A shiver down the spine and a shadow near the door...

Since I was a child I've been in love with mystery. Secrets, intrigue, adventure... and this little man with an egg-shaped head and a tidy little mustache named Hercule Poirot. The opening credits fascinated me with this alluring song that pulled me into the 20s and 30s. In the BBC series I prefer, David Suchet portrays the Belgian detective perfectly. I started reading the books in junior high school. I'd read Nancy Drew and some other mystery series, but I had never experienced the mind of Agatha Christie. It's like saying I'd never tasted chocolate. Her writing is a delicacy, known for such dark richness that as you taste it you can think of nothing else. She is a cunning observer of people; she knows how we will think as we step through her tale. Most mysteries I read I can tell in the first few chapters who the culprit is because of some obvious supposed-foreshadowing the author tried to make subtle (failing to do so). And by the time I get to the end, the story has been a weight on me and with each page I wanted to slap its sleuth on the head at their inability. But, not with Miss Agatha. I have to tiptoe across her details, trying to out-think her, trying to perceive what she has placed there to mislead me and what she has hidden behind a word to give me a hint of suspicion in the right direction. Sometimes I am correct in my guesses. But she can still get me; I still finish the book wondering how I'd missed so many things. Especially with the final Poirot novel, Curtain -- don't read it until you've read all the others. I have goosebumps at this moment at the memory. The mention of mystery will still make my eyes widen with interest, but my heart is Agatha's all the way.
Just another piece of me.