Review: The Cold Dish by Craig Johnson

Who doesn't love a good murder mystery?

Four things I like:

Mysteries

Humor

Bromances

Western setting/aesthetic

And what does this book have? You guessed it. It’s got all four of those things. 

The book opens with a Wyoming sheriff, Walt, getting a call about the body of a boy being found. This boy, along with three others, was charged with raping a Native American girl a few years prior. While something like that is personal to only a few, nobody liked the boy, so finding the perp isn’t only a matter of investigating a handful of people. 

“Do not get me wrong, Walt, I did not like the kid, but then I do not know anybody who did. If you are looking for a suspect, just open the phone book.”

I’m a pretty observant person with a good memory, but that all goes out the window when I’m reading a mystery book. I’ve watched countless mystery tv shows, but it’s extremely rare when I can solve the riddle before it’s explained. That’s fine by me, I like being surprised in these instances. It’s no different here. Once Walt has the ah-ha moment, I still wasn’t sure who he was going to arrest until he arrived in the driveway, but the explanation for why the person did it wasn’t something that I could’ve necessarily known. After it’s explained I get why the murder was done, but I do think the lead was buried a little too deep. But maybe I’m too entrenched in classic murder mysteries and I expect that the person who did it—while they are the least expected—is on my radar, and this person wasn’t even on the radar. 

It’s a fine case and I liked the chase, but to me this story is more focused on the relationships. I did see bits of the Longmire tv show and what surprised me most about this book is how funny and banter-y it is in comparison. I never got the impression that the show was full of repartee and lightness (or I just saw all the wrong parts).

But here, Walt is not the stereotypical depressed, alcoholic loner I was prepared for; he’s quick-witted, a bit snarky, even-keeled, and with that touch of American country everyday man-ness. I might classify him as just an ordinary guy doing his job, and I like him. 

What makes him even more likable is his bromance with Henry Standing Bear. Their friendship goes back years and they’re very comfortable around each other. Walt’s wife died recently and the renovations on the house he was building for them have stalled and when Henry comes to visit, he decides that Walt needs help. 

“There was a time when this particular lifestyle had its place, the grieving widower valiantly sallying forth through a sea of depression and cardboard. This gave way to the eccentric lawman era, but now, Walt my friend, you are just a slob.”

I hugged my coffee cup a little closer and straightened my robe. “I’m a lovable slob.”

Walt’s not totally against the idea of, you know, not having mouse droppings in his kitchen and when it’s pointed out to him how disgusting and embarrassing his living situation is, he accepts the help. I love Henry for seeing his friend needed help, figuring out what would help him, and then putting the plan in motion. The bromance is further enhanced because they would die to protect each other; that type of bond never goes out of fashion and in this age of entertainment that seems curiously incapable of having guys just be good friends, it makes it all the more heart warming. I’m excited to see more of them in the future books. 

The rest of the cast is kinda huge and it took me a long time to keep everyone apart. There’s not much to say about them; they’re human and sound like it, even if I wasn’t exactly sure of their identity.

Sometimes a chapter begins in the middle of a conversation and the people aren’t immediately identified, so it took me a second to get my bearings and I’d have to go back and reread bits. That’s my biggest quibble about the book: there’s jerks and stutters in the flow of the story, as if you’re expected to instantly find and place the missing pieces. It’s an unnecessary style choice and a bit annoying, but minor, and perhaps not noticeable to every reader. 

Another thing that surprised me is how poetic and flowery-ish the writing is. Normally in these types of books the writing style will have flashes of uniqueness but otherwise keep things pretty average and straightforward. This one’s a cut above other mysteries, but still a far cry from literary fiction or fantasy. 

(Description of a sunset) Broiling waves of small bonfires leapt on top of one another as far as the horizon with injured purples drifting in multilayered, frozen sheets back to the skyline.

The glowing red embers made a checkerboard across the burning wood, and small sparks disappeared up into the darkness of the chimney.

Everything here was old, even the tools on the walls, and it looked like a small rural museum that had gone to seed.

But alongside the artistic eye, it has lots of humor, which made me like this book even more.

I don’t know what the exact physical dynamics are that cause a shower curtain to attach itself to your body when you turn on the water but, since my shower was surrounded on all sides by curtains, I turned on the water and became a vinyl, vacuum-sealed sheriff burrito.

The rest of the cabin was made of lean-tos, which leaned to with such ambition that the outer perimeter of the cabin lay on the ground. I wasn’t sure what Al did for a living, but it was a safe bet it wasn’t carpentry.

With a forefinger he pulled open the small metal box to reveal four fuses that looked as if they hadn’t been changed since Edison was a child.

It was some sort of supposed egg matter that I’m sure had never seen the rear end of a chicken and two grayish meat patties that had never oinked.

(Walt’s reading the work of the English literature major turned newspaper writer.) “In the cold, gray dawn of September the twenty-eighth…” Dickens. “…The slippery bank where the life of Cody Pritchard came to an ignominious end…” Faulkner. “Questioning society with the simple query, why?” Steinbeck. “Dead.” Hemingway.

[The truck] looked like it had been painted with crayons and poorly…We had never taken a trip in it where it had not either broken down, run out, gone flat, overheated, or spontaneously burst into flames.

He felt about Appaloosas the way I felt about his truck; they were here just to piss him off. Henry figured that the reason the Cheyenne had always ridden Appaloosas into battle was because by the time the men got there, they were so angry with the horses they were ready to kill everything. 

Mystery is a genre I always return to and it’s nice to know that even in a genre predicated on shocking the reader, there still exist new ways to surprise and delight me. 

“Well, hell, it’s hunting season, so it’s been soundin’ like a small arms war ever since I got here.”

---

Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to like, comment, share, and subscribe if you haven’t yet! You can show your support by upgrading to a paid subscription or leaving a tip on my Buy Me A Coffee page.