27 of 31 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Jessica Fletcher, she ain't, August 27, 2005
Felicity Pride writes cozy British cat mysteries from the safety of her posh Boston area home. Though she has author delusions of grandeur, she knows in her heart that she can't compete with the likes of Rita Mae Brown, Lilian Jackson Braun, and her closest rival of all, Isabelle Hotchkiss. But Felicity does have a small following, and her fans would be shocked to learn that (a) she's never been involved in solving a murder, and (b) she's never even owned a cat. After a local book signing, Felicity returns to her home to find a dead man and a drugged cat in her vestibule. Suddenly her fictional life becomes real, and she begins to put herself in her protagonist's shoes. What would Prissy LaChatte do, and what crucial information would she glean from her cats, Morris and Tabitha? Much to Felicity's dismay and exasperation, she learns that actual American murder investigations don't proceed like the fictional ones do. Why isn't the handsome detective falling in love with her? And real cats don't act like fictional ones, either. Why do her new feline companions, Edith and Brigitte (both originally owned by the deceased), sleep most of the time? And why does their cat food emit such a horrendous odor? Most importantly: How can Felicity solve this crime and get some free book publicity out of it?
This is hands-down the funniest book I have read in a long time! It pokes fun at cats, cat owners, mystery readers, mystery writers, writing groups, Bostonians, and Scottish-Americans. It's great entertainment for any of the above. Five tails up!
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6 of 6 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
The Dog Lady switches into the dangerous lane, November 23, 2006
Susan Conant is the author of a successful series of mystery novels featuring a pair of malamute dogs who are usually more memorable than any of her human characters. To paraphrase a statement that appears in this book, Conant is a leading figure in dog-writing circles. In this book, "Scratch the Surface," she has done a brave/foolish thing. She has changed course: the dog writer has gone to the cats.
Actually, she has done even more than that. She has shifted just about as far as she can go with this book while still remaining within the circle of cozy mysteries.
In the dog books, Conant's first-person protagonist is Holly Winter, a writer of doggie articles for obscure doggie publications. She just loves her dogs to pieces and they love her back and she pities all the poor devils on the planet who don't place dogs at the pinnacle of creation. Holly is sweet, intrepid, plucky, lucky, quirky and blessed with friends who are collectively sweet, intrepid, lucky, plucky and quirky. Holly, in short, is just about perfect as the hero of a popular cozy mystery series.
Felicity--derived from the Latin felix (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)--Pride, the new protagonist, has her adventure(s) related in the third person. Felicity is not especially sweet, intrepid, plucky or lucky. Her most noticeable quirk is just plain peculiar (see below) and her one discernable friend is dismissed by her as dull, dull, dull. Felicity is a mid-list author of cat-centered mysteries. She makes a living at it, but she envies her more popular rivals and walks in ongoing fear that her fans might discover that she not only does not own a cat at present but never did. The Cat Lady, in short, knows nothing about cats.
She does, however, know quite a bit about writing commercial mysteries. Here is Felicity on the rigid conventions of cozy mystery novels:
She had "a great fondness for emotional magnetism between female amateur sleuths and male homicide detectives. When the attraction became outright romance, the relationship often fell victim to author-imposed impediments cruelly placed between the would-be lovers to prolong tension from book to book, thus smoothing a series potentially chopped up by discrete murders. In some cases, the author found it useful to unite the duo in a consummated affair or in marriage thus allowing the amateur gumshoe ready access to information otherwise known only to the police; it was far easier to write a little pillow talk than it was to invent complex subterfuges whereby the amateur protagonist discovered the results of a postmortem.... Ah, love! What a splendid literary convenience!" [Page 116-7 of the paperback edition]
Felicity on her audience. Having become an amateur sleuth (see above), Felicity is--of course!--attracted to the detective in charge of a murder case (see above). Over dinner, they discuss the reading habits of the dead man. In true canonical fashion, the amateur had found, entered, cased and otherwise prowled through the poor man's home long before anyone from the police arrived.
Felicity remarks, "`While I was looking for Brigitte [the victim's cat], I noticed that there were a lot of cat mysteries, including mine.'
`A few of yours. Others, too. What do you make of that?'
`Not much. Lots of people love mysteries..... Professor Coates [the victim] was entitled to a little relief, wasn't he?'
`The choice is kind of, uh, feminine.'
`Men read mysteries, too!'
`Cat mysteries?'
`Some men do.'" [Page 120-21]
And, of course, as the central personage in a mystery book, Felicity has her quirk. Holmes had his violin and needle. Bond drank his stirred-not-shaken hooch and walked down the mean streets of exotic locales while seriously under-gunned with his Beretta. Felicity is just plain weird: she drinks flat ginger ale with all the bubbles stirred out. Ugh! (And so do her guests! Double ugh!!)
Felicity is self-serving and opportunistic. She says catty things about her fictional rivals and is not entirely adoring about some real writers. She displays only limited, to say the least, emotional attachment to her readers. I think it would be a hoot to meet Felicity--in non-literary circumstances, of course. In the real world, I would avoid Holly and her big, annoying, clumsy dogs like the plague.
[Note to Ms. Conant: If you actually are Holly Winter in the flesh, sorry about that. If you are Felicity Pride, you go, girl!]
As I said, Conant has done a brave/foolish thing. She has not dumped Holmes over the Reichenbach Falls but she's come close. She is a series writer with an established name. And there is nothing more on earth that the fans of a series want than more of the same--much, much more of exactly, precisely the same! If you doubt that, just read the reviews here on Amazon. I'd be willing to bet that had "Scratch the Surface" been published by a new and unknown writer named, say, Connie Suzanne, it would have been welcomed as a promising new work with four or five four-and-five-star reviews. It certainly would not have received any of those one-star slams.
I am giving "Scratch the Surface" five stars as a promising work from an established writer and in partial balance for those mean-spirited one-star hits. (Well, actually I think it's a four-star book, or perhaps four+, because Conant really should have polished up her prose. That first example I quoted is effective enough but its language is clunky. The second is intended as a joke, but both set-up and punchline could and should be sharpened. I'm fine, however, with the flat ginger ale--now, THAT is a quirk!)
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