Aaron Elkins’ mystery novels are efficiently plotted, capably written, and populated by amiable amateur-detective heroes and eccentric supporting characters. Their central puzzles are competently constructed, and competently resolved, with clues that hang together and murderers whose motivations, when revealed, make sense. All of which is to say that Elkins writes solid, middle-of-the-road whodunits that give good value for the money, but seldom rock the reader’s world. What sets Elkins apart from scores of other journeyman mystery writers, and (I suspect) keeps his work in print, is the way he writes about expertise.
Elkins’ lead characters – anthropologist Gideon Oliver, art historian Chris Norgren, golfer Lee Ofsted – may be amateurs at detection, but they’re consummate pros at their “real” jobs, with national or even (in Oliver’s case) international reputations in their fields. Their expertise isn’t just a pretext for getting them involved in mysteries, but central to resolving them, and Elkins – who clearly knows a lot about their fields himself – does a superb job of weaving inside dope into the stories and educating readers as he entertains them. His competent-but-unspectacular handling of plot and character serve him well, in this respect, functioning as a framework for the inside dope without distracting from it, or making it feel like a distraction, the way it might in a more elaborately plotted or emotionally intense story.
How much you enjoy an Elkins novel likely has a great deal to do with how interested you are in the subject where the hero’s expertise lies. If the inside dope fails to fascinate, you’re left with a competent but unremarkable whodunit indistinguishable from scores of others. I hit that point about eight books into the Gideon Oliver series (where the subject was forensic anthropology), but only half-a-book into the Chris Norgren series (where the subject was European art). The details of art history, and staging a traveling exhibition, were as deftly presented as ever, but they didn’t grab and hold my attention enough to keep me reading past the midpoint of an essentially routine mystery.
Your mileage – here, even more than in most matters of literary taste – may vary, though. If art (or Italian cooking, a running subtheme in the book) fascinates you, rest assured that – in A Deceptive Clarity, and doubtless in Norgren’s other two adventures – Elkins is a expert teacher and a knowledgeable guide.