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New York Times bestselling author
Joy Fielding
is the mistress of the "taut suburban thriller"(Kirkus Reviews). Now Fielding unnerves readers with a richly layered page-turner that swings from haunting intrigue to electrifying suspense in the space of a heartbeat.
PUPPET
Living a no-strings-attached life in glamorous Palm Beach, beautiful, steely-nerved criminal attorney Amanda Travis knows exactly what she likes: spinning classes, the color black, and one-night stands. Here's what she dislikes: the color pink, nicknames...and memories. Which is why she has shut the door on two ex-husbands, her estranged mother, and her hometown of Toronto. Then comes the news that will shatter Amanda's untouchable world: her mother, who has always held a strange power over everyone she encounters, has shot and killed a complete stranger. Forced to return to Toronto, Amanda must confront her demons and unravel the truth behind her mother's violent act -- while the taunting, teasing name from her past dances in her head...Puppet...telling her that someone else is orchestrating her fate.
Includes an excerpt from Mad River Road, Joy Fielding's riveting new novel -- coming soon in hardcover from Atria Books
- Sales Rank: #2549640 in Books
- Brand: Pocket Star
- Published on: 2005-12-01
- Released on: 2005-11-22
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.50" h x 1.30" w x 4.13" l, .68 pounds
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 496 pages
- Great product!
Review
"Fielding is a master of anticipation and tension."
-- The Globe and Mail (Toronto)
About the Author
Joy Fielding is the New York Times bestselling author of Now You See Her, The Wild Zone, Still Life, Charley’s Web, Heartstopper, Mad River Road, Puppet, Lost, Whispers and Lies, Grand Avenue, The First Time, See Jane Run, and other acclaimed novels. She divides her time between Toronto and Palm Beach, Florida. Visit her website at JoyFielding.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Some of the things Amanda Travis likes: the color black; lunchtime spinning classes at the fitness center on Clematis Street in downtown Palm Beach; her all-white, one-bedroom, oceanfront condo in Jupiter; a compliant jury; men whose wives don't understand them.
Some of the things she doesn't: the color pink; when the temperature outside her condo's floor-to-ceiling windows falls below sixty-five degrees; clients who don't follow her advice; the color gray; being asked to show her ID when she goes to a bar; nicknames of any shape and size.
Something else she doesn't like: bite marks.
Especially bite marks that are deep and clearly defined, even after the passing of several days; bite marks that lie like a bright purple tattoo amidst a puddle of mustard-color bruises; bite marks that are all but smiling at her from the photographs on the defense table in front of her.
Amanda shakes blond, shoulder-length hair away from her thin face and slips the offending photographs beneath a pad of lined, yellow legal paper, then picks up a pencil and pretends to be jotting down something of importance, when what she actually writes is Remember to buy toothpaste. This gesture is for the jury's benefit, in case any of them is watching. Which is doubtful. Already this morning, she's caught one of the jurors, a middle-aged man with thinning Ronald Reagan-red hair, nodding off. She sighs, drops her pencil, sits back in her chair, and pushes her lips into a pout of disapproval. Not big. Just enough to let the jury know what she thinks of the testimony being given. Which she would like them to believe is not much.
"He was yelling about something," the young woman on the witness stand is saying, one hand absently reaching up to tug at her hair. She glances toward the defense table, pulls the platinum curls away from their black roots, and twists them around square, fake fingernails. "He's always yelling about something."
Again Amanda lifts the pencil into her right hand, adds Stouffer's frozen macaroni and cheese to the impromptu list of groceries she is creating. And orange juice, she remembers, scribbling it across the page with exaggerated flourish, as if she has just remembered a key point of law. The action dislodges the pictures beneath the legal pad, so that once again the photographic impressions of her client's teeth against the witness's skin are winking up at her.
It's the bite marks that will do her in.
She might be able to fudge the facts, obfuscate the evidence, overwhelm the jury with irrelevant details and not always reasonable doubt, but there is simply no getting around those awful pictures. They will seal her client's fate and mar her perfect record, like a blemish on an otherwise flawless complexion, detracting from almost a year of sterling performances on behalf of the poor, the unlucky, and the overwhelmingly guilty.
Damn Derek Clemens anyway. Did he have to be so damn obvious?
Amanda reaches over and pats the hand of the man sitting beside her. Another salvo for the jury, although she wonders if any of them is really fooled. Surely they watch enough television to know the various tricks of the trade: the mock outrage, the sympathetic glances, the disbelieving shakes of the head. She withdraws her hand, surreptitiously rubs the touch of her client's skin onto her black linen skirt beneath the table. Idiot, she thinks behind her reassuring smile. You couldn't have exercised even a modicum of self-control. You had to bite her too.
The defendant smiles back at her, although thankfully, his lips remain closed. The jury will soon be seeing more than enough of Derek Clemens's teeth.
At twenty-eight years old and a wiry five feet ten inches tall, Derek Clemens is the same age and height as the woman selected to represent him. Even their hair is the same shade of delicate blond, their eyes variations of the same cool blue, although hers are darker, more opaque, his paler, sliding toward pastel. In other, more pleasant circumstances, Amanda Travis and Derek Clemens might be mistaken for brother and sister, perhaps even fraternal twins.
Amanda shrugs off the unpleasant thought, grateful, as always, for being an only child. She swivels around in her chair, looks toward the long expanse of windows at the back of the courtroom. Beyond those windows is a typical February day in south Florida -- the sky turquoise, the air warm, the beach beckoning. She fights the urge to wander over to the windows, to lean her head against the tinted glass, and stare out past the Intracoastal Waterway to the ocean beyond. Only in Palm Beach does one find an ocean view from a courtroom to rival the view from the penthouse suite of a top hotel.
Perversely, Amanda would rather be here, in Courtroom 5C of the Palm Beach County Court House, sitting beside some lowlife accused of assaulting his live-in girlfriend -- five counts, no less, including sexual assault and uttering death threats -- than sunbathing on the cool sand next to some underdressed, overnourished snowbird. More than a few minutes of lying on her back with the surf washing over her bare toes is enough to send Amanda Travis screaming for the hot pavement.
"I'd like to retrace the events of the morning of August sixteenth, Miss Fletcher," the assistant district attorney is saying, the deep baritone of his voice drawing Amanda's attention back to the front of the courtroom as easily as a lover's seductive sigh.
Caroline Fletcher nods and continues playing with her overly bleached hair, her surgically amplified bosom straining against the buttons of her perversely conservative blue blouse. It helps the defendant's case that the woman Derek Clemens is accused of assaulting looks like a stripper, although in fact, she works in a hairdressing salon. Amanda smiles with the knowledge this is less important than the image being projected. In law, as in so much of life, appearance counts far more than substance. It is, after all, the appearance of justice, and not justice itself, that must be seen to be done.
"August the sixteenth?" The young woman uses her tongue to push the gum she's been surreptitiously chewing throughout her testimony to the side of her mouth.
"The day of the attack," the prosecutor reminds her, approaching the stand and hovering over his star witness. Tyrone King is almost six feet six inches tall with chocolate brown skin and a shiny bald head. When Amanda first joined the law firm of Beatty and Rowe just over a year ago, she heard rumors that the handsome assistant district attorney was a nephew of Martin Luther King's, but when she asked him about it, he laughed and said he suspected all black men in the South named King were rumored to be related to the assassinated leader. "You've testified that the accused came home from work in a foul mood."
"He was always in a foul mood."
Amanda rises halfway out of her chair, voices her objection to the generalization. The objection is sustained. The witness tugs harder on her hair.
"How did this mood manifest itself?"
The witness looks confused.
"Did he raise his voice? Was he yelling?"
"His boss yelled at him, so he came home and yelled at me."
"Objection."
"Sustained."
"What was he yelling about, Miss Fletcher?"
The witness rolls her eyes toward the high ceiling. "He said the place was a mess and that there was never anything to eat, and he was sick of working the midnight shift only to come home to a messy apartment and nothing for breakfast."
"And what did you do?"
"I told him I didn't have time to listen to his complaints, that I had to go to work. And then he said there was no way I was going out and leaving him with the baby all day, that he needed his sleep, and I told him that I couldn't very well take the baby with me to a hairdressing salon, and it just went on from there."
"Can you tell us what happened exactly?"
The witness shrugs, her tongue pushing the gum in her mouth nervously from one cheek to the other. "I don't know exactly."
"To the best of your recollection."
"We started screaming at each other. He said I didn't do nothing around the apartment, that I just sat around on my bony ass all day, and that if I wasn't going to do any cooking or cleaning, then the least I could do was get down on my knees and give him a..." Caroline Fletcher stops, straightens her shoulders, and looks imploringly at the jury. "You know."
"He demanded oral sex?"
The witness nods. "They're never too tired for that."
The seven women on the jury chuckle knowingly, as does Amanda, who hides her smile inside the palm of her hand and decides against objecting.
"What happened then?" the prosecutor asks.
"He started pulling me toward the bedroom. I kept telling him no, I didn't have time, but he wasn't listening. Then I remembered this movie I saw on TV where the girl, I think it was Jennifer Lopez, I can't remember for sure, but anyway, this guy was attacking her, and she realized that the more she struggled, the more turned on he got, and the worse things got for her, so she stopped struggling, and that kind of threw him off guard, and she was able to escape. So I decided to try that."
"You stopped struggling?"
Again Caroline Fletcher nods. "I kind of went all weak, like I was giving in, and then, as soon as we got to the bedroom door, I pushed him out of the way, ran inside the room, and locked the door."
"And what did Derek Clemens do then?"
"He was so mad. He started banging on the door, yelling that he was going to kill my ass."
"And how did you interpret that?"
"That he was going to kill my ass," Caroline Fletcher explains.
Amanda stares directly at the jury. Surely, her eyes are saying, they can't consider this outburst a serious death threat. She grabs her pencil, adds bran flakes to her makeshift list of groceries.
"Go on, Miss Fletcher."
"Well, he was banging on the door and screaming, and so, of course, Tiffany woke up and started crying."
"Tiffany?"
"Our daughter...
Most helpful customer reviews
23 of 24 people found the following review helpful.
A good fast read
By Annie
Joy Fielding has written many popular books in the past years such as Grand Avenue and Whispers and Lies and I think Lost is sure to be another hit.
Puppet opens with us meeting Amanda Travis, a main character you certainly are not going to love. She is an up and coming attorney living in Florida who is twice divorced, does not like losing cases, and thinks it is ok to sleep with married men.
Out of the blue, her first ex husband Ben calls from Toronto to tell her that her estranged mother has been arrested for shooting a stranger in the Four Season Hotel and he would like her to come home to help. After much deliberation and some extra heat from past relationships knocking at her door, Amanda decided to take a quick trip home. Ben takes Amanda to see her mother the day after she arrives only to be told that her mom, Gwen does not want any kind of defense. She just wants to plead guilty and take her sentence. Being the attorney that she is, Amanda can't take that as an option so she starts digging around to find out the truth behind the shooting. What Amanda gets is a whole lot more than she bargained for when the truth about her past starts catching up to her and life will never be the same.
Puppet was a very quick read with a lot of dialog so be forewarned if you do not like that format in a book. For those of you who have read many of Joy Fieldings past books you will not be surprised to know that she once again throughs in a zinger that you would not have originally guessed and thats all I am saying.
7 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
A good thriller (not to be misread)
By Glenn Hopp
It's surprising how many readers commenting here seem to feel that the main character in a popular novel always must be a real role model or at least someone with minor or understandable flaws. The white-hat syndrome. Why is that? Here, Joy Fielding clearly presents a main character who is not very admirable or very happy, either. The character's fast mind and quick wit keeps us turning pages, but the author does not intend for the reader to look up to or admire the main character, as shown by her bitterness and unhappiness. (Probably she doesn't want her condemned outright, either--just accepted as a character.) It's too bad that so many people gave up on the book just because the main character is who she is. The plot explores how she became the cynical, self-destructive person she is, what experiences made her who she is. The author is not endorsing such behavior, or else the character would not be so dark and brooding. It is kind of silly to judge a novel like a person for its supposed morality or immorality, anyway, but if you are going to do that, the judgment should be based not on what the subject is (a woman whose life ignores traditional morality) but on what attitude the book takes toward that subject. The attitude here is analytical--to show how she became the way she is (and how, in a very cliched happy ending) she eventually gets beyond all of this behavior to a new beginning.
Popular fiction can seem to cover such extremes (fantasy, history, horror, romance), but all of that, I guess, is really misleading because underneath whatever genre is being used, the range is really pretty constricting--all readers seem to want is a main character who is supergood, someone to look up to, no matter how unrealistic that may be or how unsuitable it is for the kind of conflict that makes for interesting fiction. Readers should consider widening their expectations from the novels they read. Books can provide a role model to look up to--and sometimes other types of people, too, people who can be better understood as we see their pasts. In the book An Experiment in Criticism, C.S. Lewis talked about people who "use" literature for "egoistic castle-building" rather than surrender themselves to the book they are reading open-mindedly. He makes a good point.
8 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
Fabulous Intrigue!
By Marion
I have to admit that this book started out a little slow, but the minute the pace picked up, it never slowed down until the shocking, surprising ending. If you enjoy suspense, you'll love this well-plotted tale of a dysfunctional family full of hidden secrets!
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