Mysteries

Ruth Rendell is one of the most skillful and prolific writers of our time, a winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award. Her mesmerizing “Road Rage” (Crown, 344 pages, $25) begins almost casually as a gloomy Chief Inspector Wexford tramps through the Framhurst Great Wood on the edge of Kingsmarkham, the small English town where he lives. Much to his chagrin, a bypass road is being built through the forest.

With almost casual deliberation, the story line fans out. Environmental groups gather to protest the new road. In London, Wexford’s favorite daughter, Sheila, gives birth to her first child. A construction crew uncovers the decomposed body of a young German hitchhiker who has been missing for months. Wexford’s partner, Mike Burden, suspects Stanley Trotter, a local cab driver, but he can’t prove anything.

Just when you wonder how the author is going to tie up all these loose threads, five people who called for a taxi (including Wexford’s wife, Dora) are kidnapped by a fringe environmental group, Sacred Globe. Somewhat improbably, given that his wife is a hostage, Wexford is asked to lead the investigation. “He walked about, looking at things, not seeing, aware that eyes were on him in a new and curious way. He had become a victim.” Of course, being a detective hero means never being a victim for long.

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Anne Perry’s new Victorian thriller, “The Silent Cry” (Fawcett Columbine, 361 pages, $21.95), featuring surly amnesiac investigator William Monk and feisty nurse Hester Latterly, is the author’s best effort in a couple of years.

Leighton Duff, a respected solicitor, is found beaten to death in St. Giles, a festering slum “only a stone’s throw from Regent Street in the heart of London.” Lying beside him, barely alive, is his brutally beaten son, Rhys. The pair are discovered by John Evan, Monk’s only friend on the police force. Were they attacked by local ruffians while out for an evening’s whoring? Is the widow involved? While Evan struggles to come up with a motive, he arranges for Hester to care for the wounded Rhys.

Coincidentally, Monk is engaged by Vida Hopgood, the wife of an East End sweatshop owner, to investigate the brutal rapes and beatings of local prostitutes. It’s no surprise that Monk discovers a connection between the crimes, but longtime followers will be pleased that he also gains insight into his feud with his former supervisor Runcorn. The action careers between the low- and high-born in Victorian society. The denouement is shocking, and the characters are so richly drawn that you’ll miss them when they’re gone.

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“The Dead Celeb” (Morrow, 263 pages, $24), Lindsay Maracotta’s second mystery, is a wickedly funny look at the Lifestyles of the Rich and Amoral in Los Angeles. Amateur sleuth Lucy Freers--award-winning animator, vintage clothing aficionado and wife of a movie producer infected with “Hollywood mogul virus”--discovers the corpse of Jeremy Lord, Tinseltown’s director of the moment and a world-class sleaze. Even though the autopsy rules that Lord died of natural causes, Freers suspects otherwise.

The plot is less than riveting, but who cares when you’re doubled over laughing at the foibles of a society in which children go trick-or-treating for “little gold-beribboned boxes of Godiva chocolates,” restaurants are popular not for the food but for “the celebrity status of the investors” and bridal showers are held in cigar bars that look like “the kind of mid-century Anglophile gentleman’s club where, after major wars, the heads of the victorious countries would gather to figure out who would get the Punjab.”

Finally, an apology. Due to editing beyond my control, my review of Aljean Harmetz’s thriller “Off the Face of the Earth” in my last column was far more negative than I intended it to be. Check out the book.

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Dick Lochte and Margo Kaufman will take turns reviewing mystery books every four weeks. Next week: Mary Rourke on books about faith and spirituality.