Windy City Blues (V. I. Warshawski Series)

( 18 )

Overview

It's strictly Friends & Family as V.I. Warshawski, "the detective mystery fans have been waiting for" (Time), makes return appearances in a collection of stories that bring new meaning to "ties that bind."  Decked out in her silk shirts and no-nonsense Attitude, V.I. is out to make a living--by the skin of her teeth.

In "Grace Notes," V.I. has barely finished her morning coffee when she sees an ad in the paper asking for information about her own mother, long ...

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Windy City Blues (V. I. Warshawski Series)

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Overview

It's strictly Friends & Family as V.I. Warshawski, "the detective mystery fans have been waiting for" (Time), makes return appearances in a collection of stories that bring new meaning to "ties that bind."  Decked out in her silk shirts and no-nonsense Attitude, V.I. is out to make a living--by the skin of her teeth.

In "Grace Notes," V.I. has barely finished her morning coffee when she sees an ad in the paper asking for information about her own mother, long dead.  The paper leads V.I. to her newfound Italian cousin Vico, who's looking for music composed by their great-grandmother.  What's the score?  Clearly it's something to kill for... "The Pietro Andromache" finds V.I.'s friend Dr. Lotty Herschel with motive and means to dispatch her professional rival and steal his priceless statue.  Lotty didn't do it--but does she know who did?  V.I. soon cuts to the art of the case--and it's not a pretty picture at all!

Summoned by an old high school friend to a race "At the Old Swimming Hole," V.I. ends up swimming with the sharks--the FBI and a ruthless gambling kingpin--in a pool of blood.... And it's only "Skin Deep" when a relaxing facial transformation transforms a client into a stiff.  V.I.'s pal Sal needs help.  Her beautician sister Evangeline is prime suspect--and V.I. has only eighteen hours to crack the case before it's headline news..."  Three-Dot Po" proves there's nothing like a dog.  Especially a dog on the trail of her mistress's killer, with V.I. in tow...

In "Strung Out," love means nothing and V.I.'s quick to learn the score as her old friend's tennis-champion daughter is under suspicion for strangling her father with a racket string.  And there's more, nine stories in all, in this masterful collection of short fiction starring V.I. Warshawski, "the most engaging woman in detective fiction since Dorothy Sayers's Harriet Vane" (Newsweek).

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"The Chicago writer whose name always makes the top of the list when people talk about the new female operatives."  -- The New York Times Book Review

"Paretsky's work does more than turn a genre upside down: her books are beautifully paced and plotted, and the dialogue is fresh and smart." -- Newsweek

"Sara Paretsky's cult heroine is a woman's woman -- V. I. Warshawski, the funky feminist private eye . . . [V. I.] is a gumshoe for modern times."  -- People

"Who is America's most convincing and engaging professional private eye? . . . V. I. Warshawski, the star of Sara Paretsky's series about white-collar crime and wall-to-wall corruption in Chicago, now clearly leads the growing field." --Entertainment Weekly

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Chicago PI V.I. Warshawski stars in a collection of short tales. (Dec.)
Library Journal
This collection of five short stories read by Jean Smart will charm fans of Paretsky (Blood Shot, Audio Reviews, LJ 12/93) and her fabulous creation, V.I. Warshawski. Smart reads beautifully: Warshawski's contralto voice sounds tough, intelligent, and unflagging. The beat and stress of syllables demonstrate the energetic, quick-thinking detective even when her voice fades in exhaustion or pain. The stories also give Smart room to use accents, which she does most felicitously: in "Grace Notes," V.I. meets an Italian cousin, and Smart's Italian accent is rhythmic and winsome; in "The Maltese Cat," Warshawski's Mississippi clients sound either aristocratic or redneck; hesitation and quiet mark the speech of Japanese-American protagonists in "The Takomoku Joseki." Other stories include "At the Old Swimming Hole," where V.I. witnesses a murder at a swim meet, and "The Case of the Pietro Andromache," in which Max's lover, Dr. Lotte Hershold, is accused of murder. Highly recommended for popular and mystery collections.-Juleigh Muirhead Clark, Coll. of William & Mary, Williamsburg, Va.
From Barnes & Noble
Protagonist in a series of bestselling detective novels, Chicago's most celebrated female private eye, V.I. Warshawski, takes to the streets in a collection of nine short stories that have her investigating "the ties that bind."
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780440218739
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 11/28/1996
  • Series: V. I. Warshawski Series
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 337
  • Sales rank: 321,534
  • Product dimensions: 4.15 (w) x 6.90 (h) x 0.95 (d)

Meet the Author

Sara  Paretsky
Sara Paretsky
Sara Paretsky is credited with breaking the gender barrier in detective fiction with the creation of her hard-boiled female detective, V. I. Warshawski. In mysteries that have been translated into more than 20 languages, the no-nonsense and sexy V.I. keeps her eye on the city of Chicago, distributing justice to everyone from corporate crooks to government phonies and street hustlers.

Biography

Sara Paretsky grew up in eastern Kansas, where she attended a small country school. The publishing bug bit Paretsky early—at age 11, her first published story appeared in the magazine The American Girl. It was about children surviving a Kansas tornado. She attended the University of Kansas for her undergraduate degree, but after spending a summer in Chicago doing community service work, she fell in love with the Windy City and decided after college to make the move permanent.

Paretsky eventually earned a Ph.D. in history from the University of Chicago but had a hard time finding a job as an academic, so she returned to school for an M.B.A., after which she started working full-time in marketing. (In order to complete her first three novels, she juggled family and job with writing at night.) An avid reader, Paretsky has always been a fan of detective fiction, but noticed a lack of intelligent, likable female protagonists in the genre. Thus, with the inspiring city of Chicago as the background, her signature character, V. I. Warshawski, was born.

Readers and critics have responded with appreciation for Paretsky's confident, modern, noir female detective. Unlike other noir heroines, V. I. refuses to be categorized by her sexuality. Despite the patriarchy she confronts on every case, she's a single woman in total control. Paretsky says of V. I., " I started aging V. I. because although she is a fictional character, she is grounded in historical events: she came of age during the Civil Rights movement and the anti-War movement. Her mother was a refugee from Fascist Italy. And her cases are all based on real events. Who she is depends on her being born in the Fifties. Now, of course, I have this dilemma of how to let her get older while still continuing to be an effective detective. I haven't quite figured that out yet."

Beyond her successful series, Paretsy has proven her range of talent with short stories (1995's Windy City Blues) and a handful of stand-alones (Ghost Country, Bleeding Kansas). She has also edited anthologies of mysteries and crime fiction by famous and less well-known female writers.

Generous with all she has learned throughout the years, Paretsky is a co-founder of Sisters in Crime, an organization dedicated since 1986 to bringing the female voice in detective fiction to the attention of booksellers and libraries. Sisters in Crime is a business resource for women on how to prepare a press kit, arrange a signing at a local bookstore, or search for an agent—as well as a treasure chest of new writers on the scene. Check out all they have to offer at www.sistersincrime.org.

Good To Know

Paretsky worked for ten years as a marketing manager at an insurance company and draws on the experience when writing about white-collar crimes for the V. I. Warshawski series.

Comparing herself to V. I. Warshawski, Paretsky says that they both love dogs, enjoy good food and good Scotch, and are both diehard Cubs fans.

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    1. Also Known As:
      Sara N. Paretsky
    2. Hometown:
      Chicago, Illinois
    1. Date of Birth:
      June 8, 1947
    2. Place of Birth:
      Ames, Iowa
    1. Education:
      B.A., Political Science, University of Kansas; Ph.D. and M.B.A., University of Chicago
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

GRACE NOTES

GABRIELLA SESTIERI OF PITIGLIANO. Anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts should contact the office of Malcolm Ranier.

I was reading the Herald- Star at breakfast when the notice jumped out at me from the personal section. I put my coffee down with extreme care, as if I were in a dream and all my actions moved with the slowness of dream time. I shut the paper with the same slow motion, then opened it again. The notice was still there. I spelled out the headline letter by letter, in case my unconscious mind had substituted one name for another, but the text remained the same. There could not be more than one Gabriella Sestieri from Pitigliano. My mother, who died of cancer in 1968 at the age of forty-six.

"Who could want her all these years later?" I said aloud.

Peppy, the golden retriever I share with my downstairs neighbor, raised a sympathetic eyebrow. We had just come back from a run on a dreary November morning and she was waiting hopefully for toast.

"It can't be her father." His mind had cracked after six months in a German concentration camp, and he refused to acknowledge Gabriella's death when my father wrote to inform him of it. I'd had to translate the letter, in which he said he was too old to travel but wished Gabriella well on her concert tour. Anyway, if he was alive still he'd be almost a hundred.

Maybe Gabriella's brother Italo was searching for her: he had disappeared in the maelstrom of the war, but Gabriella always hoped he survived. Or her first voice teacher, Francesca Salvini, whom Gabriella longed to see again, to explain why she had never fulfilled Salvini's hopes for her professional career. As Gabriella lay in her final bed in Jackson Park Hospital with tubes ringing her wasted body, her last messages had been for me and for Salvini. This morning it dawned on me for the first time how hurtful my father must have found that. He adored my mother, but for him she had only the quiet fondness of an old friend.

I realized my hands around the newspaper were wet with sweat, that paper and print were clinging to my palms. With an embarrassed laugh I put the paper down and washed off the ink under the kitchen tap. It was ludicrous to spin my mind with conjectures when all I had to do was phone Malcolm Ranier. I went to the living room and pawed through the papers on the piano for the phone book. Ranier seemed to be a lawyer with offices on La Salle Street, at the north end where the pricey new buildings stand.

His was apparently a solo practice. The woman who answered the phone assured me she was Mr. Ranier's assistant and conversant with all his files. Mr. Ranier couldn't speak with me himself now, because he was in conference. Or court. Or the john.

"I'm calling about the notice in this morning's paper, wanting to know the whereabouts of Gabriella Sestieri."

"What is your name, please, and your relationship with Mrs. Sestieri?" The assistant left out the second syllable so that the name came out as "Sistery."

"I'll be glad to tell you that if you tell me why you're trying to find her."

"I'm afraid I can't give out confidential client business over the phone. But if you tell me your name and what you know about Mrs. Sestieri we'll get back to you when we've discussed the matter with our client."

I thought we could keep this conversation going all day. "The person you're looking for may not be the same one I know, and I don't want to violate a family's privacy. But I'll be in a meeting on La Salle Street this morning; I can stop by to discuss the matter with Mr. Ranier."

The woman finally decided that Mr. Ranier had ten minutes free at twelve-thirty. I gave her my name and hung up. Sitting at the piano, I crashed out chords, as if the sound could bury the wildness of my feelings. I never could remember whether I knew how ill my mother was the last six months of her life. Had she told me and I couldn't--or didn't wish to--comprehend it? Or had she decided to shelter me from the knowledge? Gabriella usually made me face bad news, but perhaps not the worst of all possible news, our final separation.

Why did I never work on my singing? It was one thing I could have done for her. I didn't have a Voice, as Gabriella put it, but I had a serviceable contralto, and of course she insisted I acquire some musicianship. I stood up and began working on a few vocal stretches, then suddenly became wild with the desire to find my mother's music, the old exercise books she had me learn from.

I burrowed through the hall closet for the trunk that held her books. I finally found it in the farthest corner, under a carton holding my old case files, a baseball bat, a box of clothes I no longer wore but couldn't bring myself to give away. . . . I sat on the closet floor in misery, with a sense of having buried her so deep I couldn't find her.

Peppy's whimpering pulled me back to the present. She had followed me into the closet and was pushing her nose into my arm. I fondled her ears.

At length it occurred to me that if someone was trying to find my mother I'd need documents to prove the relationship. I got up from the floor and pulled the trunk into the hall. On top lay her black silk concert gown: I'd forgotten wrapping that in tissue and storing it. In the end I found my parents' marriage license and Gabriella's death certificate tucked into the score of Don Giovanni.

When I returned the score to the trunk another old envelope floated out. I picked it up and recognized Mr. Fortieri's spiky writing. Carlo Fortieri repaired musical instruments and sold, or at least used to sell music. He was the person Gabriella went to for Italian conversation, musical conversation, advice. He still sometimes tuned my own piano out of affection for her.

When Gabriella met him, he'd been a widower for years, also with one child, also a girl. Gabriella thought I ought to play with her while she sang or discussed music with Mr. Fortieri, but Barbara was ten years or so my senior and we'd never had much to say to each other.

I pulled out the yellowed paper. It was written in Italian, and hard for me to decipher, but apparently dated from 1965.

Addressing her as "Cara Signora Warshawski," Mr. Fortieri sent his regrets that she was forced to cancel her May 14 concert. "I shall, of course, respect your wishes and not reveal the nature of your indisposition to anyone else. And, cara Signora, you should know by now that I regard any confidence of yours as a sacred trust: you need not fear an indiscretion." It was signed with his full name.

I wondered now if he'd been my mother's lover. My stomach tightened, as it does when you think of your parents stepping outside their prescribed roles, and I folded the paper back into the envelope. Fifteen years ago the same notion must have prompted me to put his letter inside Don Giovanni. For want of a better idea I stuck it back in the score and returned everything to the trunk. I needed to rummage through a different carton to find my own birth certificate, and it was getting too late in the morning for me to indulge in nostalgia.

II

Malcolm Ranier's office overlooked the Chicago River and all the new glass and marble flanking it. It was a spectacular view--if you squinted to shut out the burnt--out waste of Chicago's west side that lay beyond. I arrived just at twelve-thirty, dressed in my one good suit, black, with a white crÛpe-dÚchinÚ blouse. I looked feminine, but austere--or at least that was my intention.

Ranier's assistant-cum-receptionist was buried in Danielle Steel. When I handed her my card, she marked her page without haste and took the card into an inner office. After a ten-minute wait to let me understand his importance, Ranier came out to greet me in person. He was a soft round man of about sixty, with gray eyes that lay like pebbles above an apparently jovial smile.

"Ms. Warshawski. Good of you to stop by. I understand you can help us with our inquiry into Mrs. Sestieri." He gave my mother's name a genuine Italian lilt, but his voice was as hard as his eyes.

"Hold my calls, Cindy." He put a hand on the nape of my neck to steer me into his office.

Before we'd shut the door Cindy was reabsorbed into Danielle. I moved away from the hand--I didn't want grease on my five-hundred-dollar jacket--and went to admire a bronze nymph on a shelf at the window.

"Beautiful, isn't it." Ranier might have been commenting on the weather. "One of my clients brought it from France."

"It looks as though it should be in a museum."

A call to the bar association before I left my apartment told me he was an import-export lawyer. Various imports seemed to have attached themselves to him on their way into the country. The room was dominated by a slab of rose marble, presumably a work table, but several antique chairs were also worth a second glance. A marquetry credenza stood against the far wall. The Modigliani above it was probably an original.

"Coffee, Ms."--he glanced at my card again--

"Warshawski?"

"No, thank you. I understand you're very busy, and so am I. So let's talk about Gabriella Sestieri."

"D'accordo." He motioned me to one of the spindly antiques near the marble slab. "You know where she is?"

The chair didn't look as though it could support my hundred and forty pounds, but when Ranier perched on a similar one I sat, with a wariness that made me think he had them to keep people deliberately off balance. I leaned back and crossed my legs. The woman at ease.

"I'd like to make sure we're talking about the same person. And that I know why you want to find her."

A smile crossed his full lips, again not touching the slate chips of his eyes. "We could fence all day, Ms. Warshawski, but as you say, time is valuable to us both. The Gabriella Sestieri I seek was born in Pitigliano on October thirtieth, 1921. She left Italy sometime early in 1941, no one knows exactly when, but she was last heard of in Siena that February. And there's some belief she came to Chicago. As to why I want to find her, a relative of hers, now in Florence, but from the Pitigliano family, is interested in locating her. My specialty is import-export law, particularly with Italy: I'm no expert in finding missing persons, but I agreed to assist as a favor to a client. The relative--Mrs. Sestieri's relative--has a professional connection to my client. And now it is your turn, Ms. Warshawski."

"Ms. Sestieri died in March 1968." My blood was racing; I was pleased to hear my voice come out without a tremor. "She married a Chicago police officer in April 1942. They had one child. Me."

"And your father? Officer Warshawski?"

"Died in 1979. Now may I have the name of my mother's relative? I've known only one member of her family, my grandmother's sister who lives here in Chicago, and am eager to find others." Actually, if they bore any resemblance to my embittered Aunt Rosa I'd just as soon not meet the remaining Verazi clan.

"You were cautious, Ms. Warshawski, so you will forgive my caution: do you have proof of your identity?"

"You make it sound as though treasure awaits the missing heir, Mr. Ranier." I pulled out the copies of my legal documents and handed them over. "Who or what is looking for my mother?"

Ranier ignored my question. He studied the documents briefly, then put them on the marble slab while condoling me on losing my parents. His voice had the same soft flat cadence as when he'd discussed the nymph.

"You've no doubt remained close to your grandmother's sister? If she's the person who brought your mother to Chicago it might be helpful for me to have her name and address."

"My aunt is a difficult woman to be close to, but I can check with her, to see if she doesn't mind my giving you her name and address."

"And the rest of your mother's family?"

I held out my hands, empty. "I don't know any of them. I don't even know how many there are. Who is my mystery relative? What does he--she--want?"

He paused, looking at the file in his hands. "I actually don't know. I ran the ad merely as a favor to my client. But I'll pass your name and address along, Ms. Warshawski, and when he's been in touch with the person I'm sure you'll hear."

This runaround was starting to irritate me. "You're a heck of a poker player, Mr. Ranier. But you know as well as I that you're lying like a rug."

I spoke lightly, smiling as I got to my feet and crossed to the door, snatching my documents from the marble slab as I passed. For once his feelings reached his eyes, turning the slate to molten rock. As I waited for the elevator I wondered if answering that ad meant I was going to be sucker-punched.

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Table of Contents

Introduction - A Walk on the Wild Side: Touring Chicago with V.I. Warshawski 1
Grace Notes 11
The Pietro Andromache 61
Strung Out 92
At the Old Swimming Hole 124
The Maltese Cat 150
Settled Score 186
Skin Deep 209
Three-Dot Po 226
The Takamoku Joseki 246
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 18 )
Rating Distribution

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(12)

4 Star

(4)

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Sort by: Showing all of 18 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 21, 2014

    Med den

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 16, 2013

    MED CAT DEN

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 12, 2013

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 5, 2013

    Forest, Hunting Grounds, etc

    Forest, Hunting Grounds, etc.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 22, 2012

    Nersery

    Windclan

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 12, 2012

    Sandlyleaf

    Tiring. For the tom its easy. They just pretty much fetch prey and thts it. The queens hav to feed the kits, groom them, take care of them. It hurts wen were kitting.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 11, 2012

    Frostfire

    Frostfire looked at softkit and nuzzled her. Softkit coughed slightly and she was wheezing. Frostfire picked her up and brought her to the med den.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 12, 2012

    Catoclaw

    Oh i bet... whats it like having kits?

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 10, 2012

    Flaredust

    Hi. Hopefully, Im gonna be thenew med cat!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 10, 2012

    NURSERY

    The nursery

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 14, 2011

    disapointment in my favorite author

    This must be her beginning I didn't like this book at all it was Perry Mason level investigating and closing the multiple cases.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 28, 2003

    EXCELLENT !!

    A great little collection of short stories with the ever lovable V.I. -- best lady P.I. around! Any one of the stories could have been a full length book -- and would have been good too! Only P.I. better than V.I. is Spenser in the Robert Parker books. But hes a guy -- so shes the best gal!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 19, 2002

    Short Stories featuring V. I. Warshawski

    Sara Paretsky¿s female private investigator operating out of Chicago is always a good read. This is another collection of short stories; as good as the novels especially if you want a book you can put down and pick up later. This book features V. I.¿s friends and family and we find out a few things about her that have not been revealed before. Warshawski still gets into as much trouble with a crime to solve in every tale.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 19, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 3, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 20, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 12, 2011

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 29, 2009

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