Skip to main content

Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead by Sara Gran: A review

Claire DeWitt and the City of the DeadClaire DeWitt and the City of the Dead by Sara Gran
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It's always such an unexpected pleasure to meet a writer previously unknown to you who is simpatico, someone whose style you really like and appreciate. I had that experience earlier this year with Kate Atkinson. And now I have met Sara Gran.

I was listening to Fresh Air on NPR recently when their book reviewer started talking about Gran's latest book, her second in a series featuring a detective named Claire DeWitt. The reviewer's description of the detective and of the plot grabbed my attention and I knew I had to have that book.

But since I am an OCD kind of reader, I certainly could not start with the second book in a series. I had to get the first book, which turned out to be Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead. I'm really glad I did.

Claire DeWitt is a private investigator - the world's greatest, in her own words - from California, out of Brooklyn by way of New Orleans and many other stops along the way. She is, to put it mildly, an extremely unorthodox investigator. Her primary investigative tools are dreams, drugs, the I Ching, and a dog-eared book that she found in a dumbwaiter in her parent's crumbling mansion in Brooklyn when she was a teenager called Detection by a writer named Jacque Silette. Detection is her religion and Detection, the book, is her bible.

As we meet Claire, she is barely recovered from a nervous breakdown caused by extensive fasting and drug use. She is contacted by a man from New Orleans who wants to hire her to look into the disappearance of his uncle after Katrina. It is early 2007, eighteen months after the storm. This is a very cold case.

Claire had not been back to New Orleans since the woman who was her mentor, the previous greatest detective in the world, had been shot to death along with several other people in a French Quarter restaurant. The murderers were just kids and they were never brought to justice. This is not unusual in the New Orleans that Claire knows.

Vic Willing was a successful New Orleans District Attorney, who, apparently, made it through Katrina but then disappeared without a trace. His nephew, who is the sole heir to his estate, is feeling guilty about accepting his inheritance without knowing what happened to his uncle. Thus, he calls Claire.

The initial investigation of Willing shows him as a very public, political persona, a stereotypical "great guy," but provides very few details about his personal life. Claire gains entry to the missing man's elegant apartment, which she finds to be magazine-spread ready, but on the patio she finds a broken bird feeder and spoiled birdseed. And a parrot - in fact, a Monk Parakeet, sometimes known as Quaker Parrot.

Each clue you find is like a pair of new eyes. Now I looked around the street, and in the trees nearby I saw more birds: finches, pigeons, a female cardinal, a grackle on the ground by the door to the building. I hadn't see them before. But they were there.


Claire's theory of detection is that the clues are all there in the ether, just waiting to be recognized, like the birds that are always there but to which most people are oblivious.

Claire's investigation takes her into the streets of New Orleans, the world of the teenage street gangs and the Black Indians. I found Gran's portrayal of these teenagers particularly poignant, full of empathy for all they had been through in a dysfunctional society that just wants them to disappear. They struggle to create a caring society of their own, a family where they can find value. Gran appears to understand that and to empathize with their plight in a way that most writers who depict New Orleans do not - or at least they do not bother.

It turns out that Vic Willing's world intersected with the world of the teenage gangs and that he had an unexpectedly dark side to his persona, one that ultimately led to his "disappearance." In talking to one of the gang members who had contact with Willing, Claire watches his reactions and all the clues in the ether come together.

It wasn't a hard tale to read. Just an old, sad one. One I knew better than I wanted to.


As we follow Claire DeWitt through this investigation, we are also privy to her memories, memories which come flooding back when she is alone at night, in her dreams or in the altered states created by her use of drugs. We learn about her teenage years in Brooklyn and her "undying" friendship with two other girls, one of whom is now dead and the other of whom is no longer speaking to Claire. We learn about her time in New Orleans with her mentor, where she prepared herself to be the world's number one detective. And we learn about her time shoveling goat manure in California as she was recovering from her breakdown.

DeWitt is a prickly personality, a perfect detective for a modern day noir mystery. Not everyone will love her, but I found her fascinating and I look forward to getting to know her even better in Gran's second book in what I hope will be a long series.


View all my reviews

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters!  Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...