My resolution this year was to read more new books, and, like most new year’s resolutions, it seems to have fallen by the wayside as spring gets into stride, and I cuddle up, for what feels like the thousandth time, in one of Agatha Christie’s cozy mysteries. The Tuesday Club Murders is not, by any definition, a new book. It was first published in 1932, and I have probably read it at least six times in the last 20 years. Even the edition I’m reading was printed in 1963. Agatha Christies are like comfort food for me, maybe not precisely nutritious, but soothing and warm at bedtime like a cup of hot cocoa. When real life gets a bit overwhelming, it’s nice to escape into a nice, neat jigsaw puzzle of a whodunit, guided by the sure hand of prim, grandmotherly Miss Marple (in this case). Even when the supporting cast is being killed off by the bushel (in the most wildly imaginative and improbable ways!), you know that everything is going to turn out just fine.