Continuing with my efforts to drop when needed, dumping Fiona Sherlock's
Twelve Motives for Murder. The format is gimmicky and includes a pitch to buy the audiobook for the "full experience". I dislike being told buy ANOTHER copy of the book I'm reading almost as much as I dislike audiobooks, but the kicker was demi-derriered thinking passed off as dazzling deduction:
Quote:
"ELIZABETH: Ah . . . I see. Smythson . . . Smythson . . . Is his mother American?
CATHERINE: Yes! How did you know that? He’s an Olympic skier, you know? We’ve known him since he was a child. He’s from three villages over in England.
ELIZABETH: I can tell because of the little stars and stripes on his lapel. But Smythson is a British name. So that leaves an American parent to meet the citizenship requirement."
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(e.a.)
Surnames are exclusive to one country? Since when? This detective knows for a fact that someone of a given surname could not possibly be from any other country?
If someone had called her on it, instead of the reaction being "wow, that's amazing!" I might have read on. But after the Maisie Dobbs debacle, I'm in no mood for more dodgy detectives. Now for something completely different, John Harding's
One Damn Big Puzzler