Circles of Confusion

Books in the Claire Montrose series

Circles of Confusion

Square in the Face

Heart-Shaped Box

Buried Diamonds

What others said about Circles of Confusion

“An amateur sleuth with an unusual day job debuts in this lively, romantic mystery....An off-beat, vital first outing.”

Publishers Weekly

Circles of Confusion—an artistic term—is a wonderful book! Amusing in voice, light and casual; it's an easy read. Henry spins an interesting plot.... Henry is adept at characterization.... This is a delightful book—I loved every minute of it! Henry humorously ends most passages with vanity license plate phrases, and in keeping with that vein, I have to say Circles of Confusion was GR8!”

Mystery News

“In her first novel, April Henry has created a cracker-jack plot that is intelligent, internally consistent and interesting. She has created an attractive protagonist and the tale is told in a strong voice that never drifts toward the cute. The art lore to which Claire is subjected in her search for the truth is thorough, fascinating and still doesn't interrupt the plot's pace and development.”

The Drood Review

“...Ms. Henry has designed a worthy plot, then added some unusual twists and turns.... Circles of Confusion supplies abundant entertainment and tremendous potential for the continuing Claire Montrose mystery series.”

Mystery Reader

“A first time mystery novelist seldom strides onstage with more assuredness than April Henry. ... On the face of it, Henry's novel is of the popular mystery subgenre in which a spunky woman comes of age, realizing her personal potential by solving a crime. But Circles of Confusion is more than that—it's a deft and often witty story about art theft, historical guilt and the nature of memory and what is truly valuable in life. ... Such mysteries often settle for merely being cute. But Henry's artful writing elevates the story well above formula. Circles of Confusion is a galloping-fast read—smoothly written and bright with wit, but also tinged with somber reflections. There are good characters, a sense of consequences and a competence with shifting mood that's unusually skillful for a first novel. Henry's powers of description are formidable.”

The Oregonian

“There are many plot twists, all neatly foreshadowed in earlier chapters of the book, and abundant clues unobtrusively planted throughout the narrative, as well as a splendid crash course in art history. But the most fun of all are the chapter endings, each one featuring a vanity license plate that needs to be deciphered....Want more? BYDBK

The Denver Post

“Circles of Confusion is tremendous fun. It's the most adventurous, humorous and romantic novel since Dame Agatha gave us The Man in the Brown Suit. You'll be spellbound by Claire's adventures and will also find yourself envying her romantic interludes. The superb ending will have you shaking your head and smiling at the same time. Brava, Ms. Henry, and thank you for some highly diverting entertainment.”

Romantic Times Magazine

"Layla," by Eric Clapton and Jim Gordon © 1970 Eric Patrick Clapton® & Throat Music Ltd.® All rights reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014

Special thanks go to three women in my life: Nora Merle Meeker Henry, for always believing in me; Wendy Schmalz, for sticking with me; and Cathy Humble, for serving as midwife.

For research help, I'd like to thank Laurie Dodge, Prudence Roberts, Sonja Sopher, Matthew Weigman and the folks at the Multnomah County Library. At HarperCollins, Carolyn Marino provided invaluable editorial assistance, while Robin Stamm kept everything organized.

My appreciation also goes to the many people who have been loyal readers throughout the years, including Carole Archer, Pat Bell, Jan Bellis-Squires, Fran Gokey, Robert Goldberg, Jan Hallbacka, Hank Henry, Nancy Husbands, Sonja Steves, Melody Swift and Aileen Willis.

Thanks to Kaiser Permanente for a flexible work schedule, and to the folks at Rocking Horse Day School and West Hills Child Care for letting me take full advantage of that schedule. And thanks to Randy and Sadie, who could always be counted on to team up to give Mom some free time at the "puter.”

At the end of each chapter and sprinkled throughout the text, you will find a vanity license plate puzzler. See if you can decode these hidden messages. Look for the glossary key at the end of the book to check your detective work.

The luminous spots caused by imperfections in a camera lens. In painting, refers to the effects of the camera obscura, a pinhole device that projects an image upside down and backward, a forerunner to the camera. Vermeer was perhaps the best-known painter to use the camera obscura. Many of his paintings are marked by circles of confusion.

New York City. New York, October 3

Dante Bonner grinned a little in satisfaction as he contemplated the portrait on the easel in front of him. Golden light, curly heard, the left side of the face in shadow. He set down his delicate paintbrush, stood back and looked at the painting critically, one eve half-closed. No one could ever doubt that Rembrandt's hand had painted those lines, that the great master himself had laid those bold brushstrokes. He snapped off the magnifying light and went to lunch.

Buenos Aires, Argentina, October 3

Rudy Miller found the one-inch article buried on the last page of local news, just before the want ads began.

***

Local Woman Found Dead

September 30 (White City)—Cady Montrose, 90, was found dead in her home in the Tarrymore Trailer Park on Tuesday.

Neighbors said they had not seen the woman for several weeks. Ms. Montrose, who never married, retired from the head teller position at Jackson County Federal Bank in the late 1980s. During World War II, she served as a clerk in the Women's Army Corps, and was stationed in Germany after the war in Europe ended. No funeral is planned.

***

Rudy closed the paper with a satisfied snap. It hadn't been cheap, having the Medford Mail Tribune mailed to Argentina. But as usual, his forethought had been rewarded. If his grandfather and namesake had only put as much care into what he had done, Rudy would never have been forced to go to these ridiculous lengths. He pulled a cellular phone from his breast pocket, unfolded it and tapped out a number.

"Tell Karl I have a job for him."

New York City, New York, October 3

Troy Nowell placed the picture, encircled by a golden frame, on a velvet-covered easel. Fifi regarded the painting with the perpetually surprised look of a too-taut facelift. Her real name was Margaret Montgomery, but Troy privately thought of all well-dressed Park Avenue women as Fifis.

"It's beautiful," he said. "And very rare. No other Pieruccini angel displays such joy at seeing the Christ child." And until recently, neither had this particular angel, who actually had begun existence as a dour-looking saint. It had been John who had suggested that the addition of a joyful expression and some gold-leaf wings would make this painting fly right out the door.

"That hair. It's the exact same color as my Toby's." "Toby?" Troy inquired politely.

"My apricot AKC-registered teacup poodle. He is everything to me. Everything."

Troy nodded his appreciation of this completely unforeseen selling point. Then, with a few carefully chosen words of praise, he began to reel her in. If he applied just the right amount of pressure, Fifi would prod her husband, a man who had made millions selling low-flow toilets, into buying this painting of a rather insipid-looking angel, his hair not blond exactly, but instead a pale shade of red.

Portland, Oregon, October 3

"... And as a lot of our listeners out there remember, next weekend will be the anniversary of Oregon's Columbus Day storm.. .*

Claire Montrose quickly snapped off the radio (brought from home, tolerated if played at a low level) that sat on top of her state- issued gray metal desk. Great. It was that time of year again. She was tired of hearing about the Columbus Day storm that had ravaged the West Coast nearly thirty-five years before, the day before she was born. Each year, Claire's mother could be counted on to remind her about how she'd suffered to bring Claire into the world, trapped at home with all roads blocked and no telephone, no lights, no heat and no assistance except for an elderly neighbor.

The great windstorm had left dozens dead and hundreds more stranded for days on end. Huge fallen trees had blocked Portland streets, crushed cars and homes, and turned power lines into spitting snakes. The wind had peeled back roofs, pushed trucks off highways, and snatched up small animals and patio furniture. Of course, Claire didn't have any of her own memories of this, but she felt as though she did. Every October, the TV stations could be counted on to trot out the grainy file footage to pad a slow news day.

It served only to remind her that she was getting older, rusting into place, with most of her waking hours spent in a cubicle that resembled a cross between a cattle pen and a prison cell. Sometimes Claire thought her dramatic entrance into the world had been the last exciting event of her life.

The phone on her desk shrilled into life. Claire used a neon- orange Chee*to to mark her place in the department's Spanish-English dictionary.

"Oregon Motor Vehicles Division, Custom Plate Department. How may I help you?"

Claire had been looking up "AMORT"—the request of an accountant—to see if it meant anything in translation that couldn't be put on a license plate. "Amort" hadn't been in the Spanish dictionary, but "Amor"—love—had. Claire had become sidetracked considering how limited both Spanish and English were when it came to words for love. There were dozens of kinds of love—platonic love, love from afar, love for one's family, love for a pet, love for food or other inanimate objects, hopeless love, passionate love, unrequited love. Why wasn't there a separate word for each, the way the Eskimos were supposed to have seventeen different words for snow?

"Hi, Claire. It's me."

"Mom!" Claire pressed the phone closer to her face. There should definitely be a word for the mingled love and annoyance she felt for her mother. "I told you not to call me at work unless it was an emergency." She hoped Frank wasn't listening on the other side of their shared cubicle wall. Each time she received a personal call, she half suspected him of making a hatch mark on a clandestine list of her failings.

"But this is an emergency."

"What did you buy?" Please, not another thousand-dollar Kirby vacuum cleaner. Even though Oregon law allowed a three-day cooling-off period for major purchases, the last time it had been nearly impossible to extract her mother from the clutches of the contract's fine print.

"I didn't buy anything," her mother said, stung. "I'm calling about your great-aunt. I just got a call from her lawyer. Poor thing died last week."

"Great-aunt? What great-aunt?"

"Don't you remember Aunt Cady? My father's sister who lives in White City? I guess you probably haven't seen her since your grandmother's last group birthday party for you kids."

Claire was beginning to picture her now, a thin woman standing on the sidelines of family gatherings, her graying hair pulled back in a bun. "Wasn't Aunt Cady the one who was in the WAVEs or the WACs or something?"