I love mysteries. I love secret codes. I love the thought of a hidden puzzle that is just waiting, begging to be uncovered.
The real reason I think I love a good mystery is that I’m a terrible detective. Mysteries work spectacularly well on me like a magic trick where I don’t see the sleight of hand. I’ve never met a red herring that didn’t throw me off the scent. I’m as gullible as all heck and take almost anything anyone tells me at face value. I pick up on clues but usually can’t put them all together until Angela Lansbury is halfway through her crime-solving wrap up with all of the possible suspects in the same room. I’m great at pretending I was clued in all along but I promise you I wasn’t. And so, when the murderer or thief is hauled away in handcuffs I am supremely satisfied, my brain thinking back on all the little clues I missed the first time.