Armistead Maupin, Mary Ann in Autumn. Definitely better than Michael Tolliver Lives, which I found disappointing and canon-altering, but failed to entirely capture what made the original six boosk so interesting. Maupin's writing has become more serious and less madcap, less freewheeling and fantastic, over time. Which doesn't make it less good, but it's a different book. It may well be his commentary on the times - perhaps he found the '70s more freewheeling and madcap than the 2000s. I liked the book, but I didn't love it.
Caleb Carr, The Italian Secretary. I couldn't do it. I like Caleb Carr a lot, but I have strong opinions about authors writing in other authors' universes. Essentially, it's fan fiction, and therefore, should not be publishable. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and anyone else would do better writing a Victorian mystery with their own detective.
Melissa Wiley, Little House in the Highlands. This is the first in the Martha series, about Laura Ingalls Wilder's great-grandmother growing up in Scotland. It captures the feeling of the Little House books pretty well and is a lively and detailed read.
Elizabeth Peters, The Mummy Case. The third installment in the Peabody/Emerson mysteries, and highly entertaining. It's not entirely realistic - their son, for example, is precocious beyond the level of disbelief - but still well written, their relationship and personalities are vivid and amusing, and who doesn't love a good Egyptian archaeology mystery?
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