If you think you’ve read every type of mystery under the sun, I can guarantee you that you’ve never read anything remotely like Androgynous Murder House Party, which is both a traditional “whodunnit” mixed with a “who-is-it”?
First, the whodunnit part. Independently wealthy Robin Anders, our oh-so-snobbish narrator, is talked into hosting a house party on the outer reaches of Long Island (we assume a Hamptons-type milieu, though Robin never does tell us the name of the town, for fear of bringing the unwanted hordes into the sleepy hamlet). The invitees are a mix of old friends and new; and one would expect good libations, good food, and good conversation in such a venue. Instead, half a dozen attempts are made on Robin’s life–without Robin realizing it, because this character is so self-centered, so vain, so conceited, that the idea of anyone wanting to assassinate him or her is simply inconceivable. When the group returns to Manhattan, Robin goes into hiding for a couple of weeks, only to discover that one of the guests, Lee, has been found dead in the meantime — and that Lee’s current paramour, Pat, also recently kicked the bucket. Could foul play be involved?
Second, the who-is-it part. You may have noticed the characters’ names: Robin, Lee, Pat…there is also Alex, Chris, J, and Terry. Are they male or female? Straight or gay? The narrator alludes to the fact that three are male and three are female; three are straight and three are gay. But it is the reader’s job to figure who is who. There are ample clues to the characters’ genders throughout, and an ending that may or may not answer your questions. (I actually found the ending to be one of the most brilliant and frustrating I’ve ever read.)
It’s hard to do justice to the brilliance of this novel in a review. The mystery is strong, with plenty of red herrings and good clues for the reader to miss (and look back on later and say, “Ah! I should have noticed that!”). New York City, with all its pretensions and changes, is nicely chronicled (and the Lord knows Robin would never be caught dead anywhere else, like the Bronx or New Jersey). Robin Anders is the ultimate amateur sleuth, using his or her connections among Manhattan’s Power Players to get the necessary information; and Robin is certainly not above blackmail or threats if anyone stands in his/her way or retrieving the hairbrush bequeathed to him or her by the deceased. Robin is also the single most self-centered, hypochondriacal, drug-addicted, hilarious narrator I have ever encountered; you simply cannot believe the things that come out of this character’s mouth, as well as his or her self-delusions and extraordinarily high opinion of him/herself. I laughed on almost every page–sometimes in shock, sometimes in recognition, sometimes in horror.
The whole novel rests on Robin’s simultaneous brilliance and cluelessness to propel the action, and you find yourself unable to put the book down because Robin is such a witty, brilliant, bitchy companion–a person who could not exist in your world or mine, but who is probably quite common in the upper echelons of New York society. Just in terms of technical achievement alone, the novel is stunning–Rigolosi manages to write around the genders of the characters so perfectly that you don’t even realize he’s doing it (and then the title of the book hits you, and you say “Ah!”). Androgynous Murder House Party is Oscar Wilde meets Sarah Caudwell, and I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’ll now go on the record: Rigolosi is the heir apparent to Sarah Caudwell, so if you’re a fan of Hilary Tamar–or any other witty, literary, no-hold-barred mysterious treats–then Androgynous Murder House Party is the book for you.
