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Deborah Morgan's 2001 debut mystery, Death Is A Cabaret, was a very welcome book at a time when I wasn't finding a lot I liked to read. This second book was a bit of a let-down - in part because the first was so promising and in part, I admit, because the subject matter tends to make my eyes glaze over with boredom. I'm not into collecting, although I understand the challenge, the knowledge and skills involved in the past-time; the real problem is that I cannot get collecting certain things. I don't get fishing - the Zen of fly fishing, catching fish, and eating them or not - and I don't get fishing lures, although I understand that there is a craft and maybe even an artistry to them. But I'm not fond of the outdoors at dawn, don't like getting wet, don't dig male bonding. Thus, my interest was not exactly piqued here. There's still a lot of good story and character in this book, don't get me wrong. But I sure wish that the collection could have been one that even slightly seemed intriguing to me. Ex-FBI guy Jeff Talbot is off to join his buddies for a fishing weekend and early on, they stop at a bait shop where Bill, the proprietor, is found lying in a pool of blood. Jeff's FBI training is handy, of course, but he's hardly going to investigate this event; his Bureau expertise was in art theft, the dead man was a friend and there's more than adequate law enforcement available in the person of Sheriff Colleen McIvers, a woman with her own very interesting story. This story takes Talbot out of his city environment, where he is possibly more at home than he was on Mackinac Island in Death is a Cabaret. The concerns of his agoraphobic wife Sheila are still dealt with, although on occasion, I wish Jeff would just lighten up - he gives Sheila advice when, frankly, she doesn't need it. She clearly knows how to deal with her disability, better than he does. She has excellent coping skills, and he needs to learn from her more. There's a good strong mix of people in this mystery; from Raven, whose business card reads "Tarot Readings, Exorcisms, Exotic Aquatics" to the "weedless" uncaring widow, Tanya Rhodes, the young wife of the deceased and the eccentric Vanessa Valentine, who's just a bit too fond of the pink that her name brings to mind. Morgan is a very good story-teller. I just selfishly hope that her next story focuses on a collectible, or a hobby that works for me. And a final note to Morgan's editor (I talked with the author about this one) - Grass Valley, California, home of an annual Bluegrass Festival for at least 20 years, is less than 600 miles from Seattle, Washington. We listen to country up here too, and we know how to dance to Dwight Yokum; it's not all Wagner and grunge.
Reviewed by Andi Shechter, August 2002
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