LAVENDER HOUSE

LEV AC ROSEN writes books for people of all ages, including Camp, which was a best book of the year from Forbes, Elle, and The Today Show, among others, and is a Lambda finalist and ALA Rainbow List Top Ten. He lives in NYC with his husband and a very small cat. You can find him online at his website and on social media.

Author Website

“Rosen’s deftly clued, noir-tinged plot successfully walks the line between hope and heartbreak, all while thoughtfully exploring the role of family in our lives. This fresh take on the classic private investigator begs to be brought to the big screen.” –Library Journal, starred review

“This book’s real pleasure lies in the richly realized portrayal of its cast and their personal struggles. Rosen puts a welcome gay spin on the traditional country house whodunit.” –Publishers Weekly

“Readers who love queer history, complicated family dynamics, flawed characters and a good murder mystery will be eager for more. Perfect for fans of Knives Out, Lavender House is a queer, mid-century take on the family-centric murder mystery showcasing Lev AC Rosen’s masterful character development.” –Shelf Awareness

“Tightly spun and utterly immersive, Lev AC Rosen delivers a deliciously twisty and queer whodunnit in Lavender House. With a mid-century mystery as sprawling as its titular mansion, the velvet knives in this one are sharp as hell.” –P. J. Vernon, author of Bath Haus

“Funny, heartbreaking and eye-opening, Rosen’s Lavender House is unlike any crime novel I’ve ever read.” –Rachel Howzell Hall, bestselling author of These Toxic Things

“Ingenious, riveting, and utterly heartbreaking– Philip Marlowe meets Agatha Christie meets Knives Out in this twisty and sophisticated take on mid-century noir. A perfectly crafted locked-mansion mystery—starring an irresistible main character who reveals the passions and pretenses of his time, as well as the dark secrets of a captivating family. Lavender House is an absolute treasure, and Lev AC Rosen is a star. Standing ovation!” –Hank Phillippi Ryan USA Today bestselling author of Her Perfect Life

1. Lavender House takes place in the Bay Area in the 1950s. How does the author establish the historical realities of the time for LGBTQ+ people, and moreover, how does this setting impact our early understandings of the novel’s characters, most notably Andy?

2. Murder mysteries are known for secrecy, deception, and clues. How does the novel’s primarily LGBTQ+ cast add to the murder mystery genre, specifically the characters’ need for secrecy?

3. The novel’s main setting, Lavender House, is described as both a haven and prison. For Pearl, for instance, it is a haven, while Cliff feels it is a prison. Why do various characters have such different experiences of Lavender House, and how does that influence who we believe killed Irene?

4. As Andy investigates the murder, he encounters both homophobia and LGBTQ+ allies in the most unlikely of places. How do these encounters impact Andy and his sense of self-acceptance throughout the novel?

5. Family, whether chosen, through marriage, or through blood, is a recurring motif within the text. What role does family play in advancing Andy’s mission to investigate Irene’s murder?

6. At Lavender House, Alice is the only straight person who lives there, and as she claims, she believes that the LGBTQ+ family is a farce and that LGBTQ+ relationships are “perverse.” What do you think of Alice’s choice to remain at the Lavender House? Do you think that the LGBTQ+ members of the house have a responsibility to make Alice feel welcome, particularly as she is the biological mother of one of the LGBTQ+ house members?

7. From the beginning of the novel, we witness Andy’s suicidal ideations, even as they wax and wane across the novel. What role does suicide and violence—for example, Andy’s gay bashing in San Francisco—play in the novel, specifically as it impacts Andy’s character development?

8. How, if at all, are depictions of homophobia in the novel balanced with more hopeful representations of LGBTQ+ living and thriving? Does the author of Lavender House have a responsibility to represent queer history with accuracy, even as this is a work of fiction?

9. The novel concludes with parallel murders, and two matriarchs each kill in the name of family. How are these two murders similar and different, and which if either of these murders might be considered an act of justice?

ONE

I thought I’d have the place all to myself, this early. Like church on a Tuesday—no one but you and God—or in my case, the bartender. But there’s a guy and girl, high school kids or maybe just twenty, sitting at one of the booths in the back. They’re trying to keep their voices low, but he’s failing, getting angry. Something about wiener dogs. It’s weird the things people fight over.

He pounds the table and she whimpers a little. I sigh, feel my body shifting to get up. I don’t have to do this anymore. Hell, no one even wants me to. That’s why I was fired. But some habits you can’t break. So I down what’s left of my martini, motion the bartender to pour another, and stand up and go to the back of the place, where he’s holding her wrist, tight. Her arm is stretching like a shoelace as she tries to stand up, but he won’t let go. On her other wrist, she’s wearing a charm bracelet. Just a few charms: An eagle, that’s a mascot for one of the local schools, with “1950” under it, so she graduated two years ago. A book, so she’s a reader. A wiener dog, for her pet, I’m guessing, and the source of the argument. And an apple. Teacher’s favorite, or she just really likes apples, maybe. Not enough life lived for many charms. Not enough to cover the bruise, either.

“I think the lady wants to go,” I tell him. I’ve had enough to drink that I sound like a two-bit tough guy. Maybe I am a two-bit tough guy.

“Mind your own business, pal,” he says. He talks like he’s seen too many mobster movies. Or maybe he’s just trying to match me.

“Miss, you want to leave?” I ask her, looking past him.

“Hey, hey, mister, don’t ignore me,” the kid says. I keep my eyes on the girl.

She nods, but doesn’t say anything, so I reach out and I pull back his finger from her wrist, hard. He yelps in pain but she gets loose and runs out of the bar, the little bell on the door jingling as it closes behind her.

“It’s too early for this, fellas,” the bartender says, the words coming out of him in one long sigh.

“I was just helping the lady,” I say, turning my back on the kid, walking back to the bar. I know he’s going to come up behind me, so I wait till I feel him, then spin and catch the fist as it connects with my shoulder. Not that hard. Just enough I wheeze a little, which makes him smile, like he’s won something. I don’t like that smile. Reminds me too much of the mirror. So I grab his wrist and yank his arm back.

“Hey, hey,” the kid says, “fuck you.”

He swings with his other fist, so I catch that one, too, and turn him around, holding his arms behind him.

“You can’t do this!” the kid says. He looks over at the bartender, who keeps his eyes on the glasses in front of him. The kid stares as I march him to the door and then turns his head around to look at me. “You’re drinking martinis? This early? That’s cool, man. I can buy you one. We can talk this out.”

I roll my eyes, kick the door open, and push him out of it, onto the ground. He goes face first, but I know he’ll just have a scrape. I’ve done this enough—before. Sometimes it makes me feel better, helping, like I’ve done some good in the world. Not today, though. Probably for the best. Might make me reconsider my plans.

He stares at me, the sun beating down on him and the concrete, like he’s waiting for me to say something.

“Don’t be rude to women,” I announce, loud enough someone across the street looks over. It’s the best I’ve got. I hiccup. Then I grin, ’cause I’m pretty drunk and I still managed to toss him out. And because I have another martini waiting for me.

“Screw you,” he says, getting back up, but it sounds weak and he knows it. I turn around and bounce off the glass door of the bar, which has closed behind me. There goes my heroic exit. The kid starts laughing, but I step back, rub my nose, and turn the handle, walking back in, the kid still cackling behind me.

I take my seat and drink the new martini in front of me in one swallow. The bartender looks at me like I’m the sorriest sight in San Francisco, and maybe he’s right, but I try not to let it show. I lift my chin and order another, keeping my voice even, proud. I’m proud to be in this bar at 2 p.m. on a Monday. I’m proud to have thrown some kid out on the street, even though it’s not my job anymore. Hell, I’m proud to be jobless, blacklisted. I’m proud to have just ordered my fifth drink. I’m probably not fooling anyone, but I can try. He mixes it for me turned away, and if he makes a face, I can’t see it. And with the kids gone, no one else is around to judge. I tap my fingers slowly on the bar. I’m patient. I have all day—that’s the plan: drink all day so when it’s dark, and no one will notice, I’ll be drunk enough to pitch myself into the bay.

I like the bay for it. It’s how Jan Westman was found. I remember looking at her on the shore of Stinson Beach, when we still thought it was just a case of a drunk falling into the bay. She looked peaceful. She hadn’t been in the water more than a night. Her skin was pale, a little blue, her eyes closed by the old man who found her and called in the local police, who called us after finding her ID. He’d folded her arms over her chest, too, and Lou said it was morbid, but I thought she looked relaxed, at ease with what had happened. I was actually surprised when her blood came back sober and we had to look at it as murder, and then when we caught the guy and found out what had been done to her. If a night in the water can wash away trauma, make a body like hers look serene, I think it can at least do it halfway for me.