I Shot the Buddha: A Dr. Siri Paiboun Mystery by Colin Cotterill (English) Paper

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A fiendishly clever mystery in which Dr. Siri and his friends investigate three interlocking murders - and the ungodly motives behind them

FORMATPaperback LANGUAGEEnglish CONDITIONBrand New Publisher Description

A fiendishly clever mystery in which Dr. Siri and his friends investigate three interlocking murders-and the ungodly motives behind themLaos, 1979- Retired coroner Siri Paiboun and his wife, Madame Daeng, have never been able to turn away a misfit. As a result, they share their small Vientiane house with an assortment of homeless people, mendicants, and oddballs. One of these oddballs is Noo, a Buddhist monk, who rides out on his bicycle one day and never comes back, leaving only a cryptic note in the refrigerator- a plea to help a fellow monk escape across the Mekhong River to Thailand.Naturally, Siri can't turn down the adventure, and soon he and his friends find themselves running afoul of Lao secret service officers and famous spiritualists. Buddhism is a powerful influence on both morals and politics in Southeast Asia. In order to exonerate an innocent man, they will have to figure out who is cloaking terrible misdeeds in religiosity.

Author Biography

Colin Cotterill is the author of ten other books in the Dr. Siri Paiboun series- The Coroner's Lunch, Thirty-Three Teeth, Disco for the Departed, Anarchy and Old Dogs, Curse of the Pogo Stick, The Merry Misogynist, Love Songs from a Shallow Grave, Slash and Burn, The Woman Who Wouldn't Die, and Six and a Half Deadly Sins. His fiction has won a Dilys Award and a CWA Dagger in the Library. He lives in Chumphon, Thailand, with his wife and six deranged dogs.

Review

Praise for I Shot the BuddhaA BookPage Best Mystery of 2016"Dazzling." —Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review  "Terrifically entertaining."—Adam Woog, The Seattle Times"[Siri] is the most wonderfully human of heroes."—The Christian Science Monitor"Filled with magic and quirkiness... A madcap and international caper."—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine "Cotterill's twisty mystery plot will entertain readers while his cast of eccentric characters charms."—Shelf-Awareness"Highly unusual and immensely appealing." —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine "Stunning . . . This series offers unfailingly satisfying reading, especially so for the glimpses we get into the still-revolutionary characters of Siri and Madame Daeng, both bursting with caustic wit and adventurous spirit."—Booklist, Starred Review"Cotterill excels in the portrayal of potentially serious and momentous topics with lighthearted humor, imbuing his characters with grace and empathy in the midst of a particularly difficult chapter of Southeast Asia's history."—BookPage, Top Pick in Mystery"Highly entertaining." —Publishers Weekly, Starred Review Praise for Six and a Half Deadly Sins"Dr. Siri and his misfit friends have relied on caustic humor to stay sane . . . The question is: Can his cynical sense of humor get him out of this jam?"—The New York Times Book Review"A gladdening complement to many mystery-reader's table . . . If you are unfamiliar with Paiboun works, it is time to crawl out of whatever cave you have been living in. This is for you."—The Christian Science Monitor "Always delightful . . . the doctor and his profoundly eccentric friends, wife and (now former) colleagues retain their sardonic senses of humor in a vexing and sometimes scary time."—The Seattle Times"A rollicking installment . . . Guaranteed to delight fans and new readers alike."—BookPage, Top Pick

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A fiendishly clever mystery in which Dr. Siri and his friends investigate three interlocking murders-and the ungodly motives behind them

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Praise for I Shot the Buddha "Dazzling." --Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

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A fiendishly clever mystery in which Dr. Siri and his friends investigate three interlocking murders-and the ungodly motives behind them

Excerpt from Book

1 Goodnight, Ladies It was midnight to the second with a full moon overhead when three women were being killed in three separate locations. Had this been the script of a film such a twist of fate would have been the type of cinematic plot device that annoyed Comrades Siri and Civilai immensely. In their book, coincidences came in a close third behind convenient amnesia and the sudden appearance of an identical twin. But this was real life, so there was no argument to be had. The first woman died. She was elderly, was in bad health, and was an alcoholic. But it wasn''t angina or alcohol that killed her. It was a sledgehammer. For much of her life she''d scratched a living repairing clothing on an old French sewing machine. When her hands weren''t shaking she didn''t do such a bad job of it, and hers was the only functioning sewing machine for a hundred kilometers. There was a time when she''d divide her income: half for food, half for rice whisky. But she figured rice whisky was rice, right? What was the point of paying twice for rice? She had papayas and bananas growing naturally around her hut, so, although she spent much of her day in the latrine, she decided she got enough nutrition for someone who wasn''t expecting to grow. From then on, every kip she made taking up or taking down the hems of phasin skirts was spent on drink. And that night, that cloudless full moon night, she lay pickled on the bamboo bench her father had made with his own hands and she fancied she could see Hanuman''s face in the moon. And then a shadow fell across it and for a second she saw the only love of her life, then a smile, then a sledgehammer. A second woman died. She had bathed from a bucket of rainwater behind her hut and washed her hair with a sachet of the latest Sunsilk shampoo, a free sample from the company. She was still wearing her damp sarong and deciding whether to keep it on and say, "Ooh, you caught me by surprise," or to put on her yellow sundress, the one he''d mentioned made her look sexy in the light of her little wax candle. She''d climbed the bamboo ladder, creaked through the open doorway and across to the wooden potato box where she kept her clothes. She was changing--she''d decided to go for the sundress--when she heard another creak on the balcony. Her dress was only halfway over her head. She struggled to pull it down. Her Vietnamese driver beau had come early, although it was odd she hadn''t heard the truck pull off the road. "Give me a sec," she said. "I''m half naked. You''ve spoiled the surprise." The footsteps creaked behind her, and she anticipated the feel of his hand on her suety breast. But she hadn''t anticipated the knife. From the tiny naked candle flame she could see the glint of the blade. She watched frozen as the tip entered her belly and the hilt twisted left and right the way the samurai killed themselves in the movies she used to love so much before they closed down the last cinema. A third woman died. This was obviously a bad night to be a woman. There are illnesses that make you feel like death but are unlikely to dispatch you there. There are illnesses that are unpleasant but not necessarily uncomfortable, yet without the right treatment at the right moment you''re gone as quickly as a sparrow in a jet engine. Hepatitis falls into that latter category. You think you''ve got the flu, a few aches and pains, no energy, so you sleep all day waiting for it to pass. Then you wake up, and you''re dead. But she''d awoken to see the nice old doctor sitting beside her sleeping mat. He''d given her some pills, and she''d thanked him and fallen back asleep. But the next time she woke it was night and a big old moon was smiling through the window. She felt so well she even considered getting up, giving her stiff legs a walk around the hut. Perhaps a little skip or two. But she opted to stay there beneath the mosquito net where she could imagine dancing at the next village fete. The moon carved out shapes in her little room, grey shades. Boxes full of memories of her eight children, taken every one of them by violence or disease or flashing colored lights in big cities. Of a husband who never really liked her that much, who fathered their eighth child, then stepped on an unexploded bomb that took out half the buffalo and all of him. On the walls hung pictures of ancient royals and an old calendar. And there in a blurry corner at a low table the kindly old doctor sat mixing some more medicinal compounds. "I''m feeling much better already," she said. But he didn''t respond. She heard the last swizzle of liquid mixing in the glass and the old doctor walked on his knees to the net. He was between her and the moon the whole time so she couldn''t see if he was smiling. She recalled he had a nice smile. With his left hand he held out a glass containing a few centimeters of cloudy liquid. It seemed luminous in the rays of the moon. With his right hand he pulled up the netting so he was inside with her. He gently lifted her head just enough that she could drink the medicine. There was a smell of incense about him. She thanked him and the last memory she would ever have was of a kindly old doctor in the robe of a monk. 2 Three Isms (Two Weeks Earlier) There was the question of appropriateness. Should Dr. Siri Paiboun and his wife, Madam Daeng, have been attending a Party seminar that condemned the pagan rituals of spirit worship? It was particularly inapt given the doctor had become prone to vanishing from time to time and his wife had grown a small but neat tail. She had not yet mastered the art of wagging. It was true that no third party had witnessed these supernatural phenomena so there was always the possibility the couple had become dotty in their dotage and were given to hallucinations. But there was no denying the clunky wooden chair was playing havoc with Madam Daeng''s backside or that she would periodically squeeze the hand she held and look to her left to be sure there was still a doctor attached to it. These were odd times in the People''s Democratic Republic of Laos, but there were few times that could boast normality. The seminar, as well as this tale (not tail), came about due to an uncomfortable conflict that had arisen amongst the three ism s: Buddhism, animism and Communism. Those who preferred their public forums free of hocus pocus needed not attend. But it was undeniable that even into the fifth year of socialist rule, the phi --the spirits of the land and the air and those that resided inside folk--were the only authorities peasants in the countryside could count on with any certainty. The phi ''s growing influence was a bother to the still fledgling government. In its attempt to do away with the wizardry that had seeped into Buddhist practices, the government had all but wiped out Buddhism completely. By the beginning of 1979 there were no more than two thousand active monks in the country, down from ten times that number when the reds took over. Temples were being used to store grain or host re-education courses for doubting officials or as long-term accommodation for the homeless. With no organized religion to fall back on, and with uninspiring local cadres representing Vientiane, a good number of rural folk were reanimating pagan gods and seeking advice from spirits. Assuming, that is, that they''d ever really stopped doing so. According to the Ministry of Culture, this increasing addiction to the occult was unacceptable. Senior Party members were told categorically not to be seen partaking in the rituals of mumbo jumbo. This presented problems as their wives were sometimes spotted sneaking out of the house before dawn to give alms to the monks who had survived the purge. Perhaps the maids of ministers were not discouraged from refreshing the flowers and soft drinks that adorned the spirit houses, or from burning incense at the family altar. In the ill-conceived words of senior Party member, Judge Haeng, "A good socialist does not need to believe in the phantoms and freaks of folklore or religion because he has Communism to fulfill every need." But both the judge and Dr. Siri had other things on their minds as they sat listening to the Party''s bureaucratic attempts at exorcism. The previous evening they had received a visitor both men had believed, and wished, to be dead. He had first arrived at the crowded grand reopening of Madam Daeng''s noodle shop, lurking in the shadows of the riverbank opposite. Siri''s dog, Ugly, had felt the need to single out the uniformed figure and stand on the curb, barking in its direction. Odd, that. In the light from the only firework to be had at the morning market that day--a Shanghai Golden Shower--Siri had clearly seen the face. There was no doubt. Nor was the doctor surprised on the morning of the seminar to have been approached by the little judge, his acne twinkling like festive lights. He dared not look into the doctor''s bright green eyes when he spoke. "Siri," he''d said, "I was . . . umm . . . visited again last night." "I expected so," said the doctor. "Me too." "Well, what . . . I mean, what should we do?" "We? I''m a retired coroner and noodle shop proprietor. You''re head of the public prosecution department. Yo

Description for Sales People

The previous Dr. Siri novel, Love Songs from a Shallow Grave, was New York Times Crime Novel of the Year. Beautiful, vibrant series repackage has spurred even more widespread interest. Full of dark comedy, offbeat characters, and poignant depiction of Southeast Asia at a moment of political upheaval - di

Details ISBN1616958294 Author Colin Cotterill Publisher Soho Press Inc Year 2017 ISBN-10 1616958294 ISBN-13 9781616958299 Format Paperback Imprint Soho Press Inc Subtitle A Dr. Siri Paiboun Mystery Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States Media Book DEWEY 823.92 Language English Series Number 11 Publication Date 2017-07-04 UK Release Date 2017-07-04 AU Release Date 2017-07-04 NZ Release Date 2017-07-04 US Release Date 2017-07-04 Narrator Matthew Beard Birth 1927 Affiliation Lecturer, University of Fort Hare Position Professor Qualifications J.D. Audience General Pages 368 We've got this

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