I'm not particularly interested in poisons, or in the birth of forensic medicine, or in the Jazz Age. But writer Deborah Blum had me from the first sentence of Chapter One: "It would, of course, be in the cursed winter of 1915--when ice storms had glassed over the city, when Typhoid Mary had come sneaking back, when the Manhattan coroner was discovered to be skunk-drunk at crime scenes--that the loony little porter would confess to eight poison murders."



Who could resist a sentence like that? Not me. And the rest of the book is just as page-turning and enthralling as the first sentence.



The best nonfiction writing combines a strong point of view with a good story (or series of stories) and a compelling voice. This book has all three. Highly recommended--even if you *think* you're not interested in the subject matter.