Beau death

Review by New York Times Review

james lee burke is what fellow writers call a wordsmith. He can make your eyes water with a lyrical description of tropical rain falling on a Louisiana bayou: "I love the mist hanging in the trees," he tells us in robicheaux (Simon & Schuster, $27.99), "a hint of wraiths that would not let heavy stones weigh them down in their graves, the raindrops clicking on the lily pads, the fish rising as though in celebration." But in the next breath, he'll offer a comprehensive account of an excruciating death by torture: "The guy who did him took his time." And to satisfy our appetite for Southern eccentricity, he'll introduce us to great characters like Baby Cakes Babineau and Pookie the Possum Domingue. Dave Robicheaux, the narrator of this robust regional series, is an Iberia Parish sheriff's detective with the melancholy air of a man who occasionally sees the holloweyed ghosts of the Confederate dead. Haunted by his own violent past, Robicheaux keeps trying to redeem himself through good works; but when he falls off the wagon, as he does here in a spectacular way, he thinks he might be capable of committing murder. But he's not in the same class as a contract killer named Chester Wimple ("Sometimes people call me Smiley"). Like most of Burke's plots, this one has roots in Louisiana history, a gumbo of "misogamy and racism and homophobia," not to mention "demagoguery" and "self-congratulatory ignorance." Mob figures like Fat Tony Nemo look tough, but they have nothing on up-and-coming politicians like Jimmy Nightingale, eager to follow in the footsteps of his flamboyantly crooked predecessors. Burke has no inclination to romanticize gangsters, no matter how well groomed: "They were brutal, stupid to the core, and had the visceral instincts of medieval peasants armed with pitchforks." Rather, he pays homage to the fallen dead like Lt. Robert S. Broussard, a Civil War hero whose sword gets into the hands of a crime boss, fn rescuing this artifact, Robicheaux bares his bleeding heart for "La Louisiane, the love of my life, the home of Jolié Blon and Evangeline and the Great Whore of Babylon, the place for which 1 would die." WITTY, STYLISH and a bit of a rogue - that's what people said about Richard Nash, known as Beau, the notorious dandy who transformed the English city of Bath into "the 18th-century equivalent of Vegas." The same might be said of Peter Lovesey, whose elegant mysteries pay tribute to the past glories of this beautiful city, fn BEAU DEATH (Soho Crime, $27.95), a demolition crew unearths the remains of a bewigged gentleman in period dress, setting off gossip that Nash has been found - murdered. Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond accepts this theory until he discovers the desiccated corpse was wearing modern-day underwear. There's always a whiff of Restoration comedy about Lovesey's cunning plots, which make a point of featuring shrewd women like the drolly named Georgina Dallymore, whose ample comedic gifts make her a figure fit for a Congreve comedy and the perfect companion for Diamond. if you find it significant that tortellini can be easier to eat than linguine or fettuccine, THE BODY IN THE CASKET (Morrow, $25.99) IS your kind of mystery. Katherine Hall Page, who has written almost two dozen culinary mysteries, has come up with another smart twist on her cozy formula featuring Faith Fairchild, a minister's wife and keen-eyed amateur detective from suburban Massachusetts. Faith's catering firm, Have Faith in Your Kitchen, has been hired for a weekend party by Max Dane, a once-famous Broadway producer celebrating his 70th birthday. But what he really wants to hire is Faith's sleuthing talent, because he strongly suspects that one of his guests wants to kill him. The mechanics of the murder mystery are well set up and executed, but what you're hungry for is what's on the menu. This time, Faith is starting off with "Fallen Angel" cocktails, then moving along to deviled eggs and an apple-potato dish called "Himmel und Erde." The main course, lobster pasta fra diavolo, is followed by an angel food cake, from a recipe that calls for "nine large eggs" and a mountain of sugar. Sounds divine. where better to set a gangster novel than big, bad, brawling Chicago during Prohibition? The way Ray Celestin tells it in DEAD MAN'S BLUES (Pegasus Crime, $25.95), everyone in the city was corrupt, from the mayor, Big Bill Thompson, to the 25,000 soda shop owners who ran speakeasies in their back rooms. The most colorful characters were mobsters like A1 Capone and his rival, Bugs Moran, so-called because he was certifiably "buggy, crazy, homicidally violent and not very clever." As he did in his first novel, "The Axeman," which was set in New Orleans, Celestin perfectly captures the jazzy street rhythms of this proudly pugnacious city and its peculiar characters. His authorial gaze encompasses everything from a flower-festooned gangster's funeral (with "a casket costing more than most people's houses") to a golf game featuring Capone; his hit man, Machine Gun Jack McGurn; and the mayor of suburban Burnham. Which is a lot funnier than the funeral. Marilyn STASIO has covered crime fiction for the Book Review since 1988. Her column appears twice a month.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 30, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

Here's another of Lovesey's classy entertainments featuring the put-upon, slyly funny, and usually dead-on right Peter Diamond, detective superintendent of the Bath police. This time Diamond shares the spotlight with a chap who's been dead for 300 years, eighteenth-century slick Richard Beau Nash. It was Nash's talent for promotion that turned Bath into a world-class city, though it earned him a pauper's grave. Or maybe not. A headache ball flattening a building has exposed a skeleton wearing Nash-style clothes and bearing marks that point to murder. Diamond dreams of having some fun with conventional Nash scholarship, but a fresh murder claims him, and he must investigate the killing of a modern-day promoter. In hilarious scenes, which have become Lovesey trademarks, the cops traipse about, straining their patience while they interview witnesses who misunderstand the questions or would rather talk about themselves, until Diamond's eye for detail catches the tiny incongruity that brings the solution. There's plenty of suspense here action, too all told in Lovesey's effortlessly elegant manner.--Crinklaw, Don Copyright 2017 Booklist

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Det. Supt. Peter Diamond has a very cold case to crack in Edgar-finalist Lovesey's fine 17th novel featuring the Bath police detective (after 2016's Another One Goes Tonight). The demolition of a condemned house reveals a gruesome find in the attic: a male skeleton, dressed in 18th-century clothes and seated in a chair. Despite the age of the remains, Diamond's officious boss, Asst. Chief Constable Georgina Dallymore, insists that he devote his team's resources to investigating the circumstances of the man's death. The corpse's garb suggests that it might belong to Beau Nash, a legendary local rake, who became known as the King of Bath after a suspicious death in a duel elevated him to the position of master of ceremonies for the city's Vegas-like entertainment and gaming. The prospect of identifying the cause of Nash's death almost three centuries earlier is daunting, and the stakes rise when the autopsy shows that the dead man was fatally stabbed. The plot is one of Lovesey's cleverest, and the book is full of his trademark wry humor. Agent: Jane Gelfman, Gelfman Schneider. (Dec.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

A demolished English townhouse reveals a skeleton dressed in 18th-century period clothing; could the body be that of that famous dandy and Bath master of ceremonies Beau Nash? In their 17th outing (after Another One Goes Tonight), Chief Inspector Diamond and his unit dig deep into Bath history to resolve the intriguing case. Also on Diamond's plate is the death of an addict who had staged a fireworks extravaganza honoring Jane -Austen and Nash. Diamond is aided-and annoyed-by friend and lover Paloma Kean, ACC Georgina Dallymore, and his stalwart team members. The Bath setting is almost a character in its own right. The wry humor (including scenes of the potbellied Diamond in 18th-century attire attending a social event related to Beau Nash) adds charm to the story line. VERDICT One of the best entries in a long-running series, this exceptional police procedural is packed with imperfect and engaging characters, sophisticated plotting, and abundantly detailed historical tidbits. A surefire recommendation for fans of Christopher Fowler's "Bryant and May" series, which is quirkier but has many of the same appeal factors, and J.M. -Gregson's crime novels.-ACT © Copyright 2017. 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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1   The kid was forever asking questions.      "What are those people doing, Dad?"       "I don't know, son. Just looking."       "Why?"       "Why what?"       "Why are they looking?"       "It's some kind of building site. The contractors put those high fences round for safety, but some people like to see what's going on, so they make little windows in the panels."       "What's a contractor, Dad?"       "Never mind."       "Can I look through the little windows?"       "Not now, son. We don't have time."       "Please."       "No."       The kid had been taught the basic courtesies and he was smart enough to use them to get his way. "Please, Dad. Please."       "Only for a moment, then."       They crossed the road to the billboards and of course the observation window was too high for the kid, so the father had to lift him.       "What's that, Dad?"       "I can't see while I'm holding you."       "That big ball."       "What are you talking about? Let's have a look." The father held the kid aside for a moment. "I see what you mean. That's a wrecking ball, son. You don't see them much these days. They're demolishing some old houses." This, he now decided as a caring parent, was not such a waste of time, but should be part of the kid's education. "It's using what we call kinetic energy. The ball is solid steel, really heavy and hanging on a chain from the top of the crane high above the houses. The man in control pulls the ball back towards his cab with another chain and gives it a good swing at the building, like the conkers you and I played with last year. It smashes into the wall and knocks it down." He shouted, "Wow! Just like that."       "Can I see? Let me see, Dad."       "Yeah. I suppose." The destruction was so compelling that he'd forgotten the kid had his nose to the panel and couldn't see a thing. He replaced him at the window.       "Is it going to smash the house down?"       "Not in one go. See if the ball is being hoisted back."       "It is, Dad."       "Good. Watch what happens, son." Shame the peephole wasn't big enough for two to look through at the same time.       "Crrrrrrrrash!" yelled the kid. And then on a disappointed note, "It's still there."       "I told you it takes several goes. Let's see." The kid was thrust aside again. "Yes, he's hauling it back for another try."       "Let me see."       "In a tick."       "Da-a-d."       "Hold on, son."       The ball smacked into the top floor of the end house of the terrace and produced a cloud of dust. Destruction is appealing. All along the barrier, people at the observation windows gave cries of satisfaction.       "Da-a-a-ad."       Like everyone else, the father was waiting for the dust to disperse to see the hole in the masonry.       "Nice one."       Belatedly the kid was given his chance to check the damage.       "Now you know what happens." The show wasn't over, but the father had decided it was time to move on. He lowered the kid to the ground.       "I didn't see."       "Course you did."       "Give me another look. Please."       It was true that the kid had missed the best action. The father peered through again to check that the secondary steel rope was taut in preparation for another smack at the building. "Last time, then." He lifted the kid again.       More shouts greeted another hit from the wrecking ball.       The kid said with delight, "Crrrrrrrrash!"       "Impressive, eh? That's enough, then. We've got to get on."       "Dad, what's that man doing?"       "What man?"       "The man in the house."       "There's nobody in the house, son. It's empty. It's being demolished."       "A man in funny clothes sitting in a chair. Look."       "I've told you before, you mustn't make things up." He shifted the kid from the window and looked for himself. "Oh Christ."       In the attic of the end house, now ripped open, was a crumpled figure in an armchair. The dust from the demolition had coated it liberally and it was a parody of the human form held together by what appeared to be long outmoded garments: olive green frock coat, cravat, grey breeches, wrinkled white stockings. The head, sunk grotesquely into the shoulder bones and partially covered by a long black wig, was a skull and the hands resting on the chair arms were skeletal.       "Can you see the man now, Dad?"       "I can."       "Is he dead?"       Spectacularly, irreversibly, abso-bloody-lutely dead, but you couldn't say that to a small child. "Em, he could be just a dummy like you see in dress shop windows."       "I've never seen a dummy like that. Can I have another look?"       "Definitely not. We're leaving."     In the next hour, the observation windows were more in use than ever on the demolition site in Twerton, the southwesterly suburb of Bath. People were waiting their turn for a look. All work had ceased. The foreman had called the police. A number of patrol cars and vans were lined up on what had once been a narrow road in front of the condemned terrace. But no one had yet started any kind of close examination of the occupant of the attic. Slumped in its chair, exposed to the daylight, the weather and the gaze of everyone, the skeleton was a treat for voyeurs and a rebuke for anyone who believed in respecting the dead. Normally a forensic tent would have been erected by now, giving the deceased some kind of privacy.       The difficulty was that the wrecking ball had rendered the building unsafe. The floor might well give way if anyone tried using a ladder to get near. "What we need," the senior police officer on the ground said, "is one of those basket cranes they use to inspect street lamps."       "Cherry picker," his assistant said.       "Right. See if you can get one. If nothing else, we'll get a closer look at the poor blighter."       "One is already on its way," someone else spoke up.       "You mean I'm not the first to come up with this brilliant suggestion?" Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond swung around to see who had spoken. "Oh, you," he said to Dr. Higgins, the police surgeon who routinely attended fatal incidents. "Should have guessed you'd be here chucking your weight about."       "That's rich, coming from you," Higgins said, but with a grin. He was about half Diamond's size. "It was my call, so it's my cherry picker and my duty to inspect the corpse and decide whether life is extinct."       "Isn't that obvious?"       "It's the law, Peter, and you know it."       After making a show of another long look, Diamond said, "Unless my eyes are deceiving me, that thing up there is a skeleton. He's been out of it a few years. A few hundred years, if his clothes are anything to go by. No one here is going to report you if you declare him dead without getting close up."       "Sorry. You'll have to take your turn." The doctor meant business. He was already wearing a bright yellow hard hat.       Diamond turned back to his assistant, Keith Halliwell. "What's his game?"       "Dunno, guv. Does he want a ride in the cherry picker? Some people never grow up."       "Where's the site manager?"       "Gone. They all buggered off home."       "Do we know who owns these houses?"       "Some private landlord. There was subsidence reported a couple of years ago and when the borough surveyor was called he declared the whole terrace unfit for habitation. The tenants had to leave and it was boarded up while the legal formalities were gone through."       "That figures," Diamond said. "There's an appeal process."       "Meanwhile some squatters found their way in and occupied it."       "They would."       "Finally a demolition order was made by the council and here we are."       "But a ten-foot fence makes me suspicious. There's more to this than demolition."       "Someone must have paid for the perimeter fence."       "That's what I'm saying. Anywhere in Bath is a prime site. Mark my words, Keith--some sharp dealing has been done here."       "Speculators?"       "They like to call themselves developers. And nobody thought to tell the guy in the attic."       Halliwell had worked with Diamond long enough to treat his deadpan remarks as serious conversation. "No one knew he was there. It's not a proper attic room from what I can see. I'd call it a loft."       The cherry picker trundled in soon after and took up a position in front of the gaping building. Dr. Higgins in his hard hat stepped into the basket as if he was about to lift off from Cape Canaveral, pressed the right buttons on the control panel and was hydraulically raised to the level of what remained of the roof.       "Get your stethoscope out, doc," Diamond shouted up. "We're all watching."       There was no response from above, but the diagnosis didn't take long.       Only after the machine was lowered did Higgins say, "There was no call for sarcasm, Peter. It could have been a plastic skeleton put there by students. Didn't that cross your mind?"       "Actually, no. Are you satisfied he's real?"       "I am now. Real--and well and truly dead."       "Job done, then," Diamond said. "I'll go up and introduce myself. How does this thing work?"       "Haven't you used one before? You'll need the hard hat."       "I'm not going to fall out of the bloody basket."       "Health and safety. I'm a doctor, remember."       "Ridiculous."       With so many witnesses, Diamond was forced reluctantly to comply. Being stubborn, he borrowed a white Avon and Somerset helmet from a police motorcyclist and wore it with the visor up and the straps hanging loose.       The advisability of protective headgear was proved at once. His efforts at the controls were cack-handed. There were smiles all round when the basket made a jerky ascent.       He didn't learn much from his first close look at the skeleton. The figure was well coated in every sense. No doubt it had gathered dust from centuries in the loft, and the latest covering of powdered mortar had spread over that wherever it could settle. Only in a few places did the fabric of the eighteenth-century clothes show through. The skull with its lopsided black wig was at a weird angle, supported by the left shoulder. It was toothless.       As for the chair, it could have been from any period, with sturdy wooden legs, high upholstered back and armrests. There didn't seem to be any other furniture about, but not much of the loft space was visible. Broken tiles were scattered across the floor.       How does a thing like this happen? Diamond asked himself. "I'm just going up into the loft, dear, and I may be some time." Heart attack, stroke, overdose? The poor guy had found some privacy here, for sure, but why hadn't anyone gone looking for him? A missing person must have caused some concern, even a century or more before the police were created.       The big detective gripped the crossbar and leaned as far forward as he dared for a better view. Too far forward.       To his alarm he lost balance and felt himself tipping. His face came within inches of the skull. Only by flexing his legs and hanging on to the bar did he avoid a catastrophic nosedive.       In the middle of this undignified manoeuvre, something flashed.       "Sonofabitch." He knew what it was. Should have expected it. "Keith, grab that camera."       A great picture for the papers, him in his police helmet leaning out of the cherry picker like Narcissus face to face with his reflection, except it was the skeleton. Muttering obscenities, he fiddled with the controls until one swung the boom left and another jerked him savagely to terra firma.       Halliwell had gone in pursuit of the press photographer, but with little chance of success. The age gap was probably twenty years. Presently he returned, panting and apologetic. "None of us spotted him on the site, guv. We were all watching you."       This investigation was off to a bad start.       Little else could be done that afternoon. They ordered scaffolding for the front of the building, but the crew couldn't start for at least an hour and then it wouldn't be simple. A platform for access would have to be constructed and a waterproof canopy rigged over the top.       "This is going to eat into our budget," Diamond complained to Halliwell. "It's already a major operation and it isn't even a crime scene."       "It could be."       "If it is, it's a cold case and they don't come colder than this." Excerpted from Beau Death by Peter Lovesey 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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