What do you do when you get blocked creatively? For Violet
Hart, she takes pictures of dead people.
The main character in Patricia Abbott’s sophomore novel,
SHOT IN DETROIT, Violet is a thirty-nine-year-old woman whose life seems to
have meandered off course. At the start of the book, Violet is seeking “the
boost that discovering I could still produce a first-rate photo would give me.”
The place where she goes to find this boost is pre-dawn Belle Isle, a location
in Detroit threatening to suburbanites for it’s a distant memory of the good
years. Two police officers intercept her, questioning her motives and what a
nice white woman is doing at a park where vagrants frequent, vagrants the cops
are ignoring to hassle Violet. Her answers verge on the babbling as she tries
to convince them not only that her art—photography—has merit, but the subjects
she shoots—urban settings, including said vagrants—are interesting. “So, it’s
art to you, huh?” the redheaded cop interrupted. “The people you snap don’t’
matter more than apples on a cutting board.”
It is a special book that demands a re-reading of the first
chapter when you finish the last. You see, Abbott nails her subject, her
character and motivations, and the atmosphere right out of the gate. The
farther into the book I got, the more the echoes of the first chapter kept
coming back to me. By the time I got to the last page, I was dying to return to
the first chapter. Sure enough that first chapter is like a short story in
itself. It’s all in there. Not surprising since Abbott has written over 100
short stories and won a Derringer Award.
But I digress. SHOT IN DETROIT focuses on a triumvirate of
characters. Violet is at the center, the nucleus around which the story turns.
Bill Fontenel is her lover. He is a handsome black man, a mortician by trade,
who takes wonderful care of his “clients.” In fact, his grace with the dead is
his calling card, and it is a simple request by him that sets the story in
motion. He asks Violet to take a picture of a dead man because Bill’s regular
photographer cannot. This action piques Violet’s artistic eye and she stumbles
into the subject of her next project: photographing dead black men.
Ted Ernst owns an art gallery where a dozen of Violet’s
photos hang. He’s the upscale bourgeois type that comes across as too cultured
for his own good. He’s indifferent to Violet’s existing work—in fact, he
returns them soon after the book starts—but is curious about the black corpse
project. His only sticking point as the story progresses is to get Bill to sign
a contract to protect the gallery when the project goes on display.
But it is Violet’s eyes through which we experience
everything. Her backstory is parceled out in bits and pieces, a marvelous
technique Abbott deploys. Slowly, over time, Violet’s character, who she is and
how she came to be this way, is revealed. Violet’s mother is a waitress, her
father, an itinerate jazz musician who bailed on the family soon after Violet
was born. She had a sister, but she’s been dead for years. This building of
Violet’s biography is done is such a way as to be greater than the sum of her
parts. Inextricably the reader is drawn into Violet’s mind, deeper into the
story, and deeper into her desire to snap more photos and complete her project.
Alas, her project demands the deaths of more black men. Will
she have enough—she’s aiming for ten to twelve with a short deadline? This
being Detroit, the reader is inclined to think so. So, too, is Violet.
Surprisingly, the bodies aren’t as plentiful, and Violet verges on desperation.
Ted is breathing down her neck for the contract to be signed and the project to
be fulfilled. Bill grows increasingly reluctant to participate in Violet’s
morbid fascination with her subjects. “Don’t call the dead what killed them,”
Bill reverently intones in one of the best takeaways of the entire book. But
Violet’s tone has already shifted from innocent curiosity to actively
mercenary. To one of her subjects, she says, “Buck up, Ramir. I’ll make you a
star. And maybe you’ll make me one.”
Abbott’s pacing is gentle and the suspense is a slow burn.
The artist in Violet gradually takes over until she’s worried more about her
vision rather than her subjects: dead men. Abbott paints Detroit not as the
sprawling city most folks like me might think it is but as a small, almost
claustrophobic town. Like an expert craftsman, Abbott constructs her novel in
such a way that all the pieces fit into place perfectly. The house she has
built stands solidly, not a word out of place. She’s a magician. Her sleight of
hand technique at showing you what she wants you to see is so good that certain
events—especially the ending—I never saw coming.
SHOT IN DETROIT is an excellent book and a nice change of
pace from what some readers—me included—think of when the terms “crime fiction”
or “suspense fiction” are bandied about. It’s not all cops and robbers, gangs
and violence. Sometimes the best crime fiction can surprise you in ways you
didn’t expect, giving you insight not only into the mind of a character but in
yourself as well.
Do yourself a favor and add this book to your summer reading list. Pick your format. You're welcome.
2 comments:
Can't wait to read this!
I'm really looking forward to this one! Thanks for the cool review Scott.
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