I made it to my 30s before reading a book by Agatha Christie. Why did I wait? No idea. My high-school self would have loved Murder on the Orient Express. As much as I enjoyed Sherlock Holmes, I resented when a case was solved via clues that weren’t accessible to the reader. Unlike Arthur Conan Doyle, Christie lets the reader play along.
From the back cover:
Just after midnight, the famous Orient Express is stopped in its tracks by a snowdrift. By morning, the millionaire Samuel Edward Ratchett lies dead in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside. One of his fellow passengers must be the murderer.