Author Harry Shannon takes a detour from his "NIGHT OF" trilogy (Beast, Werewolf, and the upcoming Demon) to turn in a completely winning, engaging first mystery. Memorial Day isn't a strict whodunit or howdunit, though it masquerades as the former. It's located squarely in the grey area between the noir school and that of the breezier, more modern mysteries—as well as playing off a long-standing amateur sleuth tradition. Shannon's sleuth, Mick Callahan, is no detective or cop. He's no private dick. No, he's a disgraced and defrocked television therapist—not your usual tough guy! Think a slicker, more photogenic Dr. Phil. But Shannon wisely hedges his bets and makes Callahan a washed-out Navy SEAL and one time kid boxer—enough pedigree for him to get into fights most of us would eagerly avoid. Over and over again. In the best tough guy tradition, Mick gets the snot beaten out of him fairly often . . . but he gets his licks in, too.

Currently stuck in a temp small-time radio therapist gig (like Frasier Crane, "he's listening . . .") in a one-horse town in the middle of nowhere, the kind of place Shannon excels at describing, Mick gets a couple of suspicious on-air calls from women. Since the beginning of his career implosion was due to a woman whose call he didn't take seriously enough, and because he recognizes one of the callers as the daughter of the town's big-cheese weirdo shady rich patriarch (whose fortune is suspect along with his wheelchair-bound health), he is determined to help her. The son's a snotty layabout druggy with more money and libido than brains, but Mick thinks he can help the sister. Oh, and to complicate matters, she's the town strumpet, too, bringing along lots of other people's baggage. When she's murdered after talking to Mick, he assumes responsibility for doling out justice.

As if all this weren't enough, Mick has also literally stumbled onto an execution-style murder which the town's gruff sheriff asked him to cover up. Clearly, the two murders are connected, but how? Suddenly, almost everybody in town seems to have a motive or an opinion. And Mick's in the middle of it, urged to leave by everyone except his conscience—and Jerry, the computer whiz-kid who runs the dumpy motel Mick calls home. Sure, it's a coincidence that computer whiz-bang is needed, but Jerry carries his own weight and the plot device doesn't weigh down the pace any, allowing events to unfold over Memorial Day weekend, after which Mick has to travel for an audition that could revive his career. If only the body of Sandy didn't keep calling out for some sort of closure. Or justice.

And the killer could be anyone, including Sandy's abusive ex-football player boyfriend or any of his psycho henchmen, the old patriarch, his son, the sheriff, Mick's radio buddy, or a half dozen other sparely drawn but colorful locals. All of whom seem to want Mick to disappear—or worse. But now Mick seems to be rekindling a youthful romance, and there's just enough chance he'll make right some of his own wrongs that he's willing to stay.

Shannon keeps the tone just melancholy enough, and the pace lively. Mick, the reluctant sleuth with a past to overcome; Jerry—nerd with a new cause; and Mick's long-distance but very helpful sponsor, all make for an intriguing investigative team. You almost wish they'd just open up an office already, but the crime-solving isn't Shannon's only subject. Taking his own experience as a therapist and applying it to the explosively dysfunctional small-town dynamic allows him to make some Chandlerian observations regarding his environment, imbuing it with an almost Lynchian decadence that, while by no means completely original, still has the power to enthrall, illuminating the dark side of the human condition while entertaining with more than enough crime and violence to make one forget the traditional big city as noir setting. Except for a much too easily cocked crossbow and "arrows" instead of the proper "bolts," Shannon's first mystery signals a new arrival on those wet noir streets, where the gumshoe's conscience is stronger than his greed and whose calling is tilting at windmills. Mick's the sort who goes from suspect to suspect, pretending he knows more than he does, painting a bullseye on his own back. And that's pretty hard-boiled after all. Let's hope he doesn't resurrect his TV career just yet—he should have several investigations left in him after this exhausting case. You'd like to have a beer with Mick Callahan, except that he'd have a soda because he's in the program. Memorial Day reads like a smooth whiskey with a beer back (if you're not in the program).