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Sue Grafton J is for Judgment
Henry Holt and Co. 1993 0805019359 / 9780805019353 First Edition Hardcover Very Good
0805019359 First edition. VG in Fine dust jacket. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly In her 10th alphabet adventure, southern California PI Kinsey Milhone is working again for California Fidelity, navigating her way through a plot-driven tale that will remind readers of her earliest appearances, despite Grafton's deft introduction of new material. Shady financier Wendell Jaffe has recently been decreed dead, five years after his real estate empire collapsed and he disappeared from his beloved 35-foot ketch off the coast, an apparent suicide. California Fidelity has just paid his widow $500,000. But then Jaffe is spotted in Mexico with another woman. Kinsey's investigation lands her in some tough spots--such as a drunken stranger's hotel room where she pretends to be a hooker--gets her shot at and leads to a dramatic resolution at sea. It also introduces her to a genealogist who requires Kinsey to revise her notion of herself as an orphan alone in the world. While maintaining full control of her plot's variously colored threads, many of which are tied to Jaffe's family (his 18-year-old son is on the lam from a murder charge), Grafton cameos such familiar characters as Kinsey's octogenarian landlord Henry, his older brother William, and Rose, the neighborhood bar owner. But the spotlight remains on Kinsey who, without a love interest to distract her, sticks to the case at hand and tries, with limited success, to assimilate the existence of a not too distant family, whom readers will likely learn more of in "K." 500,000 first printing; major ad/promo; Literary Guild selection; author tour. Copyright 1993 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Kirkus Reviews Private investigator Kinsey Millhone, the author's tough, tenacious, California-based heroine, has taken on a freelance job for her ex-employer, California Fidelity Insurance. One of their agents, on vacation in a small Mexican hotel, is sure he recognized Wendell Jaffe, a hotshot businessman who'd vanished from his boat at sea years before, leaving behind a suicide note, a clutch of cheated investors, a penniless wife, two young sons, and a partner, Carl Eckert, who wound up in jail. Five years later, just a few months ago, with Jaffe now officially dead, wife Dana had collected a half million from Fidelity. They'd like it back.... Kinsey flies to Mexico and finds her quarry, who's now living with a woman named Renata and is calling himself Dean DeWitt Huff--and who disappears again almost at once. Kinsey's certain the recent widely reported criminal acts of his son Brian have pulled Jaffe back to the US. In California, Kinsey's on the trail again--talking to Dana, to Carl Eckert, now out of jail, to police detectives involved in the original investigation, and to Renata, who, it turns out, owns a waterfront house near Kinsey's home base of Santa Teresa. Even as she chases clues in the present, chunks of Kinsey's own family history intrude, threatening her hard-won loner persona. Jaffe surfaces for the last time in the slightly hokey finale. A tangled, rambling story that's constantly in motion but generates little passion, heat, or tension. Solidly readable but minus the compelling edge of Grafton's best. (First printing of 500,000; Literary Guild Triple Selection for July) -- Copyright ?©1993, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
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3.99 USD
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14 |
Sue Grafton J is for Judgment
Henry Holt and Co. 0805019359 / 9780805019353 Hardcover Good
0805019359 Former library book with the usual markings and stickers, otherwise clean inside and out May ship from alternate location depending on your zip code and availability.
Price:
1.65 USD
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Sue Grafton R is for Ricochet
G. P. Putnam's Sons 2004 0399152288 / 9780399152283 Cloth Fine VG+
0399152288 Amazon.com When wealthy octogenarian Nord Lafferty hires Kinsey Millhone to help his newly paroled daughter find her way back to the straight and narrow after doing time for embezzlement, the Santa Teresa P.I. has no idea what she's getting into. Reba Lafferty's ex-boss, land developer Alan Beckwith, is the man who sent her to prison--so how come she's meeting him just hours after her release, and treating Kinsey to an X-rated reunion scene played out in his parked Mercedes? And why is he also playing sex games with Reba's formerly best friend, who still works for him? A visit from an old friend from the FBI clears up the mystery--Beckwith is suspected of running a money-laundering game, and they need Reba to make their case by rolling over on him. It?s not until Millhone presents Reba with photographic evidence of Beckwith's two-timing that she agrees to do what the Feds want... but she'll only do it her way, which could get a lot of people killed. Grafton fleshes out this well-crafted thriller with a romantic subplot involving a romantic triangle that features Kinsey's elderly landlord Henry, his brother, and a vivacious widow who can't seem to choose between them. It doesn't add much to the plot, but the fans of this evergreen series (who must be wondering what will happen to Millhone when Grafton gets to the end of the alphabet) probably won't mind a bit. --Jane Adams From Publishers Weekly Bestseller Grafton offers more of the same-old same-old in her less-than-inspired 18th Kinsey Millhone novel (after 2002's Q Is for Quarry). In this sexy adventure, the spunky hard-boiled detective has to escort the newly paroled Reba Lafferty, privileged ne'er-do-well, to her stately home, keeping her on the straight and narrow. Reba challenges the PI with her barely concealed hankerings for the now off-limits booze, gambling and charming Alan Beckwith, married real estate developer and former employer for whom Reba took a two-year barbwire vacation courtesy of the California Institution for Women. Lust is in the air as studly, stylish cop Cheney Phillips enters in his red Mercedes, fanning the flames with Kinsey, when Beckwith's activities catch the eye of the feds. Kinsey lends a supportive ear to her beloved 87-year-old landlord, smitten by a 70-year-old neighbor. Kinsey and Reba team up to get the goods on Beckwith, but reckless Reba has vengeful ideas of her own and more than once lands their collective fat in the fire. If the chemistry between Cheney and Kinsey seems forced at times, Grafton as usual creates believable and enduring characters and a strong sense of place in her town of Santa Teresa circa 1987. And that should be more than enough for most fans. Copyright ? Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From School Library Journal Adult/High School?Kinsey has been hired by a wealthy father to befriend his daughter upon her release from prison after serving a sentence for embezzling funds from her boyfriend/employer. It sounds easy, but the detective learns quickly that Reba's boss is still involved in a complex money-laundering scheme and is wanted by many federal law-enforcement agencies who want Reba to help them get evidence against him. Eventually she does, but there are problems leading to the exciting climax when the sleuth herself is kidnapped. Kinsey is young enough to appeal to teens; her lighthearted personality and witty asides amuse and entertain. Fans of this series will be pleased that she has a new boyfriend, but may be frustrated because her elderly landlord's family interferes.?Claudia Moore, W. T. Woodson High School, Fairfax, VA Copyright ? Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From AudioFile In the latest Kinsey Millhone mystery, Kinsey is hired by an aged, wealthy man to retrieve his daughter from prison, where she has served time for embezzlement. Kinsey quickly figures out that the girl isn't an embezzler but instead has done time for her money-laundering boss. All heck breaks loose. Judy Kaye has a warm, rich voice that seems just right for Grafton's P.I. Her delivery mirrors the smart-aleck tenor of much of Kinsey's dialogue. Strangely though, when Kaye is interpreting a male character (and there are many), she raises her voice to a higher register, so that many of the men sound like adolescents with changing voices, or worse, like chipmunks. It may be Kaye's subtle social comment, though. For once the listener adapts, this odd gender reversal seems natural. R.E.K. ? AudioFile 2004, Portland, Maine-- Copyright ? AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist "R" could be for "rocking chair" in the latest Kinsey Millhone, which doesn't so much imitate the action of a bullet bouncing off bone as offer a leisurely treatise on thwarted love. This is not an especially fast-moving Grafton. That won't bother the series' many fans, however, as there is plenty devoted to exploring the character of Millhone herself, still living in a converted garage, still driving her VW, still (improbably) without any female friends, but here with a nicely charged return to an impossible affair. There is far too much ink spent on describing such matters as Kinsey making popcorn or jogging or chatting endlessly with her landlord. Even these unnecessary asides are somewhat compensated for by Kinsey's acerbic wit and wry self-reflections. The action itself revolves around Kinsey's assignment to escort and watch over a bad-girl heiress, just released from jail. The heiress is soon back in trouble, back in the arms of the guy she went to prison for, and back under investigation. The local cops want Kinsey to spy on the jailbird with whom she's developing a friendship; the feds get in on the act, too. Maybe the most interesting bits of this sleepy novel are the heiress' descriptions of prison life; they are far too detailed to be believable as normal conversation but intriguing nonetheless. An uneven, lackadaisical Grafton, but plenty of Millhone for the sleuth's devotees. Connie Fletcher Copyright ? American Library Association. All rights reserved Romantic Times, July 2004 Grafton has done her usual superlative job with one of mystery fans' favorite females. Welcome back, Kinsey! People, August 9, 2004 [Grafton's] dialogue is deliciously zingy and Reba is a marvelous character... Book Description Reba Lafferty was a daughter of privilege. Abandoned by her rebellious mother when she was an infant, she was the only child of a rich man already in his mid-fifties when she was born, and her adoring father thoroughly spoiled her. Now, at thirty-two, having had many scrapes with the law, she is about to be released on probation from the California Institution for Women, having served twenty-two months of a four-year sentence for embezzlement. Though Nord Lafferty could deny his daughter nothing, he wasn't there for her when she was brought up on this charge. Now he wants to be sure she stays straight, stays at home and away from the drugs, the booze, the gamblers. It seems a straightforward assignment for Kinsey: babysit Reba until she settles in, make sure she follows all the niceties of her parole. Maybe a week's work. Nothing untoward-the woman seems remorseful and friendly. And the money is good. But life is never that simple, and Reba is out of prison less than twenty- four hours when one of her old crowd comes circling round. R is for Ricochet. And R is for romance: love gone right, love gone wrong, and matters somewhere in between. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The basic question is this: given human nature, are any of us really capable of change? The mistakes other people make are usually patently obvious. Our own are tougher to recognize. In most cases, our path through life reflects a fundamental truth about who we are now and who we've been since birth. We're optimists or pessimists, joyful or depressed, gullible or cynical, inclined to seek adventure or to avoid all risks. Therapy might strengthen our assets or offset our liabilities, but in the main we do what we do because we've always done it that way, even when the outcome is bad...perhaps especially when the outcome is bad. This is a story about romance-love gone right, love gone wrong, and matters somewhere in between. I left downtown Santa Teresa that day at 1:15 and headed for Montebello, a short ten miles south. The weather report had promised highs in the seventies. Morning cloudiness had given way to sunshine, a welcomed respite from the overcast that typically mars our June and July. I'd eaten lunch at my desk, feasting on an olive-and-pimiento-cheese sandwich on wheat bread, cut in quarters, my third-favorite sandwich in the whole wide world. So what was the problem? I had none. Life was great. In committing the matter to paper, I can see now what should have been apparent from the first, but events seemed to unfold at such a routine pace that I was caught, metaphorically speaking, asleep at the wheel. I'm a private detective, female, age thirty-seven, working in the small Southern California town of Santa Teresa. My jobs are varied, not always lucrative, but sufficient to keep me housed and fed and ahead of my bills. I do employee background checks. I track down missing persons or locate heirs entitled to monies in the settlement of an estate. On occasion, I investigate claims involving arson, fraud, or wrongful death. In my personal life, I've been married and divorced twice, and subsequent relationships have usually come to grief. The older I get, the less I seem to understand men, and because of that I tend to shy away from them. Granted, I have no sex life to speak of, but at least I'm not plagued by unwanted pregnancies or sexually transmitted diseases. I've learned the hard way that love and work are a questionable mix. I was driving on a stretch of highway once known as the Montebello Parkway, built in 1927 as the result of a fund-raising campaign that made possible the creation of frontage roads and landscaped center dividers still in evidence today. Because billboards and commercial structures along the roadway were banned at the same time, that section of the 101 is still attractive, except when it's jammed with rush-hour traffic. Montebello itself underwent a similar transformation in 1948, when the Montebello Protective and Improvement Association successfully petitioned to eliminate sidewalks, concrete curbs, advertising signs, and anything else that might disrupt the rural atmosphere. Montebello is known for its two-hundred-some-odd luxury estates, many of them built by men who'd amassed their fortunes selling common household goods, salt and flour being two. I was on my way to meet Nord Lafferty, an elderly gentleman, whose photograph appeared at intervals in the society column of the Santa Teresa Dispatch. This was usually occasioned by his making yet another sizable contribution to some charitable foundation. Two buildings at UCST had been named for him, as had a wing of Santa Teresa Hospital and a special collection of rare books he'd donated to the public library. He'd called me two days before and indicated he had "a modest undertaking" he wanted to discuss. I was curious how he'd come by my name and even more curious about the job itself. I've been a private investigator in Santa Teresa for the past ten years, but my office is small and, as a rule, I'm ignored by the wealthy, who seem to prefer doing business through their attorneys in New York, Chicago, or L.A. I took the St. Isadore off-ramp and turned north toward the foothills that ran between Montebello and the Los Padres National Forest. At one time, this area boasted grand old resort hotels, citrus and avocado ranches, olive groves, a country store, and the Montebello train depot, which serviced the Southern Pacific Railroad. I'm forever reading up on local history, trying to imagine the region as it was 125 years ago. Land was selling then for seventy-five cents an acre. Montebello is still bucolic, but much of the charm has been bulldozed away. What's been erected instead-the condominiums, housing developments, and the big flashy starter castles of the nouveau riche-is poor compensation for what was lost or destroyed. I turned right on West Glen and drove along the winding two-lane road as far as Bella Sera Place. Bella Sera is lined with olive and pepper trees, the narrow blacktop climbing gradually to a mesa that affords a sweeping view of the coast. The pungent scent of the ocean faded with my ascent, replaced by the smell of sage and the bay laurel trees. The hillsides were thick with yarrow, wild mustard, and California poppies. The afternoon sun had baked the boulders to a golden turn, and a warm chuffing wind was beginning to stir the dry grasses. The road wound upward through an alley of live oaks that terminated at the entrance to the Lafferty estate. The property was surrounded by a stone wall that was eight feet high and posted with No Trespassing signs. I slowed to an idle when I reached the wide iron gates. I leaned out and pushed the call button on a mounted keypad. Belatedly I spotted a camera mounted atop one of two stone pillars, its hollow eye fixed on me. I must have passed inspection because the gates swung open at a measured pace. I shifted gears and sailed through, following the brick-paved drive for another quarter of a mile. Through a picket fence of pines, I caught glimpses of a gray stone house. When the whole of the residence finally swept into view, I let out a breath. Something of the past remained after all. Four towering eucalyptus trees laid a dappled shade on the grass, and a breeze pushed a series of cloud-shaped shadows across the red tile roof. The two-story house, with matching one-story wings topped with stone balustrades at each end, dominated my visual field. A series of four arches shielded the entrance and provided a covered porch on which wicker furniture had been arranged. I counted twelve windows on the second floor, separated by paired eave brackets, largely decorative, that appeared to support the roof. I pulled onto a parking pad sufficient to accommodate ten cars and left my pale blue VW hunched, cartoonlike, between a sleek Lincoln Continental on one side and a full-size Mercedes on the other. I didn't bother to lock up, operating on the assumption that the electronic surveillance system was watching over both me and my vehicle as I crossed to the front walk. The lawns were wide and well tended, and the quiet was underlined by the twittering of finches. I pressed the front bell, listening to the hollow-sounding chimes inside clanging out two notes as though by a hammer on iron. The ancient woman who came to the door wore an old-fashioned black uniform with a white pinafore over it. Her opaque stockings were the color of doll flesh, her crepe-soled shoes emitting the faintest squeak as I followed her down the marble-tiled hall. She hadn't asked my name, but perhaps I was the only visitor expected that day. The corridor was paneled in oak, the white plaster ceiling embossed with chevrons and fleurs-de-lis. She showed me into the library, which was also paneled in oak. Drab leather-bound books lined shelves that ran floor to ceiling, with a brass rail and a rolling ladder allowing access to the upper reaches. The room smelled of dry wood and paper mold. The inner hearth in the stone fireplace was tall enough to stand in, and a recent blaze had left a partially blackened oak log and the faint stench of wood smoke. Mr. Lafferty was seated in one of a pair of matching wing chairs. I placed him in his eighties, an age I'd considered elderly once upon a time. I've since come to realize how widely the aging process varies. My landlord is eighty-seven, the baby of his family, with siblings whose ages range as high as ninety-six. All five of them are lively, intelligent, adventurous, competitive, and given to good-natured squabbling among themselves. Mr. Lafferty, on the other hand, looked as though he'd been old for a good twenty years. He was inordinately thin, with knees as bony as a pair of misplaced elbows. His once sharp features had at least been softened by the passing years. Two small clear plastic tubes had been placed discreetly in his nostrils, tethering him to a stout green oxygen tank on a cart to his left. One side of his jaw was sunken, and a savage red line running across his throat suggested extensive surgery of some vicious sort. He studied me with eyes as dark and shiny as dots of brown sealing wax. "I appreciate your coming, Ms. Millhone. I'm Nord Lafferty," he said, holding out a hand that was knotted with veins. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Nice to meet you," I murmured, moving forward to shake hands with him. His were pale, a tremor visible in his fingers, which were icy to the touch. He motioned to me. "You might want to pull that chair close. I've had thyroid surgery a month ago and more recently some polyps removed from my vocal cords. I've been left with this rasping noise that passes as speech. Isn't painful, but it's irksome. I apologize if I'm difficult to understand." "So far, I'm not having any problem." "Good. Would you like a cup of tea? I can have my housekeeper make a pot, but I'm afraid you'll have to pour for yourself. These days, her hands aren't any steadier than mine." "Thanks, but I'm fine." I pulled the second wing chair closer and took a seat. "When was this house built? It's really beautiful." Condiiton: clean, tight and unmarked. Slight shelfwear to dustjacket.
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19 |
Sue Grafton R is for Ricochet
G. P. Putnam's Sons 0399152288 / 9780399152283 Hardcover Good
0399152288 No dust jacket, Clean inside and out May ship from alternate location depending on your zip code and availability.
Price:
1.69 USD
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