The brutal telling

Review by New York Times Review

The thing about Sara Paretsky is, she's tough - not because she observes the bone-breaker conventions of the private-eye genre but because she doesn't flinch from examining old social injustices others might find too shameful (and too painful) to dig up. In the dozen novels she's written about V.I. Warshawski, her stouthearted but short-tempered Chicago P.I., Paretsky has questioned the memories of Holocaust victims, reopened wounds from the McCarthy era and repeatedly wailed on the local political machine for its flagrant corruption. Paretsky is in full Furies mode in HARDBALL (Putnam, $26.95), which reaches back to the tumultuous summer of 1966, when Martin Luther King led civil rights marches through the Southwest Side and was met by race riots that cut through families and across generations, even spilling over into the churches. Warshawski, who was only 10 at the time, assumes the burden of other people's memories when she agrees to help an old woman who hasn't seen her son since he disappeared during the January blizzard of 1967. The son, Lamont Gadsden, was in a black street gang whose members saw the light and became Dr. King's personal bodyguards, and he was at his side in Marquette Park when rioters killed one of King's followers. So the very white and very female private eye looking into the youth's disappearance finds herself ignored, insulted or attacked by every bent cop, crooked pol and angry political activist who'd like to keep his own shabby sins buried in the past. Unlike many popular crime writers, Paretsky doesn't turn out books like some battery hen (the previous novel in this series was published in 2005), so it's a distinct pleasure to hear her unapologetically strident voice once again. While her themes here are familiar - Chicago's legacy of police brutality and political corruption is a never-ending source of material - she gives them a personal spin by drawing on her own experiences as a community organizer during the summer of 1966 and sharing them with a large cast of voluble and opinionated characters, whose memories are as raw as her own. There's a real sting to both the anger of a black man who took care of a friend beaten to insensibility by racist cops and the grief of an old white woman displaced from her family home. Voices like these can ring in your ears for - oh, 40 years and more. Writers can be so cruel. Without any warning, they cavalierly kill off their series sleuths (Colin Dexter), consign them to early retirement (Rennie Airth), send them off on extended foreign assignments (Barbara Cleverly) or, in the case of Peter Lovesey, simply dump them. Beginning in 1970 with "Wobble to Death," Lovesey wrote eight rough-and-tumble Victorian mysteries featuring Sergeant Cribb, a bare-knuckled police officer who went in for the extreme (not to say barbaric) sports of his day and was as familiar with London's seedy haunts as any criminal. Eight years later, the series was kaput, leaving fans with fond memories that can yet be fanned, now that Soho Press is bringing out handsome paperback editions of the novels, with great cover art by the likes of Thomas Nast and Gustave Doré. Meanwhile, the most durable of Lovesey's other detectives, Inspector Peter Diamond of the Bath C.I.D., has his 10th outing in SKELETON HILL (Soho, $24). The story opens with a modern-day re-enactment of a battle fought in Bath in 1643 and works itself up into one of Lovesey's familiar convoluted plots, layered with historical lore and teeming with comic characters up to their necks in no good. Diamond is a classic - better catch him while you can. With its sad story about lost boys and its mournful theme of the indifference of the living to those who walk out of their lives, ARCTIC CHILL (Minotaur, $24.99) may well be the most thoroughly depressing of all the gloomy police procedurals coming out of those cold lands near the Arctic Circle. But since the storyteller is Arnaldur Indridason, this Icelandic tale is delivered with exquisite sensitivity, in a moody translation by Bernard Scudder and Victoria Cribb. The murder of a 10-year-old schoolboy and the disappearance of his teenage brother alert Inspector Erlendur Sveinsson to the racial prejudice in Reykjavik against its growing population of Asian immigrants. "You run into closed doors everywhere," he observes during the investigation, which leads him to grave thoughts about his island nation and the insularity that once protected it - but now threatens to isolate it - from the world beyond its shores. There's always a log fire burning and it's always story time in the charming mysteries Louise Penny sets in sleepy Three Pines, a quaint Québécois clone of Brigadoon. While constant readers may think they know all there is to know about its eccentric villagers, Penny is a great one for springing surprises. In THE BRUTAL TELLING (Minotaur, $24.99), the dear chap who owns Olivier's Bistro is revealed to have a cutthroat business streak that may have something to do with the old hermit who's found dead one morning on the bistro floor. As with any village mystery series, attrition is a constant problem. Happily, Penny replenishes the population by introducing new characters, including the very promising Gilbert family, who have bought the old Hadley house and plan to turn it into a luxury inn and spa. There may be bad blood between the Gilberts and Olivier, but that only adds to the social chemistry that's always on the bubble in Three Pines.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 27, 2009]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* This fifth in Penny's celebrated Armand Gamache series finds the chief inspector of the Sûreté du Quebec returning once again to the tiny village of Three Pines, where murder seems to disrupt the comfortable routines of the residents with alarming frequency. This time the body of an unknown man has turned up on the floor of the village bistro and antique shop. With a sophistication and a sense of empathy that will remind readers of P. D. James' Adam Dalgleish, Gamache and his team tease information out of the recalcitrant locals, many of whom have appeared in previous books. When the identity of the man, a hermit who was living in a cabin deep in the woods, is finally revealed, the case expands its boundaries, as Penny leapfrogs gracefully from village rivalries and festering grudges to the international antiques trade and the works of legendary Canadian artist Emily Carr. What holds the book together, though, is the calming presence of Gamache, whose mix of erudition and intuition draws readers in just as it lulls suspects into revealing a little too much. Penny has been compared to Agatha Christie, and while there is a surface resemblance there, it sells her short. Her characters are too rich, her grasp of nuance and human psychology too firm for the formula-bound Christie. No, Penny belongs in the hands of those who read not only P. D. James but also Donna Leon, who, like Penny, mixes her hero's family and professional lives fluidly and with a subtle grasp of telling detail.--Ott, Bill Copyright 2009 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

When the body of an unknown old man turns up in a bistro in Agatha-winner Penny's excellent fifth mystery set in the Quebec village of Three Pines (after Jan. 2009's A Rule Against Murder), Chief Insp. Armand Gamache investigates. At a cabin in the woods apparently belonging to the dead man, Gamache and his team are shocked to discover the remote building is full of priceless antiquities, from first edition books to European treasures thought to have disappeared during WWII. When suspicion falls on one of Three Pines' most prominent citizens, it's up to Gamache to sift through the lies and uncover the truth. Though Gamache is undeniably the focus, Penny continues to develop her growing cast of supporting characters, including newcomers Marc and Dominique Gilbert, who are converting an old house-the site of two murders-into a spa. Readers keen for another glimpse into the life of Three Pines will be well rewarded. 100,000 first printing. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Having won numerous mystery prizes, including the prestigious Arthur Ellis and Anthony awards for her debut, Still Life, Canadian author Penny has only gotten better with each succeeding novel. Her fifth in the series is the finest of all. Featuring series protagonist Chief Inspector Gamache, this literary mystery explores the ways in which sins of the past have a way of resurrecting themselves, wreaking havoc upon their perpetrators, and, unfortunately, the innocent. Thus, when a hermit is slain in the woods near an isolated village in rural Quebec, secrets surface, unmasking characters who have adopted benign personae to conceal their questionable past deeds. Fortunately, sagacious Gamache possesses the acumen to peel away the layers of deceit and to expose the truth. Verdict This superb novel will appeal to readers who enjoy sophisticated literary mysteries in the tradition of Donna Leon. [See Prepub Mystery, LJ 6/1/09; 100,000-copy first printing; library marketing campaign.]-Lynne F. Maxwell, Villanova Univ. Sch. of Law, PA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Chief Inspector Gamache of the Canadian Sret is again called to restore order to the tiny Quebecois hamlet of Three Pines. Olivier and Gabri, gay owners of the Bistro and BB, insist they that they don't know the dead man and can't imagine how he came to be lying on their floor. That's not quite the truth, but it's merely the setup for the first of many surprises. The real story will unravel for Gamache and his subordinates Beauvoir and Lacoste in startling ways. These include the discovery that the corpse has been moved three times by two different people; the return of a father declared dead over 20 years ago; a word woven into a spider's web; and the disclosure of several wood carvings emanating evil that require Gamache to fly to British Columbia and inspect totem poles. Priceless antiques sequestered in a hermit's cabin and sorrowful tales of Czech citizens cheated of their belongings will come to light before Gamache, to his considerable distress, will have to arrest a friend. Penny (A Rule Against Murder, 2009, etc.) is a world-class storyteller. If you don't want to move to Montreal with Gamache as your neighboror better yet, relocate to Three Pines and be welcomed into its community of eccentricsyou have sawdust in your veins, which must be very uncomfortable. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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THE BRUTAL TELLING (Chapter 1) "All of them? Even the children?" The fireplace sputtered and crackled and swallowed his gasp. "Slaughtered?" "Worse." There was silence then. And in that hush lived all the things that could be worse than slaughter. "Are they close?" His back tingled as he imagined something dreadful creeping through the woods. Toward them. He looked around, almost expecting to see red eyes staring through the dark windows. Or from the corners, or under the bed. "All around. Have you seen the light in the night sky?" "I thought those were the Northern Lights." The pink and green and white shifting, flowing against the stars. Like something alive, glowing, and growing. And approaching. Olivier Brulé lowered his gaze, no longer able to look into the troubled, lunatic eyes across from him. He'd lived with this story for so long, and kept telling himself it wasn't real. It was a myth, a story told and repeated and embellished over and over and over. Around fires just like theirs. It was a story, nothing more. No harm in it. But in this simple log cabin, buried in the Quebec wilderness, it seemed like more than that. Even Olivier felt himself believing it. Perhaps because the Hermit so clearly did. The old man sat in his easy chair on one side of the stone hearth with Olivier on the other. Olivier looked into a fire that had been alive for more than a decade. An old flame not allowed to die, it mumbled and popped in the grate, throwing soft light into the log cabin. He gave the embers a shove with the simple iron poker, sending sparks up the chimney. Candlelight twinkled off shiny objects like eyes in the darkness, found by the flame. "It won't be long now." The Hermit's eyes were gleaming like metal reaching its melting point. He was leaning forward as he often did when this tale was told. Olivier scanned the single room. The dark was punctuated by flickering candles throwing fantastic, grotesque shadows. Night seemed to have seeped through the cracks in the logs and settled into the cabin, curled in corners and under the bed. Many native tribes believed evil lived in corners, which was why their traditional homes were rounded. Unlike the square homes the government had given them. Olivier didn't believe evil lived in corners. Not really. Not in the daylight, anyway. But he did believe there were things waiting in the dark corners of this cabin that only the Hermit knew about. Things that set Olivier's heart pounding. "Go on," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. It was late and Olivier still had the twenty-minute walk through the forest back to Three Pines. It was a trip he made every fortnight and he knew it well, even in the dark. Only in the dark. Theirs was a relationship that existed only after nightfall. They sipped Orange Pekoe tea. A treat, Olivier knew, reserved for the Hermit's honored guest. His only guest. But now it was story time. They leaned closer to the fire. It was early September and a chill had crept in with the night. "Where was I? Oh, yes. I remember now." Olivier's hands gripped the warm mug even tighter. "The terrible force has destroyed everything in its way. The Old World and the New. All gone. Except . . ." "Except?" "One tiny village remains. Hidden in a valley, so the grim army hasn't seen it yet. But it will. And when it does their great leader will stand at the head of his army. He's immense, bigger than any tree, and clad in armor made from rocks and spiny shells and bone." "Chaos." The word was whispered and disappeared into the darkness, where it curled into a corner. And waited. "Chaos. And the Furies. Disease, Famine, Despair. All are swarming. Searching. And they'll never stop. Not ever. Not until they find it." "The thing that was stolen." The Hermit nodded, his face grim. He seemed to see the slaughter, the destruction. See the men and women, the children, fleeing before the merciless, soulless force. "But what was it? What could be so important they had to destroy everything to get it back?" Olivier willed his eyes not to dart from the craggy face and into the darkness. To the corner, and the thing they both knew was sitting there in its mean little canvas sack. But the Hermit seemed to read his mind and Olivier saw a malevolent grin settle onto the old man's face. And then it was gone. "It's not the army that wants it back." They both saw then the thing looming behind the terrible army. The thing even Chaos feared. That drove Despair, Disease, Famine before it. With one goal. To find what was taken from their Master. "It's worse than slaughter." Their voices were low, barely scraping the ground. Like conspirators in a cause already lost. "When the army finally finds what it's searching for it will stop. And step aside. And then the worst thing imaginable will arrive." There was silence again. And in that silence lived the worst thing imaginable. Outside a pack of coyotes set up a howl. They had something cornered. Myth, that's all this is, Olivier reassured himself. Just a story. Once more he looked into the embers, so he wouldn't see the terror in the Hermit's face. Then he checked his watch, tilting the crystal toward the fireplace until its face glowed orange and told him the time. Two thirty in the morning. "Chaos is coming, old son, and there's no stopping it. It's taken a long time, but it's finally here." The Hermit nodded, his eyes rheumy and runny, perhaps from the wood smoke, perhaps from something else. Olivier leaned back, surprised to feel his thirty-eight-year-old body suddenly aching, and realized he'd sat tense through the whole awful telling. "I'm sorry. It's getting late and Gabri will be worried. I have to go." "Already?" Olivier got up and pumping cold, fresh water into the enamel sink he cleaned his cup. Then he turned back to the room. "I'll be back soon," he smiled. "Let me give you something," said the Hermit, looking around the log cabin. Olivier's gaze darted to the corner where the small canvas sack sat. Unopened. A bit of twine keeping it closed. A chuckle came from the Hermit. "One day, perhaps, Olivier. But not today." He went over to the hand-hewn mantelpiece, picked up a tiny item and held it out to the attractive blond man. "For the groceries." He pointed to the tins and cheese and milk, tea and coffee and bread on the counter. "No, I couldn't. It's my pleasure," said Olivier, but they both knew the pantomime and knew he'd take the small offering. " Merci ," Olivier said at the door. In the woods there was a furious scrambling, as a doomed creature raced to escape its fate, and coyotes raced to seal it. "Be careful," said the old man, quickly scanning the night sky. Then, before closing the door, he whispered the single word that was quickly devoured by the woods. Olivier wondered if the Hermit crossed himself and mumbled prayers, leaning against the door, which was thick but perhaps not quite thick enough. And he wondered if the old man believed the stories of the great and grim army with Chaos looming and leading the Furies. Inexorable, unstoppable. Close. And behind them something else. Something unspeakable. And he wondered if the Hermit believed the prayers. Olivier flicked on his flashlight, scanning the darkness. Gray tree trunks crowded round. He shone the light here and there, trying to find the narrow path through the late summer forest. Once on the trail he hurried. And the more he hurried the more frightened he became, and the more fearful he grew the faster he ran until he was stumbling, chased by dark words through the dark woods. He finally broke through the trees and staggered to a stop, hands on his bent knees, heaving for breath. Then, slowly straightening, he looked down on the village in the valley. Three Pines was asleep, as it always seemed to be. At peace with itself and the world. Oblivious of what happened around it. Or perhaps aware of everything, but choosing peace anyway. Soft light glowed at some of the windows. Curtains were drawn in bashful old homes. The sweet scent of the first autumn fires wafted to him. And in the very center of the little Quebec village there stood three great pines, like watchmen. Olivier was safe. Then he felt his pocket. The gift. The tiny payment. He'd left it behind. Cursing, Olivier turned to look into the forest that had closed behind him. And he thought again of the small canvas bag in the corner of the cabin. The thing the Hermit had teased him with, promised him, dangled before him. The thing a hiding man hid. Olivier was tired, and fed up and angry at himself for forgetting the trinket. And angry at the Hermit for not giving him the other thing. The thing he'd earned by now. He hesitated, then turning he plunged back into the forest, feeling his fear growing and feeding the rage. And as he walked, then ran, a voice followed, beating behind him. Driving him on. "Chaos is here, old son." THE BRUTAL TELLING. Copyright 2009 by Louise Penny. Excerpted from The Brutal Telling by Louise Penny All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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