A woman gets tangled up in a dangerous and messy plot in this comic crime novel.

Marilyn is the superintendent of a Houston building that has just flooded, destroying her apartment and effectively putting her out of a job. She goes to stay at her friend Fran’s apartment, but the woman seems to be missing. Marilyn searches for Fran and enlists her friend Rigby for help. Marilyn soon realizes that a few women from the life drawing class where she models have disappeared in the last few years. The police get involved and suspect foul play. At the top of the suspect list are two British cohorts known as the Lads, who live next door to Fran and seem to be the common link between the missing women. Then Fran turns up dead. Marilyn witnesses the Lads being fatally shot and snoops around before stealing some cash and property and fleeing Fran’s building. Marilyn lies to her police contact, Stade, about what she saw. But rather than laying low, Marilyn gets pulled further into the case, wrangling with the murder suspects’ lawyers, finding a legally dubious job, becoming ensnared in a blackmail plot with the real killer, and lying to Stade, whom she later sleeps with. Despite the dark content of McGraw’s story, the tone is often funny and the tale leans more toward the absurd than the realistic, making it a kind of gruesome farce. Unfortunately, Marilyn becomes less sympathetic as the narrative progresses. She starts off dealing with a tremendous loss but then gets herself into more and more trouble, a lot of which could have been avoided if she had opted for honesty. And every man she encounters falls in love with her, which starts to feel tedious. There’s also a story thread that features Marilyn having imaginary conversations with her dead aunt that ends up being more silly than effective. Still, the tale shines in its characterization, as Marilyn is surrounded by a group of kooky Houstonians who keep the story lively and intriguing. Based on the references to novelist Carl Hiaasen in the book, the author seems to have been going for a similar wacky vibe. While McGraw falls a bit short, fans of humorous mysteries will find a lot to like here.

An amusing and energetic, if sometimes bumpy, murder tale.

Pies appear each time an unnamed narrator says “I love you,” resulting in sweet chaos in McGraw’s picture book.

Initially, the narrator’s idea seems flawless—just say three words, and one can have pie for lunch, dinner, snacks, or even breakfast. Eventually, the sheer number of pies is enough to climb to the moon and more than would satisfy a giant. Readers are urged to imagine playing frisbee with pies or simply jumping into their gooey goodness. But the narrator notes that some people would overeat and that uneaten pies would attract flies and worse. How can this delightful fantasy keep from getting too sticky? McGraw, the illustrator of the bestselling 1986 picture book Love You Forever, presents a charming tale, fueled by humor, which ends on a note of sincerity. The simple rhyming scheme effectively establishes a playful rhythm and tone. The author presents a relatable yet highly inventive situation, allowing readers the opportunity to think beyond the bounds of the story. McGraw’s color illustrationsrange from a trio of small pictures to detailed, half-page renderings. They’re all full of movement, reflecting the events of the text. The fantasy takes a serious turn rather suddenly when it briefly mentions pie problems, which seem oversimplified. Overall, though, the tale’s ultimate message of love will satisfy readers.

A mostly filling fantasy full of fine flavor.

The hugging and rocking back and forth become literal thanks to pull-tabs in this 3-D rendition of the 1986 classic.

Pop-ups take the creepiness of Munsch’s paean to helicopter parenting to a whole new level, as opening gatefolds cause the crawling white (apparently single) mother’s head to rise eerily over the edge of her 2-year-old’s bed and to peer through his door in the night when he’s a teenager. Otherwise the special effects are confined to simple backing and forthing or small, often disjointed motions that add little except physical fragility to the art. The text is unchanged, as are McGraw’s illustrations—which, what with the teen’s Walkman, the touch-tone phones, and the grown-up son’s preppy pullover, have not aged well—and the plot still follows its circular course to the final scene of the young dad rocking a baby who is, to judge from the lack of any visible or narrative evidence of female agency, stolen or adopted.

Superfluous.

A white mother and young child sing a loving counting rhyme at bedtime.

The narrator mother savors the ritual she shares with her little one. The rhyme itself is a charming, escalating expression of love, and when it reaches 10, it directs the players to “go back and start at one, again.” But in the midst of blowing kisses, putting on pajamas, and all the other bedtime activities, the mother focuses on her own distress at a coming separation and how much she will miss her little one. There is no indication regarding the nature of the separation, whether it is a frequent event or the first time they will be apart. As the child snuggles down to sleep, Tugwood employs overblown syntax with expressions like “crickets sound their mating calls,” and “dreams begin to sprout, then bloom,” which are cloying and way above the understanding of the intended audience. McGraw’s softly hued, slightly fuzzy illustrations add dimension to the tale. When mother’s face is seen, she has a gentle, loving smile for her child, hiding the feelings she expresses in the verse. The little one is seen as wholly joyous and exuberant, loving every moment of the bedtime experiences. Young readers might like the counting rhyme, but they will be confused by the tone and language.

Odd and disturbing.