In English Murder Villages, vats exist for the express purpose of drowning people – in beer, in pickling brine, in whiskey, in jam. This is doubly true if the vat was built by fourteenth-century monks.
Hello, Alice,” Stevie said. “It’d okay. It’s over.
Nothing is longer than a little while.
It was a deathtrap, a meandering thread of madness. It suggested that there was something about English people that she may never understand.
This was England. There was always rain in the future.
He was usually her companion in avoiding things, but tonight he was letting her down. His fingers hadn’t stopped moving all night.
This is about real people, not figures from fiction. I know this crime is popular – that crime itself is popular. But crime has a human face. If you’re going to study crime, you have to remember the people involved.
In Vermont, there is maple syrup in it – it doesn’t matter what it is. Cake. Ice cream. Coffee. Soup. Mustard. Concrete.
There was the thing about romantic feelings- the sensation was incredible, like a warm flood through every highway and byway of her body. Every good chemical she could produce turned up, like some bountiful harvest. But the feelings and chemicals blocked out everything else. They dulled logic and sense and focus. They made everything else seem irrelevant and time started to move jerkily too fast, then too slow.
Once threw a mug of tea at a policeman.
It was a good brain, but it had only two modes – fog and frenzy.
They all seemed to have a deep, penetrating knowledge of everything going on in the world – politics, art, books, music. They all sounded so self-assured. That wasn’t surprising, considering that they were older and successful.
They’re English,” David said, sitting on the bed. “That keep calm and carry on thing is real. You know. Don’t talk about stuff that’s bad. Talk about tennis! That’s how they are.
Stevie packed like someone who just heard that reports of the monster were true, and it was headed toward the city.
I kind of love it,” Nate said, looking around. “It looks like the moisture farm that Luke Skywalker lives on.
The idea that Izzy had a full life that didn’t revolve around David had somehow never occurred to Stevie. Love made her stupid.
Could you burn logs after a murder?
Nate was a rain cloud, but he was her friendly rain cloud, and the world needs some rain.
Stevie had never put these Stevies together to assemble a portrait of herself – her choices had not been failures. They had been choices. It was all one Stevie, and that Stevie was worthwhile.
Three: Izzy made it sound like Stevie was Wikipedia Holmes, a walking, talking, deducing database that ate true crime and spat out justice.
Stevie quickly surmised that this was one of those cases where she sounded weird if she explained, but far more weird if she did not.