The Toronto-based murder mystery novelist and hockey enthusiast, friend of Matt Sundin, is supposedly having this one adapted for the screen. ( I will not bother watching it.). Murder mysteries are not my favorite genre and this one is not as good as some.
There are actually two unexplained deaths at two parties, exactly 30 years apart although the story is largely confined to one day of preparation for the second party, and the actual drunken party, in a mythical city in modern times. When I was exactly half way through the story which is told in the first person singular, I thought I had figured out who the killer of the first victim 30 years prior was, but I was wrong. The second killer is obvious from the first chapter and the motive becomes clear long before the deed. With a juvenile diabetic in the plot, it is clear that insulin will be involved.
The party is to celebrate the 60th birthday of a poor writer of murder mysteries, with secrets of her own, who suddenly and unrealistically becomes famous and rich. This rags-to-riches myth of novel writers is all too common, and even the rare ones who make it rich are not feted as lavishly as displayed here. Most novelists don’t even break even.
The characters are not too numerous or difficult to keep track of, although the relationships become a bit confusing and it is not always clear why Nadine, the narrator, is always stressed out with virtually every conversation.
Once again I have a pet peeve: the basement floor is obviously concrete, not cement.
2.5/5
Thanks, Rhynda.
The Passionate Reader 