A Dead Mother

I don't know if of you're a fan of Raymond Chandler or not. He was one of the first authors to write Noir Mystery Detective Fiction. Philip Marlowe, Private Eye, was the epitome of the hard-boiled detective. Tame by today's standards, Farewell, My Lovely, Murder, My Sweet, and Double Indemnity [the screenplay on which he collaborated], and his other stories were considered dark and gritty, chilling even when he penned them. Part of the reason I enjoyed them was his no-nonsense style. The author, like his P.I., Philip Marlowe, pulls no punches. Marlowe often makes his point by taking the shortest route possible on the road to self-expression.

There's a surprising amount of description in Chandler's books. His jaded detective, Marlowe, takes the time to notice people and not just the dames. Here's his description of a shady cop named Blane in Farewell, My Lovely: “He was a windblown blossom of some 200 pounds with freckled teeth and the mellow voice of a circus barker.” More than a visual description, these words also instantly convey the man's character. Chandler pays attention to his surroundings, too. Here's a short quote from a story in Red Wind: A Collection of Short Stories. “There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot, dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch."

If you've ever experienced the incandescence of the Santa Anas, or the evening "blow" around here for that matter, you'll know what he means. Often here in the desert, as the sun sets, the winds rev up. The palm trees don't just sway, they jump and jive. I'm not so sure those summery evening breezes spell danger, but they do hint at intrigue--at something stirring deeper beneath the surface or just beyond your reach.

Chandler wrote about California, more about the rough and tumble city of Los Angeles than the tony retreats beyond the sprawl of LA. He does reference the desert in several of his books, though. Before Chandler died, he had written the first four chapters in a book set in and around Palm Springs. He called it Poodle Springs. Not a bad name for the place back in the 50s when the author was putting pen to paper and poodles were all the rage among the rich and famous. As it happens, a lovely French poodle finds its way into my sleuth, Jessica Huntington's newest adventure, A Dead Mother. I'm not sure where he would have taken his story because he died before he finished it. Unfortunately, someone else did.

I understand the desire for a book never to end, to have more books in a favorite series, or the wish that particular authors produced more. I'd love to read the "real" Poodle Springs. I don't like it when publishers pretend a dead writer's writing. There's something unseemly about having a ghostwriter swoop in, lift the pen from the author's lifeless hand, and use his or her name. A little spooky even if I were a believer that the spirits of dead writers roam free. Especially an ingenious creator of murder and mayhem like Raymond Chandler.

What do you think? Should dead writers keep writing or be allowed to R.I.P.?

Anna Celeste Burke