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327 pages, Hardcover
First published October 9, 2018
…she did owe him. He had helped her stop being young and start being interesting.I first experienced Paris in 1971, a short trip, five, six days, organized through a school I was no longer attending. It was my first time outside the USA, Christmas season, a group of late teens and early twenty-somethings. It was magical, freezing, but magical. Played my guitar a bit in an empty train terminal until we were chased out by the cops, sorry, gendarmes. Our group totaled the coke supply in a Vietnamese restaurant, had a friendly snowball fight with a pack of locals. Bought crepes from a sidewalk vendor. Had the best onion soup of my life in a jardin-variety neighborhood place. Took in some of the usual sights, Notre-Dame, The Louvre, the The Eiffel Tower and whatever our eyes could take in. December was not a great time to visit The Tuileries, but we popped by for at least a minimal look-see, walked along the Seine, did what groups of young tourists do. I have been back, briefly, a time or two since. It remains the most beautiful city I have ever seen. Occasionally I get to stop by via film, a TV series like Spiral, or the pages of a lovely book.

I wanted to make the joke! That he’d died in his sleep, when he’d actually died in his soup. The real difficulty was figuring out how someone could actually die in their soup, so the joke kind of forced all the rest of it…As a writer, there’s just some things that you want to write. And the soup thing just made me laugh every time I read it. - from the Stop and Smell the Pages interviewThe rosé is the first thread Rachel pulls. It proceeds from there. Bernhard offers up a list of suspects, plenty of clues, and some lightly-grounded suspicions. Rachel and Magda bring in some outside assistance. An erstwhile friend with a broad knowledge of the social set in question is helpful. Alan’s bank connections come in handy. And even the detective who dismisses them provides a morsel or two.
On television the police were always saying, “I’ll talk to my snitches,” and every literary sleuth seemed to have a network of carefully cultivated connections or village gossips to help them out. The difficulty with being an actual amateur detective was the lack of this inside information. No wonder none of the fictional representatives ever featured a detective who was just starting out: without contacts you were nowhere.One of the criteria for a cozy is a cast of quirky characters. There are a few that fit the bill. But one of my few gripes about the book is that the odd ducks here hardly seemed odd enough. We expect the leads to be well put together, engaging without being too interesting. We count on the supporting cast to brighten things up. This element could have used some burnishing. The sense of Paris was most poignant when Bernhard writes about the challenge of getting a decent amount of space in which to live. The tour of eateries was fun. I am hoping that in future volumes (at least two are anticipated) there can be a bit more on the local architecture, the look of the place, which does so much to generate the feel, setting being a prime ingredient in mysteries of most sorts. Bernhard, who lives in England, has had a long-time affection for Paris.
I have a hypothesis that everybody has another country that’s not the country they were born in and not the country that they live in, and when I went to Paris, I was just very comfortable there. I used to spend a lot of time there; in the summers, when I would come to England for research, I would stop over in Paris for a couple of days. So I knew enough when I started writing the novel to set the novel there, but I did have to go back and spend more time there. - from the Stop and Smell the Pages interviewBottom line is whether this book is engaging. Très certainement! Although it only took me a few days to inhale this one, I found that I was always eager to get back to it, and it kept making me smile as I read. Not every novel has to be deep, thought provoking, or lyrical. Some can be just good fun. Death in Paris is a scrumptious crepe suzette of a book, serving quite nicely to fill a particular human need.
Are murderers that polite, Rachel wondered. Then she sighed inwardly. In France, they probably were.