by Dick Francis. I’ve always liked the way Francis has with a plot, though it has seemed in his recent books he’s gone out of his way to toss in more sex. I suppose he’s trying to be modern, but it just seems forced. I’ve never minded sex (or violence — why do those two always seem to go together?) when it’s a part of the plot or the character development. But both are off-putting when they’re just tossed in without thought or purpose. At least he only wastes a tad under a page on it in this book; as I said, he seems to be treating it as an obligatory add-on, rather than an integral part of the story. Sort of like those gratuitous scenes in an American movie that are there to give it an ‘R’ rating, showing it to be a ‘serious’ movie, but which can easily be excised for sale to American broadcast television.

The theme is a variation on “You can’t go home again.” A newly-promoted member of the British Foreign Office makes some friends in the US, and accompanies them back to England, where they run into a spot of bother. Since his mother remarried and he was adopted by his stepfather, no one in the English countryside they’ve traveled to tumbles to the fact he actually grew up there (including the sister of one of his playmates). A tad difficult to swallow as he instantly recognizes some of them, but there you have it.

Beyond that little faux pas, Francis does his usual good job. We see the people both through the eyes of a child growing up there, and through the adult coming back, who realizes he doesn’t know these people as well as he’d like, and who doesn’t fit in there any more. The child draws the man into some complications (including the unnecessary sex scene mentioned above). It’s also hinted at rather strongly that he may actually be a half-brother to one of the locals, from the “wrong side of the blanket.” It’s not a cozy, and it’s not a whodunit in the strict sense, as Francis tips you off very early as to who at least one of the Bad People is. But he can’t let that go untwisted, and so deftly palms an ace, only to reveal the major player from the bad side right at the end. The final trap the hero walks into is again obvious, but the face behind it isn’t.

As usual for Francis, no loose ends are left dangling, and not only does our hero emerge from his trials victorious, he also gets the girl. Escapist? Of course. But if I wanted realism, I’d read the paper. Or one of the hundreds of biographies being published today. I get enough of reality by living, thank you very much. I need to see the Good Guy win and even get the girl from time to time; it gives me what I need in order to pick up my lance, mount my charger and Get Back In There. Highly recommended.

One of the “Home Repair” mysteries from Sarah Graves. This is my first venture into this series, and I’m disappointed. I was looking for a modern series; It struck me that, aside from Dick Francis, all the mystery authors I was seriously reading and collecting were dead. There was Tom Clancy, but I gave up on Jack Ryan after he became president and solved all the Isreali/Palestinian problems, and John LeCarre didn’t seem the same after the Soviet Union fell.

I have to say, though, that I’m not sure if I’m disappointed at the book itself, or because the book didn’t come close to living up to the hype that was stuffed into the first three pages. I found little of the “tart wit”, “zingy dialogue,” etc., I was promised.

What I found instead was a fairly serviceable plot, with the only “home repair” I noticed being dumpster diving for shutters and the handy tip that you need to clamp the work in place before applying the belt sander (so much for “Diane Mott Davidson with a toolbelt insetad of recipes;” since woodworking is my hobby, perhaps there were more tips that went by without being noticed). It wasn’t hard to see the end coming, especially when the (rather obvious) dope dealer died. Still it was handled with aplomb, and I always say I don’t mind knowing where I’m going as long as the trip is fun. I did wince, however, when the murderer, who went to great pains to remove something incriminating from one of the victims, was found, some 200 pages later, to still be carrying, in a pocket, that incriminating piece of evidence.

Bottom line? Don’t go into this book expecting the greatest mystery read of all time, or even of the year. The characterization is reminiscent of James Patterson’s all-woman murder society (it strikes me as I write this that, aside from Hercule Poirot, I haven’t run into any male protagonists in quite some time, the guys are always the villains and sometimes the sidekicks) but it’s a rung or two below that in terms of execution. It’s an adequate storyline, though; not a waste of time.

Recommendation? Tentative. I’m going back to sample another book (and possibly two) from this series before I give up on it. I haven’t however, decided to start buying hardcovers of it.