Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead is the fourth novel by Sara Gran, an exquisitely titled and wonderfully composed introduction to what publishers like to call "an unprecedented private investigator." Published in 2011, the author doesn't fall back on gimmick or try to build her mystery on the basis of a quirky characterization--alcoholic private eye, OCD private eye, 1980s private eye--but instead uses drunkenly rich language to unravel a mystery in, where else, New Orleans. Neither Claire or anyone she comes into contact with is in a partying type of mood and while the novel is desaturated of romance and often difficult for me to love, I did really like it.
The story begins in January 2007 with the self-proclaimed "world's greatest private eye" returning to the Big Easy, the city she left ten years ago, for a meeting at the Napoleon House in the French Quarter with her client, Leon Salavatore. The client hires Claire to find his late mother's brother, assistant district attorney for the New Orleans prosecutor's office, Vic Willing, who his nephew and sole heir has not seen since the flood. Leon's first question to the private eye is how old she is. "Forty-two," I said. I was thirty-five. But no one trusts a woman under forty. I'd started being forty when I was twenty-nine.
Leon is just as tentative about Claire's mental health, mentioning that he heard she was in the hospital for a nervous breakdown, rumors Claire shoots down by claiming she was in an ashram. The background she's already assembled on Vic Willing--fifty-six, male, white, single, no children--suggests a prince among men, an honest lawyer who was well-respected by his peers and clean as a whistle. Examining a photograph of her target taken on the balcony of his apartment on lower Bourbon Street, Claire discovers hundreds of green parrots perched in a tree in the background. So begins The Case of the Green Parrot.
Claire is a disciple of Jacques Silette, the Parisian private investigator whose book, Détection, was published in 1959 and though now out of print, Claire considers her Bible. She moved to New Orleans in 1994 to work for Constance Darling, a former student and lover of Silette's, and she left the city when her boss was murdered three years later. Claire first came into contact with Détection as a child when her friend Tracy found a copy in a dumbwaiter in her parents' house. They began solving mysteries in the fourth grade with another friend, Kelly, discovering Silette's first rule of solving mysteries: most people don't want their mysteries solved.
I'd met Constance in Los Angeles in 1984. A detective named Sean Risling had set up an introduction, knowing I needed work and Constance needed help. She was in L.A. on the famous HappyBurger murder case. Of course I knew who she was; the famous detective, student of Silette, the eccentric from New Orleans, admired by some, reviled by more. Stilette and his followers have never been the most popular detectives. No matter how many cases we solved or how quickly we solved them, respect was always hard to come by. It was like an episode of Quincy, stretched out over fifty years. All the better, Constance explained later, when we were friends. High expectations from others can cripple you.
Claire navigates New Orleans with the help of another former student of Constance Darling's, an amateur criminologist named Mick Pendell, heavily tattooed and trying to recover from losing his home and his marriage in the flood. Fingerprints she's recovered at Vic's apartment indicate that eighteen year old Andray Fairview has been there. Native New Orleanean, orphan, with a record for possession and assault and two arrests for murder. Claire has already met Andray, coming out of a gas station to find him leaning against her rental pickup with his goofy buddy Terrell. She dubbed the pair Suicide Boy and Dreadlock Boy, unsure which of them peed on her tire.
Mick knows Andray through his work with Southern Defense, providing legal services for the underprivileged. He doesn't want to believe the boy would murder Vic Willing, but Claire is ready to wrap up the case. Interviewing Suicide Boy at Orleans Parish Prison where he's been interned for loitering, Andray maintains that he met Vic while cleaning swimming pools. He claims they talked about birds and to prove it, shows Claire a book that Vic gave him: Détection by Jacques Silette. The more time Claire spends with Andray, the more inclined she is to believe his innocence and to suggest to her client that Vic Willing wasn't the prince others claimed he was.
Claire's personal life remains a FEMA disaster area. She frequently slips into stupors, whether drug induced or from simply not eating or sleeping, which is how she ended up under medical supervision back in San Francisco. Clues come easier to her in blackouts, though they've been unable to help her locate her childhood friend Tracy, who disappeared in Brooklyn in 1987 and whose vanishing irreparably damaged her friendship with Kelly, also a private investigator. Fate is unkind to those of Claire DeWitt's profession, as she discovers trying to seek out the legendary Jack Murray, a brilliant New Orleans private eye and Silette disciple who now wanders Congo Park, homeless.
"The first thing you need to know about being a detective," Constance explained when she was interviewing me to be her assistant, "is that no one will ever like you again. You will turn over their stones and solve their crimes and reveal their secrets and they will hate you for it. If you're stupid enough to marry, your husband will never trust you. Your friends will never relax around you. Your family will shut you out. The police, of course, will loathe you. Your clients will never forgive you for telling them the truth. Everyone pretends they want their mysteries solved but no one does." She leaned toward me. I smelled her violet perfume, her expensive face powder. "No one except us."
Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead is a novel for antiquarians, for those whose pulses race at the thought of discovering rare out-of-print books, priceless artifacts warehoused in attics or pirate treasure buried under redwood trees. The lurid elements of pulp fiction--broads, bullets and booze--are not to be appreciated here. Gran has worked in used and rare books, at The Strand and Shakespeare and Co, and was an independent bookseller, and this is what the novel is about. My fault with it is how often character and story are subordinated to book reviewing, with so many passages devoted to Détection that the novel starts to resemble a Chinese fortune cookie.
While reading the novel is as much fun as getting shushed in a library and Claire DeWitt seems to have that brilliant detective's tendency to know key things with a minimum amount of detection, her background is unlike any other sleuth I've encountered, moving discontented from one city to the next--Brooklyn, L.A., New Orleans, San Francisco--more like a Gaslight Era ghost than an analog hipster. NOLA is a haunted city and Claire DeWitt is one haunted character, solving mysteries that fail to reveal the bigger truths she's really looking for. I have too much of a heavy dark wheat taste left in my mouth to order the 2013 sequel, Claire DeWitt and the Bohemian Highway, but this one isn't bad.