This took me a long time to read and that’s life’s fault, not the book’s. I point this out because I didn’t get to dive in and immerse like I like to do with a book, especially a new author I’ve never read before. So my recollection of it will probably be patchy as well.
I asked for this one at the library after a friend sent this to a different friend of mine (they don’t know each other) as part of one of those book-giving pyramid scheme things. The giver is a prolific reader, though The Cold Dish is a genre I didn’t think he read. Anyway, now I know two people I can talk about the book with. If it ever comes up.
The book starts of in a light vein and I expected it to be kind of comical, even when the bad stuff starts happening. The main character is white and has a good relationship with Native Americans in his town, a relationship filled with good-natured ribbing and friendly insults. But then the true genre of the book kicks in– it’s not a comic novel, or even a western, but straight-up crime fiction. We’re talking detective work, blood splatter analysis, ballistics; and that’s all fine and good.
There’s also some Indian (his word) spiritualism, which isn’t my cup of tea, bordering on magic realism (bordering, but not crossing) which is really not my cup of tea. So much so that I’m not sure I’m going to read any more books in the Walt Longmire series. The surprise ending was a decent surprise, and Craig Johnson ties it all up with a satisfying bow.
But I didn’t fall in love with it. Like I said, I took longer to read the book than I like to, so maybe that’s it, and maybe when I get through some other stuff I’ll give ‘er another try.