Hilarity, hijinks in Maritime boat heist
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Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 05/07/2025 (448 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.
Bryn Pottie’s The Great Lunenburglary (Moose House Publications, 224 pages, $23) has more laughs per square inch than most crime novels.
Set in a cheerfully anachronistic version of Nova Scotia in the early 1920s, it tells the story of a plot to “borrow” the world-famous Bluenose schooner that goes spectacularly, and hilariously, wrong. The novel is set mostly in and around Lunenburg, but familiarity with the area is not required. Much of the humour comes from the characters and from clever wordplay; it works even if you’ve never set foot in the Maritimes.
Let’s face it: Pottie isn’t exactly being historically accurate here. There was never actually a “thrash fiddle” band in 1922 called Jigtallica (hit song: Nothing Else Mackerel); Beep, a local drink, makes a brief appearance, but wasn’t actually created until forty-some years later; and there never was a radio show called Wharton’s Menstrual Powder Presents: Rita MacMurphy’s Down Home Kitchen Party.
It’s a goofy, joyfully anachronistic, wildly inventive, gut-shakingly funny novel.
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It’s hard to believe The Retirement Plan (HarperAvenue, 336 pages, $25) is Sue Hincenbergs’ first novel. It’s so entertaining, so suspenseful, with such appealing characters (even the bad guys are kinda likable) that you could easily believe she’s been writing books for years.
It’s got a great hook: a trio of middle-aged women hatch a scheme to murder their husbands for the insurance money… only it seems the doomed husbands have been working on a plan of their own.
Hincenbergs has crafted a deliciously labyrinthine story — you’ll love it when the plot veers off in an unanticipated direction, which it frequently does — and she tells it perfectly.
This isn’t a straight-up comedy, nor is it darkly serious. It’s completely believable, even if it might occasionally (and, it feels, deliberately) stretch the limits of plausibility. Plan on reading it in one sitting, it’s that good.
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Rose Valland might be the bravest woman you’ve never heard of. She was an assistant museum curator in Nazi-occupied France; a lover of art and art history, she risked her freedom (and, quite possibly, her life) to spy on the Germans and record what priceless works of art they were stealing. Somehow, she has been almost entirely lost to history.
Michelle Young’s The Art Spy: The Extraordinary Untold Tale of WWII Resistance Hero Rose Valland (HarperOne, 400 pages, $25) tells Rose’s remarkable story in such a dramatic, compelling way that you might think you’re reading a Second World War spy thriller. But this all really happened — Rose Valland really was a hero, and Young’s rigorously researched and documented book finally gives her the attention she deserves.
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If you’ve read James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux mysteries, you’ve met Dave’s friend and frequent co-star, Clete Purcel. Clete’s a private investigator and a former cop in New Orleans, and in Burke’s new novel, Clete (Grove Atlantic, 352 pages, $28), he takes the starring role for the first time.
The story, which takes place in the late 1990s, is told in Clete’s voice, which is quite different from Dave’s, and lets us get a really good look at what makes this wonderful character tick.
The plot involves a new drug that’s hitting the streets, leaving devastation in its wake; Clete, who once lost someone close to him to a drug overdose, is determined to shut the dealers down, no matter what it takes.
The book is a little darker than your typical Robicheaux novel (and you could make a case that Clete is a darker person than Dave), and the setting gives it a different flavour than recent books in the series, but the big selling point is Clete himself, who effortlessly makes the leap from supporting player to star. Here’s hoping this isn’t the only time he takes centre stage.
Halifax freelancer David Pitt’s column appears the first weekend of every month. You can follow him on Bluesky at @bookman.bsky.social.
