THE CALIFORNIAN

Kelly’s (The Black Jade, 2018, etc.) Santa Monica–based gumshoe, Frank Murphy, is back to investigate the death of a high-end hotel chef.

On the morning of July 2, 1933, the lifeless body of Lucien Dubois is found in his seventh-floor room in the hotel where he works—The Californian in Santa Monica, which is frequented by Hollywood glitterati and tourists drawn to the beach and the hotel’s popular speak-easy. It’s the big July Fourth weekend, and also the hotel’s one-year anniversary. Owner Mark Prism hopes to keep a lid on the bad news. Based on the recommendation of Los Angeles police Detective Jack Stark, he hires Murphy to investigate the cause of the chef’s death. It doesn’t take long for the 30-year-old PI to determine that Dubois has been poisoned. Together with his new partner and main squeeze, Monica Stone, Murphy sets out to solve the murder. Dubois was known as a playboy, so was his killer a spurned lover? An angry husband? Or perhaps his death was related to his gambling debts from frequent trips to a casino barge, the SS Crown, docked offshore; the Crown is also the liquor supplier for the Californian’s Anchor Bar speak-easy. Dubois was likely responsible for purchasing beverages for the club, which suggests a possible mob connection to his demise. Murphy works his sources, while Stone goes undercover as a dance hostess in the club and on the Crown. Overall, Kelly’s historical mystery is more intriguing for its portrayal of 1930s LA than for its noir-thriller elements. A couple of good action episodes pick up the pace, though, as when Stone is kidnapped and Murphy comes to her rescue. Sporadic flashbacks add details about secondary characters and keep readers a half step ahead of Murphy and Stone. Generally, though, the tension is rather mild, and the conclusion is disappointing. The author employs a dash of era-appropriate detective jargon (women are usually called “doll,” “honey,” or “kid”), but he also gets tangled in some strange linguistic slip-ups; the term “water closet,” for instance, is badly mangled as “toilet closet water compartment.”

A sometimes-enjoyable read for mystery fans, but its ending fizzles.