Much Ado About Murder (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries, #7)

by Steffanie Holmes

Heathcliff glowered. “To quote Hamlet, Act III, Scene III, Line 87, ‘No’.”

“It’s finally happened,” Morrie moaned dramatically, placing his hand against Heathcliff’s forehead. “All that internalized rage has loosened his brain cells. He’s lost his noodles. The Stilton cheese has slipped off his cracker. The wheel is spinning, but the hamster is dead⁠—”

– reading Ulysses is like unprotected sex; it’s fun at first, but after four weeks you’re praying for a period.”

People like Rasmussen make me so angry when they make out that classic literature is somehow this deep art form that can only be understood by a select few, when really they’re just plays filled with gore and special effects and fart jokes.”

“Please, this is Argleton,” Mrs. Ellis tsked. “We live in a typical English murder village. No one dies of natural causes here. They’re either impaled with garden trowels by disgruntled neighbors or poisoned by elderflower wine at the fete or exsanguinated by literary vampires come to life. What I want to know is, will I have to spring you from jail so we can chase down the killer and bring them to justice? I’ve been practicing opening locks with my crochet hooks…”