Inger Ash Wolfe Author of The Calling Inger Ash Wolfe has written a novel that will grab your attention, hence the first line: “He was precisely on time.” Reading that first line draws you in wanting more. Readers who enjoy well written developed characters and a plot that keeps you turning the pages as fast as possible will enjoy this suspenseful book. Readers are introduced to an unlikely heroine in 61 year old Detective Inspector Hazel Micallef, acting chief of the Port Dundas police. Hazel has to investigate a recent murder in her small town. The victim? An elderly woman who once had an affair with Hazel’s father. Hazel who lives with her 87 year old mother, Emily, the retired mayor of Port Dundas provides some light humor and gives the reader some understanding to Hazel’s character development. An additional murder in a nearby town that draws similarities to the murder in Port Dundas draw Hazel further into this case where she suspects a serial murderer maybe on the loose, being drawn to his victims with one stunning similarity. The case becomes very personal for Hazel as readers continue to sympathize with the obstacles and frustrations that come along with being in charge of a murder investigation in a small town. Hazel needs to find out who the killer is before he harms anyone else that may stand in his way. Wolfe has created a unique and memorable character with a complimentary, suspenseful and page turning plot. The good news being if you enjoyed this book it is the first in a series featuring Detective Inspector Hazel Micallef. BOOK REVIEWS-Quill & Quire The Calling by Inger Ash Wolfe Publisher: McClelland & Stewart Price: $32.99 cloth ISBN: 978-0-7710-8897-1 Page count: 408 pp. Size: 6 x 9 Released: March One of the nice things about reviewing The Calling, the first novel from pseudonymous “well-known and well-regarded North American writer” Inger Ash Wolfe, is that one can avoid entirely the question of who Wolfe is and instead focus on what should be the key question of any book review: how is it? The verdict on The Calling? Decidedly mixed. The novel starts well, with a gruesome scene of what could be called either assisted suicide or outright slaughter. The killer, a wraith of a man named Simon, is on a mysterious cross-country crusade, being welcomed into the homes of terminally ill patients and leaving increasingly cruel and imaginative crime scenes in his wake. The central questions of the novel quickly come into focus: who, exactly, is Simon? What is the motivation for his spree? And can he be stopped? The officer in charge of answering these questions is an unusual foil for a nation-wide serial killer. Hazel Micallef, the acting chief of the Port Dundas police, is a woman in her sixties with a bad back and a history of alcoholism, a poor relationship with her superiors, and a feisty live-in mother, the small town’s former mayor. Hazel and her fellow officers are drawn into the case when Simon strikes (in the book’s opening murder) Delia Chandler, one of the town elders. Unfortunately, despite the presence of an interestingly flawed detective and a genuinely creepy murderer, The Calling doesn’t really succeed as a novel. The main problem is one of structure: too often, shortcuts taken for authorial convenience dispel the tension. When Hazel, for example, spends a paragraph describing Delia Chandler’s role in the community, it is necessary information for the reader; but the fact that she’s explaining it to a colleague who already knows it all is jarring, to say the least. Similarly, while the intercutting of parallel killer and pursuer storylines can work to tremendous effect, when Wolfe allows the killer’s storyline to gain several days on the investigators, it undermines the reader’s confidence and negates any sense of suspense. Even aside from these flaws, The Calling does little to separate itself from its pulpier cousins. Dialogue rarely rises above that of a television procedural, characterizations are often wooden if not self-contradictory, and the novel as a whole fails to develop any real sense of urgency – in fact, most readers will recognize the twists well ahead of the characters. Reviewed by Robert J. Wiersema (from the March 2008 issue) ****************************************************************************** Second review from the Globe & Mail: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/LAC.20080301.BKMAYH01/TPStory/?query= Excerpt Are you ready?” “Will it taste bad, Simon?” “It will taste absolutely dreadful,” he said, and he smiled for her. She took the cup and looked into it. It looked like a miniature swamp, swimming with bracken and bits of matter. “Drink it all. Including the solid bits. Try to chew them a little if you can bear to.” She tilted the cup into her mouth. The herbal stew poured into her like a caustic, burning her tongue and the back of her throat. She pitched forward instinctively to spit the brew out, but he caught her with one hand against her clavicle and the other over her mouth. “That’s it, Delia. You can do this.” She swallowed in fits, her eyes watering. “God,” she said, her voice choked. “Is this poison?” “No, Delia. The tea is not going to kill you. Swallow it . . . that’s it, let it go down.” He watched her settle as the last of the tea went down her esophagus. She clamped a hand over her stomach. “My God, Simon. That was the worst one yet.” “Can you feel it in you? Spreading?” She looked around, as if to check that her reality was as she remembered it. She was in her living room. In the house she had lived in since her wedding day. Her sons had been born in this house, and had grown into men against the backdrop of its walls. Eric had died here. She had grown old here. She would not make it to ripe old age. “We’ll activate the compounds now, Delia.” “Oh, can we skip the chanting, Simon? If you don’t mind. I feel like I might throw up.” “Every plant and mineral has its own sound signature, and if you do not bring yourself into sync with it, it won’t work. Have you not been doing the chants?” “I’ve been doing them,” she said. “They make me feel silly.” “They’re an essential part of the treatment. I’ll do this one with you. A head tone for belladonna and low breath drone for the hops. Come on now.” He held his hands out to her, and she took them. He lowered his head, as if in prayer, and she did the same. He breathed in deeply, and a sound began to flow from the middle of his head, from the space behind his eyes and nose. He opened his mouth and the sound flattened. Delia followed him as best she could, alternating between the high, ringing tones, and the low, breathy ones. When they stopped, she released his hands. She actually felt warm. For the first time in months, she felt warmth in her extremities. How pleasant, she thought. She felt Simon’s hands on her shoulders, easing her back. “Thank you, Simon,” she said quietly. “This is very nice.” He brushed her hair away from her face, and cupped his hand on her cheek. “It is you who is to be thanked,” he said. “I thank you.” Presently, Delia closed her eyes. He listened to her breathing — low, long, soughing breaths. He lifted an eyelid, but she was profoundly asleep. He watched her for another minute, observing her becalmed features. He put his vials back into the valise and went into the kitchen to wash his teacup. This too he replaced in the valise. He took his Polaroid camera out and checked that there was a film pack loaded. He was too careful to have come without being absolutely sure the camera had film, but he was also too fastidious not to check again. He laid the camera on the coffee table and went to sit beside Delia. He took her wrist in his hand and felt her pulse. It was faint, as he would have expected, but steady. He ran his fingertips along the outside of her palm, and up her pinkie, then gripped the finger and snapped it at the bottom joint. Her body jumped, but her eyes did not open. The faintest moan escaped her lips. Excerpted from The Calling by Inger Ash Wolfe All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.