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Peniel E. Joseph's Freedom Season - An Essential Text
In 1963 the Civil Rights struggle came alive
Francis Hamit
Publisher: Basic Books, an imprint of the Hachette Book Group 467 pages with notes, bibliography, acknowledgments and index ISBN: 978-1-5416-7589-6
1963 was the year I graduated high school in Marin County, California. It was in Mill Valley at Tamalpais High school, considered the toughest high school in the county because we had Black students. The farther you went North in Marin, the more you encountered the Jim Crow prejudices of the deep South. But at Tam High we were down with the Struggle. In the Drama Department our teacher, Dan Caldwell, did something very brave and subversive. Rather than another Broadway musical, he chose Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible” as our class play. The play is a not-so-subtle push back against the excesses of the McCarthy era, the early 1950s.
Parents objected to the theme and some of Miller’s language. Dan pointed to the language in the Samuel French contract that forbade us from changing a line of the play. His defiance taught us more than dramatic art: it was a lesson in courage, Of not giving in to political or cultural bullies. He put his job on the line and won. He taught there for more than 30 years. The theater is named after him.
We were very aware of Civil Rights. Some of us also participated in demonstrations and protests. The Vietnam War was already on the horizon. As were the Hippies and Timothy Leary’s poison promotion of the drug culture. But in that moment it was Civil Rights. White kids wanted to help. We had been too young to be Freedom Riders. It was our time.
Peniel E. Joseph’s “Freedom Season” is a narrative history of that year, filled with hope, but also murder and tragedy, as Jim Crow terrorists tried to preserve the political system that had served them so well for almost a century. Jim Crow infected the North as well.
The primary change agent in 1963 was the author James Baldwin. His novels and essays were lyrical and their critical reception paved the way for the Struggle. He became a best-selling author, read by the larger white community. These days, military and intelligence strategists talk about seizing the narrative and dominating the Information Space. That is what Baldwin did for Civil Rights in 1963. He was not so much a leader as an influencer. He raised our consciousness.
As Joseph details in this even-handed and thoroughly researched account, he was not the only one. The Black Civil Rights movement had its “Old Guard” and they resented upstarts such as Martin Luther King. Jr. and Malcolm X. There were rivalries and internal dissension. Joseph details it all. Voters’ registration in Mississippi, the Birmingham March, The initial reluctance of President John F. Kennedy and his brother Attorney General Bobby Kennedy to get involved. The courageous activism and murder of Medgar Evers, the Birmingham church bombing that killed four innocent Black girls and the assassination of JFK himself . All one story like a novel.
These events resonate down the corridors of time to the present day. This is an essential text for anyone seeking to understand today’s politics, especially in the face of the Trump Administration’s efforts to erase history and create a new Jim Crow order.
“Quick? As far as I can recall, the name doesn’t come up as part of Allenby’s online network. So, Jaime gets taken within days of these two guys getting killed? What’s going on?”
Danny Cavallo felt a small prick of anxiety. He set his phone back down on the conference room table and tried to focus on the presentation. He was in the first month of a temporary placement with the RCMP. From his role as a detective in the Port Alma PD’s Criminal Investigations Unit, to Operation Ladybird with a national police force? The Royal Canadian Mounted Police? They didn’t actually use horses anymore. But still. Total culture shock. He’d known he’d be working on cross-border crime between Canada and the US, but had been surprised at the immediate assignment to a task force on human trafficking. And the kicker had been the focus on child protection. It had been a challenging introduction to the shadowy world of abuse and exploitation. And now, here he was trapped in a room watching a slide show full of shocking photos and dark statistics, worrying because his own daughter hadn’t checked in after school. His eyes kept wandering from the screen at the front of the room to the screen of his phone. He willed the device to display a cheery text from his 11-year-old. Every so often, he surreptitiously nudged the phone to life, his stomach clenching at the blank screen and the minutes creeping by on the clock.
Once Jaime had turned 10, she’d begged to be allowed to walk home from school by herself. Cavallo and his ex, Charlotte, had agreed, with many conditions. Jaime was proud of her independence, and ecstatic to be leaving the after-school program. With a recent birthday celebrating her 11th, she was growing even more self-reliant. When Danny had thought about the risks, he had to admit there wasn’t too much exposure for the daughter he adored. Charlotte worked from home as a virtual assistant for a law firm and, as they shared custody of Jaime, she picked the girl up from school half the time, anyway. The weeks that Cavallo had Jaime, she had sports team practices on a couple of afternoons, and lots of company from other kids on the walk home from her neighborhood school on the remaining days. Besides, Cavallo’s shifts meant he was home within half an hour of her arrival. Until the new job. Now, instead of heading out of the station in the late afternoon, he was lucky to make it in time for the dinner hour. So far, Jaime had been fine with the schedule. She’d never before forgotten to text him. A voice from his new sergeant penetrated his worry. “Are we boring you, Constable?” It felt strange for Danny to be a constable once again, but his role was comparable to what he’d done in CIU. He didn’t really care much about the title. “No, sir,” he said immediately. But as soon as the boss was focused back on the front of the room, he grabbed his phone and messaged Jaime. ‘Everything OK?’ He honestly expected to get a ‘Yes, dad’ and a bunch of emojis. The longer he waited for the message, the more he could feel his heart rate accelerate. Sweat was beginning to roll down his back. He knew it was an extreme reaction, but after being immersed in Operation Ladybug, his brain was pretty much conditioned to expect the worst. Cavallo no longer cared if the sarge got angry. He grabbed the phone and texted Charlotte. ‘Is Jaime with you?’ ‘Swimming. But it ended an hour ago.’ He leaped to his feet and blurted, “Boss, my daughter’s missing. I have to go.” He looked around wildly, as if someone in this elite group of police officers could magically give him an answer. Of course, he got nothing but startled looks and a couple of shocked expressions. The sarge was all business. “Go ahead. You know what to do. I’m sure she’ll turn up fine, but keep us posted.” Cavallo sprinted out of the new glass and steel RCMP building, and across the large parking lot to his black Jeep, already on the phone with Charlotte and cursing his distance from home and the Port Alma PD. He swept a light dusting of snow off the windshield with the sleeve of his black leather jacket, and hopped in. The RCMP had taken over a new building in the industrial park in Port Alma’s east end. It was large enough for offices, labs, and any other facilities that they needed. But with Cavallo living with his daughter almost at the Gull River on the western edge of Port Alma, it meant a drive across the whole city to get to and from work. At this time of year, it was already completely dark, and this only ratcheted his panic up a notch. “Charlie, it’s me. I’m on my way out of the office. I haven’t heard from her.” “What do you mean? She didn’t text you?” “No. And I texted her, and she never replied. I hope it’s nothing. Maybe she forgot to charge the phone or something. I’m headed to the house to see if she’s there, but it’s going to take me at least 20 minutes. I need you to start calling every friend and teammate you can think of.” “Oh, Danny, what’s happening?” He could hear the tears in her voice, but cut her off. “Just do it. Let me know when you’re done.” He started the car, fastened his seatbelt with one hand, and with the other pushed the speed dial for the Port Alma PD. Before the call connected, he heard the chime for an incoming text. He slammed his foot down on the brake and looked at the screen. Had Jaime finally remembered? His heart sank as he saw it was just a message from a friend. Holly Towns wanted to know if he was free for dinner. At any other time, he would have sent back a heart emoji and an enthusiastic ‘yes.’ But at the moment, he felt like he’d never eat again. In fact, he could hardly breathe, he was so worried. He quickly thumbed a reply. ‘Busy. Emergency.’ In the next second, he heard the voice of the duty sergeant at police HQ. At the same time, he pressed the accelerator. “Sarge, it’s Danny Cavallo.” “Hey Cavallo, how are you doing?” “Bad, sir. I think my daughter, Jaime, is missing. She never got home from school and never texted me like usual. I’m on my way to the house to check, but I haven’t heard from her.” “Slow down, Cavallo. Are you driving?” “Yeah.” “Don’t you have one of those tracking apps on her phone?” Cavallo slammed on the brakes, signaled, and pulled quickly across traffic and into the lot at Memorial Park. He didn’t want to stop, but was kicking himself for not remembering the app. Towns had put it on his and Jaime’s phones a month or two ago and he’d never even looked at it. What was the thing called? Tracker or something. Once the Jeep stopped moving, he said, “Hang on, Sarge. Yeah, I have one, but I’ve never used it. I totally forgot.” He brought up the home screen on his device, and sure enough. Traxsy. There it was. He was almost afraid to look, but took a deep breath and opened it. Jaime, or her phone, was on Lake Street, at the opposite end of the street from Holly Towns’ condo. The whole street was only three blocks long, but Towns was right near the water and the beacon on his phone was further north. “I see it!” he said. “OK, the closest address is 550 Lake Street.” “I’ll send a car. Don’t kill yourself or anyone else getting there. It won’t help matters.” Cavallo tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, ignored the advice, and took off like a shot. He used voice commands to call Charlotte. She sounded as bad as he felt, but he spoke over her. “Those class and team lists. Do any of the kids live on Lake Street?” “I think so. Just a second. Yes. Victoria. Tori Loewen.” “Did you call them?” “Not yet. I’ll do it now.” “Never mind. I’ll be there in five minutes. What’s their actual address?” “645 Lake Street. Is that where she is? Is Jaime with the Loewens?” “I have no idea,” he shouted. “I have to hang up. I’m driving.” “This better not be because of you, Danny.” There it was. If anything bad was happening, it was because of him or his job. He knew she’d eventually end up at that point, just didn’t expect it so fast. He disconnected. He went as quickly as he dared along Petrie and slowed to make a left onto Belvedere. Then two more quick turns, parking just around the corner on Lake. A cruiser was already there, the light rack splashing blue and red all over the road and the fronts of the houses. He glanced up and saw he’d landed right in front of number 645. Dashing up the walk, taking the stairs two at a time, he rang the doorbell and then pounded on the door because no one answered in the first second. A short, blond woman carrying a toddler on her hip opened the door, taking in the police car outside, and Cavallo’s unsmiling face. “What is it? Is everything all right?” “I’m Danny Cavallo. Is my daughter Jaime here?” “No. Sorry. Is there a problem? I picked the girls up from the pool early. It turns out practice was cancelled for a senior swim meet. Jaime came over for a snack. Then she left to walk home.” Her voice was rising. “What’s wrong? She said it was OK, that you let her walk home alone.” Before Danny could respond, he heard a shout from down the block. “Cavallo, over here.” He turned and ran, his heart in his throat and a wave of dread rushing through him. It was no surprise to see that the constable was standing on the snowy front lawn of 550 Lake Street. At his feet was a square pink backpack. He crouched down, and the cop said, “Wait. I’m sorry. Gloves, Cavallo.” “You’re right,” he muttered. He stood and got a pair of nitrile gloves from his inside jacket pocket, and then knelt to open the zipper on the backpack. His worst fears were realized and desperation hammered them home. Towns had done three things over dinner that night. She installed the app on the phone, gave Jaime an electronic key fob for her house key, and attached a second tracker to her pack. All three were linked to apps on his phone. And all three items were right here in front of him. “Useless. Completely useless,” he said, his voice cracking.
~~~~
Human Trafficking is the most horrendous action that has ever entered the minds of criminals... It has been going on for, it seems like, forever, but continues to this day... The terrible part of it is that, often, like with the Epstein case, others are used to bring potential victims into the situation before it is too late. This book explores every aspect of this situation through a series of cases that are being handled by the Port Alma and spotlights the main character DC Holly Towns. Towns is a character that draws readers in, for a reason. She's empathic and sympathetic, that is part of her being and routinely comes to the fore, often faster than her male counterpoints, in "sensing" the connections. That gift has often led to closing many cases.
But this time, there are many cases that are overwhelming the group. Several murders of young men. A group of younger people who have taken a personal interest in what they see as that the police are not effective enough to solve the cases. A kidnapping of the daughter of an officer. As well as a potential domestic abuse case!
And Anne Shillolo skillfully leads readers through the potential or actual connections to be found, while working each case individually...
Men visiting a certain bar seem to be ending up being poisoned, but they are found on the streets, later... So the search takes time and trying to discover if and what is the connections between them is intensive and time-consuming... A final is discovered mutilated, but that was by a snow plow since a major storm has blown in and slowed traffic and activity down even more.
Jamie Cavallo's disappearance hits hard since she's the daughter of Danny, a member of the Criminal Investigations unit at Port Alma. He and Holly had been somewhat involved, but when Danny was sent to the RCMP, things had slowed down. But Holly was just as concerned when she learned that Jamie had disappeared. Her schoolbag had been found on the way home and later a video by a wonderful 80-year-0ld woman who kept cameras running in the front of her house for helping any way she could, was the one that discovered that a man had been hiding and had snatched her. Thank God for those who try to help any way they can! Even in a book! Danny was allowed to stay in his home office until she was found... at least the first time it happened...
“Sarge, what do you think about motivation? Is the person targeting child abusers and people with kiddie porn? Or taking revenge on greedy scammers? Preventing them from destroying more lives.” “Good question, Holly. But I don’t have an answer.”
And then there was the Amber Crew, named after the Amber alert sent out for missing children. These were young adults who wanted, most to help, but in many ways, caused more trouble than if they had just turned in information they found. Their goal was to protect the innocent, but in trying to do so, other people sometimes got hurt...
This book is character-driven, so much so that it becomes extremely complex, so be prepared. With so many cases being handled, together with the use of computer and video support, it soon was movement between and among cases, and a beginning to make connections at least by type of crimes. Finally, I started following Holly as my focal point--she always seemed to be at least minimally involved with all that was happening...
This is a clear police procedural mystery, with even a high-tech type of evidence board/system that allowed one person to input all evidence from which anything could be then merged, compared, and tracked. This proved to bee especially helpful as the WHO behind the crimes became more and more clear...
But... nothing... could prepare you for the climatic ending! Shocking... But...quite appropriate...
I smile. If she doesn’t have all of my heart, she has all of my body, spirit, and mind—because when it comes to the way my mind works, she knows exactly how to talk.
“So are we done sharing deep, dark secrets for the night?” she asks. “I don’t know. You decide.” “I think we’ve done an impressive amount of that kind of sharing.” “I think I’d say I agree.” She takes my hand and leads me to the bed. Kisses the back of my wrist, nibbles it before she lets me go. Stands on her toes to kiss a side of my neck, then my earlobe, which she bites just hard enough to send pain and maybe a little panic down my neck. “You do realize,” I say, “that it’s been more than four years.”
Mark Wish asks the question:
Who can you trust if you can't trust yourself?
Mark Wish sent me a postcard request for a review quite some time ago. I set the card aside until I was able to be back blogging... And I'm certainly glad I found his post card again. Most people know I love unique. And this is one of the most unique books I've read... So unique, I had to name it as a Personal Favorite for 2026!
I was immediately caught by the main character being a literary agent--Anything re books catches my attention...
Even if that literary agent committed murder...
The description of that murder was unique--it was not about killing somebody. It was about having lost a part of himself. Something that had been precious to him, which was now destroyed. But now that it was over, he was paying the price. He had learned something, though. He could not trust himself in certain types of situations... His time in Sing Sing was a time when he needed to be on good behavior every day of his sentence, hoping he'd be able to get time off for good behavior...
Still it left him plenty of time to, also, file divorce papers after she had been unfaithful. And, deal with the fact that a supposed friend had been involved with his wife... Four years had given him enough time to explore options for the future. After all, being a literary agent was a job that required trust in him, by individuals hoping to have his support and help in publishing their books. It was what he enjoyed doing, even if the percentage of his work reviewing material from those who were never going to be published was high and very time consuming. He also wondered if those with whom he'd had contracts would be willing to stay with him...
One in particular, who wrote a lot of poetry, even though he'd never been able to get a book published, he felt had real talent and enjoyed working with him. Would he even still be living when he got out?
I need to be able to talk with someone who knows me, the real me...
In fact I’m out there, in the yard, when I first meet Jonas. On the unshaded basketball court, where my mood often spikes if direct sunshine finds me. Using the hoop with no net and therefore alone, sometimes lost in thought about my victim, sometimes imagining him putting his first move on my ex, in any case vulnerable to the whims of anyone who has the nerve to approach me. And Jonas indeed has the nerve. As he crosses the out-of-bounds line, all I know about him (well, all I’ve heard about him since he arrived here yesterday) is that he, too, has killed a man, in his case during a flubbed attempt to rob the Mahopac OTB while partnering up with a defective AR-15...
Suddenly all of that changed for Matthew Connell!
Because the FBI had a serial killer case that they needed help to solve... Young writers were being targeted and ultimately dismembered. And the one who was being looked at as a possible person of interest was the poet that Matt had been thinking about... And Jonas was his new contact from the FBI who proposed that, if he helped them, he would be freed, with no strings attached after the case was closed... And Jonas became that somebody with whom Matt could talk... as long as he talked about what the FBI needed to know!
“Would rather hear what you know about Ethan Hendee,” he says. Ethan Hendee was a client of mine who, eighteen years ago—that is, more than a decade before I learned my wife wasn’t exactly a saint—gave up on writing novels to write poems that appear in those photocopied literary mags no one reads. He’s a helluva writer, candid and interesting and succinct as anyone published, but I have not survived here by not holding cards close. So: “Ethan Hendee?” “Ha.” “Why ha?” “Because I know you’re Matthew Connell, and that you’ve represented the poet Ethan Hendee for a long time.” “The only problem being I don’t know such a person.” “But see, bro, there’s no question in my mind that you do know him. I know you’ve been his agent for years.” I shake my head no. Eye the asphalt between us and the cyclone fence. “You trying to tell me you’re not Matthew Connell?” he asks. “Matt Connell.” I force a sour expression. “Maybe you’re confusing me with some hoity-toity guy? Anyway, how does someone who hauls around an AR-15 know anything about poetry?” He points at his hornrims. “Because he’s read some?” “Well, I don’t know any Hendee.” “But see, Matt, I still think you do. Plus I think that, as his literary agent, you know what a badass he is.” In all truth, I do not know this. The Ethan Hendee I represented before my arrest had a soul gentle as any. I’m curious about what this Jonas guy heard Hendee did, but to get an early release, I’ve pledged to myself never to talk about crime that’s gone down on the outside. After all, a rehabbed convict no longer cares about crime, and I am nothing if not a rehabbed convict. To let this Jonas guy know I’m done socializing for the day, I turn and face the run of the Hudson beyond the chain link and the razor wire, its waves peaking into whitecaps here and there. “So you’re not gonna spill?” he asks. I don’t as much as shrug. He zings me a no-look pass, really zips it, hard, straight at my head, but I notice it soon enough to catch it. “Ya missed,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear, and I look over to stare him down, but his back is already turned, a confident stride taking him off. And it occurs to me, as he heads to the guarded double doors between us and the inside, that if he doesn’t have six inches on me, he has seven. And that my own storied past has taught me that the strength to kill a man comes not only from size—it also comes from youth. So I’ll avoid him, I decide. Won’t let him know I’m avoiding him, but that’s what I’ll do. There’s an art to this.
And then Jonas put the pressure on...
A Quieter Saturday
Night of those 2 grandparents
my grandmother was nicer
but she loved my brother so much
there was rarely laughter in her for me
& on that night my brother wasn’t there—
it was just the 2 of us
& my grandfather
& my grandfather never spoke
so it felt as if it were just the 2 of us
she & I were playing cards for nickels
& she was winning
& my grandfather was reading the paper
& I could tell she liked to win
but it bothered her she’d lent me the nickels
in the first place
it just wasn’t the same for her:
winning at cards with this grandson
who didn’t like nuns
it would be better if she were winning
against adults & their money
or even losing to my brother
who she was sure would become a priest
& he did become a priest—
after she died
then he died from a virus
he caught from a priest
& the last 2 things I’d do tonight
are go to church & play cards
my grandfather died also
but by then I was no longer around
to see him off
still I am him in this room:
full of words not saying any of them
~~~~
Hendee’s candor has touched my heart yet again, but I decide that, for the moment, it’s best to appear unfazed. I stand, shrug, place the poem on Scardina’s desk. “You know who wrote that thing, right?” Jonas asks. “No,” I say. “It said so on the header.” “Guess I missed that.” “Matt, your client Ethan Hendee wrote that poem.” “I wouldn’t say Hendee’s my client.” “I would. And there’s plenty of evidence to prove me right.” “Is that so?” “All sorts back at my headquarters.”
Headquarters. God, do I love that word. As an agent—that is, before my twenty-eight minutes—I always wanted a headquarters, an airy square footage in which like-minded colleagues and I could find repose. Where I’d gain moral support and refresh my resolve on the toughest days in the grand competition that is publishing.
But, of course, the FBI always gets their man, even if it requires that he be given freedom from a murder charge and given an apartment, a phone, credit cards and all he had to do was...be himself... Check out his former client and see if he's become a serial killer...
Before his twenty-eight minutes--the time it took to hear what happened with his wife, get to his home, and kill him--Matt was a wonderful man, caring for his wife, his clients, and even going further to often provide rewrites necessary to get a book published. His poet had been able to get many of his individual poems routinely published. Enough to keep him in food an shelter. So Matt, after agreeing to what the FBI asked of him, immediately took off to try to find his friend and client. Finding him was enough to take some time, but finding his way there again, he was pleased to find him and, as they renewed their friendship, Matt just knew this man was not a killer! Nevertheless, he would spend time confirming what he already knew...
Along the way, as he started visiting the neighborhood where his apartment was located, he found it hard to accept that he was really free, after his four years out of circulation, to be able to move about. To walk into any location and sit down for something to eat or drink... It wasn't long before he met Em. And fell for her! Of course, that was not part of the FBI plan and soon he learned just how closely he was being kept in their circle of captivity: all phone information was captured or listened to; they had given him a set of specially-made shoes that could be tracked step by step no matter where he went...
In the meantime, another young writer disappeared. And, later, the killer changed his pattern, when the male poet who Matt had been asked to track and report on, as the number 1 suspect on the FBI radar, was also murdered...
I think through a few things I could mention about Hendee if asked to eulogize him: his candor, his honor, his wit, his decades of persistence in the face of what most people considered failure. I owe it to him to say these things publicly, I tell myself. Still, I want only to talk with Em...
Time to reconsider the plan of action for Matt and his new female connection... Was Em a possible suspect? In the meantime, as a convict, Matt started getting hundreds of requests for assistance, many of them from men in prisons who felt they had a story to tell. Indeed Matt had found when in Sing Sing that many could weave a story that was well worth listening to! And the FBI, of course, set a course for his emails; namely, send them any writer who gave off vibes of a psycho with violence as a key role in their writing...
But as Matt became more and more involved with the literary crowd he had once known, he was finding it harder and harder to follow the restrictions placed on him, especially about Em who he had fallen for quickly and totally... Only to find it was she who, because of their association, was to share a secret so monumental that it shook him to the bones, as he wondered just how far he...could...trust...himself...
Whew! Without explicitly revealing the type of violence that was placed by the Serial Killer, the book was written in such a way that readers sense the tension, the depth of depravity of the villain... The buildup of the climax is excellent. Even while readers have been given clues and are aware of the interrelation mixes that are developing, at least for me, it never entered my mind how the ending would occur...
Extraordinary! Exciting! Endless suspense... and a Necessary Deed...
Opening a new book often begins a whirlwind of...stuff... This is the case with Murder by the Book. After reading the epigraph, I wondered, "What?!"
Moving on I begin reading what is actually a book within a book... It seemed to me historical and I was not anxious to continue to read. Finally, readers are confronted with the fact that a book was being read by a small group of people--having just added one, there are now four. A discussion of the book just read began. So I have to say, upfront, I've never participated in a book club--no, forgive me, it is stated over and over and over, that this is a reading group not a book club, even though the cover does "name" it as a book club like no other... I'm so confused, by the way, about what actually happens at a book reading. Do we take turns reading, as we did in grade school? A bit of sarcasm is creeping in, I'm afraid...
In any event, the group did talk and argue as expected until time was up. The bookstore manager came to meet them as she prepares to close the shop. All's well that ends well? Not... Soon there is a loud scream from inside the building. All of the members come running back and try to get back in. In lieu of that, they call the police...
Yes, the bookstore manager is dead. Was it an accident? Or... Nevertheless, the four readers identify themselves to the lead detective and are asked to return to the room where they had just met. Of course all of them began to talk about their relationship to the now deceased individual. Readers of course know she's dead because this is a cozy mystery and a dead body is a prerequisite...
Interestingly, we have already been confronted with a discussion about the antagonistic relationship between the "amateur detective(s)" and the book proves to follow that requirement. I, however, have personally read many cozies in which a companionable relationship occurs. Even on Hallmark mysteries, LOL, normally a love relationship begins... So... is the discussion really a clue?
I must admit, I got bored as the regurgitation of the same discussions began. Between two group people, or the entire group, or between one member who talks to a news rep and tells all, even though they were told not to talk about the death to anybody, including each other, by the detective. And, of course, none of them were willing not to talk to each other, so...
The characters lives were interesting and one of them begins to "shine" as she blossoms after interaction with her new friends. So much so, that she decides to kick her husband out, after being controlled by him her entire married life. Good for her!
However, it was very near the end of the book when readers began to get some semblance of where the book was headed--you know, the type of writer who decided to have the full story to be "revealed" at the end? Well, this is one of those. I'm not a fan.
Even though it was indeed a climatic ending...
One which has been determined by the publisher not to allow excerpts to be used without written permission... Thus, I could only decide to use one song to even give a flavor of the book... but not the writing of the author...
And as I write this review, I realize just how much there was, not, to enjoy the book itself. So you'll have to decide whether you are the type who enjoys the full surprise bang at the end, or, like me, want to be fed clues, in order to really enjoy the book as a mystery... You decide...
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