mystery
The Bishop, in the Green Room, with the candlestick
I love a good mystery. Not so much the ‘where did I put that claim form I NEED to send off today?’ kind, but your garden variety crime thriller. On a sunny summer weekend, in the hammock, with a cold beverage nearby (yes, it is a balancing act), there’s almost nothing better than a spicy thriller.
There’s even that sense of accomplishment (despite not having moved out of aforementioned hammock) that comes from picking the murderer/up-to-no-good-sort before the final chapter. But a ‘nobody-as-yet-knows-whodunit’, I wasn’t too sure about that. Where was the successful conclusion; the killer apprehended and safely behind bars?
My first true crime book, Robert J. Hoshowsky’s Unsolved — True Canadian Cold Cases, was a chilling read. The teenage Richard Hovey, who left New Brunswick in 1967 to pursue his musical ambitions in Toronto, seemed much like any other teen of the age, except where he went missing, it’s believed, shortly after arriving in the city.
The book is a gripping account of some of the most terrible crimes that remain open. It will be a while before I view TV shows purporting to cover cold cases without expecting to see the unsettling honesty that this book conveys.
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Synora is exploring a new career path. She's found The Big Book of Answers at Dundurn.
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