Over the weekend that wasn't much at all, but in the little time I did get to pick up a book it seemed most often to be of the creepy thriller/mystery persuasion. I wonder what it says about a person who can spend endless hours reading these sorts of books? Best not go there. As long as they're not too 
violent anyway.
The Sister, Poppy Adams. I mentioned this one before. Set in England in the 50s it's about two sisters in an idiosyncratic family. Early on we learn of a terrible accident that leaves one sister unable to have children. This story is really sort of creepy, and it's made more so by the fact that the father and one of the daughters spends nearly all their time studying moths. It's not that moths are inherently creepy, but the author writes about them (or the sister talks about them) in such vivid and sometimes uncomfortable detail that it adds to the overall weird effect Adams so successfully portrays. And I'm intrigued by the narrator. Something's not right with her, but I can't quite figure it out. There have been clues and I have a few ideas, but we'll see if any of them pan out as I am ready for a few twisty turns in this story.
A Fatal Inversion, Barbara Vine. I know I've gushed about Ruth Rendell/Barbara Vine before. I can't help myself--she's really that good. This is less a whodunit than a whydonit. I already know a woman and her child has been murdered. Their skeletons have been discovered in a pet cemetery in what was once a great estate. And I know who was living there for one, what seemed like perfect, summer in the 70s. I think I even might know who pulled the trigger, though I could be wrong. What I don't know is why any of it happened. With her usual taut plotting Vine is slowly revealing what happened that summer ten years ago. It's the psychological aspect that keeps me turning the pages of this novel, but knowing how Barbara Vine works, I am still expecting the unexpected to happen at the end.
Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier. I hadn't forgotten what a good book this is, but rereading reminds me of just how good of a writer Daphne du Maurier could be. I know that she didn't want to be known only as a writer of Gothic romance but preferred to be respected for her more serious fiction, but there is nothing fluffy about Rebecca. I think it may easily be one of my top ten reads this year and is certainly now going to be a favorite. It's the first book by du Maurier I ever read, and that was ages ago. Although I remember the major plot twists, I'm afraid the details faded long ago. It's almost like reading it for the first time. I'm trying hard to read this one slowly so I can savor it.
I only wish I could have escaped somewhere over the weekend for a few quiet hours of uninterrupted reading. Now it's back to squeezing in book time here and there. I am still working on my nonfiction and a couple other novels. I need to pick up some of my short story collections that I'm supposed to be working on, as they seem to have been slighted of late. Perhaps less computer time later? I need a second set of eyes, or a few extra hours in the day. Don't we all, though!