During her father's term as president Margaret Truman launched a career as an operatic soprano, and attracting quietly enthusiastic reviews. This held true until 1950 when the Washington Post music critic wrote a mild pan of her voice and acting ability, leading the president-father to write the critic a letter threatening to push in his nose.
Understanding that I risk the ghost of old Harry S, I will review this book by observing that his daughter's attempt at writing a murder mystery about the opera doesn't sing any better than she did. She remains flat a good deal of the time, and still cannot write with anything approaching professional finish.
This is one of those books where you can just glimpse at what the author planned to do, just enough to feel very sorry that they didn't even come close to the vision. So what went wrong?
Granting that Truman was in her 80s when she drafted this story, and then she handed it off to one of her many indifferent ghostwriters, and how much bother should she go to when she already had a twenty-two volume series behind her with excited reviews for every one? Let's just say that there is a sad irony to the preface thanking her editor, when that editor allowed massive blocks of repetition and digression slip into the final draft. Let us also not forget that by 2006 Truman had long abandoned Washington DC for New York City, then Chicago, and so her Washington DC was a distant memory. To make the novel sound current there are frequent mentions of chic restaurants and 'gentrified' neighborhoods, but they all cluster around the K street axis between the White House and Georgetown. Most of the action in this novel happens in the tight four block area between the Kennedy Center and the Watergate, when it isn't happening in the strangely expansive Takoma Park rehearsal space, about which I had any number of laugh out loud moments. As a former resident of TP I can tell you that the place is not a 'funky little suburban enclave', neither is the proper approach to the WNO rehearsal space at the corner of Cedar and Eastern Ave up 16th Street. I complained in an earlier review of a Truman murder book that the series was strangely missing Black characters in a city more than half African-American, well turns out including them is worse from every angle. Also, just what the hell was going on with the descriptions of the ladies? The more professional detective in the murder case is openly ogled by passers by as she is walking about, sexually harassed by her grotesque caricature of a partner, takes pride in being offered a photo spread in Playboy, and revels in all of it. Meanwhile the annoying husband in the duo at the lead of this book revels in the constant comments about his smoking hot wife when he isn't grabbing a little nooner himself. But most painful of all, there is the out of nowhere/pointless throwaway/yet obligatory, Islamic Terrorist post-9/11 subplot to be ashamed of.
This book is a shambles and the conclusion is chaotic..
So, heigh ho, the fat lady sang, and don't bother with this one.