Topical and timely. Seamlessly cinematic. It's easy to see how Agatha the Great has outsold all authors save Bill Shakespeare and the various scribes responsible for the Bible itself. Her penchant for sharp, gripping dialogue that reveals character and scene-setting details that propel the plot forward are a delight.

Set in decorative-gourd season, and starting with a murder at the titular party, its first killing won't be its last but is its most inventive. Hercule Poirot, Christie's celebrated detective, helms this affair (or set of them), as with so many of her other mysteries. The story's realism, its lack of adorning or embellishing the tale, makes it all the more compelling; this is a set of events that could happen next to anywhere.

Autumnal descriptions throughout got me into an all-out fall mood, and I eased into casting current celebrities as the characters, something I don't usually do with fiction. (Murder on the Orient Express from a few years ago, with Michelle Pfeiffer, Kenneth Branagh, Leslie Odom Jr. and more probably catalyzed that.) The one thing difficult to do with that is that two or three of Christie's middle-aged female characters mostly melted together in my head.

The reveal here is precisely that, not much of a twist, but it's a reward to the reader. It's gratifying and dramatic, even if one character goes against type for allowing it to happen. Probably not Christie at her best – I've otherwise read just And Then There Were None by her – but a fun, quick jam of a Halloweekender.