Take a leafy suburb of California, wilting in the heat of 1959, add a few bored housewives; throw in a bright, articulate girl, and a stereotypical detective, finally sprinkle with a missing housewife, and you have the recipe for a detective thriller. It all sounded so promising, especially when the opening line is from Joyce, the missing housewife....
“Yesterday, I kissed my husband for the last time. Of course, he does not know this. Not yet. In fact, I have a hard time believing it myself........”
Joyce, young, attractive, married to but bored with Frank, has two beautiful little girls but yearns for something more. A talented, but thwarted, artist she strains at the confines of her marriage. Has she just walked away from it? How could she leave those kids? Is she dead? There was blood in the kitchen after all...
Ruby, the bright articulate girl is a Negro, obviously from the wrong side of town, is employed as “the help” by Joyce and her neighbour, Mrs Ingram. She yearns to go to college, is befriended by Joyce, treated as less than dirt by Mrs Ingram.
Meet Mick Blanke, the detective who did Something Wrong at his previous precinct out East and so was transferred out to the boonies of Santa Monica. Blanke doesn't follow leads, is frustrated by his boss (aren't we all) and relies too much on Ruby's astute observations and determination, which he then ignores because, after all, she's black and doesn't really count.
Although this novel is atmospheric and quite claustrophobic, it is very much plot driven with clues scattered about here and there, it lacks depth in the characters who are all flat and lacking in – well, character. The emphasis on Joyce's purchase of art materials seems irrelevant and I, too, would be bored by Frank who doesn't seem to do anything useful at all. Chief Murphy constantly berating Blanke for any number of reasons is just another stereotype. The dialogue is often stilted and cheesy, the writing itself is sprinkled with grammatical errors which really grated on me.
The novel, to me, seems to be a comment on past attitudes: black people are treated with contempt and have no place in “decent society”. Men go to work, women stay at home and to heck with any ambition they may have. If that is the reason behind this book, it works pretty well, but if it's a detective story it's well, it's a bit of a limp lettuce.
I trundled through it to the end....but I had to know if my theory about Joyce was right...I was, sort of.
My thanks to Netgalley for an ARC download.