I’ve been re-reading all the Harry Stoner detective novels, books that I first read more than thirty years ago. In doing so, I’ve tasted many first-rate prose passages, thrilled to more than a few abrupt explosions of violence, and relished a good mystery here, a surprising unmasking there. But not once have a read a first-class private eye novel, one that ranks up there with the best: Red Harvest, The Big Sleep, The Underground Man, The Last Good Kiss, When the Sacred Gin Mill Closes.
Till now, that is. Natural Causes is that good.
Perhaps the wounds of love and childhood just weren’t enough to goad Jonathan Valin into his best work. Perhaps his superb knowledge of the underbelly of Cincinnati, Ohio wasn’t quite enough either. No, it took a stint in Tinseltown, a year working as a story consultant on one of Hollywood’s daytime soap operas—and an immersion in a culture of dishonesty, deception, and addiction—to bring out just the right tone of weary rage that makes Jonathan Valin’s fifth Harry Stoner novel not merely the best of the series so far, but an exemplar of the genre.
Harry is hired by a mighty Cincinnati soap company called “United American”—a firm that closely resembles Procter and Gamble—to investigate the death of the head writer Quentin Dover, the head writer of their daytime soap. Dover’s body was discovered in his hotel room, in somewhat advanced decay. It may be death by natural causes, but then, there are rumors Quentin may have been leading a double life, and the United American detergent company needs to keep its reputation squeaky clean.
Stoner interviews the people who knew Quentin best: his gorgeous, suicidal wife; his guarded, protective mother; his ambitious calculating junior writing partner; his teary-eyed yet ruthless producer; and Jack Moon, the man from United who keeps the lid on those dirty coastal vices that a midwest mega-corporation cannot tolerate.
Harry Stoner soon tires of all the soap opera games, long before the mystery of Quentin Dover's death is solved. But he grows wearier—much wearier—for, as he investigates all the twists and turns of that lead him closer to answer, he finds that the stench of advanced decay isn't limited to Quentin's corpse, that it permeates the entire L.A. atmosphere with greed and lust, concealment and guilt and concealment. And that includes some of the decisions that Harry Stoner make all by himself.