Review: "The Queens of Crime," Marie Benedict

It's 1930, and mystery writer Dorothy L. Sayers is determined to get more women into London's legendary Deduction Club. She and fellow member Agatha Christie, using some subterfuge, manage to get Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham and the Baroness Emma Orczy inducted.

But the haughty men in the club ignore them. So Sayers comes up with a plan. The “Queens of Crime” will solve their own, real-life mystery. Then the men will have to give them their due.

And so begins a delightful romp. Mystery writers solving a mystery—how could this mystery aficionado not swoon?

May Daniels, a young English nurse, has gone missing on a day trip to France. The Queens go to Boulogne to investigate. While they’re there, her body is found. A syringe is nearby, and the police are quick to pin her death on a drug deal gone bad. But why is there a pool of blood beneath the body?

The Queens go to work, pulling investigative techniques from their own writings. Since Daniels disappeared after entering the ferry terminal restroom and no one saw her leave, it’s a locked room conundrum, a staple of the Golden Age of Mystery. Costumes are donned; identities are disguised. There is a final gathering of suspects, of course, where the killer is revealed.

Benedict paints a fascinating picture of the Queens. Dorothy is intrepid. Agatha keeps pace with her, but she’s quiet and dowdy, as if she prefers to keep a low profile after her very high profile “disappearance” in 1926. The Baroness is older and extremely status-conscious, but her connections open doors. She and the brusque Ngaio, who favors pantsuits, often spar verbally. Margery is the youngest. Her attractive appearance proves helpful when the Queens need to snare a suspect.

Yes, traps are set.

The Queens dine at the famous Simpson’s in the Strand and mingle with theater folk in London’s West End. Dorothy and Agatha attend a gala at the posh home of Agatha’s pretentious sister. They confront a suspect at the elegant Savoy Hotel. They hire Pinkerton detectives for security and travel by train. The thirties ambience is thick and most enjoyable.

The Queens quarrel from time to time. Everyone wants to be involved in every move. But there is no doubt that they are friends to the core. When Dorothy is attacked, the Queens not only rally round her, they vow to protect her most precious secret.

These women want to support each other and their goal of finding justice for May Daniels.

Marie Benedict is the author of a number of other novels; I also thoroughly enjoyed her The Mystery of Mrs. Christie and The Mitford Affair. Although Benedict doesn’t write series, I can’t help but hope the Queens will be back to solve another case.

 

Essay: Lost and Found

I wasn't shocked when my editor at the Central Maine Newspapers told me, in November of 2024, that my column would be "on hiatus" for the rest of the year. I know newspapers are in a steep decline, with diminishing readership and disappearing ad revenues. I certainly knew I was lucly to have held on to my column for so many years.

When I sat down to write my annual holiday letter to a good friend, a tradition we’ve shared for probably 40 years, I could barely type. I cried. I had to tell her the news, and I knew she’d be upset. I wrote a paragraph, then closed the document. I couldn’t come back to it until the next day.

My position would be reassessed in the new year, my editor told me. I told myself to save the teeth gnashing until I got the final news, but I knew I was toast.

I started writing a weekly column for the Kennebec Journal in 1988, shortly after I was hired there as an editorial writer and manager of the op-ed page four days a week. On Sunday nights, I pitched in as a copy editor. The opportunity was offered to me and I was thrilled; writing a column was something I’d wanted to do since I began freelancing in journalism in 1979. Plus, I pretty much had free rein on what I wrote. I called the column “Thinking Things Through,” because I envisioned it as an exercise in working through my thoughts on various topics.

It took me about a week to write my first one. I would get better at it.

I continued to write the column after I left the paper about a year and half later. I went on to work as the librarian at the Readfield Public Library and did some freelancing. Then I joined the Augusta School Department libraries, where I stayed for 32 years.

It was not always easy to get that column written during the school year, but I never missed a deadline. At one point, a new editor came on board and decided she didn’t like my column. She axed me. But some of my faithful readers complained, and I was brought back.

My column was originally weekly; more recently it ran on the first and third Thursdays of the month. Somewhere along the line, maybe in the early 2000s, I was approached by the editor of The Notes, a weekly in Yarmouth. They offered me a weekly slot, and I could use my KJ columns most of the time.

I was quite excited to be in two markets. Sometimes I had to write an original column for The Notes—if the KJ piece was on a holiday topic or an Augusta community issue. But most of the time it was just a matter of checking it over twice and sending it off to them.

When my KJ column schedule was cut back, however, I had to write more original pieces for The Notes. That felt like a lot of pressure when I was working full time. The year I completed my master’s degree was a crazy period. I tell myself I was younger then.

I loved writing a column so I was willing to put up with some anxiety. Still, I appreciated three-day weekends and school vacations when I could be a little more leisurely with my work.

I had a system to keep all the balls in the air. I’d keep a list of ideas going, and try to pin one down about a week in advance. Then I’d jot down ideas as I thought of them. Sometimes I’d scribble out a draft.

Finally, I would sit down and pound it out. I thanked my experience as a newspaper reporter for the training to be able to do this. Also, I was inspired by the work of writer and teacher Donald Murray. This was his writing method—pre-writing, writing and revision— and it worked for me. He also advocated the use of a “day book” to keep track of writing thoughts.

When Murray passed away in 2006, I wrote a column about his influence on me. His family wrote to me—they were responding to everyone who wrote “eulogies” for him. I treasured the letter. Like most writers, the readers’ responses kept me inspired.

One time I wrote about how confusing marketing is, when a grocery shopper has to consider price, ecological concerns and health benefits. A co-worker clipped it and gave it to her pastor; he read from it from the pulpit.

I wrote a column opposing the invasion of Iraq in 2003. In the early days of the Internet, I was astounded when I received email from all over the world.

When I wrote a column about a list my late mother had left in a book, I heard from a school friend I hadn’t seen since graduation. Our mothers had been friends, and “K" agreed with me that when my mom wrote about praying for her friend, she was talking about K’s mother, who had developed memory issues.

And I will never forget the amazing outpouring of support I received after my husband, Paul, and I said goodbye to our 15-year-old lab/pit bull mix, Martha, in February, 2024.

Through the holidays, I mulled, and no cider was involved. I had a creative routine—my mind went into column mode every two weeks. I thought in column form, the way I imagine poets see poems everywhere. I loved my connections with my readers.

I was a columnist; it was part of my identity.

In January, several columnists at the Maine Sunday Telegram lost their gigs. I knew then that I didn’t stand a chance. I mourned for them, because I enjoyed their work. But, literally, the writing was on the wall.

I got the final verdict by the middle of the month. It was good to have finality, I guess. It was good to get the emotional green light to move on.

I’m still a writer. I’m just not a columnist anymore.

__________

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Review: "The Lost House," Melissa Larsen

A mother and her baby are found dead in the snow in a small town in Iceland in 1979. Marie and Agnes become the stuff of legend—“the Frozen Madonna and Child.” In the true-crime mania of the 2000s, of course someone is going to do a podcast about them.

Nora Carver, host of “The End,” is at the top of her field because she helped solve a cold case, the murder of a 12-year-old girl. She invites Agnes Glin to join her in Iceland for her latest venture. Agnes is the granddaughter of Einer, Marie’s husband. He was suspected of the murders, and effectively run out of town.

Agnes, namesake of the murdered infant, is broken, literally and figuratively. She badly injured her leg in an accident, which followed the death of her beloved grandfather. Agnes is fighting her dependence on painkillers. Now she must face the truth of what happened 40 years before. Why did she agree to help Nora? How will Agnes cope if it turns out that Einer did kill his wife and daughter?

Nora Carver has set up shop in a gorgeous modern home. The old farmhouse where Einer and Marie lived is just steps away. It has become a mecca for followers of the Frozen Madonna story.

In this small town, connections run deep. Thor is a neighbor who built the fabulous house the women are staying in. His father had a feud with Einer over land. Another neighbor, Ingvar, saw Marie as a second mother; his own mother, Julia, took care of baby Agnes. All have something to say about what happened, and it’s not what Agnes wants to hear.

Meanwhile, the town is gripped by a new mystery. A student, Ása, has gone missing. Nora is distracted by these current events, and Agnes gets caught up as well—but she keeps on the trail of her family tragedy, determined to find the truth no matter how much it hurts.

Through the pain of the revelations, and her shattered leg, Agnes finally learns what happened to her grandmother and aunt, and why—and she uncovers Ása’s fate as well. Agnes even manages to fall in love along the way.

The Lost House is suspenseful, but also dreamy, as if the reader is seeing events unfold through Agnes’ opioid-induced state. Because Iceland, in winter, is both beautiful and unpredictable, a sense of tense uncertainty prevails. But there is no mistaking the satisfying closure Agnes finds by the end of the book. 

Review: "Presumed Guilty," Scott Turow

Retired judge Rusty Sabich, whom readers first met in 1987 in the courtroom thriller Presumed Innocent, is now living a good life in a quiet midwestern lakeside town. He’s involved in a relationship with Bea, an elementary-school principal whom he adores, and doing some arbitration work to keep his hand in the legal field. Rusty enjoys meeting his friend, a fellow former judge, Mansfield, “Mansy” Potter, for coffee and far-reaching conversation.

But trouble soon rears its ugly head. Bea’s adopted son Aaron is on probabtion for drug possession when he disappears, headed for the woods with his beautiful, brilliant, but troubled girlfriend, Mae Potter, Mansy’s granddaughter.

Rusty and Bea are beside themselves, but Aaron soon returns, and tests clean for drugs.

Mae, however, is nowhere to be found.

Aaron says they went camping to discuss marriage and had agreed to shut off their phones. But Mae had decided she wanted to become an influencer, and was incessantly taking selfies of herself. Angry, Aaron took her phone and took off, hitchhiking his way back home.

Mae, he tells Rusty, always carried cash. He figured she’d just buy a pay-as-you-go phone at a convenience store. She has her car. Aaron says he has no idea where she might be.

Two weeks later, Mae turns up dead in her car in a remote state park. At first, it looks like an accident, but officials soon determine she was strangled. Aaron is arrested and charged.

Rusty reluctantly takes the case after he realizes there’s a dearth of experienced homicide lawyers in the rural county. Also, Aaron is black, and Rusty fears the young man will face racism in the predominantly white region. Rusty needs to take the helm to protect him.

Rusty realizes he could wreck his relationship with Bea, no matter what the verdict is. She is a fierce defender of her son, and at one point seems poised to confess to the murder to save him. Rusty’s decision quickly ruins his friendship with Mansy.

But Rusty is determined, and soon regains the compeitive fire of his youth. His investigations stir up old secrets, one of which threatens to ruin his new life. He’s not happy when Aaron insists on testifying. But there’s hope: the prosecution’s seemingly open-and-shut case contains a few big holes.

Presumed Guilty is a compelling combination of mystery, family novel and courtroom drama. It’s a long book (534 pages), with rich descriptions of people and locations. But the action does not lag—Aaron has gone missing on page one and the reader is off from there.

I especially enjoyed the varied cast of characters. Bea’s father, Joe Mena, is a cantankerous kook who nonetheless has been a solid force in his grandson Aaron’s life. Susan, Rusty’s more than able assistant, sports a rainbow Mohawk and rides with a Harley contingent on the weekends. Even a Missouri woman who calls Aaron by mistake and thus strengthens his alibi is lovingly drawn.

I was also impressed by the way Turow depicted Aaron’s speech—abbreviated, slangy and entirely appropriate for a young man in 21st century America.

There are no major plot twists like in Presumed Innocent. The pleasure in reading this book is rooting not just for Aaron but for Rusty. He gets the unexpected chance to shine again in the courtroom at age 77, and he makes the most of it in his quest to see that justice is done.