Back when we lived in Arkansas, when we moved into our little house in Morrilton, we found some interesting stuff in the attic, covered in a deep layer of dust. To whit: acres of tables with remnants of toy railway track nailed to them, boxes of opera magazines from the 40s and boxes of hardback three-detective-novels-to-a-volume books. Apparently the trains belonged to the husband and the opera and detective reading belonged to the old lady who had most recently died. Jami devoured many of the detective novels (which tended to the somewhat hard-boiled) and we brought them with us to Michigan and had them until a periodic book purge banished them. Turns out, they were part of a book-of-the-month club. Well guess what? (Actually, you don't have to guess, because she's already told you if you were paying attention.) Jami's joined her own detective book club. And the first exciting package arrived today:
Certainly less dusty and moldy-smelling than the last one.
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