Reviewed By Liz

Fit to Die by J.B. Stanley

ISBN 978-0-7387-1067-9

FIT TO DIE is the second book in the Supper Club Mystery Series. The book centers around James Henry and his diet group, dubbed the Flab Five. The Flab Five have been backsliding recently and has enrolled together in the diet and exercise program offered by a new business in town, Witness to Fitness. But they have also befriended another newcomer – Chilly Willy, owner of the Polar Pagoda frozen dessert shop.

Willy is a charmer but has attracted the ire of the fitness guru, the historical preservationists (pagodas don’t fit in with the local architecture), and some of the local conservative matrons who consider his “Do you have a Chilly Willy?” t-shirts offensive.
When the Polar Pagoda is torched, the Flab Five are on hand to help their new friend Willy and the police find out who is responsible for both the arson and a nasty murder.

The first things you notice about FIT TO DIE are the book’s wonderful characters. Stanley has resisted the urge to make everything cozy in this cozy and has written the residents of Quincy’s Gap with real problems and quirks. James Henry stands out as a divorced college professor who has come home to take care of his grouchy, reclusive father. He is afraid to pursue a relationship with one of his fellow Flab Five members, desperate to get more computers for the library he now manages, and trying to resist the call of the wily orange cheese puff.

As the Flab Five suffer through workout sessions and complain about bland diet foods, they pool the information they have gathered about the suspicious newcomers to their small town, their conflicts with the locals, and everyone’s possible motives for murder.

Favorite characters? James’ enthusiastic library staff. Did I guess it? No. Will I read another? Yes – but not on an empty stomach. The food descriptions in the book will make you salivate. And I want to know where I can get a Chilly Willy t-shirt.

Mystery Book Reviews by Liz at http://reviewedbyliz.com ©2007

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Escondido, CA. — In the yellow-brown dust alongside U.S. Highway 15, a major new freeway through the heart of San Diego County’s hilly desert region, the Big Numbers World Tour bus suffers a meltdown.

Out of gas, two flat tires, and a broken, cranky heart. The Old Steel Warrior just couldn’t take the pounding schedule. Those endless miles in the dead of night. The refueling and maintenance nightmares in unknown territory. Those snubs from fancier buses.

“No problem,” Desmond says. “We call a tow truck.”

My new driver sports long hair, a beard, and, so far anyway, an unlikely wealth of common sense.

“That’s one idea,” I say. “Another is to leave the bus here for the buzzards and fly home. I think I’ve had it with the Big Numbers World Tour.”

Desmond’s eyebrows scrunch into a single dark patch. “You can’t give up.”

“Why not?” I say. “It’s almost Halloween. Another month and it’s Thanksgiving. The publishing industry shuts down.”

Desmond wags his head, no. “But not the book stores. December and January are the biggest months of the year for retail book sales. You’ve got to be out there, getting people to try your work.”

Over my shoulder, construction equipment carves brown California desert into a shopping center. Men and their machines are moving mountains.

Funny, but I’m not feeling that same level of ambition anymore.

“We’re wasting our time, Desmond. Nobody wants to come to a signing for Jack Getze. They never heard of Jack Getze. They want to come to a signing for Robert Crais, or Lee Child, or Charlaine Harris.”

“You have to start somewhere,” Desmond says.

Maybe. But I think I should start with a strong, new book, a number three in the Austin Carr Mystery Series that kicks tail. I want to lock myself up in the fiction office for a while.

“We have the Cavalcade of Authors next week in Buffalo,” Desmond says. “Remember? That Mystery Writers of America signing at Border’s?”

“Vaguely.”

“But after that, just telephone stuff. You can take another long break. Let me call the tow truck.”

“Wait a minute. We have to get to Buffalo by next week?”

“No sweat,” Desmond says. “We take U.S. 70, straight across the country.”

I glance down at the spreading pool of engine oil. The flat tires. My own worn shoes. “It’s not the route I’m worried about, pal.”