.’

young-sidekicksAn interesting post from Moira at Clothes in Books has got me thinking about the roles that young people play in crime novels. It’s a bit tricky to have a young person as the sleuth (‘though there are exceptions, such as Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce series). It’s also tricky to have a young person as a sidekick. After all, investigating crime is dangerous, even deadly at times, and adult sleuths wouldn’t want to put a young person in harm’s way. What’s more, it can be a challenge to write a convincing young character. Still, there are some interesting examples of young people playing the role of crime-fictional sidekicks.

Fans of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes can tell you that, in several of those stories, Holmes makes use of a group of street children he calls the Baker Street Irregulars. Led by a boy called Wiggins, they serve as Holmes’ ‘eyes and ears’ in some cases. They have an advantage in those situations in that no-one really takes very much notice of them at all. So they can easily follow people, keep watch on a place, and so on. Holmes himself treats them quite the same as he does his more adult informants, and that’s not surprising. For one thing, he respects anyone who helps with his cases. For another, many Victorians didn’t see the need to especially protect children, or shield them from danger. As you’ll know, it wasn’t until late in the 19th Century that laws protecting child workers were passed and began to be enforced. Holmes’ attitude towards the Baker Street Irregulars isn’t strange, considering the era.

By the time Agatha Christie was writing, attitudes towards young people had changed, and we see that as her sleuths encounter young people. Still, there are examples of young people as sidekicks in her work. In 4:50 From Paddington (AKA What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!), for instance, a friend of Miss Marple’s is on a train when she sees a murder. At first, no-one believes her, because nobody’s been reported missing, and there isn’t a body. But Miss Marple doesn’t think her friend was imagining things. She deduces that the body must be on the property of Rutherford Hall, which belongs to the Crackenthorpe family. So she makes an arrangement with professional housekeeper Lucy Eyelesbarrow. Lucy will apply for a position as the Crackenthorpe’s temporary housekeeper, and do some sleuthing during her stay. All goes as planned, and Lucy settles in. That’s when she meets Alexander Eastley (grandson of patriarch Luther Crackenthorpe) and his friend, James Stoddart-West. The two boys are home for the Christmas holidays, and they’re only too eager to find clues and help solve the mystery. Lucy has concerns for them, because they’re just boys. But they prove helpful, too.

One question we might ask is: at what age does a young person become an adult? The answer to that question has changed over time, and I’m not sure we’d all agree on it. Still, if you look at Ellery Queen’s The Origin of Evil, there’s an interesting example of a young sidekick whom you could argue still falls into the ‘not really an adult yet’ category. She is nineteen-year-old Laurel Hill. When her father, Leander, dies suddenly of a heart attack, she becomes convinced that his death was planned. She visits Queen, who’s staying in a rented home nearby, and asks him to investigate. At first, he’s very reluctant. But then she tells him that, prior to his death, her father had received a series of macabre ‘gifts’ that led to his heart attack. So, says Laurel, did his business partner, Roger Priam. This piques Queen’s interest, and he starts looking into the matter. Laurel Hill may be all of nineteen, but she’s still rather innocent and vulnerable. That doesn’t stop her being very helpful as Queen investigations, and she certainly sees herself as his assistant.

Tony Hillerman’s Navajo Tribal Police Sergeant Jim Chee gets an unexpected sidekick in The Ghostway. In that novel, he’s looking into the death of Albert Gorman, a Los Angeles Navajo who’s come to live on the Reservation. At the same time, he is assigned to find Margaret Billy Sosi, a sixteen-year-old Navajo girl who has gone missing from the school she attends. Chee traces the girl back to Los Angeles, where she’s clearly following a lead on the Gorman case. It turns out that Gorman was a distant relative of Margaret’s, and that she got a postcard from her grandfather about him. Chee finds Margaret; and, although they don’t officially work together (in fact, he is very worried for her safety), she does help a lot in solving the case. She even saves Chee’s life at one point.

The protagonist and sleuth in Riley Adams’ (AKA Elizabeth Spann Craig) Memphis Barbecue Series is Lulu Taylor. She’s the owner of Aunt Pat’s, a well-respected Memphis restaurant. Lulu’s nine-year-old granddaughter Ella Beth is a budding detective, and actually keeps a detective notebook in which she writes down things she sees and describes people she encounters. And in Finger Lickin’ Dead, it’s Ella Beth who discovers the body of bitterly-hated restaurant critic Adam Cawthorn. On the one hand, she’s not Lulu’s ‘official’ sidekick. But she’s got the same curiosity and interest, and Lulu can see her becoming a police officer or PI when she’s grown. That said though, Lulu does feel protective of her, and doesn’t deliberately expose her to danger.

And that’s the thing about young sidekicks in crime fiction. There’s a delicate balance between the very credible desire to protect them and keep them away from murder investigations on the one hand, and their curiosity (and sometimes, helpful assistance) on the other. Which young sidekicks have stayed with you?

Thanks, Moira, for the inspiration. Now, folks, give yourselves a treat and go visit Clothes in Books. Excellent reviews, and interesting discussion on fictional clothes and popular culture, and what it all says about us, await you.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Guy Clark’s Desperados Waiting For a Train.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Alan Bradley, Arthur Conan Doyle, Ellery Queen, Elzabeth Spann Craig, Riley Adams, Tony Hillerman

Teach Me to Be More Adaptive*

AdaptivenessSpecies do best when they can adapt to their surroundings. Species that don’t develop adaptations don’t tend to survive. That’s a basic part of the explanation for a lot of phenomena, from humans’ opposable thumbs to the spines on a cactus. Just take the fellow local resident you see in the ‘photo. These lizards are well adapted to living where I live. They don’t need a lot of water, they do exceptionally well in a fairly warm climate, and they move fast, too, so they’re less vulnerable. They’re even well-camouflaged, so they can hide from both predators and prey.

People need to adapt, too, of course, and I don’t just mean in the evolutionary sense. If you look at crime fiction, you can see all sorts of examples of characters who have to adapt to different environments. Some are successful and some aren’t. Either way, though, that process of adapting (or not adapting) can add an interesting layer of character development and tension to a crime novel.

Adaptation, of course, doesn’t necessarily have to mean a character changes everything. Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, for instance, has lived in London for many years. His first language isn’t English, but he speaks it quite fluently. He’s adapted to English customs, too, and understands the nuances of life in England. But that doesn’t mean he’s completely changed. He isn’t much of a one for the custom of tea (well, at least not as it was at the time Christie was writing):
 

“If one partakes of the five o’clock, one does not,’ he explained, ‘approach the dinner with the proper quality of expectant gastric juices. And the dinner, let us remember, is the supreme meal of the day!”
 

There are other ways, too, in which he has not stopped being Belgian. But I think one could safely say he’s adapted (I know, I know, fans of Nicolas Freeling’s Arlette Van der Valk).

Tony Hillerman’s Joe Leaphorn/Jim Chee novels take place mostly on the Navajo Reservation, where people have had to adapt to the desert climate – not an easy task. Leaphorn and Chee have had to make other adaptations, too, in order to function within the dominant US culture. In fact, Leaphorn attended a high school where,
 

‘The word was, give up the old ways or die.’ 
 

So Leaphorn did. He still identifies as a Navajo, and respects his people’s traditions. He’s thoroughly adapted to desert life, too, and is well able to deal with its harshness. But he’s quite secular, and his customs are more dominant-culture than Navajo. For his part, Chee hasn’t adapted in quite the same way, although he certainly functions well within the dominant culture. In fact, he has more than one opportunity to join the FBI and other dominant-culture law-enforcement agencies. But Chee is Navajo and doesn’t really belong anywhere else. He’s more traditional in his thinking than Leaphorn, and that makes for an interesting contrast between the two.

Eva Dolan’s DS Melinda ‘Mel’ Ferreira, whom we first meet in Long Way Home, is a member of the Peterborough Hate Crimes Unit. She’s originally from Portugal, although she’s been living in England for quite some time. She’s had to adapt to much more than the English language (although she certainly speaks it fluently). She’s also had to adapt to all sorts of other English ways, and it hasn’t been easy for her. For one thing, her schoolmates didn’t make life particularly easy. For another, she lives with her parents, who in some ways, have retained their own customs (although her father is determined to assimilate, and uses British wit to try to do so). Ferreria has at times had her issues with life in England, but she’s adjusted, and does her job well.

In Brian Stoddart’s Superintendent Christian ‘Crhis’ Le Fanu series, we see an interesting contrast in the way people adapt (or don’t) to a different environment. The series takes place in 1920’s Madras (today’s Chennai) during the British Raj. Le Fanu is English, and in some ways, he retains his ‘Englishness.’ But he’s adapted effectively to life in India. He’s made adjustments for the very different climate, he enjoys the local food, and so on. He’s also learned to work with the local people to do his job. Here’s an example from A Strait Settlement:
 

‘A senior official eating local food and mixing with Indians bucked the normal pattern.’
 

By contrast, the series also features Arthur Jepson, Madras Commissioner of Police. In several ways, he is Le Fanu’s nemesis, and is all too eager to sabotage him in any way possible. But beyond that, Jepson hasn’t adapted to life in India. He certainly doesn’t mix with the locals, enjoy the local food, or in other ways adjust. And it’s interesting to see the different ways in which the two men react to the environment.

In Paddy Richardson’s Swimming in the Dark, we are introduced to secondary school teacher Ilse Klein and her mother Gerda. They moved from Leipzig in then-East Germany to New Zealand when Ilse was a child. For Gerda, the move represented escape from the Stasi – the East German secret police. Ever grateful to her adopted home, she adjusted to life there, and so did her husband, who’s since died. She remembers what it was like to live under the East German regime, and is very glad she’s adapted to life in New Zealand. Ilse, on the other hand, left Leipzig when she was too young to really appreciate how dangerous it was to live there. She has a different perspective on the situation, and didn’t adapt as easily to New Zealand. Her point of view makes for an interesting contrast to that of her mother. Both views play their roles when Ilse becomes concerned about a pupil, Serena Freeman, who seems to have disengaged from school. What’s especially worrisome is that Serena was one of the most promising students in Ilse’s class, so her detachment marks a major change. Matters get even worse when Serena disappears…

There are plenty of other examples – more than I have space for here – of crime-fictional situations where characters have to adapt. Some do so relatively easily, and some not so easily. Either way, adaptation can add a layer to a crime novel.

 

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Stephen Sondheim’s Green Finch and Linnet Bird.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Brian Stoddart, Eva Dolan, Nicolas Freeling, Paddy Richardson, Tony Hillerman

Looking For the New World*

ColonialismOne of the factors that’s shaped our lives in profound ways has been what I’ll call cultural domination. It’s also been called empire-building, imperialism, and expansionism, among other things. Whatever you call it, it’s had a lasting impact on both/all cultures involved. And, interestingly, just about every culture has been a colony at some point in time; many have also created colonies of their own.

The process has been going on for millennia, and we see its effects in crime fiction, just as we do in real life. There are so many instances that it would be impossible for me to mention them all. But here are a few examples; I know that you’ll think of others.

Many people think of England as an empire-builder, and it certainly has been (more on that shortly). But of course, it’s also been a colony, During the Roman Empire, what we now think of as England was the Roman province of Britannia. To the north was Caledonia (today’s Scotland), and to the west was Hibernia (today’s Northern Ireland and Irish Republic). Lindsey Davis’ A Body in the Bathhouse gives readers a look at the UK and Ireland of that time. In that novel, her sleuth, Marcus Didius Falco, travels to Britannia with his family. He’s there on commission from Emperor Vespasian, with orders to investigate a building project that’s been running late, and over budget. The project involved building a granary and supply station for the Roman army, as well as a home and bathhouse for the local British chieftain, Togidumnus. It seems clear that there’s corruption involved, and Falco’s mission is to get to its source. He finds himself involved in a case of murder, though, when Pomponius, the chief architect on the project, is found murdered in the newly-built bathhouse. You can still see Roman palaces, baths, roads and so on in Fishbourne, Bath, and other places in England.

England went on to become an empire-builder, too, and that impact is still felt today. In Kate Grenville’s The Secret River, for instance, readers follow the lives of London bargeman William Thornhill and his family. In 1806, he’s caught stealing a load of wood and is sentenced to transportation to Australia. Thornhill, his wife Sal, and their children arrive at Sydney Cove and try to start life again. Sal opens a makeshift pub, while Thornhill earns a living working for Thomas Blackwood on Blackwood’s boat The River Queen. When Thornhill finds the perfect piece of land by the Hawkesbury River, he persuades a reluctant Sal to relocate. There’ve been people in that area for many thousands of years, and Thornhill and other settlers are going to have to deal with the fact that the indigenous people were there first. Not all of them are willing to do that; and of course, the indigenous people are none too pleased at the newcomers who are claiming the land and making no effort to acknowledge those who already live there. As you can imagine, this leads to some brutal crime.

The impact of this cultural domination is still felt, as we see in Nicole Watson’s The Boundary, which takes place in contemporary Brisbane. One plot thread of that novel concerns a land dispute between the Corrowa people and a development company, both of which lay claim to Meston Park. Judge Bruce Brosnan rules against the Corrowa people, and not many hours later, he’s killed. Then there are other murders, each of someone involved in the case against the claim. Police officers Jason Matthews and Andrew Higgins investigate; as they do, we see the influence both of empire-building and of the Aboriginal people.

Seán Haldane’s The Devil’s Making takes place in 1868/69 Victoria, British Columbia. Chad Hobbes has recently finished his studies at Oxford, and has come to Victoria armed with a letter of introduction to the Governor. That letter results in his appointment to the position of police constable. For the most part, the job consists of such things as settling drunken quarrels and, sometimes, removing prostitutes from the area. Then, the body of Richard McCrory is discovered. At first, it looks to be an easy case. The victim had been involved with Lukswaas, a member of the Tsimshian people. Her partner, Wiladzap, is a leader among the Tsimshian, and it’s assumed he murdered McCrory both as an act of vengeance and as a means of asserting his leadership. Wiladzap says he’s innocent and, as a matter of form, the police have to make a superficial attempt to seem fair. So Hobbes is given the task of asking questions of people who knew McCrory. The more he does so, the more he begins to believe that Wiladzap is telling the truth. In this novel, we see the impact of colonialism in several ways. There’s the British influence, of course. And there’s the influence of the Tsimshian people who were in the area first. There’s also the American influence, and the strong hint of American expansionism.

Tony Hillerman’s novels show clearly the impact of American colonialism on the Native Americans who were in the country first. In those novels, we see the way in which the dominant culture has impacted education, infrastructure and much, much more. But we also see the influence of the indigenous people on the dominant culture. Stan Jones’ Nathan Active novels, which take place in Alaska, show that mutual influence as well.

As you’ll already know, the British Empire also included, for many years, India. And there are lots of Golden Age crime fiction novels that include characters who served in the military in India. Sometimes they’re the subject of gentle ridicule; sometimes not. Either way, you can see how their experience there impacted them. And there’s plenty of Indian influence today in England. Brian Stoddart’s Superintendent Christian ‘Chris’ Le Fanu novels capture that colonial experience in India. They take place in 1920’s Madras (today’s Chennai), where Le Fanu works among the various groups of people who live there. In his life, we see the influence of his own British background and the local culture within which he works. On the one hand, there are certain very English customs he retains. On the other, though, he’s adopted the local customs in other ways. He enjoys the local food, he’s adapted his schedule to accommodate the sometimes-intense heat, and so on.

Malla Nunn’s Emmanuel Cooper novels take place in 1950’s South Africa, a place with a long history of colonialism. Cooper himself is English. But in his work, he interacts quite a lot with the Afrikaners, who are, of course, descendants of Dutch colonists. He also works with the indigenous people. As he does, we see the strong influence in language, food, and other ways of colonialism. And what’s fascinating is that that influence doesn’t just work in one direction.

And that’s the thing about colonialism. Empire-building has, of course, deep and lasting effects on colonies. But those who build those empires are also heavily influenced by the places and cultures they encounter. I know there are many, many examples of colonialism in crime fiction that I haven’t mentioned here. Space doesn’t come near to acknowledging all of them. Over to you.

ps. The ‘photo is of John Hall’s engraving of Benjamin West’s painting, The Treaty of Penn With the Indians.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Neil Young’s Cortez the Killer.

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Filed under Brian Stoddart, Kate Grenville, Lindsey Davis, Malla Nunn, Nicole Watson, Seán Haldane, Stan Jones, Tony Hillerman

We Are the Secret Society*

Secret SocietiesSecret societies have been a part of several cultures for a long time. They take many different forms, too, from criminal societies to religious societies to more esoteric groups. Regardless of the kind of society or its purpose, its membership is usually limited, and there are rituals and secrets to which only initiated members are privy.

There are a lot of examples of such groups in crime fiction. That’s not surprising when you think about all of the possibilities for conflict, tension and worse. And, since some societies are criminal in nature, there’s that aspect as well that makes them a natural fit for the genre. Here are just a few examples to show you what I mean.

In Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Five Orange Pips, Sherlock Holmes gets an intriguing case from his new client John Openshaw. Openshaw’s Uncle Elias, with whom he lived, was found dead in a pool on his estate. His death seems to have been the culmination of a bizarre series of events that began when he received a letter containing five orange pips. Now the victim’s brother (and Openshaw’s father) Joseph has also received a letter containing five orange pips. He’s thoroughly frightened, but he won’t go to the police. Holmes investigates, and finds that the strange and tragic events on the Openshaw property are connected with the Ku Klux Klan, which had formed in the US after the Civil War there, and had been thought disbanded.

In Agatha Christie’s The Seven Dials Mystery, Sir Oswald Coote and his wife have rented out a manor house owned by the Marquess of Caterham so they can host a house party. Everyone duly arrives and all goes well at first. Then, some of the guests decide to play a trick on fellow guest Gerald ‘Gerry’ Wade, who has a bad habit of oversleeping. They buy eight alarm clocks, time them to go off at different intervals, and hide them in Wade’s room. To everyone’s shock, the next morning, Wade is found dead in his bed of what turns out to be poison. One of the alarm clocks is missing, too. Needless to say, the house party ends and Lord Caterham returns to the property. One day, his daughter, Lady Eileen ‘Bundle’ Brent, finds a half-finished letter that turns out to be a clue to the murder. She gets involved in the investigation, which so far, hasn’t gotten very far. In the end, she and Superintendent Battle connect Wade’s death with another death, and with a secret society.

In Tony Hillerman’s Dance Hall of the Dead, Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn of the Navajo Tribal Police gets involved in a disturbing case. A young Zuñi teen named Ernesto Cato has been murdered. And his friend, a Navajo named George Bowlegs, has gone missing. That’s where Leaphorn comes in. If George isn’t guilty of murder, he may be in grave danger. At the very least, he may have important information. So it’s imperative to find him. By the time the boy is found, though, it’s too late: he’s been killed, too. Leaphorn and fellow Navajo Tribal Police Officer Jim Chee work to find out what’s behind these murders. They’re not going to find it easy, though, because the information they need about Ernesto’s last days and weeks is related to a kiva, a religious society, he was joining. Only members are privy to the kiva’s secrets, and it will be difficult for Leaphorn and Chee to get anyone in the group to really talk to them. I can say without spoiling this story that the boys’ murders are not ritual killings. The kiva is not to blame, if you will. But it adds a layer of complexity to the case.

There’s a different sort of secret group in Kerry Greenwood’s Earthly Delights. Accountant-turned-baker Corinna Chapman gets drawn into a strange mystery when she discovers Suze MacDonald, a local junkie, outside on her ventilation grate. The girl has overdosed on heroin, and it takes an emergency crew and some Narcan to revive her. Then, Corinna learns of other cases of junkies who haven’t been so lucky. It’s soon clear that this is a pattern, and that someone may be deliberately targeting junkies. Corinna is reluctant to get involved, but she’s persuaded by her new lover, Daniel Cohen, to help. Together, they learn that the key to these deaths is a Goth club called Blood Lines. One night, they go to the club, and once there, they are invited to the club’s private room. That’s where they put together the pieces of the puzzle, and learn how the club and its secrets are connected to the deaths.

I don’t think it’d be possible to do a post about secret societies in crime fiction without mentioning the Mafia. It’s taken various forms throughout history, and has had different purposes. The one constant, though, is the emphasis on secrecy. And members know the consequences if they betray that secrecy. For instance, in Tonino Benacquista’s Badfellas, we are introduced to Fred and Maggie Blake and their two children. The Blake family are ex-pat Americans who have recently moved to a small town in Normandy. They have their share of ‘culture clash’ as they learn to fit in there, but as we soon learn, they have other, bigger problems. Fred Blake is really Giovanni Manzini, a member of the New Jersey Mafia, who joined the Federal Witness Protection Program when he testified against his former colleagues. The family was moved to Normandy for their safety. And the plan works well enough until word of their whereabouts gets back to New Jersey…

And that’s the thing about secret societies. They can be fascinating, and for members, they provide a real support network. But they have their dangers, too…

 

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Todd Rundgren’s Secret Society.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Kerry Greenwood, Tonino Benacquista, Tony Hillerman