[These notes were made in 1991:]. This was something of a disappointment, possibly because I was expecting too much. I remembered my delighted surprise when I picked up Buried on Sunday in Robarts, & discovered that the detective, Geoffry Chadwick, was not only gay but Canadian! (He's an anglo in Montreal, very Westmount.) The plot, not very memorable, of this latest effort revolves around (1) drug-dealing and (2) the proposed wedding of Geoffry's niece, and all the various family goings-on around it. The wedding is eventually called off: Douglas, the bridegroom, admits he is gay. And there lies one of my problems - everyone is gay, or just about - and the whole book is self-consciously, endlessly, flippantly full of reference to being gay. "Enough!" I start wanting to say. "We know, already." What bothers me, I guess, is the defensive tone, the need to be so flip. Now, lest all that sound over-negative, I should add that I still quite enjoyed Geoffry's adventures, and there were a few chuckles along the way. It's just that I was hoping for more.