A Good Mystery Book Novels & Stories

I protested to my parents in either skipping the school or transferring to another school but they forced me to be here as this is the only school which is best. I reserved a place in one of the seats available though nobody was there. I kept my bag and went in search of a nice book. I went to the thriller books section and searched for a book, perfect for reading at this moment. ‘The black coffee’ by Agatha Christie, the great author, caught my eyes as I wanted to read this book for a very long time but I didn’t get to.

I wake up the next morning with my head buzzing. I had been up most of the night trying to figure all of this out. None of it made sense. It's not fair, on the crime shows and on the mystery books all of the pieces fit together perfectly if you really think about it, why doesn't this? Stupid life, it's time to be more like a book.

A moment later, a piece of paper slid through the narrow gap beneath my door. The footsteps retreated in haste. I peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty. I didn't touch the note, afraid of smudging fingerprints. Instead, I crouched and read the words on it: I know the truth about Edmund's death. Come to the big banyan tree in Greenfield Residences at 11 p.m. Don't call the police. The note was crafted with meticulous care—letters cut out from newspapers and books, pieced together like a ransom demand, leaving no trace of handwriting.

Her eyes brightened at the sight of the books. “Good morning, dear. Any recommendations for a book to curl up with?” she asked, voice warm but tinged with hesitation. I folded my novel shut and looked up, offering her the practiced smile that hid the iron beneath. “Depends on what you like. Something light? Something dark?” She hesitated, then said, “Dark, but with hope.” I tapped a book nearby, The Night Circus. “This one weaves mystery and magic, but underneath, it’s a story about trust and power.”

The bookstore smells like it always has—old paper, lavender sachets tucked between shelves, the faint metallic tang of the ancient radiator that clanks every twelve minutes. Elena's already in our corner when I arrive. Second floor. Mystery section. The window seat we claimed sophomore year when we discovered this place and decided civilized people read mysteries in natural light. She's got coffee. Two cups. Mine's still steaming. I take it without speaking. Sip. Perfect. "Ten minutes late." Elena doesn't look up from the window. "Parallel parking a moving truck on Seventh?"

I go dreamy; oblivious of whom I'm talking to. "Are you sure Northanger Abbey is what you want?" Liam asks, as though trying to correct my scruple. Well . . . Looking around, I spot a few of Danielle Steels' books and she's one of my favorite authors. "Can I just have Malice?" I ask, and Liam doesn't budge for a minute. I try to keep calm, watching him moving graciously, before he plucks a well preserved copy of Malice. I think I'm going to stick with the latter tonight. It was my first novel to read, so it's kind of exciting to reread it.

I didn't notice that I said that out loud until she slapped my arm and frowned. "Nancy Drew will forever be the best mystery book, hands down. It is iconic" "Hmmm ... okay crazy lady. But I just think Hardy boys are much better. Nancy Drew always has one storyline. You can easily predict what is going to happen. There's never anything new." "I see you've read a few of her books," she says crossing her arms. "As long as You've read them, I'm fine with that" she replied smiling. "Your cousin, Suzanne, tell me about her. How'd she end up in a coma?" I glanced at her, she bit down on her lips hard, then looked up at me.

Then there were his psychology books and books on wilderness craft. His gaze fell on a small cluster of volumes of English literature, some that Faith had convinced him to try. While he couldn't bring himself to read them, he hadn't been able to part with them, either. The top shelf held an extensive collection of contemporary bestsellers, and it was one of those he chose, a mystery thriller, as he heard the first roll of thunder. "Yep, Bear, it seems like a 'dark and stormy night' kind of night." He gave the dog a pat as he settled down in his chair.

She felt a connection to history as she did, and it made her feel alive. She also couldn’t help feeling, every time she picked up a book, that it held a riddle, some mystery to be solved—and that thrilled her. For some reason, she had always felt that there was a mystery lingering in her consciousness, something she needed to solve. She didn’t know what. It didn’t make sense, and that bothered her. When she worked on a rare book, at least she could solve clues she couldn’t put her fingers on in real life.

A shower and change of clothing are in order before I pick up Ava. I fight the urge to send multiple apologetic texts to Ava’s phone as the day passes. I make a quick stop at the condo, Ellie lets me in and then I swing by the book emporium for something special. Ellie had informed me there is a new murder mystery book out that Ava is dying to get her hands on. It just released a week ago, and she hasn’t had a payday to splurge. The shopkeeper is happy to see me, as he apparently doesn’t get a whole lot of new faces in his building. I ask for the book and wait. “I have one last copy, but it’s a hardcover and signed by the author, so it’ isn’t cheap,” he says, locating the book in question be