Suspense author Alafair Burke's new Ellie Hatcher novel, All Day and a Night, came out last month, on June 10. Oh, happy day—the on-sale day—also known as the day that makes authors crazy.
It’s not the reading or writing of books that makes an author stupid. It’s a book’s publication that seemingly shaves a standard deviation from an author’s IQ.
About a week before a new book comes out, I start to lose sleep, playing Words With Friends until 2 AM only to wake up at 5 from a dream that makes the Kimye-on-a-motorcycle music video seem ordinary. Awake, I’m too unfocused to produce anything useful, so I find myself in front of my refrigerator, posting dog pictures on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram (the time-suck trifecta), and, the worst, repeatedly refreshing the not-yet-published book’s Amazon page to check its ranking. (Oh, c’mon @YouJudgmentalWriterYou, you know you’ve done it!)
By the time pub date comes, my brain is like a lazy uncle watching infomercials in his boxer shorts surrounded by Pop-Tarts, canned frosting and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
And this has been only the precursor to on-sale week, when, if you’re lucky, you get to hit the road, juggling interviews and blog posts between flights. In some ways, the learning curve here can be steep: I get better by the minute at talking about the book and my writing process. It’s like a master class in how-to-talk-like-a-writer. But becoming a book-talking savant can extract a cognitive price.
Here are a few of the idiotic things I have done on book tour:
Supposedly Lloyds of London will insure anything. If so, they should consider selling a policy to cover all of the stray jackets, make-up bags, flip-flops and headphones I have lost over the years during on-sale week.
In a search for validation that I was not the sole victim of this phenomenon, I contacted some of my favorite authors to ask whether they, too, get stupid during on-sale week. This is what they told me.
Michael Connelly, author of The Burning Room:
“I have gone to the wrong hotel room, trying to open the door of the room corresponding to the room number of the night before. Usually this is late at night and more than once this effort has awakened and scared the crap out of the sleeping occupant. I’ve been mistaken as a would-be hot prowler and grabbed by security a couple times. They rarely buy my explanation that I was in room 213 the night before in a city in another state.”
Megan Abbott, author of The Fever:
“Once, in Scottsdale, Vicki Hendricks and I escaped scorching heat by ducking in a bar for a beer before our event. A man in his cups—on his way to jail for a month—pulled down his pants to show us a Mom tattoo on his posterior.” (The punchline? They thought maybe, just maybe, he’d show up at their reading as promised.)
Chris Pavone, author of The Accident:
“I stop sleeping well a week before [the on-sale date]. I fall asleep poorly, then I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep. I think working would be no good, so instead I read, then I seem to fall asleep again just as I should be getting up, so then someone wakes me, which results in me being overtired and cranky at the exact point when I most need to be well-rested and happy.”
Laura Lippman, author of After I’m Gone:
“I got into the wrong town car when I was booked on 'CBS Morning.' I had my contacts in (oh, vanity), and I misread the driver's sign. Almost ended up at the 'Today' show.”
Ivy Pochoda, author of Visitation Street:
“I found myself alone in Boston for the first three nights of my book tour including on my pub date. I was excited and nervous and lonely, and didn't really know what to do with myself at night. So I drank as if I was on spring break. During the days I ran from event to event a little more dazed and confused then was appropriate for a newly published author.”
Lisa Unger, author of In the Blood:
“I am scatterbrained and confused on the road, overwhelmed I think with so many logistics, demands, exhilarations and disappointments (it ain't all awards and standing room only). Once, while packing for a conference, I practically sprained my shoulder patting myself on the back for being so organized and such a light packer. It wasn't until I arrived at my destination that I realized I had neglected to pack any pants!”
Today—after accidentally swallowing tomorrow’s allotment of pills from my vitamin container—I vaguely recalled from my college psych education that this temporary case of the I-Love-Lucies might have a cognitive explanation. Because I certainly wasn’t sleeping, I shot off a late-night email to my undergrad mentor, Daniel Reisberg (Reed College, author of The Science of Perception and Memory).
“People can do a wide range of things on auto-pilot,” Dr. Reisberg explains, “but automatic behaviors tend to be easy, but badly-controlled, and often leave you with actions that are habitual (even if they’re not what you intended at that moment). For example, you’re in the car, driving to the store. You intend to turn left at the corner, but, under stress, you turn right, taking the route that you usually take on your way to school.”
So that’s why I head for my usual airport (Newark) when I’m supposed to go to LaGuardia, turn right into a restroom instead of left, and walk out of a hotel room carrying the book I was in the middle of reading instead of a book I finished writing months before.
I should feel comforted, but I’m not.
I get stupid because of stress? Ten books in, shouldn’t I be beyond that? After all, I know, at an intellectual level, that by the time the books are printed and shipped, there’s nothing more for me to do. Whatever happens this week is out of my control.
Stress? Nah, I’m too cool for that. But these silly slips reveal the ugly truth.
Author photo credit Deborah Copaken Kogan.
Private Eye July has officially begun! There are so many excellent new mysteries and thrillers out this year, but which one's right for you? For the discerning crime fiction fan, we present a helpful reading guide to keep you nose-deep in excellent mysteries all month long:
For fans of police procedurals: Cop Town by Karin Slaughter
Best-selling author Karin Slaughter once again grants women their rightful place at murder scenes and morgues, as two female cops smash major barriers inside Atlanta's police force in this new standalone.
For fans of classic sleuths: The Late Scholar by Jill Paton Walsh
Dorothy L. Sayers' beloved detecting team is back! This is the fourth in Walsh's take on Lord Peter Wimsey and his detective novelist wife Harriet's grand adventures. This time, they're headed to Oxford, where they first fell in love and where death now surrounds a valuable manuscript.
For fans of edge-of-your-seat adventure: The Catch by Taylor Stevens
Is there a more kick-butt heroine than Vanessa Michael Munroe? Maybe, but she's certainly at the top of the list. With Somali pirates and a plot that never lets up, Munroe's trip to Djibouti is all adrenaline, all the time.
For fans of getting creeped out: The Fever by Megan Abbott or Don't Talk to Strangers by Amanda Kyle Williams
For the chills of mass hysteria and contagion fears, check out The Fever. For that feeling that somebody's watching you, go with Don't Talk to Strangers. Either way, you'll love getting the heebie-jeebies.
For fans of historical espionage: Midnight in Europe by Alan Furst
World War II hangs like a thick cloud over the members of a clandestine agency standing against fascism and communism. High tension in the late-1930s world stage is familiar territory for celebrated author Furst, but it's romantic and suspenseful, proving why he's the master.
For fans of supernatural thrillers: The String Diaries by Stephen Lloyd Jones
This is a villain unlike any we've seen: a monster that can take the appearance of anyone he wants. And he uses this trickery to pursue generations of women in Hannah's family. Her only chance at stopping this ancient evil lies within a set of weathered diaries. This is a sweeping, engrossing thriller that really knows how to tap into a little paranoia.
For fans of domestic thrillers: I Love You More by Jennifer Murphy
Beware a woman scorned, and definitely beware three women scorned. Oliver Lane secretly kept three wives, so when he turns up dead, it's easy to decide he got his comeuppance—right? The story unfolds through the perspectives of a detective, Oliver's daughter Picasso and the chorus of angry wives. Truly twisted.
For fans of cozy capers: Small Plates by Katherine Page Hall
Mystery lovers looking for some lighter fare while find Hall's collection of cozy short stories to be ideal quick bite. Plus, there's a culinary thread strung through each of these witty, fun capers, which means some mouthwatering recipes!
For fans of Southern noir: Natchez Burning by Greg Iles
Iles makes his comeback with this standout thriller, the first installment of his incendiary new trilogy featuring former prosecutor turned Natchez Mayor Penn Cage. Cage’s physician father is accused of murdering an African-American nurse. Cage’s search for the truth leads him into a dark chapter in Natchez history involving a murderous offshoot of the Ku Klux Klan.
For fans of psychological thrillers: Chance by Kem Nunn
The unexpected twists continue to the very last page in Nunn's newest thriller about a neuropsychiatrist and his beautiful, damaged patient, a woman with secrets powerful enough to destroy both their lives.
For fans of gritty action: Saints of New York by R.J. Ellory
This is a truly dark tale, jumping back and forth between a present-day investigation and cop Frank recounting the tale of his father's involvement in the combating the Mafia in the ’80s. Fascinating mob history, a gripping storyline and some unflinching scenes for eager readers.
How are you celebrating Private Eye July? Plan to check any of these out? Stay tuned for more recommendations throughout the month of July.
Looking for an especially meaty thriller to dive into this summer? Terry Hayes may have just the novel for you with I Am Pilgrim; weighing in at 640 pages, Hayes offers up a page-turner with plenty of muscle. A retired intelligence officer for a U.S. organization far more secret than the CIA, known simply as Pilgrim, has penned a game-changing textbook on criminal investigation that has brought police investigation miles ahead of where it once was. But there's a problem—a particularly ruthless someone seems to have read it a bit too well, and may have committed the perfect unsolvable murder.
Humble, yet tough-as-nails homicide detective Ben Bradley tracks Pilgrim down in the streets of Paris to beg for his help in the investigation, and soon the action takes off at a breathtaking pace. From Moscow to the United Kingdom, from Saudi Arabia to the dusty streets of Afghanistan and back home to the U.S., the manhunt for a brilliant terrorist known as "the Saracen" tests everything Pilgrim has learned in the field.
For almost a decade I was a member of our country's most secret intelligence organization, working so deep in shadow that only a handful of people even knew of our existence. The agency's task was to police our country's intelligence community, to act as the covert world's internal affairs department. To that extent, you might say, we were a throwback to the Middle Ages. We were the ratcatchers.
Although the number of people employed by the twenty-six publicly acknowledge–and eight unnamed—US intelligence organizations is classified, it is reasonable to say that over one hundred thousand people came within our orbit. A population that size meant the crimes we investigated ran the gamut-from treason to corruption, murder to rape, drug dealing to theft. The only difference was that some of the perpetrators were the best and brightest of the world.
The group entrusted with this elite and highly classified mission was established by Jack Kennedy in the early months of his administration. After a particularly lurid scandal at the CIA—the details of which still remain secret—he apparently decided members of the intelligence community were as subject to human frailty as the population in general. More so probably.
What are you reading this week?
We're kicking off Private Eye July, a whole month devoted to the best new mysteries and thrillers, with a trailer for our Top Pick in Mystery, Saints of New York!
Like your mysteries chock full of decades-spanning Mob drama, crooked cops and flawed heroes, all with a true crime angle? Then step right up, because British author Ellory has the novel for you.
Frank Parrish is a stubborn (and often self-destructive) NYPD homicide detective living in the shadow of his father's legacy. The weight of a botched hostage negotiation weighs heavily on Frank, and his mandated psychotherapy sessions soon open a dialogue about his father and the Saints of New York—cops who helped the Mob during the '60s and '70s. Soon, Frank's attention is called to the murder investigation of a teenage girl, and common threads are uncovered between past and present crimes.
Watch the gritty (and quite bloody) trailer below.
What do you think, readers? Interested? Read our Q&A with R.J. Ellory for more on Saints of New York.
Author Stona Fitch created Rory Flynn as a pen name to reinvent himself for a more commercial, popular fiction audience. Flynn's debut novel, Third Rail, is the first in a new series and introduces Boston narcotic detective Eddy Harkness. When Harkness' gun disappaears, he starts a secret search that leads him to discover a dangerous new drug, Third Rail.
But what happens when a pseudonym becoming a psuedo-nemesis? Fitch pokes hilarious fun at his love-hate relationship with his successful, upstart alter-ego Flynn.
Why I hate Rory Flynn
Rory Flynn, like many a bastard, was conceived in a moment of thoughtless abandon. I was on the phone with my agent, talking about my latest novel, Third Rail, when he floated the idea that the book might have a better chance of selling if someone else wrote it. Third Rail is more squarely in the mystery/crime camp, my sales history could charitably be called spotty, and a pseudonym would give me a fresh start. Since the book is set in Boston, how about something more Irish-y?
How about Rory Flynn, I said. And Rory was born.
I didn’t pay much attention to Rory at first. I figured he would have about the same kind of writing career as I did. He would weather through plenty of rejection (which is character-building and good for writers, as we all know), and occasionally sell a novel or catch some kind a break—foreign rights, a 25% discount on HP toner, something. Just like me.
But then the plot took an unexpected twist.
Within weeks, Rory had a book deal with Houghton Mifflin Harcourt – not just for Third Rail, but for a series—and not a series of disappointments. Then NBC/Universal Television optioned Third Rail for television. And Jess Walter, one of my favorite writers, sent a glowing blurb that ended with this kicker—“Rory Flynn is a suspense writer to watch.”
And so I watched. I watched as my pseudonym turned into my pseudo-nemesis.
I tagged along as Rory got his author photo taken in South Boston by a famously hip, long-bearded photographer who looked like he just stepped out of "Sons of Anarchy." He scouted gritty urban locations that would capture that moody darkness within Rory Flynn, crime novelist. Then a beautiful assistant adjusted his carefully styled hair so it didn’t cover his glinting, street-wise eyes. In the final author photo, Rory looks ready to kick some literary ass.
Who was this Rory Flynn and what did he want from me?
He wanted everything. Soon he was all over Facebook and Twitter, making friends with all the crime writers I had always admired. He was in New York City meeting with his editor, staying in a really nice suite at the W (charged to my credit card, no less). Last fall he went to Bouchercon, where he spent long nights at bars with the likes of Megan Abbott and Wallace Stroby, ladling on the Irish charm. Without so much as even mentioning me. And a couple of weeks ago, his publisher took him out to dinner with a dozen booksellers to an expensive restaurant with actual tablecloths and waiters who weren’t wearing costumes. The last time my editor invited me out to dinner it meant a bleary night at El Quijote, where I ended up paying for his paella, six margaritas and cab ride home.
As the pub date for Third Rail approaches, Rory’s proverbial platform is expanding. He’s got a stunning website and a sleek video trailer on YouTube that looks like it cost real money. And he’s got readings coming up, where he will, no doubt, be charming.
What do I have? I called up my agent to talk about my next book last week. I gave him the pitch. Doesn’t sound like a Rory Flynn novel, he said. I told him that it wasn’t. There was a long pause and the sound of a pen scratching on paper. Someone was bored and doing Sudoku—and it wasn’t me. So what do you think? I asked. Just have Rory give me a call, Stona, he said before the phone clicked.
When Third Rail comes out, I’ll buy a couple of copies, because that’s what you do to support a writer you know. Even one who commandeered my career, stole my agent and took over my office. Because I have faith that one day, with a little luck of the Irish, I could wake up and find myself living a life just like Rory’s.
Despite our rocky start, we’re really a lot alike, Rory and me. We’re both writers. We both like moving words around on the page, telling stories and hoisting the occasional pint. And Rory’s relentless charm offensive is working.
I’m starting to like having him around.
Stona Fitch’s novels include Senseless, Printer’s Devil and Give + Take. He is also the founder of the Concord Free Press, the world’s first generosity-based publisher.
A blue-blooded family's luxurious New England retreat isn't exactly what it seems in Miranda Beverly-Whittemore's new gothic mystery, Bittersweet.
Mabel Dagmar, a scholarship student at a prestigious college, doesn't quite fit into her roommate Ev Winslow's glamorous world. But when Ev invites her along to spend the summer at Winloch, her family's secluded group of lakeside cottages, Mabel falls hard for the "place of baguettes and fruit and spreadable honeycomb, idyllic and sun-drenched in a way I had never known."
Romance, financial scandal and shocking family secrets collide to make Beverly-Whittemore's third novel, "a page-turner that will keep readers guessing until the end."
Watch the understated and chilling trailer below:
What do you think, readers? Interested in winning a copy of Bittersweet for yourself? Enter this week's web-excusives giveaway for a chance to get your hands on this and three other great titles featured on Bookpage.com!
Readers can expect lots of laughs, clever wordplay and a fun Shakespeare connection in This Private Plot, the third adventure for amateur sleuth Oliver Swithin. This time out, Oliver discovers a corpse while on vacation. It seems the victim was driven to suicide by blackmail, and it's up to Oliver to figure out why.
In a guest blog post based on a lecture in This Private Plot from Oliver, author Alan Beechey corrects a few common Shakespeare-related misunderstandings. For example, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” is not a love poem at all!
“To be or not to be, that is the question.”
(Yes, but what was the answer?)
This year, we celebrate the 450th birthday of William Shakespeare. Or rather we have already, because it was on April 23, also the day of his death and, fittingly, the feast day of England’s patron saint, St. George.
I also celebrate the publication of This Private Plot, the third book in my Oliver Swithin mystery series. I mention that not merely because I want you to rush out and buy it, but also because Will S. looms over its pages like some great looming thing. Indeed, because the question of Shakespeare’s true identity is a feature of the story, I was actually forced to do some research for once instead of just making everything up, as I usually do.
It’s amazing how much we still get wrong about Shakespeare. For example, that patriotic date for both birth and death is pure speculation—we only have records of Will’s christening and his burial.
But we misinterpret his works, too. Take his most celebrated sonnet, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” When Colin Firth started reciting it in Bridget Jones’s Diary, it caused Renée Zellweger to go all unnecessary, as my mother would have put it. The trouble is, though, that particular sonnet (number 18 out of about 150) isn’t about romantic love at all.
And it was originally addressed to a man.
(And the answer to the question is “no, I shan’t.”)
Shakespeare’s early sonnets were written to flatter his patron, a young, effeminate nobleman whom he admires, but not in “that” way—as Will makes quite clear with a smutty joke in Sonnet 20. Instead, the effusive man-to-man admiration and passionate praise were a convention of the time, especially from an inferior to a man of high birth, and especially if he’s paying you a groat or two to say so.
But the plot thickens. Sonnets 1-17 are all variations on the same theme—that the young man should stop preening, get a wife and start begetting sons, so that his great beauty will be passed on down the ages even though he’ll get old and wrinkled and die. (Very flattering.) There’s even a theory that Shakespeare’s real backer was the young man’s mother, despairing of ever having grandkids. She makes an appearance in Sonnet 3.
By the time we get to Sonnet 18, there’s a shift of focus, but it still isn’t about love. It’s about the power of poetry. In brief, Will reminds us that summer days are no bargain—they’re too hot or too cold or too windy, and anyway, autumn’s here before you know it. You, my sweet lord, knock the spots off summer, because your beauty will last forever. How’s that then? Because I’ve written about it here in this sonnet, duh. In these “eternal lines to time.”
Ah, but here’s the clever part. The poem itself has indeed memorialized the young man’s beauty for posterity. (A bit arrogant of Will you might think, but four centuries later you can’t deny he was right.) But aren’t all those hoped-for sons and grandsons, snaking down through the generations on a family tree, also an eternal line to time? Clever, huh? Alas, not original — the dual immortality conferred by both verse and procreation was introduced in Sonnet 17.
By the way, did you ever wonder what those “darling buds of May” in line 3 of the sonnet are doing on a “summer’s day”? Well, in Will’s time, England was still on the Julian calendar, and May was a summer month. (Research!)
Now what about Hamlet’s famous soliloquy? He’s thinking of killing himself, right? Wrong. For a start, he dismissed that idea several scenes earlier. And at no point in the solo speech does it get personal—Hamlet never uses the words “I” or “me” or “my.” He basically weighs up the two options we all have when our fate takes an “outrageous” turn. We can roll over and put up with it, or we can fight back, even if resistance inevitably gets us killed. (Hamlet never states that this death is self-inflicted, or that the “bare bodkin” is turned on oneself.) And because death is scary, we usually play it safe. We be a live coward rather than not be a dead hero. The whole argument, the whole of this speech, is a kind of cheesy self-justification for Hamlet’s dithering over avenging his father’s murder. Later, he does act, and gets skewered by, yep, a bare bodkin of sorts, poisoned for good measure.
Hamlet features a lot in This Private Plot (although the book’s title comes from Henry VI Part 2), including a scene where a third-rate amateur drama group, rehearsing “To be or not to be,” run headfirst into one of Shakespeare’s finest mixed metaphors: “to take arms against the sea of troubles.” They eventually decide Hamlet’s thinking of some kind of harpoon.
So sorry, Renée, but unless you’re a philandering nobleman, Colin got it wrong. He needs to do more research.
Thanks, Alan! Readers, This Private Plot is now available!
Few other contemporary writers meld history and espionage quite like David Downing. Following the finale in his John Russell/Station series, which was set during World War II, Downing takes readers a bit further back in time with his exceptionally well-researched new spy thriller, Jack of Spies. The first in a new series set in 1914, this story goes beyond its World War I backdrop to explore events such as the Irish Republican movement, the Indian independence movement and much more.
Readers meet globe-trotting car salesman / British agent Jack McColl, who has just begun working for the fledgling Royal Navy intelligence. The spying gig gets complicated quickly, and not just because the world is on the brink of war. McColl is stationed in China, where he is attempting to obtain information on the Germans and the Chinese. Fleeing for his life, McColl ends up on a journey around the world, from Shanghai to San Francisco. Along the way, he falls in love with a striking American journalist, which only serves to complicate things. This is a fascinating introduction to the birth of British spy culture.
Read on for an excerpt:
Hurrying across the yard and down the alley, he emerged onto Prinz Heinrich Strasse and into a bitter wind. The sky was lightening, and a Chinese man was working his way down the street, dousing the ornate gas lamps. The side of the station building was visible up ahead, but no smoke was rising above it—if Hsu Ch'ing-lan was right about the time of departure, he'd have at least forty-five minutes to wait.
Which was obviously out of the question. He might as well give himself up as sit in the station for that long.
Perhaps he could hide somewhere close by and then surreptitiously board the train at the moment of departure.
The possibility sustained him until he reached the corner across from the station and leaned his head around for a view of the forecourt. There were several uniformed Germans in evidence, and one was looking straight at him. "Halt!" the man shouted.
McColl's first instinct, which he regretted a moment later, was to turn and run. Better a few months in jail than a bullet in the back, he thought as Prinz Heinrich Strasse stretched out before him, looking too much like a shooting range for comfort. But it was a bit late now to take a chance on his pursuers' levelheadedness. He swerved off between two buildings and down the dark alley that divided them. He reckoned he had a fifty-meter start and must have run almost that far when a crossroads presented itself. Sparing a second to look back, he found the alley behind him still empty. But as he swung right, he heard shouts in the distance, which seemed to come from up ahead.
What are you reading today?
The 2014 Edgar Allan Poe Award winners—honoring the very best in mystery fiction, nonfiction and television published or produced in 2013—have been announced! The Edgars are awarded annually by the Mystery Writers of America. A few highlights:
Ordinary Grace by William Kent Krueger (Simon & Schuster)
BEST FIRST NOVEL BY AN AMERICAN AUTHOR
Red Sparrow by Jason Matthews (Scribner)
BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood (Penguin)
BEST FACT CRIME
The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War by Daniel Stashower (Minotaur)
One Came Home by Amy Timberlake (Knopf)
Ketchup Clouds by Annabel Pitcher (Little, Brown)
MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD
Cover of Snow by Jenny Milchman (Ballantine)
View the full list of nominees and winners here.
Did your favorites win?
If you love books and you love mysteries, it would make sense that you'd love mysteries with a bookish backdrop. Or "bibliomysteries," a "small but elevated category of literature" that Otto Penzler (owner of the Mysterious Bookshop and the publisher of Mysterious Press) recently discussed over on the Open Road Media blog.
And there are so many good ones out there! Might I recommend a few?
Love cozy mysteries: Death on Demand by Carolyn G. Hart
The very first in Hart's Death on Demand mystery series introduces mystery bookshop owner Annie Laurance Darling and the endearing cast of characters who populate this South Carolina setting. The prime suspect of a murder, Annie becomes a reluctant sleuth, and her adventure is peppered with references to classic mystery authors that will undoubtedly lengthen your TBR list.
Love historical mysteries: Anna's Book by Ruth Rendell / Barbara Vine
Originally published as Asta's Book in the U.K. (long out of print but now available in eBook), this is an unexpected gem from Rendell's extensive oeuvre. A diary written by a young Danish woman in turn-of-the-century London becomes a huge commercial success; years later, these memoirs shed light on two unsolved murders.
Love literary thrillers: The Salinger Contract by Adam Langer
It seems fitting that the author and narrator of this book have the same name; it is, after all, a mystery about writers and writing. It's packed with bookish delights, including a sinister book collector, lots of literary references and shrewd insight into the publishing world.
Love collecting rare books: Bookscout by John Dunning
After years out of print, this one's now available as an eBook—though it's short enough to be considered a short story. Things get desperate for a rare book hunter, and the result is an interesting balance of book-collecting facts and mystery.
Readers, chime in! What bookish mysteries do you recommend?