Widow's Walk: A Spenser Novel (Spenser Mysteries)

Widow's Walk: A Spenser Novel (Spenser Mysteries)

When fifty-one-year-old Nathan Smith, a prominent local banker and millionaire, is murdered, Spenser is called in to investigate Nathan's young wife, Mary Smith, who has a weak alibi, likes to sleep around, and is despised by her peers, and as the evidence stacks up against Mary, Spenser soon discovers that Mary's mysterious past has put his own life in danger. 175,000 first printing. It's good to see private eye Spenser back in Boston, after his ludicrous imitation of a frontier lawman in Robert B. Parker's Potshot . But he's getting nowhere investigating the gunshot murder of banker Nathan Smith in Widow's Walk . The cops figure Smith's ingenuous but unfaithful young wife, Mary, pulled the trigger. She denies it. Spenser, hired by former prosecutor Rita Fiore to help build Mary Smith the best defense her money can buy, isn't sure either way, and the more time he spends on this case (dense with business and sexual deceptions), the more perplexed he becomes. Of course, our poetry-spouting hero finally catches a break by linking Smith's demise to a convoluted real-estate scam. The rest of the novel offers plenty of Parker's characteristically witty dialogue, the slayings of several informants that you know from the get-go are toast, and ample opportunities for Spenser and his robustly menacing sidekick, Hawk, to intimidate lesser thugs. Unfortunately, the author isn't as attentive to the needs of other series regulars, including Spenser inamorata Susan Silverman, whose restrained jealousy toward lawyer Fiore ("Rita is sexually rapacious and perfectly amoral about it. I'm merely acknowledging that") and self-flagellation over a gay client's suicide somehow add no new depth to her character. Parker has a propulsive prose style and can still concoct engrossing stories; his 2001 standalone Western, Gunman's Rhapsody , is a fine example. Widow's Walk doesn't quite meet that standard. Though entertaining, it's an unsatisfying chapter in a series that's become too predictable. --J. Kingston Pierce Parker has his hands full defending a brassy young blonde with a shady past who really does seem to have shot her 51-year-old hubby in the head. Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. Authors of long-running series must choose between allowing their characters to age--and, thus, signing their death warrants--or somehow letting them remain fixed in time as the world changes around them. Spenser fans know that Parker's inimitable Boston sleuth is a veteran of the Korean War, which would make him in advance of 70 today. But the Spenser we know and love plays to a perpetual 40, able to muse on aging and act a little crotchety now and again but still spry enough to kick heads with gusto or perform heroic deeds in the bedroom. He does plenty of both this time, in his twenty-eighth outing. A banker is found in bed with a bullet hole in his head, and his much younger and seemingly dense wife is accused of the murder. Spenser is hired by the defense to investigate, and he quickly develops his plan, which his longtime lover, Susan, describes as "blundering along annoying people." With the help of the imperturbable Hawk (also ageless), Spenser blunders along with his usual style: world-class banter combined with a world-class left hook. This is hardly a pivotal episode in the series, but it delivers the jaunty entertainment we've come to expect from Parker, even when he's running on cruise control. Spenser, Hawk, and Susan have always been fantasy figures living in a realistic world. They give us pleasure by doing the things we can only dream of doing, and that very definitely includes turning off the timer at age 40. Bill Ott Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Robert B. Parker was the author of more than fifty books. He died in January 2010. ONE "I think she's probably guilty," Rita Fiore said to me. We were in her office, high up, with a view of the harbor. "And you're her lawyer," I said. " Tells you about her case," Rita said. She sat on the edge of her desk in front of me, her thick red hair gleaming. She had on a black suit with a very short skirt. Rita knew her legs were good. "But you'll represent her anyway." "Like everyone else," Rita said, "she's entitled to the best defense she can get." "Or afford," I said. Rita smiled. "Or afford." "She got money?" "Oodles," Rita said. "Last time I worked for you," I said, "I almost got killed." "I know," Rita said. "We could give you hazardous-duty pay." "It's all hazardous duty," I said. "Tell me about your client." "Mary Smith." "Mary Smith?" "Honest to God," Rita said. "It's her real name. She was married to the victim, Nathan Smith. Her maiden name was Toricelli." "She have oodles of money before she married him?" I said. "No." "Ah ha!" "Ah ha?" "It's an investigational term," I said. "That where the oodles come from?" "Yes." "They the same age?" "He married her when she was twenty-three a