Love Songs from a Shallow Grave (Dr. Siri Mysteries Book 7)

From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Set in 1978, Cotterill's superb seventh mystery to feature Dr. Siri Paiboun (after 2009's The Merry Misogynist) finds "the national and only coroner of the People's Democratic Republic of Laos" nearing his 74th birthday chained to a lead pipe in a Cambodian prison. Siri's captivity is wrapped around investigating the puzzling deaths of three Laotian women, each skewered by dueling swords that are a decided rarity in Laos. A strong supporting cast, including Siri's recently acquired wife, Madame Daeng, and morgue colleague Nurse Dtui, who's married to Inspector Phosy, enriches the narrative. The unfathomable violence of the Khmer Rouge reign emerges during Siri's unexpected ordeal and forms a vivid contrast to his humanity in seeking to protect the murder suspect in the three sword deaths. This immensely satisfying mystery has it all--a heroic protagonist, a challenging puzzle, and an exotic setting. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. ''Superb . . . A strong supporting cast . . . This immensely satisfying mystery has it all--a heroic protagonist, a challenging puzzle, and an exotic setting.'' -- Publishers Weekly (starred review)''Levity lifts the tale . . . but [Cotterill's] many fans know that, in this series, wit comes at a price.'' -- Booklist --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DR. SIRII celebrate the dawn of my seventy-fourth birthday handcuffedto a lead pipe. I’d had something more traditionalin mind: a few drinks with my new wife, some gay molum music on the record player, shellfish plucked fresh fromthe Mekhong. But here I am in Hades and not a balloon insight. My ex-roommate, a gray-faced youth in his early twenties,is chained by the ankle to the far end of the same pipe.They dragged the boy in during the night and we struggledto communicate. We scratched for words to share. But assoon as he understood that we were different animals inthe same abattoir, tears of despair carved uneven groovesdown his bloody cheeks. I could do nothing but sit backagainst the flaking plaster and watch the life drain fromhim. He didn’t live to greet the new day. When the sunfinally sneered through the wire mesh of the window, itcast a shadow like a fisherman’s net across the body. Thecorpse lay trapped, expired from the effort of untanglingitself from all this unnecessary misery. But his soul was free.I envied him that.I am Dr. Siri Paiboun, the national and only coroner ofthe People’s Democratic Republic of Laos, a medical man, ahumanitarian, but I’m still unable to summon an appropriateemotion. I listened through the night to the sobs and screamsof my unseen neighbors. I didn’t understand the words theycried but I knew people were being killed all around me. Iscented their essence and saw their fleeing spirits. I am wellaware that I will soon be joining them. Yet the overridingthought in my mind is that I didn’t have the foresight tosay goodbye or thank you to the people I love. That soundscorny, I know, but what’s wrong with corny? It has its place.I wonder whether they might know instinctively. Really. Iwonder whether they’ve been able to see through this crusty,annoyingly stubborn exterior to the warm and fluffy Siri thatnestles barely visible inside me. If only I could squeeze the handof Madame Daeng one final time, ruffle the newly permed hairof Mr. Geung, sniff the cheeks of Nurse Dtui and her milkscentedbaby, and slap Inspector Phosy on the back. If only Icould raise one last glass with my best friend, Civilai. But thoseopportunities will never come. The amulet that protectedme from the malevolent spirits was ripped from my neck,stolen by one of the teenaged guards. I am exposed. Oncethe ghosts are aware their enemy is unprotected, they willcircle me like hungry jungle dogs and close in for the kill.All things considered, at this almost final analysis, I amstuffed.xa0***The woman read from the carbon copy in front of her. Thesheet was of such proportions as to defy filing and of suchpoor quality that it was almost inevitable the words wouldbe sucked back into the fibers like invisible ink returningwhence it had emerged. The clerk had a pleasant voice,soothing like honey balm, and the two old men oppositestared at her luscious lips as she spoke.“Of course, it isn’t finalized,” she smiled. “But it will certainlyread something like this.” She coughed. “The People’sDemocratic Republic of Laos would have it knownthat Dr. Siri Paiboun, national coroner, hero of the Revolutionand lifetime member of the Communist Party, passedaway on the second of May 1978. Dr. Siri had fought tirelesslyand fearlessly for the Revolution and was—”“Fearlessly first,” one of the men interrupted.“I’m sorry?”“It would be better to have ‘fearlessly’ before ‘tirelessly,’then nobody would be in doubt as to whether he’d beentired out by the lack of fearing.”“Absolutely,” the second man agreed.“What? Hmm. I’m not sure I understand that.” But thegirl conceded the point and made a note on the pad besideher. “I’ll mention it to Comrade Sisavee. It is only the firstdraft but, to tell the truth, we called you in to check on thefactual, rather than the syntactical elements of the eulogy.We have people to deal with all the technicalities in laterversions. I’ll read on if I m—”“And ‘was struck down dead’ has a more heroic ring toit,” the second old man said. “That’s factual.”“Struck down?”“Rather than ‘passed away,’” he added. “‘Passed away’makes it sound like bodily wind, a collection of stomachgases on their way out. Do you know what I mean? We’retalking about heroism here. Heroes don’t just ‘pass’ likeflatulence in a strong breeze.”“With or without scent,” added the first man mostseriously.The clerk glared from one old gentleman to the next,then back to the first.“Are you playing with me?” she asked sternly.“Certainly not, sweet young lady,” said the skinnier of thetwo men. He was bald as a bowling ball with a long camellikethroat sporting an Adam’s apple so large it might wellhave been Adam’s original. “This is a most serious affair.”“No laughing matter,” agreed the first.Still uncertain of her ground, the young lady pressedon. “The nation will never forget the contribution Dr. Sirimade to the development of this great nation, norcan—”“That’s two nations,” said the bald man.“Oh, do let her finish,” said the other. “Didn’t she tellyou they have a department that handles syntax? Probablyan entire ministry.”“The Ministry of Getting Words Right?”“Or it could be a branch of the Ministry of MakingThings Up and Bamboozling People.”The clerk was miffed. She slapped the paper onto thewooden table top and drummed her fingers on it noisily.She seemed to be wrestling down a darker inner person. Hervoluptuous mouth had become mysteriously unattractive.“I don’t think either of you appreciate what a greathonor this is,” she said at last. Her eyes watered. “Anybodyelse would be proud. Dr. Siri, I’m particularly disappointedthat you would take all this so lightly. Given your record, it’sa wonder your name is on the list at all.”Siri raised the thickets of coarse white hair he calledeyebrows and scratched at his missing left earlobe.“To be fair, you’re not giving me much time,” he said.“How can I take life seriously when I’m forced to squeezeall those remaining pleasures into a mere twelve days? Andlook at this. You’re passing me away on my birthday of alloccasions. The happiest day of the year.”“That’s odd, Doctor,” she said through clenched teeth.“I thought I had explained myself very clearly.”“Tell him again,” said ex-politburo member Civilai. “He’selderly.”“As I said,” she began slowly, “the actual date of yourdeath will be filled in later.”“In the event of it?” Siri said.“Exactly.”“So you aren’t actually expecting me to . . .”“No!”The transparent northeastern skin of her neck revealedan atlas of purple roads heading north in the direction ofher cheeks. The men admired her composure as she tooka deep breath and continued.“You will pass away naturally, or otherwise, as your destinydictates. At that stage we will delete your date of birthand substitute it with your date of death. When that happenswe will issue the announcement. Is that clear now?”“And I will become a hero,” Siri smiled.“It probably won’t be instantaneous . . . in your case.”The Department of Hero Creation, the DHC, was housedin a small annex of the propaganda section of the Ministryof Information. Based loosely on a Vietnamese initiativealready in place, the DHC was responsible for identifyingrole models, exaggerating their revolutionary qualities, andcreating a fairy story around their lives. A week earlier, Dr.Siri and Comrade Civilai had received their invitations toattend this preliminary meeting. They’d heard of the DHC,of course, and seen evidence of its devious work. Everyoneover seventy who’d done the Party the great service ofstaying alive was under consideration. If selected, schooltextbooks would mention their bravery. Histories wouldbe written detailing their supernatural ability to surmountthe insurmountable and carry the red flag to victory. Siriand Civilai could hardly pass up a chance to scuttle such anefarious scheme.“What is my case?” Siri asked.“What?”“You said, ‘In your case,’ suggesting I have some flaw.”“Don’t hold back,” Civilai urged the clerk.“It’s really not my place to . . .”“Go ahead,” Civilai prodded. “We won’t tell anyone.”She seemed pleased to do so.“We are aware of the doctor’s . . . problems with authority,”the clerk said. She was now ignoring Siri and talkingdirectly with Civilai. “But history has a short memory. It hasa way of smudging over personality flaws no matter howserious they might be.”“Voltaire said that history is just the portrayal of crimes... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Colin Cotterill, author of six previous books in the Dr. Siri Paiboun series, lives in Chumphon, Thailand, with his wife. His books have been Book Sense Picks, and he won the Dilys Award for Thirty-Three Teeth as well as a Crime Writers' Association Library Dagger. From the Trade Paperback edition. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist Cotterill’s mordant mystery series set in 1970s Southeast Asia features septuagenarian Siri Paiboun, national coroner of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos. In this dark seventh entry, Dr. Paiboun investigates the deaths of three Laotian women who have died of fencing wounds. The killer, the doctor presumes, must be someone proficient with an épée, a rarity in his country, to be sure. Connections are found between the women—all pursued advanced studies in Eastern bloc countries—but that link doesn’t bring Paiboun much closer to solving the crimes. The offer of an all-expenses paid junket to Cambodia puts a fire under Paiboun, and he hastily cracks the case (or so he thinks). Despite a reputation for consorting with the spirit world, Paiboun ignores otherworldly warnings not to go to Cambodia. Now it’s too late; he’s a prisoner of the Khmer Rouge. Cotterill interweaves details of Paiboun’s investigation with an account of the doctor’s ghastly incarceration. Though his trademark levity lifts the tale, it’s still pretty grim stuff, but Cotterills many fans know that, in this series, wit comes at a price. --Allison Block --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. ''Superb . . . A strong supporting cast . . . This immensely satisfying mystery has it all--a heroic protagonist, a challenging puzzle, and an exotic setting.'' -- Publishers Weekly (starred review)''Levity lifts the tale . . . but [Cotterill's] many fans know that, in this series, wit comes at a price.'' -- Booklist --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Read more