Sometimes quality and taste do not overlap. For instance, I have every reason to believe that The White Cockatoo (1934) by Mignon G. Eberhart is a very good book, but given that it veers far more heavily into the suspense/HIBK/EIRF schools of writing rather than anything qualifing as detection it’s not especially to my taste. It’s well- (if perhaps a little over-) written, has some good atmosphere, and introduces in the eponymous bird Pucci an unusual twist that enlivens the eventual resolution…but amidst all the mysterious happenings — sinister hotelier, sinister guests, sinister wind, sinister banging shutters, sinister everything — it’s just a bit too bland for my palate.
If you’re anything like me, well, how do you manage? But also you probably have a book-buying compulsion which so-called “specialists” refuse to diagnose as a medical condition despite the prospect of going two weeks without adding to your TBR being sufficient to make you rush out and do something regrettable like snatching up a Gladys Mitchell omnibus.