As workers fix up our furnaces (we are converting from oil to propane), my mind drifts back to the natural rather than duct-conducted warmth of summertime, and what I was reading back then.

I read half a dozen John Creasey thrillers during a single summer vacation week in mid-August: one Toff (The Toff Goes to Market, 1942), one Baron (Blame the Baron, 1951), one Inspector West (Strike for Death, 1958), one Dr. Palfrey (Traitor’s Doom, 1949), one Superintendent Folly (Mystery Motive, 1947) and one Dr. Cellini (This Man Did I Kill?, 1974). That I’d taken volumes from seven different series was a complete coincidence. I just grabbed a handful of Creaseys which I’d just unpacked from our house-moving in July. I own over 80 Creasey paperbacks, which is not all that impressive since he wrote over 600. John Creasey is my most reliable beach read. The mysteries are automatic, but not the same thing over and over. Creasey just finds interesting confrontations, turns them into crimes, and has one of his many reliable heroes sort them out.

That same week, I also whipped through two Daphne DuMauriers: a short story collection, The Breaking Point, and the big which I’m likely to recall most fondly from the whole stack, I’ll Never Be Young Again. It’s the kind of coming-of-age novel which nobody writes anymore. It’s about heartache and uncertain emotions. It’s not graphic or revolting.

DuMaurier is actually better suited to fall or winter than to summer. All those windstorms. Creasey? Any time.