Review: "Death at the Sanatorium," Ragnar Jónasson

In 1983, a nurse named Yrsa is murdered in a remote community in Iceland. She worked at a former tuberculosis sanatorium, now a general hospital. Detectives Hulda and Sverrir are sent up from Reykjavik to investigate. The hospital’s caretaker, Broddi, is arrested but released after the medical director, Fridjon, commits suicide. Surely he was the one responsible for Yrsa’s death.

Helgi, who’s writing a criminology dissertation in 2012, is not so sure. He wants to find out what really happened at the old sanatorium and sets out to interview all those who were involved and survive. This includes the nurses Trinna and Elisabet, the doctor Thorri, and Broddi himself. Sverrir and Trinna ended up marrying and having a child, but no one seems very happy. Everyone seems to have something to hide.

Helgi loves classic mystery fiction, and the investigative techniques of Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh inform both his queries and the narrative. His life is complicated as well. Helgi is involved in an abusive relationship. He’s also been offered a job with the police department—he’d be taking Hulda’s place. Should he accept it? It would mean giving up his dreams of working abroad, but his girlfriend wants to stay in Iceland, buy a house and start a family.

I was rooting for the earnest, idealistic Helgi but wondered if I knew everything about him. Was he an unreliable narrator?

The story unfolds in alternating viewpoints, including Helgi’s. The final answer lies far back in the hospital’s tragic history, and the novel ends with a shocking twist.

Death in the Sanatorium was a satisfying, absorbing read; the plot is a slow, steady burn, making it a fine example of “Scandinavian noir.” 

Column: Does it matter if voters -- or candidates -- have children?

My husband, Paul, and I stopped on our walk recently to watch a team of workers taking down some tree branches. A woman operated a small crane to pick up the cut wood and place it in a truck.

Paul observed, “That must be a tough job, working with all those men.”

I couldn’t resist the chance to be snarky. “Probably. But the real question is, does she have children?”

Yes, the debate that started with vice-presidential candidate J.D. Vance’s disparaging remarks about “childless cat ladies” has put me on edge. Big time—because I’m disturbed by both sides.

The right brought it up, to be sure. But the left’s response has been—too often—that Vice President Kamala Harris is a stepmother.

Please. No. This is the correct answer: A candidate’s parental status should not be an issue in any campaign.

I know it’s hard for my fellow liberals to stick to the same line on, well, anything. But in this case, I wish we could all agree that biology is not destiny. For nearly half a century, women have been able to choose whether they have children or not. Our motherhood status is only one facet of our being. 

I don’t have children and I do have three cats. Those are two facts about me. Do with them what you will. I assure you, they are only part of my story.

Of course I am interested in knowing facts about candidates. How old are they? Where did they grow up? What sort of education have they had, and what did they do before entering politics?

Do they have a family? Pets? Perhaps my most important question is whether they read books, and if so, what genres?

But when I finally decide who to vote for, I just care about the candidate’s policies. I want leaders who support the protection of the environment. That is my number one issue. They should also champion working people and small business owners. My candidates believe in free speech and women’s access to reproductive health care.

I want stronger protections for schoolchildren, which probably means some, not unreasonable, limits on gun ownership.

One issue I don’t think much about is the southern border. If we had problems with Canada, some 150 miles up the road, I’d be all over it. I am grateful that is a highly unlikely scenario. What is important to me are leaders who recognize that we have problems on the southern border that need to be addressed, but at the same time support legal immigration. I will vote for candidates who respect immigrants who have come here lawfully and who have compassion for those who have fled their home countries and are seeking asylum.

I try to be realistic about what elected officials can do, even the president. I don’t see that any one person is going to bring my grocery bill down, or fill my oil tank more cheaply. I vote for candidates who have good intentions; who, from my point of view, have their hearts in the right place. Then I hope they will just do their jobs.

A good president, in my opinion, speaks thoughtfully, supports our allies throughout the world and tries to keep us out of conflict. I want a president who champions the best of America, and who has high hopes for the future.

Will my candidates govern well? Whether they are married, have children or make weekly phone calls to their 95-year-old mothers is only mildly interesting to me.

A happy family portrait featuring two parents, two children and a labradoodle can’t hurt a candidate. But what does it really tell us? Families are complex. Parenthood does not equal sainthood. There are many wonderful parents doing the hard work of raising children. But people aren’t necessarily wonderful just because they are parents.

Vance’s remarks were divisive. They tried to pit mothers against “childless cat ladies.” Women who fit the description, including Taylor Swift, have reacted with mocking humor. (And decisive action, as Swift endorsed Kamala Harris.) I did post a “cat for Kamala” meme on my Facebook page and it did bring me a chuckle.

But I can’t help but see the serious side of Vance’s remarks. I grew up in the 1970s, and learned that women should be able to do what they want with their lives. In junior high school, our miniskirts had to fall to our knees. A couple of years later, we protested and earned the right to wear pants, including jeans, to school. It was a huge victory, both practically and symbolically.

Today, women can choose both motherhood and careers, or stay at home with their children. They can opt to have a child or adopt a child and remain single. They may decide not to have children at all. They may take in a relative’s children and raise them, or marry a partner who already has kids and become a stepmom. Maybe they decide to live their lives on their own, but have rich relationships with nieces, nephews and young neighbors.

Maybe they adopt a few cats.

I know these women. You do too. They are the embodiment of our democratic ideals, that hard-fought-for right to the pursuit of happiness. 

The vice president likes to say, “We’re not going back.” I’m with her—even though I’m really more of a dog person.

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Review: "Agony Hill," Sarah Stewart Taylor

 

Franklin Warren has landed in the village of Bethany, Vermont, after a tragedy ended his career as a homicide detective in Boston. He brings a wealth of experience to his new job as a state police detective, but he has a lot to learn about small town life.

It doesn’t take long before Franklin is plunged into the fray. Hugh Weber, a back-to-the-lander, dies in a fire on his farm on Agony Hill. Was it murder or suicide? It might even have been an accident.

Franklin is suspicious, especially because Weber’s pregnant wife, Sylvie, is vague and evasive. Weber himself was prone to drunkenness and bouts of anger and wasn’t well-liked around town. The family seemed to be barely making ends meet.

Then Weber’s’ loud, rude brother, Victor, arrives in town. He wants to know what happened to Hugh’s fortune. Yes, Hugh had inherited a lot of money from their father’s business. But who’s going to inherit now, Victor or Sylvie?

Meanwhile, Franklin’s next door neighbor, Alice Bellows, is doing some snooping on her own. She’s wondering why an old colleague of her husband, who served in the CIA, has suddenly turned up in a nearby town. And she’s on the case when a a package of shotgun cartridges goes missing from the general store. Alice is always ready to help Franklin with back stories on her neighbors, too.

Set in 1965, Agony Hill is a classic mystery with its quirky cast of characters and picturesque setting. Alice has a beautiful garden, and her household help, Mildred, knows everything that’s going on in town. That’s a useful asset for an amateur detective. Trooper Goodrich, Franklin’s sidekick, is a likable young man, nicknamed “Pinky.” He blushes a lot.

Such is the world of the traditional mystery. It’s my favorite genre, and not always easy to find nowadays. This is the first in a new series for Taylor, which is good news. I’m already looking forward to another visit to Bethany, with its quaint village green and its dark secrets.

Column: $10,000 dorm makeovers? Not back in 1974!

When I read a New York Times story about students paying $10,000 for professional dorm room makeovers, I was immediately transported to my first day at Providence College, 50 years ago this month.

My idea of chic back then was the light blue sheet set with a “Peanuts” motif that I had stashed in my luggage.

Now, my roommates and I certainly could have used the services of a professional decorator. Our room was a bare cell. But $10,000? That’s about double the amount my parents were paying for my tuition, room and board.

In 1974, no middle-class parent would have shelled out a dime for a professional decorator for their kids. My mother had sewn the curtains for the bedroom I shared with my sister. My only other dorm room “decorator item” was a throw pillow. I’d done a crewel embroidery piece with a pattern of flowers, which my crafty mother then used as a cover for one of her beat-up old living room pillows.

Heck, before I started earning my own money, I was lucky to get a professional haircut once a year.

The Times article gave me a chuckle, especially as I reflected on that freshman dorm room.

For starters, there were three girls in a room meant for two boys. (PC had just gone coed two years before. We were now showing up in droves, hence the overcrowding.) 

There was a sink in the corner, and believe me, it wasn’t the “Ruvati 19-inch Murano Glass Art Vessel Seashell Decorative Pattern Bathroom Sink” currently going for $599 at The Home Depot.

It was white. There were pipes.

One of my new roommates signed up to play hockey, so a pile of equipment and uniforms soon rose by the sink.

We placed one bed along the edges of two desks to give ourselves more room. This was the extent of our “makeover.”

I disliked this room intensely, but everybody in the dorm was in the same situation. I made friends with a number of girls in our building, but not in the other female dorm, McVinney. That was a good thing, because I’d just have been jealous when I hung out with them. McVinney was a new high-rise. Aquinas Hall (our place) was a gothic monstrosity built before my uncle was a student there in the 1940s.

Remarkably, and I’m sure because I was only 18 and a lot more flexible than I am today, I managed to become good friends with one of my roommates and shared digs with her for two more years.

I was enjoying my first semester when, as winter approached, I got sick with a terrible flu. I had to quit my work-study job, which I had liked a lot. As I recovered, and scrambled to make up lost work, I started having doubts about whether I wanted to stay in college. 

In retrospect, I wonder if that crowded room (with the hockey equipment), contributed to my qualms. More space definitely would have been helpful, but I do like attractive surroundings, too. Aesthetics was not something I really thought about at that age—my social life was paramount. But as an adult, I’m still having creepy thoughts about those sticks and knee pads. Maybe they affected me subconsciously back then.

I eventually felt better, both physically and emotionally, and got a much larger room the next year. This building was about 10 years old and the rooms were meant for three people. It was airy, with a wide window. I bought a plant to put in front of it and tended it carefully. Most importantly, I had used some of my summer job earnings to buy a portable record player. The turntable folded neatly up into a vinyl case and there was a handle for easy transport. I had music. Life was good.

In my junior year, I finally had a chance to live in my dream location—McVinney Hall. It was new. The rooms had views (we were halfway up the 10 stories). They were made for two and contained two. I could sit at my desk and look out the window and get some work done.

I believe there was wall-to-wall carpeting, but I may be imagining that.

It was a little soulless, I had to admit. Maybe a little too perfect? Still, I had no desire to go back to the room with the bare sink.

Besides, that year I had an item that really made this room home for me. My father had been inspired to build a bookshelf. It was narrow and short, and could fit on top of my desk. On the side he had carved out, vertically: “PC 1978.” My graduation year. Aw, Dad!

It wasn’t fancy. A professional decorator surely wouldn’t have approved. But I cried when I saw it.

The college experience is life-changing. It can be hard at times. The connections to home and family are what see students through the rough patches, not designer linens.

Several Facebook friends posted photos of their children’s dorm rooms as they moved in a few weeks ago. I saw posters and photos and sports memorabilia plastered on walls like it was 1974. There wasn’t a Herman Miller chair to be seen.

I breathed a sigh of relief. These kids are going to be all right.

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com