I read this book at the behest of my mother, who thought it was amazing. I haven’t read any of the other books in the series, and obviously book 28 is not the ideal place to start, so I gave this book an extra star (for me, it deserved two stars) because I know I am at least part of the problem here.
But, okay. This isn’t actually a mystery. A lonely older gay man dies halfway through, but he isn’t murdered, and a murder does actually take place two-thirds of the way through the book, but it’s immediately obvious who did it and why.
So when you deduct the mystery from a mystery novel, what’s left? The characters, for one. Guido Brunetti, the detective, gets 90% of the page time, and the thing is, I didn’t like him. He’s self-centered, judgmental as hell, and distant from the people around him. I spent most of the time wondering why he didn’t, you know, lift a finger to help out at home (his wife, who is a university professor, does all the shopping, cooking, and cleaning, and a majority of the parenting; he sits around reading), or care more about the people in his life, or reach out to anyone. Then, when he has solved the “mystery,” he decides a lifelong friend was a terrible person for, essentially, being lonely; Brunetti feels zero guilt for having contributed heavily to that loneliness. I can’t like a dude who doesn’t try and still feels qualified to judge everyone around him.
And that just leaves the setting, Venice. It’s an interesting city, and the look at ordinary-ish Italian life is also interesting, but I was constantly aware, reading this, that the author isn’t Italian. (She’s American.) So I couldn’t really enjoy the tourism factor, either.
Basically, this book is well-written and very readable, but there’s no there there, at least not for me. I think what I can take away from this is what I already knew: my mother and I have very different taste in books.