| Most mystery writers establish a sense of place mainly to create ambience, with street names and landmarks strewn about in the manner an interior decorator arranges furniture and chooses wallpaper. Occasionally, though, setting becomes something more--the architect replacing the decorator--and a metaphor emerges that enhances meaning rather than just prettifying plot. In these two seemingly similar novels, we see New Orleans through the eyes of, first, an expert decorator and, next, an inspired architect. Sarah Shankman's Now Let's Talk of Graves is the third in her Samantha Adams series, and this time the Atlanta investigative reporter is in New Orleans attending a high-society Mardi Gras ball with her friend, Kitty. When Kitty's brother dies in an apparent hit-and-run accident, and the family's insurance company drags its feet about paying the claim, Kitty enlists Sam to find out what really happened. As the closets open to reveal the secret doings of New Orleans' elite families, the din of rattling skeletons becomes as deafening as a rousing chorus of "When the Saints Go Marching In." This is nothing more than a straightforward formula mystery: red herrings abound, coincidences multiply, romance blossoms (between Sam and a rumpled but cute rival investigator from the insurance company), and, of course, ambience drips (oysters at Galatoires, muffulettas at the Central Grocery, voodoo rites at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1). It's all perfectly good fun and certainly deserves the endorsement of the New Orleans tourist bureau. James Lee Burke's interest in New Orleans, unlike Shankman's, extends well beyond the travelogue surface. Burke's Cajun detective, Dave Robicheaux, is once again battling personal demons--questions of fear and bravery, violence and compassion, pleasure and pain--and as he stalks an escaped killer and infiltrates the world of a Mafia drug lord, he finds reflections of his own torment wherever he looks. What it means to be Cajun is at the heart of Robicheaux's dilemma: he treasures the easy-living side of his heritage, but with the po' boy sandwiches and the pulsing beat of Zydeco music come the lure of violence and an obsession with bravery and personal honor that consistently puts himself and his loved ones at risk. Can you enjoy beignets at the Caf du Monde, or hum a chorus of "Jolie Blonde," or sip a Dixie beer without at the same time wanting to bash the head of anyone who smiles at your girl? And when you do bash a head, are you really doing it to protect the things you love or because the simple act of bashing something gives you such a kick? Robicheaux's ongoing attempt to resolve these questions brings new levels of meaning to the way we see New Orleans in particular and the pursuit of pleasure in general. Is the Big Easy really all that easy? Can any of us ever get free enough from our own demons to really experience the pleasures that New Orleans--or life--offers? Don't expect these matters to be addressed in either travel brochures or Sarah Shankman's novels, but you just might keep James Lee Burke in mind the next time you're strolling down Bourbon Street. --Bill Ott |
