Marie Taylor, Ink

We all have our little indulgences or secret pleasures, those things which we turn to for a temporary relief from the stresses of daily life or as a reward for a battle well fought. For some it is a drink or cigarette, some expensive chocolates or relaxing massage. For me it is reading an entertaining mystery book.

The ones I like best create an interesting detective who operates within a believable world. The recurring characters become well known acquaintances. Reading a new story is like taking a vacation to a familiar destination. The end of the story is like filling in all the blanks in a crossword puzzle.

One of my personal favorites among mystery story authors is Stuart Kaminsky. Kaminsky wrote nearly 100 books, mostly mysteries, and created four interesting detective characters: Abe Lieberman, Lew Fonesca, Toby Peters and Porfiry Rostnikov. Of these, Rostnikov is my favorite.

Over the years I have read most of Kaminsky’s books and I was delighted to find a new Rostnikov novel at the local library. I spent the next several hours catching up the Russian detective’s life – how he was still having discomfort from his artificial leg, how his wife’s headaches might be a sign of cancer, how his son finally married his fiancée, how the unemotion Karpov rescued a cat, how Lydia refuses to wear her hearing aides….

Catching up on Rostnikov’s personal life was just as important at the mystery story itself. As I turned the final page a sigh of satisfaction escaped. My eyes glanced to the back inside cover of the book and read Kaminsky’s short biography.

What! Kaminsky had died! I flew to my computer and went to Wikipedia, my personal authority on all things, only to learn that Stuart Kaminsky died in 2009 while waiting for a liver transplant.

I was surprised at the sadness I felt, not only yesterday but also today as I reflected on it. It was not Kaminsky himself I was mourning but Rostnikov, Lieberman, Fonesca and Toby Peters. There would be no more shared adventures with these delightful characters.

I would never learn if Madame Rostnikov cancer returned. I would never find out if Sasha’s wife forgave his infidelities. Karpov would forever be left in his sterile apartment without the warmth of companionship. Lew Fonesca would remain in Florida trying to find more meaning in his life. Toby Peters would continue living in 1940’s Hollywood.

In other words, with the death of Kaminsky came the death of his characters too, the story arc of their lives unfinished.  We encounter this again and again – Agatha Christie, Jane Austin, Charles Dickens, Tolkien, Tolstoy … authors whose characters now live on a shelf like flies in amber, frozen in time.  “What happens next?” is the best question any author can be asked and for many there is only silence.

Dasvidania, Rosnikov!