Fans of Laura Lippman's detective series and stand-alone novels may be surprised that this is less a mystery than it is the story of family and community, and the narratives that shape our lives. It is also an exploration of memory, the mineshaft between facts and truth, and the precarious tunnel between parental and self-protection. “The truth is not a finite commodity that can be contained within identifiable borders. The truth is messy, riotous, overrunning everything. You can never know the whole truth of anything. And if you could, you would wish you wouldn’t.”
The preplanned, sculpted suburb of Columbia, Maryland, where this story takes place—from the manmade lake to the cookie-cutter villages—is also where the fairytale façade eventually peels away after years of secrets and tweaked retrospection. During its genesis, the prim, trim, identifiable borders of Columbia are a contrast to the untidy truth of the occupants within.
Luisa “Lu” Brant, the 45 year-old newly elected County State’s Attorney, is an ambitious and competitive widow of young twins and the daughter of a prior State’s Attorney, Andrew Jackson Brant. After Lu’s husband died, they moved back to Columbia, into her childhood home. She has come full circle, living with her father again, and the community in which she was raised. Her brother, AJ, who is seven years older, has made a name for himself in the green sphere of sustainable living. Lu and AJ have a close, loving bond, no doubt triggered by the death of their mother, Adele, when Lu was only a week old, and AJ seven years older. To make her mother come alive in her mind, she depends on other people's memories, the facts of Adele told to her, instead of remembered.
Lippman quickly delves into a grievous incident of the past and keeps us tethered to the darker side of the Brant’s suburban childhood. A young man died while AJ was trying to save a good friend’s life, on the night of his high school graduation. Fortunately, AJ was found to have acted in self-defense, and the family never spoke of it again. “It was common then not to speak of traumatic things, to assume that a firm silence would lead to the fastest healing.”
Lu’s first case as State’s Attorney is prosecuting a mentally ill man, accused of killing a woman in her home. Since murder is rare in Columbia, she’s due some recognition if she wins the case. But the investigation reveals some surprises, jogging old memories and finding that they don’t always fit the “facts” as she knows them. Plus, she has a secret life of her own, a clandestine lover who she knew as a child. “Which just proves…how very good she is at compartmentalizing.”
Compartmentalizing is a concept familiar to the Brant family. Lu’s knowledge of her mother, for instance, is limited to what her father and AJ have told her, which isn’t much, but arranged lovingly in recitation format. “She was like a character in a fairytale,” her father tells her. And about her grandparents, in heightened tones: “In a twist worthy of a fairytale, they kept their daughter under lock and key in a stone house with turrets, twisting staircases, and stained-glass windows.”
There are other references to fairytales, such as a “Cinderella slipper” that Andrew Brant fashioned figuratively from a shoe to win the murder case that made his career. Fairytales are an ironic metaphor that captures the bleaker side of Wilde Lake, the castles of the idyll haunted by shadows and ghosts of the past.
In this Pleasantville-esque community, breaches of silence are gradual, and secrets are deftly dismantled over the course of the novel, which is divided into alternate timelines, the past and the present. The author also examines the facts of the past in light of present perceptions and mores, and she comes by it honestly. This is the place where Lippman was raised, too, so the fiction is dusted with actual experience.
Lippman’s ingenious construction compelled me; she enlarged the scope of detail and then brought it down to its essential elements by the end of the narrative. She braids timelines gradually, expanding the action to include such a smorgasbord of events that I admit to wondering, halfway in, if Lippman’s themes would crash under its plotlines, which were numerous. A lesser author would have failed to pull it off, but Lippman prepared a feast of a story, down to every succulent bite. I wasn’t thinking of To Kill A Mockingbird, which she purposely used as a framework. Instead, I was installed in the myths of Wilde Lake, and the Brant family's tangled tale of conceits.