There is something deliciously satisfying about curling up with a mystery in which the smartest person in the room is not a badge-wearing detective but an apparently ordinary soul whose greatest weapons are curiosity and kindness. From the first page or first frame we know the police will arrive with clipboards and caution tape, yet deep down we are already waiting for the unqualified outsider—someone who bakes scones for the church fête or files library cards—to sidle into the case and quietly outwit everyone in authority. That spark of anticipation is what keeps me turning pages and hitting “next episode,” because nothing warms the heart quite like seeing a regular neighbour refuse to let evil have the final word.

When readers think of cosy mysteries, it’s the amateur sleuths, charming villages, and twisty plots that usually spring to mind. But every seasoned fan knows that the true magic of the genre lies in its cast of side characters—the maids, gardeners, shopkeepers, and porters who quietly shape the story from the shadows. These are the unsung heroes, the lifeblood of any good cosy mystery.

As a lifelong reader of cosy mysteries, I’ve often marvelled at how these stories manage to blend the sadness of loss with a comforting sense of hope. Every book begins with a tragedy—someone is gone, a crime has shattered the peace—but somehow, by the final page, I feel uplifted rather than weighed down. How do these authors manage to take something as heavy as grief and turn it into something that feels, well, warm?

There’s something deliciously fun about curling up with a cosy mystery, tea in hand, ready to unravel a puzzle alongside a clever amateur sleuth. But for me, the real magic happens when the author leads me down the garden path—only to gently pull the rug out from under me at the last moment. That’s the joy of red herrings.