This because I wanted a mnemonic for a detective novel writer- Deborah Crombie- and somehow got mayor David Crombie (the 'tiny perfect mayor' of the 70s when City Hall stood up to developers) mixed up with his antithesis Mr. Ford in my mind.
Deborah Crombie, All Shall Be Well. Hot weather cozy mystery reading, and very nice too.
Ian Rankin, Standing in Another Man's Grave. No longer hot weather and not at all cozy Insp. Rebus mystery, so compelling that I've totally forgotten the plot of the Crombie. A very late one, and (famous last words) a series I'm not likely to get into, because as I say, not at all cozy. But while Rebus is a bit of a git, he's not a horndog womanizing pig like the last two or three I've had to deal with: Morse, Banks, Dalziel. The reason I'd never read any Ian Rankin before was because the name sounded like Reginald Hill to me. Don't ask me why.
The Burckhardt has gone Magnifico on me, as in 'can't get through more than five pages at a time.' It's summer and even when not hot- even when magnificently breezy and cool as the last two days- I don't feel like, yanno, *work*. There's a certain futility in summer reading but there's also a certain futility in summer itself: temperatures always threaten to hit brain-melt and then the brain melts. One reason 2008 was so memorable is that I spent the summer reading Pratchett who isn't brain-taxing but who delivers both pleasure and admittance into Discworld fandom. One has accomplished something by reading him, which isn't my reaction on having read, say, all Laurie King or Ian Rutledge.
More summer fiction on the way from the library. Another Deborah Crombie just in case.
Will some day finish The Killing Moon and get properly into In the Skin of a Lion, both for the fic challenge.