Authors: Amanda Cross
The Puzzled Heart
The Puzzled Heart
“Part of the art of being a successful mystery writer is the ability to create a leading character who remains as compelling in the twentieth outing as he or she was in the first. Moreover, a new reader should be able to pick up any book in a series and get enough information about the sleuth to be able to follow the plot without saying, ‘Huh?’ Amanda Cross does this brilliantly in
The Puzzled Heart
.… What makes this book a delight is the literate dialogue with characters quoting everyone from Marmee in
Little Women
to Wendy Steiner’s
The Scandal of Pleasure: Art in an Age of Fundamentalism
.”
—
Los Angeles Times
“No one has a sharper eye than Amanda Cross.”
—
The Washington Post Book World
“Cross is wise in the ways of academe, and her figures speak in literate, complete sentences, which surely is a requirement for nuanced ambiguity.”
—
The Boston Globe
“A
new Kate Fansler mystery … is always a treat for her longtime fans.… Cross clearly hasn’t lost her touch.”
—
Minneapolis Star Tribune
“Cross again displays her virtuosity, wit, and keen intelligence in this vintage performance—as strong and satisfying as Kate’s cherished single-malt scotch.”
—
Houston Chronicle
“Amanda Cross creates a lovable, if acerbic, always credible amateur sleuth.… Much of the fun of the novels, twelve to date, issues from her always astute commentary
on
the horrors of contemporary academe.… Her immediate response to the ransom letter—and this is why I love Kate Fansler—is: ‘I hate people who use
contact
as a verb.’ … Better than those observations, however, is the elegance with which Cross constructs and then solves the mysteries. In
The Puzzled Heart
, a St. Bernard puppy may be the most important clue, or the most adorable red herring, in the history of the mystery genre. As I said,
The Puzzled Heart
may be enjoyed on its own, but treat yourself to some of the best mysteries around, and read all the Kate Fansler novels. You won’t be disappointed.”
—
Bay Area Reporter
“A
comprehensive tour of contemporary feminism’s enemies that makes this Kate’s most stimulating outing since
The Players Come Again
.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“In the twelfth of this successful series, Kate is challenged as never before by the kidnapping of her husband. Suddenly her safe world of intellectually examining questions of literary interest is turned upside down as she must analyze every clue with new depth.… Just how she goes about this task is the framework for this enjoyable mystery.”
—
The Dallas Morning News
“Literate and witty … The book raises some relevant issues about dangerous forces and movements active in society today.… [Cross’s] insider knowledge enlivens her descriptions of academia, and the character of Kate is delightful.”
—
Winston-Salem Journal
“[An] entertaining intellectual puzzle.”
—
Publishers Weekly
By Amanda Cross:
THE THEBAN MYSTERIES
POETIC JUSTICE
DEATH IN A TENURED POSITION
*
IN THE LAST ANALYSIS
THE JAMES JOYCE MURDER
*
THE QUESTION OF MAX
*
SWEET DEATH, KIND DEATH
*
NO WORD FROM WINIFRED
*
A TRAP FOR FOOLS
*
THE PLAYERS COME AGAIN
*
AN IMPERFECT SPY
*
COLLECTED STORIES
*
THE PUZZLED HEART
*
*
Published by Ballantine Books
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1998 by Carolyn G. Heilbrun
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Harvard University Press and the Trustees of Amherst College for permission to reprint an excerpt from Poem #43 from
The Poems of Emily Dickinson
, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-93527
eISBN: 978-0-307-80339-9
v3.1
To the very young cousins, Penelope and Matteo, happily puzzled by almost everything
Could go from scene familiar
To an untraversed spot—
Could contemplate the journey
With unpuzzled heart—
—FROM POEM
#43
EMILY DICKINSON
One
K
ATE
F
ANSLER’S
arrival on Leslie Stewart’s doorstep was thoroughly uncharacteristic.
Leslie Stewart was, at the moment the doorbell rang, trying to persuade one grandson not to pull out the cat’s hair in handfuls and the other grandson, happily ensconced in a high chair, to put his applesauce to internal rather than external uses.
“Will you see to the door, Jane?” she called in what she hoped were plaintive rather than irritable tones. “I’m rather tied up here.”
And indeed, Leslie thought, I would far rather be literally tied up or in almost any other situation but this. Grandchildren she cherished, but only, it came to her with sudden clarity, at their more adorable moments and in anticipation of departure, either
theirs or hers as the case might be. Today, unfortunately, the case was neither.
“Jane,” she called again. She could hear, then, a growl of acquiescence and Jane’s footsteps as she crossed the loft to the front door, whose bell had again sounded, this time with urgency.
Jane Berlin had long liked to point out that she had remained childless for good reason and had fallen in love with Leslie when she too seemed well past the possibility of childbearing. It was the likelihood of grandchildren that she had failed to take into account. Apparently, having passed one’s genes on to one generation, one felt impelled to encourage, even to assist, in the flowering of those genes into yet another generation. Jane felt, in a word, betrayed.
Outraged
was another word that might, without exaggeration, be employed. The strength of her feelings was in no way mitigated by Leslie’s assurance that she agreed with her, and that this particular occasion was unavoidable and not likely to be repeated.
Jane’s far-from-rapid progress was, toward the end, and at the bell’s second ring, hastened by the happy thought that perhaps this was the boys’ parents returning. She was almost smiling when she threw open the door.
Kate Fansler stood on the doorstep, looking so harassed that Jane did not even think to mention her disappointment in Kate’s failure to be the retriever of the children.
“Are you all right?” Jane asked, somewhat rhetorically,
since Kate looked far from all right. “Leslie’s in the kitchen preventing cruelty to animals and swathed in baby food.” Concerned, Jane followed Kate to the kitchen.
Leslie looked up in surprise. “What is it?” she said, clearly expecting the worst. And with reason. For Leslie, Kate’s closest friend, knew that, in the first place, Kate never dropped in, never appeared unannounced, considering such behavior uncivilized; and, in the second place, would certainly not have chosen this afternoon to change in this respect since Leslie had told Kate of her, Leslie’s, obligation to babysit for her grandsons. Kate was notorious for her lack of delight in the very young.
These thoughts were the matter of a few seconds. Abandoning the children, she went to Kate and pushed her into a chair. “I’ll make some tea,” she said. “Strong and sweet, for shock.” And she did move toward the kettle.
“I’ll do it,” Jane said. “Unless you two would rather be alone.”
“Reed’s gone,” Kate said.
“Left you?” Jane asked. Leslie glared at her.
“Not left me. Gone, vanished—kidnapped, if you insist on an exact description.”
Even the boys were quiet, as though sensing the tension. Then the baby began to cry, his mouth turned down in the image of tragedy, his eyes scrunched up. The eyes of the older boy, as though in sympathy,
welled up; a tear rolled slowly down his cheek. The cat departed, not caring for the atmosphere.
Jane put up the kettle and waited for the water to boil. Personally, she would have recommended brandy, but perhaps Leslie was right. Leslie, being older and subject to more frequent familial perils, had dealt with crises more often than had Jane.
“Start at the beginning,” Leslie said. She and Kate had seen each other through many trials, though it seemed to Leslie that laughter more often marked their conversations. They would begin in despair and end in laughter—that was about the size of it—but nothing, not even Leslie’s losing her husband and taking up with a woman, had seemed as daunting as this. Pray heaven that Reed, the most unlikely man for it, had not had one of those male life crises and run off with a younger woman or, she suddenly thought, a man. Good God.