Want to start at the beginning? Chapter 1 is HERE.

Miss the last installment? Chapter 8 is HERE.

Chapter 9

A Fiction Unraveling

We pretend we’re invulnerable, that tragedy is for other people. This fiction lets us step into cars, cross streets, and take everyday ordinary risks as if they were nothing—until reality strips our delusions bare.

I lowered myself onto the desk chair, and it creaked beneath me. Someone—Graves?—had targeted me, here, in my home, and they’d come when I was alone. How long had they been watching my cottage?

My hands held steady though as I studied the note. No letters cut from newspapers—only a sloppy, masculine scrawl.

Annoyance rose in my chest. Who the devil had blabbed? For someone must have. I reread the short note:

Stay away from the Barlows.

I hadn’t even told Hayley where I was going, and Carter certainly wouldn’t have talked. My only communication with Beatrice and Edie since my visit had been that single note, shoved through the mail slot in their front door. Not even a postal employee could have seen it.

Which meant Beatrice or Edie must have spoken to someone. Either that, or their home was being surveiled from the inside. The idea was as sinister as it was ridiculous, for who would go to such trouble over a haunted house trick?

Unless it was more than a simple trick.

The whole affair was a paradox of the absurd and the malevolent, of monkeys and shadows. The threat in the note didn’t frighten me. The fact of the note did.

“One of them must have talked,” I muttered.

Rising, I crossed the living room to my gun safe, unlocked it, and withdrew my revolver and a box of ammo. It was unlikely I’d need the whole box. Whether I could put a bullet in someone was another question. To protect myself or an innocent though, I thought I might.

I spun the cylinder, counting the empty chambers, then returned to my bedroom and tucked it and the ammo into my suitcase. I’d grown up with revolvers. They were simpler than semi-automatics and less likely to jam under adverse conditions. And if the situation grew chaotic, that was exactly what I wanted.

I started for the kitchen, and a porch board outside creaked. I stopped mid-step. Was there time to grab the revolver? To load it? I wavered, one hand lifted halfway to my throat in the elegant, horrified, useless pose of an aging damsel in distress.

The door opened, and I inhaled sharply. Hayley barged through like a woman who owned the mortgage, the furniture, and my remaining dignity.

Clearing my throat, I dropped my hand. “You’re back,” I managed.

“Obviously.” Hayley studied me for a beat too long. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Ha.”

I considered asking if she’d seen anyone lurking and discarded the idea. She’d only think I was losing it. But whatever was happening, it wasn’t in my head—or in the imaginations of the Barlow sisters. The note, at least, was real.

The next day, Hayley and I closed up the cottage. She left whistling for her vacation, and I drove to the Barlow’s home.

The murder of crows shifted in the maples as I turned into the drive. In the hard summer light the house now had the air of a grand old matriarch who had withered in her favorite chair, her bones grown brittle with time, the stone holding the memory of family that no longer visited.

I hefted my suitcase from the back seat—ammo is shockingly heavy—my muscles twinging from yesterday’s tennis game. I lurched to the front door, set down the suitcase and lifted my hand to knock.

The door yawned open before I could. Beatrice emerged from the gloom in jeans and a tie-dyed tee. “I saw you from my window. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

“Not at all,” I lied. “It’s lovely to see you, Beatrice.”

Her head bobbed restlessly. “Oh, call me Bea.”

On closer inspection, I saw her face was strained, the skin beneath her eyes dark paper. Had she slept at all last night?

“We were afraid you wouldn’t come,” she continued, gripping the doorknob as if for support.

“But I have come, as you can see,” I said. “Has something happened?”

“The music came again last night.” Her tone lowered. “I don’t think Edie can stand this much longer.”

I glanced over my shoulder. I didn’t like having this conversation on her front step, but we were well back from the street, and she seemed in no hurry to return inside. “Tell me about the music.”

“A banjo, maybe?” She clawed both hands through her graying hair. “It was unnerving, drifting from one room to another as if...”

“As if?”

Her nostrils flared. “As if the house belonged to...to it. I tried to follow, but...”

“You chased it?” I asked, impressed.

Bea blushed. “It seemed the least I could do.”

But not Edie. I bit back a smile. “What tune was our ghost playing?”

“I couldn’t tell. It was hard to hear, as if...as if it came from another dimension.” Bea gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles whitening. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Of course.”

She blinked. “You—really?”

“Really. But the best approach to any investigation is open-minded skepticism. Too often, so-called ghosts have natural rather than supernatural causes. How long did this music go on?”

“Thirty minutes exactly.”

“Did Edie hear it too?”

“Unfortunately, yes. She’s been in bed all morning—I doubt she got a wink of sleep, and truth to tell, I didn’t get much either. I’ll go and wake her.” Bea stepped inside.

“Don’t wake her up on my account,” I said quickly, following her into the foyer.

“But she asked me to.” She shut the door and the light went with it, darkness enveloping the portraits, the empty chairs, the gaping staircase. “She wanted to know as soon as you got here.”

Bea led me to the stairs. “I’ll show you to your room first, and then you can talk to Edie.”

I gritted my teeth. Stairs. Of course my room would be at the top. I was still fit, but my knees crackled in protest as we ascended, the suitcase thudding against my legs.

Bea led me down a long corridor, a bell-bottomed Charon ferrying me down the River Styx. We lumbered past a forest of faded sage wallpaper, its meandering vines groping in the lamplight. She stopped in front of an open, carved wooden door and motioned for me to go ahead of her.

I entered a large bedroom which had thankfully remained planted in the Civil War era. Setting my suitcase on the canopied bed, I surveyed the ornate mahogany bed and dresser set. A red brocade chair sat at an angle to the curtained window.

“Your room is next to mine,” Bea said. “That way, I’ll hear you should anything, er, happen.”

I presumed she wasn’t worried about my, er, aging self falling out of bed. “Excellent.”

“Your room key’s here.” She demonstrated, turning the brass key, and the bolt snicked from the open door. “Since... recent events, Edie and I have begun locking our doors.”

“A sensible precaution.” There was comfort in a lock.

She returned the lock to its open position. “I worry we pushed you into this. If you want to back out, we won’t hold it against you. It’s not worth it for you to hurt yourself or... something.”

The something didn’t worry me. Though a broken hip on those stairs could be my undoing. “I’m here of my own free will and understand the risks.” A part of me looked forward to them. “Besides, I’d rather be here than knocking about my house alone.”

“Alone? I thought you lived with your grandson.”

“Carter’s away in Chicago for the week. He took the train, if you can believe it.”

There was a ping, like a guitar string breaking, and I looked around the room. “What was that?”

She frowned. “What was what?”

“I thought I heard something.”

“I’m afraid that will be one of your challenges. The house has always creaked and groaned. It may take some time for you to sort its normal sounds from paranormal.”

Bea led me down the hall to Edie’s room in what I later learned was the east wing. She knocked.

“Come in,” a weak voice called.

We entered the psychedelic orange bedroom. The only lighting was the morning sunlight seeping through the drawn curtains.

Bea shot me a look I couldn’t decipher. Exasperation? Worry? Resentment?

Edie struggled to sit up in her big bed, the pillows and soft mattress conspiring to suck her back down. A tray of food and a lava lamp sat on an end table beside it.

Bea looked pointedly at the uneaten eggs and bacon.

“Sorry,” her sister said, with a dramatic sigh. “I know you went to trouble to make breakfast for me, but I don’t have much appetite. I’m starting to think what we really need is an exorcist.”

“If so, I know a good one,” I said lightly. “But he’ll need background material before any engagement, so I may as well investigate first. Old houses like this may hold all sorts of secrets.”

“Are you talking about hidden passages?” Bea asked doubtfully. “We’ve grown up here. If there were any, we’d have found them.”

I’d been referring to wi-fi speakers and listening devices, but how I would love to find a secret passage. “It won’t hurt for me to look. Besides, it will be a treat to poke my nose in all the corners of a home as historic as yours. By the way, did you tell anyone about my investigation?”

Bea’s dark eyes widened, rounding. “No. No one.”

Edie stiffened, her birdlike mouth whitening at the corners. “Not even Mildred. You asked us to keep it secret. Did you think we’d break our word?”

I’d offended them, and I hadn’t intended to. “Someone left a note on my porch last night warning me to stay away from you,” I said, contrite.

Edie paled. “But that’s impossible. How could anyone have known you were coming?”

“I’ve no idea.” But I was determined to find out. I exhaled slowly to quell the fluttery feeling in my chest.

Edie and Bea had undoubtedly discussed my investigation with each other. And if these walls had ears, I would find them.

🔍🔍🔍

If you’re enjoying the story, restack this post! A restack helps more than you’d think.

Ellie arrives at Shambala already half-convinced the walls have ears. She asks the sisters point-blank whether they told anyone she was coming; both insist they kept the secret. Do you believe them—or do you think one of them (or the house itself) is already talking?

Watch for Chapter 10 next Saturday, September 5th!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Looking for more after this chapter?

My Mystery School series follows midlife witches navigating secrets, power, and the surreal.

Start here → Legacy of the Witch

Rising and Falling Action: Chapter 9 of The Hidden Staircase

In honor of my favorite time of year, Autumn, I’ve got a game for you with a free, original Mystery School mystery at the end.

A work of flash fiction appears below. It features Beatrix Marzanna, a scholar whose quiet academic life has begun to intersect with forces she once studied only from a safe distance.

The piece below contains clues. Follow them carefully.

If you solve the puzzle correctly you’ll receive an exclusive (for now) ebook from the Mystery School.

How to play:

1. Read the flash fiction below.

2. Follow the clues in the text.

3. Solve the puzzles and win the prize.

One prize. Many winners.

Begin with the first piece, below.

If you’ve got peeps who enjoy chasing down clues, give this a restack.

Who are the Brotherhood?

Beatrix pressed send. She didn’t explain the context of her query to the listserv, because she herself was uncertain of it. Only that the Brotherhood had appeared in connection with a crime—a crime that had affected a dear friend.

And she’d lost so many friends—more and more each year like pages torn from a favorite book. This was a crime she wanted solved.

Her home office darkened, a cloud bruising the room with bluish light. The colors of the oversized Tarot prints on the walls deepened.

She rubbed her aching, aging, arthritic fingers and scanned the screen. The esoteric.io group was busy today. Chats about the Green Man (always popular), alchemy, and the latest incantatory poetry.

The thread on the true death count during the European witch trials had been shut down, and she grimaced. Why did people want the numbers to be so much higher than the evidence suggested? Tens of thousands was bad enough.

An alert appeared—a response to her post.

Beatrix reached for the mouse, her hand brushing a pair of black-tipped magpie feathers. She picked them up, intending to set them aside, and hesitated. For so many years, shamanism had been theoretical for her, academic.

Magick had become much more real of late.

Something pecked at the skylight above her, and she looked up at the clear glass. An enormous crow peered down at her, a black hole punched in the sky, black as space.

Beatrix’s jaw set. Placing the feathers behind the keyboard, she adjusted her reading glasses and peered at the screen.

Her post had vanished, and the reply along with it.

“What the devil?”

Maybe the post had simply moved down the screen? She clicked the scroll button.

Nothing happened.

Beatrix clicked refresh. It took her to the group’s login page.

She logged in. The screen flashed.

⚠️ Access Denied

You are not a member of this group.

If you believe this was done in error, please contact the group moderators.

Her neck corded. “Oh, I’ll contact the moderator.” She might be in her seventies, but she was no naïf when it came to technology. She’d kept up. This had to be an error on their part.

She sent an email and rose, joints popping. The sounds would have been alarming if the creaks and cracks hadn’t grown so familiar.

The crow shifted on the roof, its talons skreeking like a key in a rusted lock.

Ambling past the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with shamanic texts, academic histories, and her own journals, she walked into the kitchen, flooded with natural light. She steeped a mug of chamomile tea and stared past the drying herbs and out the window at the golden hillside. Its twisted oaks crouched like fallen gods.

Her heart lightened, warming. How could she not have felt it before? Spirit thrummed all around her, a joyful hymn of leaves and light. If only she could understand what it said...

When she returned to her small office, the response was waiting.

Beatrix,

Your recent topic has been removed and your membership in this group has been terminated.

This action was taken at the system level and I cannot reverse it. I’m sorry — this has never happened before with a post like yours.

For more information, you may want to speak with someone outside this group.

— ShadowMod42

“Outside the group?” She gaped, astonished. Who would she talk to outside the group about being removed from the group?

She typed a furious response, sat back, and sipped her tea. What nonsense. It had been a simple question. There had been no vulgarity, no politics...

Was the Brotherhood a political group?

She shook her head. Impossible. If the Brotherhood was political, it would be easier to find.

She’d searched the Internet and been overwhelmed by the word brotherhood, and none of the results had applied to her problem. Asking the esoteric.io group had been a last resort, though in retrospect, it should have been the first.

An email arrived in her inbox.

Your message couldn’t be delivered to ShadowMod42.

The email account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try double-checking the recipient’s email address for typos or unnecessary spaces.

Her head jerked backward in surprise. It was impossible. She’d hit reply. She hadn’t mistyped the email address. How could it be gone?

Another email appeared in her inbox. She adjusted her glasses, scanning the sender. It had come from someone in the group, a person only known as T, and she opened it.

All it contained was a link: https://tinyurl.com/2fx5tecf

Her lips parted. With no thought of phishing or computer viruses, Beatrix clicked the link.

Game-play Tips

I suspect most of my readers won’t need this, but here’s the link to the walk-through if you really get stuck. 😜

Writing News

The Mystery School game starts September 1st. The prize? An original, exclusive (for now) mystery novella! Here’s how to win it:

1) Read the flash fiction on my Substack on September 1st.

2) Follow the clues in the story and unravel the puzzles.

3) Win the original mystery!

So watch my Substack next Tuesday, and tell a friend!

And now… on to Ellie and the Secret Staircase, Chapter 8…

Want to start at the beginning? Chapter 1 is HERE.

Miss the last installment? Chapter 7 is HERE.

Chapter 8

A Threat

I cannot say for certain if there is magic in this world. I can say I had come to trust in kairos, Divine timing.

Kairos. Over the next two days, it seemed to settle in my ribs, a second heartbeat. The cottage creaked around me, its walls breathing. Even the dust motes hung suspended, as if waiting for a curtain to rise.

I researched the old mansion online—the local historical society had documented its extensive history as well as that of its inhabitants. Deaths in childbirth. A singular case of fratricide. A staircase accident not even the papers wanted to elaborate on. If any place was haunted, the Barlow house, built in 1848, could well be.

Still, most hauntings were anything but. Shadows had natural causes. Odd sounds could be antiquated plumbing or animals in the attic. Bea didn’t seem the sort to start at shadows. Her sister, Edie, was another story.

But the two women had spent their lives in that house. Something had changed their attitude toward it. The missing brooch certainly had not been a figment of their imaginations. It had been taken. Or lost.

The longer I considered it, the more convinced I became that it had not been lost. Something odd was happening at that house, and it had teeth. I didn’t speak much to my grandson about it though. He’d only worry, or worse, smile.

Beneath the watchful gaze of the crows, I’d dropped a note in Shambala’s mail slot—since neither of the women were at home—informing them I’d arrive on Saturday morning. That Thursday, I took Carter to catch his train.

“When will you be back?” I asked, raising my voice over the rumble of the train engine. Passengers bustled past us, bags in hand, backpacks slung over shoulders, consulting tickets and clambering into silvery train cars.

Carter adjusted the Tyrolean hat he’d taken to wearing. It was an affectation I found both ridiculous and oddly comforting.

“In a week,” he said. “If you’re still there, I’ll stop by their Shambala when I return.” He hesitated. “Are you sure about this? I’m not worried about ghosts, but it’s an old, odd house, and those women are a little off.”

Had he been gathering intel on the Barlows as well? “And what do you know of those women?”

“Even I’m aware their fashion is fifty years past its prime,” he said dryly. “Can we at least agree they’re eccentric?”

We studied each other appraisingly. Carter couldn’t tell me not to go, just as I couldn’t tell him no one takes a train to Chicago for business—no one his age, who valued speed and efficiency. And so we changed the topic and made the usual banal banter of farewell.

The sound of the train engine shifted, as if desperate to be away, and Carter retrieved his leather bag from the spot by his feet. There was a metallic clatter, like a monkey chattering. Reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out an envelope. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Instructions if you need to contact me, in case of emergency.”

I looked up at him doubtfully.

“You said cell service at the Barlow house is unreliable,” he continued.

“I’ll be fine.”

Carter grinned. “I know, but just in case.” He gave me a quick, impersonal hug, and hurried toward his car at the end of the train.

I watched his receding figure. I watched the train car swallow him whole. I watched while the train pulled away. Sunlight winked off the windows, and a pang stabbed my heart. A man’s silhouette that might have been my grandson’s moved past one and vanished.

I shuddered, feeling suddenly, absolutely alone, and returned to my Volvo. It felt too big, too empty, and I paused, my hands on the wheel. The rearview mirror showed only a vanishing point of black leather. Yet beneath my loneliness, treacherous excitement flickered.

And soon, I wouldn’t be alone. Hayley would be there, waiting at my cottage. She was always there, but I wanted more than a kindly helper. I wanted a friend.

I phoned Jean March, an old friend of mine and a widow like myself. Jean invited me for a friendly game of tennis, and we spent the afternoon bashing balls around the court with metronome thwacks.

The court grew golden, a grid of sun and shadow. When we exhausted ourselves, we changed and relaxed in the clubhouse with tall glasses of iced tea.

“I needed this,” I said, blotting my neck with a towel. I was glad I could still fend for myself on the court. Jean’s playing was ferocious. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

She grinned across the small glass table. “Why not come over for dinner then? I’ve got a big, fat steak marinating on my counter.”

I couldn’t resist that offer, and soon we were back at her place reminiscing about old times.

“I can’t stop thinking about last summer, that will and that old clock.” She braced her wrists on the edge of the dinner table. “Have you got any more adventures lined up? Any more criminals to bring to justice? Because I want in on your next mystery.”

I almost told her all about the Barlow house then. I certainly could have used the help. But I’d sworn the Barlows to secrecy about my visit. I couldn’t very well blab about it to my friend. So I guiltily kept silent, as I’d kept silent all week, and shifted the subject to other things.

The next morning flew by. We’d promised Hayley a vacation while I was away, and I wanted to clean the cottage before I departed. I hate returning from a trip to an untidy home.

Hayley was kind enough to help. Technically, it was her job, but I still felt guilty about it. I found my cell phone beneath the davenport that converted to a bed (neither theft nor dementia—it had slipped from my pocket).

We ate a dinner of chicken pot pie with a buttery crust. For a moment, I was a child again at my mother’s table, thyme and cream and the slow unraveling of pastry on my tongue. Afterward, Hayley left to see a movie with her sister.

As soon as she left the cottage, I got packing. By the time I’d finished, just after eleven, Hayley still had not returned. I was about to close my battered suitcase when I remembered my revolver and hurried to the small gun safe in the living room.

At the safe, I hesitated, hand hovering above the touch pad. Heat burned a spot on my back, as if the room itself had turned its gaze on me. I turned, rising, and stared hard at the sapphire-curtained windows, turned to black mirrors. My reflection in them was pale and fragmented.

Of course no one was there. I was paranoid.

But I was glad then that Hayley would be back soon. Glad to know someone else would be in the house too.

I moved to the window and grasped the curtain, yanked it closed. A thud sounded softly on the porch, and I froze, head cocked. Had I imagined that sound like a wary footstep?

The doorbell rang, and I jumped.

Hayley. I pressed a palm to my heart. She must have forgotten her key. Ha. I wasn’t the only one who forgot things. “Dementia indeed.”

I crossed the living room, and a board creaked on the front porch. Again I stilled, heart thumping, then shook myself. So? The sound was no doubt Hayley, shifting her weight with impatience.

I jerked open the door.

The geraniums in their hanging pots swayed though the air was still. Cautiously, I stepped onto the porch and scanned the dark yard. Both it and the street were empty.

I backed, fumbling, toward the open door, and my gaze fell on a sliver of white. An envelope stuck from the mailbox slot beside the door. Yanking it free, I retreated inside. My name was printed sloppily across the front of the envelope.

I didn’t open the envelope until the door was firmly locked, the chain drawn shut. Deliberately, I walked to my desk, drew my letter opener from the drawer, and slit it open on the blotter.

The letter was anonymous, and written on ordinary white paper. Neither of these facts surprised me. What did surprise me were the letter’s contents.

🔍🔍🔍

Carter takes the train to Chicago instead of a plane, and it bothers Ellie, though she says nothing. What do you suspect it means?

Watch for Chapter 9 on September 2nd, 2026!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Ellie moves through a world that feels just a little off-kilter.

If you’d like to go deeper into that strange territory with midlife women who work with real magic, the Mystery School books are waiting.

Start here → Legacy of the Witch

Kairos, Clocks, and Ellie Drew Chapter 8:

Want to start at the beginning? Chapter 1 is HERE.

Miss the last installment? Chapter 6 is HERE.

Chapter 7

What Does it Mean?

“Nothing.” I pulled the wardrobe door wider, and the clothing inhaled, a scraping, echoing chorus of velour and satin on a rattling ribcage of hangers.

Time folded back on itself. I stood, my hand on the cool brass knob, both as Nan and that young strawberry-blonde. The sisters had doubled as well, both ancient and young in their paisley prints, oil lamps gleaming on the walls, dim sunlight streaming through the windows.

I closed the wardrobe door, gripping it tight so my hand wouldn’t tremble. “No one’s in here.”

“The police won’t help.” Bea’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Will you?”

The walls hummed orange-mustard-brown, and I tasted turmeric and old pennies. I breathed deeply. I’d been drawn here—by coincidence or by some strange magic. I had to accept that call.

“A paranormal investigation would require spending the night,” I said, turning. “Several nights given the size of this house.”

“We have a guest room,” Bea dropped onto the edge of the bed. “You can stay as long as you need.”

“But we can’t be liable if anything happens,” her sister added, the words tripping over themselves. Bea shot her a sharp look.

It had been a year since I’d faced any real risk, and my pulse quickened. “I’ll need to make arrangements. I’m not sure what my schedule is next week.” Lately, doctors appointments seemed to consume more and more of it.

“Wonderful,” Bea said. “But there’s one small problem.”

Only one? “Oh?”

“We don’t have a telephone.”

No telephone? Even the seventies had telephones. No telephone, no electricity, no tethers to the modern world—just the house, holding its breath, and a clock ticking from the shadows.

I forced a smile. “I’ll mail or messenger you my schedule.” Somehow. Were there still messenger services? Or I supposed I could just shove a note under the sisters’ door if they weren’t home.

“It’s best if you don’t tell anyone I’m coming,” I said. Talking about being watched has a way of inviting more watching—whether the watcher is human or spectral.

“Of course not,” Bea said, color flooding her cheeks. “Who would we tell?”

Mildred. The ice man. The organ grinder and his monkey. But I kept my counsel. We said our goodbyes, and I drove off, relieved to have the house at my back.

Edie had leaned rather heavily on the ghost theory, and the household arrangements were eccentric, yet neither sister struck me as confused. Something was happening here.

If the house was haunted, it was by its own history. But history, in my experience, rarely makes off with rhinestone brooches.

The sun bled out behind the low western hills, leaving a purple twilight in its wake. I maneuvered my Volvo into my garage and hurried guiltily across the lawn toward the main house, its windows streaming with light. As I’d feared, my grandson was waiting for me in the living room.

“Where have you been?” He looked up from his wing chair and set down a new hardback—the recently delivered package? “Hayley’s been worried.”

I doubted that. “At Cliffside. I tried sending a text, but there’s no cell reception.” Though I could have tried again when I’d gotten closer. But I disliked texting while driving, even when using hands-free technology.

“What’s in Cliffside?” He laid one broad hand over the book in his lap, obscuring its cover.

I sat on the settee across from him and told Carter about the Barlows and their haunted house. “It’s a strange yet beautiful old place.” My gaze lost focus, the room blurring into sepia tones. “I wouldn’t blame them for wanting to sell it, but I hate to think of them being forced to. They belong to that house, if that makes sense.”

“So you plan a ghost hunt?” he asked, staring at the closed book.

“Yes. Given the size of the house, I expect it will take about a week.” I would need at least that much time without an investigating partner for support. “So you can give Hayley the time off.”

He grunted. “Your timing’s not bad. I have to go to Chicago on Thursday.”

“What’s in Chicago?” I adjusted my glasses.

He glanced quickly sideways, and my heart shrank in response. “The usual work. Meetings. The project came up suddenly. Would you like to come?”

My fingers tapped annoyance onto one of the green throw pillows. Carter knew very well I couldn’t now. The only reason he’d extended the invitation was I’d be busy with my investigation. “No thank you. I’ve promised the Barlows.”

“Too bad,” he said, feigning disappointment. “Do you still have your CCL?” He said it lightly, almost as an afterthought, yet the smile that followed wasn’t quite convincing.

“My concealed carry license?” I asked, taken aback. “Of course.”

“You should keep it on—take your revolver with you, I mean.” His thumb traced the book’s spine, climbing and descending, up and down.

“Yes,” I said. “One never knows. Best be prepared for anything—loose boards, curious strangers, the odd vampire bat.”

“Something like that.” He returned to his book.

Something like that? I wouldn’t be shooting at loose boards or bats, and especially not at curious strangers.

I bit the inside of my lip and glanced at the dark windows. Carter was hiding something. His Chicago trip, his careful lightness, his fixed attention on the book—he was worried. About his work? Mine?

Outside, the last of the purple light drained from the sky, and the house settled into its evening quiet. So, after a fashion, did we.

🔍🔍🔍

Carter suggests Ellie take her revolver. Do you think he’s genuinely worried about the house, about what his grandmother might do once she’s inside it unsupervised, or is something else going on?

Watch for Chapter 8 on August 29th, 2026!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Ellie moves through a world that feels just a little off-kilter.

If you’d like to go deeper into that strange territory with midlife women who work with real magic, the Mystery School books are waiting.

Start here → Legacy of the Witch

Writing News

I think my mystery game will be available on September 1st (that’s next Tuesday). I’m just waiting for a piece of art, and the artist has promised it will be done on time!

Here’s how the game works:

1) Read the flash fiction in my Substack when it launches. I’ll title it something obvious, like “Mystery Game.”

2) Follow the clues in the story and unravel the puzzles.

3) Win the prize!

So watch my Substack next Tuesday, and tell a friend!

Chapter 7: Nancy’s Gun

Want to start at the beginning? Chapter 1 is HERE.

Miss the last installment? Chapter 5 is HERE.

Chapter 6: An Opening Move

Paranormal investigations tend to take place at inconvenient hours, in inconvenient places, and frequently with inconvenient people. However, I’d never arranged my own before, and the prospect of Bea’s haunted mansion intrigued me.

Saying our farewells to Mildred, Bea and I left her cottage. A leaf blower roared. I skipped awkwardly aside, a gust of leaves and dust scouring the brick walk. The gardener averted his face as if he had nothing to do with the storm.

We reached the Volvo, and a small tornado of leaves rose behind us. It followed my car for half a block, a whirling dervish of faded green and gold, before losing interest and collapsing to the street.

“Thanks for the lift.” Bea smoothed her skirt. “I came here by rideshare, and I hate making small talk with strangers.”

“Then let’s not waste time with it and get down to business.” I turned down a shaded street. “Has Edie always been interested in the paranormal?”

In my old paranormal investigation group, for those who believed the hardest, every creaking floorboard and rattling pipe was a desolate spirit. If Edie was committed, there would be no talking her out of a haunting, no matter what evidence I found.

Bea chirped a laugh. “Halloween is her favorite holiday, she refuses to allow Ouija boards in the house, and she reads Tarot cards.” She sobered, tucking her hair behind her ears. “But she hasn’t been imagining what’s been going on, and neither have I. Turn left here.”

The thefts inclined me to believe a human agency was behind their “ghost.” And yet, the objects taken had been small and of no great value. A cruel prank or local teen, perhaps?

Whatever the case, it was my first real mystery since that missing will, and my spirit rose. “Have you told anyone else about what’s been going on?” I asked.

“The sheriff.” Bea sniffed. “He suggested someone was playing a joke on us.”

I flushed, for I’d been thinking the same thing.

“And of course,” she continued, “Mildred found out today. Aside from that, we’ve kept it quiet.” She plucked at her orange skirt, her voice lowering. “I don’t want to sell our home, but if we must, a haunting might make it more difficult.”

“I’d say the opposite. People today love haunted houses. A ghost could be an asset.”

Her lips pursed. “Really? How odd.” She did not appear relieved by the idea.

Bea directed me to a semi-rural area on the outskirts of Cliffside. “Here it is.” She pointed through a mass of stately oaks and maples at an enormous stone house.

Leaving the road, I turned the car down a circular driveway of dark earth. The house looked more shambolic than Shambala—a mass of stone the color of aged bones. The shadows of the trees lay like long, unmoving fingers on its lichened walls.

I slowed the car and was seized by the sudden fancy that I was traveling on a great river into the underworld. My imagination may have been fueled by the crows, watching from high branches like a critical audience waiting for the show to begin.

I stopped the Volvo in front of the house, and Bea stepped out. “Here we are,” she said, glancing at the second floor. Her expression flickered. “Come in.”

I couldn’t entirely blame Edie for wondering about ghosts in this place. A part of me wondered as well, and I hesitated. But this was why I’d come, wasn’t it? A new adventure, something to take my mind off... things.

And though I didn’t need to report in to Hayley, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and sent her a text.

Visiting a friend. Will be late.

“It’s unlikely that will go through.” Bea nodded toward my phone.

“Pardon?”

“Your text.” She fitted her latchkey into the ornate lock and pushed open the wooden door. It opened with a soft sigh of pleasure. “We don’t have cell reception out here.”

I checked my phone. A red alert had indeed appeared beside my text announcing it hadn’t gone through. Oh well. I’d tried.

I followed Bea inside the foyer. Closed wooden doors with peeling paint. A long staircase rising into shadow. Colonial chairs with faded seats. Portraits in gilt frames. A long rectangle of dusty light fell across a stern, masculine face.

Adjusting my glasses, I looked longer than I needed to at the portrait—a bewhiskered gentleman in a stiff, high-collared suit.

“The Barlows used to be one of the wealthiest families in Cliffside,” Bea said ruefully, motioning toward the painting. “That’s my great great great-grandfather. He fought in the Revolution. There may be a few more greats in there. I always lose track.”

“Have—?”

A slightly shorter, slightly stouter version of Bea flew down the stairs. She wore a near identical outfit as well—a skirt and wide-collared blouse—though her top had swirls of blue paisley rather than orange.

“It’s happened again,” she burst out. “I hate being alone here now. It’s horrible.”

“What?” Bea’s eyes widened. “Not another shadow?”

“Worse. The Thing has taken my rhinestone butterfly brooch—you know the one?”

Bea’s hand fluttered to her graying hair. “But I was gone less than two hours.”

“I’ve looked everywhere,” the woman, who had to be Edie, wailed. “I liked that brooch.” She turned, her gaze landing on mine, and her back straightened. “I didn’t realize we had guests. Not a realtor? Oh, Bea, you didn’t!”

“Definitely not,” I said.

I was wrong. They did not look alike at all. Yet their voices and mannerisms were identical, their birdlike tilts of the head and mincing steps so precisely matched, it created an illusion of sameness, of duplication. It made it difficult to keep them apart, and it wasn’t long before I gave up trying to do so.

I was to discover later just how unusual the sisters were. In their mid-fifties, they were somehow old before they’d aged. But I liked them instinctively, and not only because they were Mildred’s friends. Perhaps it was their very eccentricity, their refusal to live in the modern world, to bow to convention, which I found appealing. Or perhaps it was their devotion to the Shambala in their minds.

“This is Ellie Drew.” Bea motioned toward me. “She’s the one who helped Mildred with that will. She’s offered to help us with our little, er, problem.”

“Do you have experience with paranormal investigations?” Edie asked me.

“My husband and I were members of a paranormal investigation group for over five years.” Until he’d died. The dead had grown a little too close then, a little too real. I’d abandoned the group.

My throat tightened. All those years, and the pain of that loss could still sometimes surprise me.

Edie rolled her shoulders, her sleeves ruffling. “In that case, I’m glad you’re here.” She touched the top left side of her blouse, where a brooch might rest. “I’d really like to get that brooch back. It’s vintage.”

“Where did you last see it?” I asked.

“In my bedroom. I was just finishing getting dressed when the iceman knocked. I put the brooch on my dresser and came downstairs to let him inside.”

I cleared my throat. “Ice...man?”

“The house was never wired for electricity,” Bea said.

“How...” Dreadful. “...authentic.” That explained the oil lamps on the walls. It did not explain where, in the twenty-first century, one still found a man willing to deliver ice. “How long were you gone from your room?”

Edie smoothed the wide cuffs of her blouse. “Ten minutes? Maybe less? When I returned upstairs, the brooch was gone. I’ve looked everywhere—the floor, around and under the dresser—it’s gone. It’s only rhinestone, but it belonged to our mother.”

“We’ll find it.” Bea patted her sister’s arm. “It couldn’t have gone far.”

Somewhere deeper in the house a pipe gurgled a bitter laugh.

We trooped upstairs to view the scene of the “crime,” our footsteps creaking loudly on the old staircase. “Is this the only stairway?” I asked, one hand on the burnished railing. A draft stirred the top of my head in a slow sigh, and the lamplight flickered.

“Yes,” Bea said. “It’s a fire hazard, of course, but it’s an old house.”

Edie led us into her bedroom.

I stopped short. “Oh my.”

We’d time jumped from the Colonial era to the 1970s. A low, platform-style bed with a built-in headboard wall featuring curving, arched orange and brown stripes. A rainbow-striped shag carpet in shades of red, orange, yellow, and brown. A large hanging fern and tall, potted palms.

The shock of one era nested so completely inside another left me unsteady. For an instant I was not great-grandma Nan at all. I was a young strawberry blonde again, the first taste of freedom still delicious on my tongue.

To cover for my shock, I strode to the open window, hung with yellow curtains. I ran a finger across its screen, leaving a dark trail in the dust. “No one’s come inside through this. Do you mind if I look around?”

“Go ahead,” Edie said.

I searched the area around the dresser. With Edie’s permission, I even looked inside it. The brooch was gone.

“Something must have come into the room while I was distracted by the iceman in the kitchen,” Edie said. “Maybe we should stay in a hotel until—” She darted a glance at me. “—things are resolved?”

“We can’t afford it,” Bea said.

“And no one else accompanied the iceman?” I asked. “You saw no one about?”

“No.” Edie twisted the blue scarf at her neck.

“Was the front door locked? I noticed Bea had to unlock it earlier.”

“Oh.” Edie raised her chin, triumphant. “Yes, it was. That and the kitchen door are the only ways inside.”

“And I suppose you would have heard anyone on the staircase,” I mused. We’d certainly been noisy enough.

“It’s impossible,” Bea said. “There’s no way a thief could have gotten inside.”

“Not a human thief,” Edie said darkly.

Bea planted her fists on her narrow hips. “Oh, Edie, how could a ghost have stolen it?”

“Ghosts do have the power to apport objects,” she said.

“Apport?” Bea asked.

“They move them.” She bounced lightly on her toes. “Without hands.”

My gaze fell on a magnificent carved wardrobe, an anomaly in this ode to the disco decade, and large enough to hide two men. “What an unusual piece.”

“It’s attached to the wall,” Edie said. “It can’t be replaced without a building contractor...” She paled, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If someone’s been hiding in there—”

Bea gave a thin laugh and eyed the wardrobe door. “No. It has to be... something else.”

Edie grasped her sister’s arm, her bulging eyes fixed on the carved door.

At least Edie was open to the idea that the disturbances had a natural explanation. I crossed the rough floorboards, laid my hand on the latch, and pulled. Mothballs and melancholy exhaled from its depths, the darkness leaning forward.

🔍🔍🔍

In the original Hidden Staircase, the sisters are described as elderly and shuffle around in long black Victorian-era gowns. They’re in their fifties. 🙄

Can’t wait to read more? Chapter 6 arrives Wednesday, August 26th!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Enjoying Ellie Drew?

The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum ebook is FREE today through August 23rd, 2026.

If you like mysteries with a light touch of the strange, you may also enjoy my Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum series — quirky cases, small-town weirdness, and secrets that refuse to stay buried.

Start here → The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum

Chapter 6: Paranormal Investigations

Have you ever been on a paranormal investigation? How did it go? Let me know in the comments!

Want to start at the beginning? Chapter 1 is HERE.

Miss the last installment? Chapter 4 is HERE.

The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum is free this week (ebook only). Deets below!

Chapter 5: Oddities

Carter and I don’t talk about his work.

Or my parents.

Or his.

Or his children.

The taboos skip generations.

The summer days stretched like sticky taffy, until I couldn’t tell if time was oozing forward or backward, and Norris Graves didn’t return. Perhaps he’d gotten the bile out of his system. Perhaps he’d taken my grandson’s advice and decided to use legal means to redress his grievances.

In any case, Carter knew his business. I dismissed Graves from my mind.

But that strange sense of anticipation, that something had to happen and soon, constricted me like a second, too-tight skin. I could stay home and wait no longer. It was time to move into the world, to give chance a larger target.

“I’m going to visit Mildred Vail this afternoon,” I told my grandson over breakfast in his kitchen. Sun pooled on the pine floor like melted butter.

“When will you be back?” he asked.

As if I were a wayward teenage girl! But I’d brought up the subject, and this was the price of moving into his in-law cottage—this and Hayley. “Before dinner.”

He retreated behind his newspaper. The pages rustled occasionally, but he questioned me no further.

I pottered about until lunch with a crossword puzzle and the Case of the Missing Yarn.

(In the freezer. Under intense interrogation, Hayley admitted it was theft.)

Then I backed my Volvo from the double garage and set off. Mildred’s cottage was on the other side of town. I rolled down the windows, enjoying the feel of the loose hair from my updo tickling my neck, each strand a cool finger tracing indecipherable patterns.

I pulled into Mildred’s driveway and was pleased to see she was no longer at risk of being fined by the city for blight. The cottage had new white siding, the shutters a fresh coat of Mediterranean blue. The ramshackle picket fence had been repaired, the uneven walk replaced with brick.

A gardener mowed the front lawn, motor roaring, the scent of fresh-cut grass filling the air. Though he kept his back to me, I gave him a wave as I made my way to her front porch. Before I could ring the bell, Mildred opened the door.

Mildred was roughly my age. The first time we’d met, she’d been in dire financial and physical straits. Alas, the two had been linked in cause and effect. That lost will I’d located and the inheritance she’d received from it had changed things.

Mildred beamed. “About time you got here.” She wore a yellow A-line skirt and blue blouse. Her platinum-blond hair lay in coils on her head. “I hope you didn’t eat a big lunch, because I’m serving tea.”

“I’ve always got room for tea.” I followed her inside. She limped a bit from a fall last year, but she was moving. “You’re looking good,” I said.

“I’m feeling better too, thanks to you.”

“Oh, stop.” Cheeks warming, I waved off the acknowledgment.

We entered her living room, the shelves and sills cramped with bric-a-brac from a life of memories. Not much had changed here, though there were new blue curtains to match the shutters outside. A beaky, middle-aged woman I didn’t recognize rose from an ivory sofa draped with pastel throws.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Mildred said to me. “I invited my friend. Bea, this is Ellie Drew. Ellie, Bea Barlow. Bea’s a friend of mine from Cliffside.”

Bea was tall—at least five-ten—and thin as an ostrich. She wore a seventies-style burnt-orange skirt and a blouse that existed at a similar hard angle to the present. Its paisley print vibrated with electric color.

She stuck out a hand so light I could almost believe the bones were hollow. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ellie’s the one who found that will,” Mildred said, sitting in a wingback chair. “You should tell her about your little mystery, Bea.”

My pulse tripped over itself then steadied. “Mystery?” I asked.

“It’s my house.” Bea gazed at me through hooded eyes. “I love it. Deeply. And I’ve always felt it loved me back, if a house can love. But something’s changed. Lately it feels...hostile.”

“It’s haunted,” Mildred said.

“Haunted?” I asked, delighted, and sat beside Bea on the soft couch.

She took a delicate sip of her tea. “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. There has to be, doesn’t there?”

Not necessarily. Though there were plenty of things that appeared supernatural that were quite the opposite. It was why I preferred to approach the irrational with open-minded skepticism.

Mildred poured me a cup. She edged a plate full of tiny scones toward me on the coffee table between us.

Though I’d already eaten, I took one. They were miniature, and she had clotted cream. It would have been rude not to accept one.

Bea continued, her voice lowering. “But I don’t know how else to explain what’s been going on.”

“What has been going on?” I slathered the scone with clotted cream and took a bite. Apricot. Delicious.

“As Mildred said, I live over in Cliffside—”

“Alone?”

“No, with my twin sister, Edie. Our house was built before the Civil War. We grew up in it, and it’s always felt magical—more so to Edie than to me. We call it our Shambala.”

“Your place of happiness,” I said, “how lovely.”

“You know the legend?” Bea cocked her head.

I longed for Shambala, a mythical country of enlightened beings. Though I believed the myth really pointed to an inner landscape of tranquility—one I doubted I’d ever achieve. “I know the song better,” I said.

“Three Dog Night.” Mildred sighed. “I saw them once in concert.”

“The house is so large,” Bea said, “I confess, we haven’t been able to keep it up as well as we’d like. It’s also historic, the perfect place for ghosts, but we never experienced any activity until a few weeks ago.”

“What sort of activity?” I asked.

“Strange sounds, things going missing. Our house is constantly filled with flies.” She picked up her tea and set it down, undrunk. “Edie says…she says the flies are a sign of a demonic presence,” she finished in a rush.

Demonic? If so, the sisters needed an exorcist, not an amateur detective. I shifted on the couch. “Could a screen have come off a window?”

“That was our first thought, and of course we looked. The house is buttoned up tight. And we see—I’ve seen shadow people.” For the first time, her voice was a trifle unsteady. “On the walls.”

The scone stuck in my throat, and I swallowed hard. “People, plural?” I asked. “This has happened more than once? Or are there multiple shadows on the walls at the same time?”

“One shadow, more than once. It didn’t look like a person to me, but Edie said it definitely appeared humanoid.” She angled forward on the couch. “My sister says shadow people aren’t real ghosts. They’re something different, something…more dangerous.”

Edie seemed to be a wealth of information about the paranormal. But she was right. According to the lore, shadow people were different—dark and predatory.

Mildred brandished her teacup. “Tell Ellie about the music.”

“It usually comes at night,” Bea said, “some sort of stringed instrument. Edie says we’re in danger, we should leave, but that house is ours. We love it. And who would we sell it to? Some poor family that would be haunted too? Not that there’s any such thing as ghosts, but...you know.”

The music was strange but, like the other oddities, could be explained. A radio, for example. Or a well-placed wi-fi speaker. “You mentioned things going missing?”

“A silver spoon. A wallet—there wasn’t much in it, but still, it’s gone.”

“Have you noticed anyone hanging around the house?” I asked.

“No one except an organ grinder.”

I blinked. “An organ... You mean someone with a hand crank organ?”

Bea nodded. “And a monkey with a little hat.”

That might explain the monkey I’d seen along the river. At least I wasn’t the only one seeing monkeys. “I see,” I said faintly. “That... strikes me as suspicious.”

“I thought so too,” Bea said. “But I believe the young man is being ironic.”

“A most unattractive quality in the youth,” Mildred said.

“I only noticed the organ grinder twice, and neither on the days when things went missing. I haven’t seen him since.” Bea dragged her teeth across her bottom lip. “It’s the shadows that bother me most.”

“Those would be unnerving,” I agreed.

Mildred leaned back in her chair. “What do you think, Ellie? Is it something you might be interested in?”

“I have had some experience with paranormal and normal investigations,” I said slowly.

“Then will you investigate our house?” Bea asked. “We’ll pay you, of course.”

“No, no,” I demurred. “I couldn’t accept any money.”

“But you’ll help us?” Bea asked eagerly. “You’ll de-haunt our house or figure out whatever’s going on?”

A haunted house. Mildred couldn’t have come up with a better diversion if she’d tried. “I can’t promise anything,” I said in what I hoped was not a tone of girlish excitement. “But I would love to visit your Shambala.”

“When?” Bea asked promptly. “After telling you my ghost story, you have no reason to believe I’m not superstitious. But…I have a feeling that things are coming to a head.”

I’d been nursing the same feeling for days, and a cold fluttering filled my belly. To hear that feeling named by a near-stranger made it a summons, one I could no longer pretend away. I glanced at my watch. “My car’s outside. If you want, we can drive there together?”

Bea closed her eyes briefly, then she nodded with a relieved smile. We finished our tea and rose, the late-afternoon light in the room thinning, the corners gathering shadows that seemed to breathe.

I stiffened my spine. I disliked the shadows as well.

🔍🔍🔍

Between the missing silver spoon, the creepy shadows, and the organ grinder with the monkey, which detail made you sit up and think, “This is a real clue?”

Can’t wait to read more? Chapter 6 arrives this Saturday, August 22nd!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Enjoying Ellie Drew?

The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum ebook is FREE today through August 23rd, 2026.

If you like mysteries with a light touch of the strange, you may also enjoy my Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum series — quirky cases, small-town weirdness, and secrets that refuse to stay buried.

Start here → The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum

Chapter 5: Monkeys and Shadow People

A friend just told me that it’s legal to have monkeys as pets in Missouri. Maybe that’s where this story is set?

Writing Update

Last weekend, my editor at misterio press reverted the final edits for my secret project to me. I’ve incorporated the comments, and the story is ready to go!

Now, I’m just putting the final touches on the puzzle so people can snag a free copy. (If you’re not a puzzle person, I’ll put the book up for sale in a couple months).

Want to start at the beginning? Chapter 1 is HERE.

Miss the last installment? Chapter 3 is HERE.

A Second Knock

I have done terrible things.

Or so it feels when the phone shows three missed calls from Hayley and two from Carter. Missed calls, in the grand scheme, are small potatoes—yet they leave me with a peculiar, generational guilt.

I dislike cell phones. I don’t like being at the beck and call of others, and I hate sending and receiving texts.

Still.

I returned to my cottage just before six. Hayley waited at the door in her khaki pantsuit and sensible shoes, looking much aggrieved.

“Where were you?” she demanded, wielding a teaspoon like a wand. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“I had the ringer off,” I said, knowing my excuse was weak. “Sorry.”

Hayley is a striking woman of a certain age. She carries her degrees like well-concealed knives—journalism in one pocket, political science in the other.

The fact that she is also a kleptomaniac might have explained why she’d eschewed both of those professions in favor of home care. Though she claimed she was working here to keep me on my toes.

To prove her point, we played a private and unhinged memory game: Theft or Dementia? Had I mislaid my spoon ring or had she pilfered it? Had I misplaced my slippers or had she tucked them beneath her bed?

Hayley also has a passion for lock picking (she’d been attempting to train me) and for Greek yogurt. She made the latter herself. It was delicious.

She dug into her cup of yogurt. “Your grandson’s about to organize a search party.”

I doubted that. Carter was a practical man, and I hadn’t been gone that long.

“You should have called,” she said, her brows pinching with annoyance. “Why didn’t you just call?”

There is a certain surrealism to aging. I am a grown woman. I’ve lived in war zones. I have birthed and lost children. Yet here I stood, being scolded like a child by a woman who regularly butchered the lyrics to Taylor Swift songs.

Hayley did not catch the look on my face. She was not the kind of woman who caught looks. Eventually, she relented and offered to text Carter that I was safe so I could go wash up.

I sniffed. Had that been a hint? They say the sense of smell is one of the first things to go. “Perhaps that would be a good idea. Also, I found my Beatles a’la Turka CD in the flour bin. Next time, please find a hiding spot less dusty.”

I showered and changed and ate an apple with a knife before crossing the wide lawn to Carter’s house.

He sat at the kitchen island eating leftover pizza. The kitchen sat in the house’s heart. It was a place of high ceilings, wide-plank floors that creaked in different keys, and a long stretch of counter cut from a single tree. Every sound—spoon against bowl, the soft click of a closing cabinet—traveled unnatural distances in that house.

Carter rose from his stool when I entered. He’d always had impeccable manners. “Hi, Nan. A little late for a hike, wasn’t it?” The question was mild, his gray eyes careworn.

My grandson was too young for careworn. Straight-backed, still built like the athlete he’d been, face cut like a Golden Age leading man, with eyes aged beyond his years, and an answering ache gripped my chest.

Carter still believed if he loved hard enough, she would love him back, the children would return. It was why he held onto this too-big house. That, and perhaps, the in-law cottage I occupied.

“It’s still light out,” I said, “and I prefer the cooler evening temperature for walking.”

“But that isn’t why you went.”

“No,” I admitted. “You had a visitor earlier. Norris Graves. He pushed his way in here, said you’d cheated him out of a piece of river property, and threatened to go through your desk himself looking for the deed.”

I wanted to ask Carter why he’d been part of any land deal at all. But I already knew the look he’d give me: that brief, sideways breaking of eye contact before the smooth answer. So I said nothing.

He arched a dark brow. “I’m surprised at you, letting him inside.”

“I didn’t let him in,” I said, indignant. Did he really think I’d let strangers into his house willingly? “And Graves seemed dangerous, unstable.”

My grandson studied me through his steady gray eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Juniper Harper’s had some dealings with him,” I hedged.

“Is she the one with the goat yoga?”

“He tried to steal eggs from her.”

Carter barked a laugh. “Tried? If he couldn’t even manage an egg theft, I’m not worried.”

“Perhaps you should be,” I said in a lower tone. “She says he’s threatened to blow up that new bridge.”

My gaze turned toward the window. The night had grown a face—white, still, pressed so near the glass that the night seemed to have grown features. The mouth gaped open, as if interrupted in the middle of an incantation.

The familiar kitchen tilted. The scent of cooling pizza hung in the air and a stranger’s mouth worked silently on the other side of the glass. I had the sudden, childish certainty that if I blinked the face would be closer.

My ribs wouldn’t expand properly. The glass between us seemed to thin.

Carter grimaced. “Look, Nan, Graves won’t—”

“He’s here,” I rasped.

The face vanished. There was a rap at the kitchen door.

Carter cursed, glanced at me, and color rose to his cheeks. “Sorry, Nan.” He rose and strode to the door.

“What if he’s armed?” I asked.

“What if I am?” He opened the door. The light from the kitchen sliced across the wraithlike form of Norris Graves and stopped at his throat, blanketing his face in shadow.

“What are you doing here?” my grandson asked flatly.

“I want what’s mine.” The man stepped further into the light. His bony face contorted in a snarl. “I want my deed back.”

“The deal was done, the contract signed.” Carter glanced at the back of his hand, then at Graves, his expression unchanged. “If you don’t like the way it worked out, sue. If you come around here again, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

“That land’s worth more now with that bridge,” Graves said.

My grandson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, because the railroad built a bridge on it.”

“I want what’s fair.”

“The railroad paid you well over asking,” Carter said. “Double what the land was worth.”

Graves’s expression turned suddenly shifty, sneering. “Still pretending to be a respectable lawyer? Defending railroad barons like it’s 1930? I deserve reparations. What you’ve done is extraction. Theft. That land’s generating... surplus profits,” he sputtered. “By rights that money belongs to me.”

“Extraction? Reparations? Surplus?” Carter raised a brow. “Have you been reading?”

The man’s jaw jutted forward. “Don’t you try and gaslight me.”

“That’s not what gaslighting means...” Carter shook his head. “Go to court. I can’t stop you. But if you come to my house again, I’ll have you arrested.”

“If you don’t give me my money, I’ll—”

“Finish that sentence.” Carter didn’t raise his voice. Neither had he moved closer, yet the space between the two men seemed to have narrowed. My grandson’s arms hung loose, his weight settled on the balls of his feet.

Graves took a quick step back on the kitchen porch, and the boards beneath him creaked. Fists tight, he turned and left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

“That did not go well,” I murmured.

“He’s a coward, Nan. I know his type. Don’t worry about Graves.”

“He may be a coward, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be dangerous.”

Carter slid another slice of cold pizza from the open box onto his plate and walked to the microwave. “More dangerous than you?”

I sniffed. “Don’t be patronizing.”

My grandson grinned. I did not.

🔍🔍🔍

Watch for Chapter 5 next Wednesday, August 19th!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Looking for more after this chapter?

My Mystery School series follows midlife witches navigating secrets, power, and the surreal.

Explore the books → The Mystery School

The Hayley Character in Ellie and the Secret Staircase

What do you think of Hayley?

Missed Chapter 1? Click the link HERE.

Missed Chapter 2? Read it HERE.

Chapter 3: New Intel

I’d watched my parents vanish into the walls and found the prospect bleak. Then I felt the same summons to follow them down the hermit’s path. To fade into furniture. To become surface. To become still.

The arrival of great-grandchildren had interrupted my descent. They had gone, but I wasn’t ready for the solitary life. Not yet.

So my relief was mixed with delight when the door opened to a friend. Juniper Harper—young, blond, and blooming—stood on the porch. Her denim overalls and men’s white t-shirt were loose over her toned figure.

Smiling, I swung the front door wider, the tension draining from my body. “You startled me.”

“Do I look that bad?” Juniper teased, running her fingers through her curling hair. She carried a paper bag in her free hand.

When we’d first met, Juniper and her sister had been struggling with their family farm. Since getting their inheritance, they’d transformed it into a regenerative farm and wellness retreat.

Clearly, Juniper was benefiting from her own programs. The girl—everyone under thirty was a girl to me now—had grown sleek on fresh food and freedom.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes. Come in.” I stepped from the door.

She scraped her tennis shoes on the doormat before coming inside. Her overalls smelled like rain and pennies, though it hadn’t rained in weeks.

“I stopped by your cottage first,” she said. “Hayley told me you were here. She asked me to tell you she’s stepping out to go shopping.”

I led her into the living room—still the same settee, the same mantel of carefully unchanged photographs, the same sense that the house was holding its breath. And suddenly I understood the real reason I’d opened the door so quickly. I hadn’t only wanted to banish the vision of that clockwork Norris Graves. I was lonely.

“Sorry it’s been so long.” Juniper picked up the mystery novel on the settee and glanced at its back. “Things have been crazy busy at the farm, and...”

“And I wouldn’t want to leave your little slice of paradise either,” I finished for her lightly.

“But I had to come today. It was the strangest thing.” Juniper set the book on the coffee table and dropped onto the settee. A blanket the color of absinthe, the green of fairy tales, slid onto the cushion beside her. “I just felt...

“What?”

“It was...weird.” She chewed her bottom lip. “Like a voice in my ear shouted I had to go see you. Now. Today.”

Like a voice? Or an actual voice? But I could see whatever Juniper had experienced had disturbed her, and I didn’t press.

“Are you well?” she asked seriously. “I mean, are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, as far as I know.”

Her forehead puckered, then smoothed, her eyes widening. “Oh! I wanted to drop these off.” Leaping to her feet, she handed me the bag. “It’s just a chicken and some eggs.” Her rounded cheeks flushed.

“How thoughtful. I should put these in the kitchen.”

Juniper followed me into the kitchen of tall windows and old pine. Since my grandson and I would no doubt share them, I laid the offerings in Carter’s loudly humming refrigerator.

“Fresh eggs are such a treat,” I said. “Thank you. Now, what have you and your sister been up to?”

She leaned one hip against the tile counter. “Daphne’s fine. Her online kimono sales have picked up—she’s backordered or backlogged or whatever the right word is for too many orders and not enough time. It turns out lots of women love the 1920s look.”

“That era’s fashion was romantic,” I agreed, leading her back to the living room. I motioned her to the settee and braced my elbow on the fireplace mantel. “What’s new at the farm?”

“More chickens and more classes. You’ve done so much for us,” she said, lowering her voice. “Eggs and the occasional chicken can’t repay you.”

“This clock was the only reward I wanted.” I ran my hand along its top, curved like a question. “Every time I look at it, I feel...” Like I’m not past it, the timepiece saying keep going, saying move forward, saying remember when you were dangerous. “I remember our adventure.”

“All right then. What’s new with you? Find any more missing wills?”

“No such luck.” I laughed. “Though I’m glad you’re here. About an hour ago, a man pushed inside demanding to see Carter. He was going on and on about some property of his near the river.”

Juniper’s jaw tightened. She sat forward on the settee, one hand closing briefly into a fist against her knee. “Do you know who he was?”

“He said he was Norris Graves, but I don’t trust—”

“Norris Graves?” Her cornflower eyes widened.

“Do you know him?”

She made a face. “He used to buy eggs from us until I banned him for shoplifting.”

“Eggs? He was shoplifting eggs?”

“He claimed he was liberating them from the tyranny of the free market. The jerk lives over in Cliffside.”

“What an odd coincidence, the both of us having unpleasant run-ins with the same man.” And then her appearing on my doorstep... A voice in her head, indeed. “He said my grandson cheated him.”

Juniper snorted. “Graves was probably talking about that property with the new railroad bridge. He used to own parcels on both sides of the river. He sold them to the railroad and now is telling everyone who’ll listen the bridge was built a few feet over the line—onto land he still owns.”

“And he came to this conclusion after the bridge was finished?” My mouth twisted.

“Don’t worry about Graves. He’s nuts. I mean, not really crazy, just... You know.”

I knew.

“He even threatened to blow up the bridge,” she continued.

“Blow it up?”

“No one takes him seriously,” she added quickly.

“Perhaps they should,” I murmured and changed the topic. We talked about the farm and the new chickens and their new tai chi classes.

Juniper leaned forward in her seat. “Why don’t you come visit?”

“Today?” I asked, taken aback. But why not today? It would be better than brooding at home. And since it was almost the summer solstice, it wouldn’t be dark for a long while. “You know, I could use the exercise.”

She grinned. “I’m not planning on walking. I drove here.”

“I assumed as much, but I’d like to walk back. It’s only a couple miles.”

“Are you sure?” she asked doubtfully, and I stiffened.

“I may be old, but I can still walk.”

Juniper pinked. “You’re not old. I didn’t mean—”

“I am old, and it’s fine. Let me get my hiking boots.”

We crossed the lawn to my cottage, tiny insects jumping in the grass around our feet. I was relieved to discover Hayley was still at the store. I didn’t want to have to explain my plans.

I changed into more suitable clothes and boots, locked up, and left with Juniper. She opened the door to a Tesla roadster parked at the curb.

“Is it new?” Hips aching, I gingerly lowered myself into the crimson sportscar.

Juniper smiled guiltily. “Too much?”

“No, no. I’m just jealous. My poor Volvo can’t compete.”

We drove to the farm. I admired the gardens and the chickens pecking in the dry dirt and the new wellness center nestled in a rolling hillside. Juniper modeled one of her sister’s latest kimonos—a periwinkle patterned affair I secretly coveted, despite the obvious danger of hooking its impractically wide sleeves in a door handle and falling.

There are moments when the world makes itself more felt, moments when my usual routines—reading, knitting, inventing criminal histories for the neighbor’s orange cat—recede. I feel the world’s aliveness and that I’m still a part of it. This was such an afternoon.

We had tea outdoors, and a dandelion-yellow butterfly flitted around my head. A goat wandered past, the bell around its neck tinkling. Then we ran out of things to say and simply sat, enjoying the warmth of the June sunshine.

Finally, it was time to go, and Juniper drove me to the trailhead at the river. Her fair forehead creased. “Are you sure about this?” she asked. “It’s getting late.”

“I’ll be home well before dark, and I need the exercise.” The latter was only a small lie. I’d already gone for a walk this morning, but I could always use another.

A breeze blew across the water, cooling the air and ruffling my hair. Birds skimmed the river’s surface and chirped in the maples. As I hiked, my muscles loosened.

Something shifted in the high branches. I glanced up.

A shape unfolded in the branches above me—a face, then a hand, then a tail. The creature’s palms were the color of strawberries, its eyes midnight marbles. It opened its mouth, and the sound that came out was the click of a camera shutter.

A monkey?

The creature vanished in the leaves. I pushed my sunglasses up and stared at the branches rocking in a pattern that had nothing to do with wind.

Lengthening my strides, I continued on, ignoring the occasional rustling overhead. The trail wound through thickets of cattails and beneath shady oaks before opening into a clearing that held my true object—the mercury curve of the new railway bridge.

Heat surprised my eyes. The bridge was an art deco confection, and I stepped off the trail for a closer look. I’d thought the modern world had given up on beauty, but here it stood, anachronism and ache, rivets like constellations, steel soaring in the shimmering air.

My throat closed. Someone wanted to blow this up. Someone always wanted to blow beauty up.

A train horn shrieked, and I backed further from the tracks. A passenger train rumbled around the bend, its wheels clattering.

I stiffened. Graves’s threat was most likely empty, but I didn’t relax until the train had sped safely past.

Because he wanted to blow up the bridge. I knew this fixed quality, this dull and deadly focus. How some men must destroy because they cannot build. How some bridges fall. How some bridges burn. How I was walking home alone, alone, alone.

🔍🔍🔍

Can’t wait to read more? Chapter 4 arrives this Saturday, August 15th!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Enjoying Ellie Drew?

The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum ebook is FREE today through August 23rd, 2026.

If you like mysteries with a light touch of the strange, you may also enjoy my Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum series — quirky cases, small-town weirdness, and secrets that refuse to stay buried.

Start here → The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum

Chapter 3: The Pitfalls and Promise of Prose Poetry

Did I go too far with the prose poetry? Let me know what you think in the comments!

Miss Chapter 1? Click the link below:

Chapter 2

A Warning

In my younger days, I boxed. Not in a gym. Nothing that ambitious. Behind the old house. Just the canvas bag my husband hung from the eaves. Just the thwack and jangle of its chains rattling. My husband had said he liked the sound. I had, too.

Until an enormous spider had unspooled from the top of the bag and down my t-shirt. Eight wriggling legs on my sternum had dampened my enthusiasm.

I’d been a fan of the sport then, and I knew what was coming now. The only question was how badly my seventy-something body would be hurt. Shattered cheekbone. Fractured jaw. Or something the doctors couldn’t repair.

But to my astonishment, I was not pummeled into the carpet or bashed against my grandson’s antique desk.

Norris’s body locked. His eyes bulged, his narrow jaw spasming, and a thin line opened at the temple, brass gears turning where muscles should be.

The gears vanished, and there was only skin, faintly absurd in its softness. I nearly turned away in embarrassment. Then cold horror settled on my chest where that spider had once walked. What had I just witnessed?

He was a man. Flesh and blood, his face twisted with rage and disdain. I might not be able to see behind his skin, but I saw him.

To Norris I was no more than furniture. We have pretty, clinical terms for people like him now, words that wallpaper over the reality that predators walk among us.

My hand slipped into my cardigan’s pocket and touched hard plastic.

“What have you got there?” He lunged.

I twisted, pulling my phone free, and in an instant my thumb was hovering over the emergency services button.

His face contorted, shifting with a toddler’s speed from anger to anxiety. “Don’t. I’ll go.”

I hesitated.

Carter’s career had always been a puzzle box of travel, odd clients, and total lack of legal specialization. I was unsure what my grandson really did, and I never pressed. Our relationship boundaries were well defined.

And yet, and yet... Carter traveled the world but lived in a small, midwestern town. Carter had strange visitors. Carter had dangerous enemies. Carter lived a modest life. Carter was inexplicable.

“Fine,” I said. “Get out. Now.”

He adjusted his fedora. With a last glance at my grandson’s desk, he turned to leave. I followed him to the front door, keeping several feet back in case he turned on me.

He paused on the porch and shot me a baleful look. “I’m not done with your boss, lady, not by a jugful.”

“My grandson, you fool.” I slammed the door in his astonished face. Jugful? Who says that? That saying had been tired when my grandparents were children.

I watched through the window as he tramped across the wide lawn. He stormed down the sidewalk and vanished around the corner.

Shakily, I collapsed onto the ivory-colored settee. I’d been the fool to open the door. Things could have gone considerably worse than they had. And that strange, clockwork vision...

I pressed my eyes shut. “Old fool,” I muttered.

Since the death of my husband a number of years ago, I thought I’d become more resourceful. But had I? I’d moved into Carter’s in-law cottage. I had a “home aid,” a luxury I admittedly enjoyed when it came to housework.

But I wasn’t done, wasn’t finished with life. I glanced at the old clock. I thought I had rather a talent for detecting.

Whatever my motivations had been in finding that missing will, thanks to that adventure, my small circle of friends had expanded. I had no regrets on that score, just a gnawing sense that something had been left undone.

Something thudded softly to the settee cushion. I looked down, surprised. My phone.

Perhaps I should call Carter? I shook my head. He was busy and would be home this evening. I could wait to tell him about Norris.

Besides, I wanted to speak to Carter directly about today’s intruder. My grandson was excellent at evasion when he wanted. If I could speak to him face to face, I might notice where those evasions fell.

I rose and paced. The deliveryman came, his footsteps on the porch stiffening my neck, and he did not ring the bell.

I read, put the hardback down. I tried to guess what was in Carter’s package. It felt and sounded like a book.

I checked the clock on my phone. Four PM.

I should have returned to my cottage, but I didn’t want to. Hayley would still be puttering about, and Carter wouldn’t be back until late evening.

But what if Norris Graves returned? What if he’d already returned and was waiting outside? He’d said he was after a deed. The prudent thing to do would be to move it into the safe.

I seated myself at Carter’s desk and opened a drawer. Before I could examine the papers there, an odd sensation—a fishhook tug—caught beneath my solar plexus. My hand stilled on the brass handle. I’d experienced this sensation before, this feeling of teetering on the verge of something momentous.

The doorbell rang.

Tensing, I slammed the drawer shut, turning the key. I dropped the latter into a nearby potted monstera, just in case. The plant swallowed it whole.

I hurried to the front window. Afternoon warmth radiated from the paned glass.

The porch creaked, whoever stood there keeping just out of my line of sight.

A river roared in my ears. This was it then. It was happening. The ticking of the clock grew louder, now, now, now.

I opened the door. The scent of dry attics and damp cellars crossed the threshold first, the scent of things put away and forgotten. And then—

🔍🔍🔍

Watch for Chapter 3 next Wednesday, August 12th!

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Enjoying Ellie Drew?

If you like sharp women of a certain age who find themselves in strange situations, you may also enjoy my Mystery School series — midlife witches, secrets, and a stronger dose of the surreal.

Start here → Legacy of the Witch

Inside Baseball on Chapter 2 - Motifs, Clockwork Automatons, and Dumb but Dangerous Villains

Writing Update

Going forward, I’ll publish Ellie and the Secret Staircase twice a week, since these chapters are short and so is my memory.

This week, my editor at misterio press sent me back the first round of comments on my new Mystery School novella, which will initially only be available to those cunning enough to solve my puzzle!

Then it’s going up for sale.

I have incorporated the edits and reverted it to misterio for the final edit, which means…

A HALLOWEEN MYSTERY PUZZLE TO SOLVE!

If things go well, it will actually go up in September, but still, the Halloween vibe will be there.

This prize is, as I mentioned, a shameless promotion for the NEXT full-length novel in the Mystery School series, That book, REFUGE OF THE WITCH, will be available early next year.

In fact, it’s kind of a prequel, and there will be reoccurring characters.

I’ve also started noodling over book 1 in a Tea and Tarot spinoff series featuring Razzzor. I’ve figured out the setting, the sidekick, and some of the comic relief, but no idea on the murder. Hopefully I’ll get some actual plotting in this month.

One of the latest in this genre attempts to dismantle myths about writing with AI.

The author argues that suffering for one’s art is not a reason to dismiss or criticize the use of AI for drafting a story. She writes:

Agreed.

Sort of.

Suffering was never the point of writing.

That overused quote about sitting down, opening one’s veins, and bleeding has always been a humble-brag.

(Writers live in their heads more than most, and as a result we can be insufferable drama queens. Humble-brags go with the territory.)

So what is The Point?

It boils down to values, something I’ve written about before.

If a writer values producing a story as quickly and painlessly as possible, then the point is content creation.

If a writer values wordsmithing brilliant prose to create an original work of staggering genius, then the point is art.

If a writer values creating a beautiful work that delights and inspires, then the point is love.

Some of these values are mutually exclusive.

Others are not.

I’m sure there are values I haven’t considered.

But when we don’t know our values, or we lie to ourselves and others about what truly matters to us, we flounder.

Because (to quote my own Substack post):

The Limitations of AI Creation

AI is great at creating content. It’s fast. It’s brainless. It’s typo-free.

It can be a half-decent editor and writing coach, and I’ve used it as such. But carefully. It doesn’t always give good advice. Knowing something of the craft can help a writer be discerning when it comes to taking advice from AI…and from humans.

Can AI create art?

I haven’t seen it. It’s derivative by nature, and AI prose tends to read like a screenplay by an overwrought tween.

That may change.

I’ve been told AI writing is improving exponentially.

I’ve also been told AI is cannibalizing itself, referencing its own online writing as a content model to create even more banal prose.

Time will tell which prediction proves true.

Can AI create a work of love?

No.

That’s well beyond AI, and I suspect it always will be, because AI has no soul.

Which brings us back to suffering.

You don’t need to suffer for your art, but to be a human with a soul means to endure a unique form of suffering.

We suffer with the knowledge of our own mortality.

We suffer the losses of those we love.

We suffer watching our children make the same damn mistakes we did and refusing to heed our warnings because we know how it will end.

We suffer the anxiety of putting something out into the world and worrying it’s not good enough, or we suffer the agony of being told it’s not good enough.

And on and on and on.

A bone-deep understanding of that suffering is what makes characters real. It creates stories that break a reader’s heart and make them laugh out loud. (The joy human souls experience is unique, too.)

Writing shouldn’t be suffering, but one must have suffered to write meaningfully—and all of us have.

In writing, the particular becomes the universal. The personal and individual experience of suffering (yes, even in a cozy mystery) somehow expands so that readers and writers who haven’t gone through that pain still “get it.”

We may not have experienced the exact same situations tormenting our characters, but a good writer can empathize and still write something real.

When we let AI do the thinking for us, that gets lost.

AI doesn’t feel.

Its choices are the choices of the algorithm, of the copyist, not the choices that go bold, that take risks.

AI takes no risks and never has.

AI can’t create love and AI can’t create art.

If those are the things you value, AI is not the way.

You may also enjoy:

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I grew up reading Nancy Drew. Later, I graduated to Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie, but it was Nancy who made the biggest impact.

I wanted to be a girl detective.

It didn’t take me long to realize that mysteries did not fall into my lap the way they did for Nancy.

My goal shifted to writing about girl detectives.

Childhood dream, achieved.

This year, the first three books in the original Nancy Drew series, originally published in the 1930s, entered the public domain.

I couldn’t resist.

I’ve created new characters and mirrored the plot from The Hidden Staircase, beat for beat, keeping all the plot-driving coincidences, all the period details, to create something slightly surreal.

Consider this an ode to Nancy rather than an update for “modern audiences.”

I guess it’s a retelling.

Or maybe just fan fiction.

But I’ll be serializing it right here, on Substack, free for everyone.

The first chapter is below.

This story is a modern retelling that freely adapts the plot and certain setting details from the original 1930 edition of The Hidden Staircase by Carolyn Keene (ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson), which entered the public domain in the United States on January 1, 2026. All characters have been renamed and the story has been relocated to a contemporary setting. Any resemblance to the later revised editions of the Nancy Drew series (still under copyright) is coincidental and unintentional.

Chapter 1

An Unexpected Caller

Things I worry about:

Becoming a burden.

My grandson, Carter, still raw from his divorce.

That same grandson finding me dead in an undignified position. Expired at the foot of the stairs would be acceptable, though my cottage has no stairs. Face down in my Greek yogurt or crumpled naked on the shower floor? Not by a long shot.

Things I do not worry about:

Death.

Making a fool of myself.

Sticking my nose into other people’s business.

I tossed the mystery novel I’d been trying to read onto my grandson’s settee and crossed the living room to the front window. The wide lawn, dotted with summer-green oaks, flickered Kodachrome-bright.

Smartly turning my back on this persistence of memory, I scanned the living room for something to do—a throw pillow to adjust, a landscape to straighten. The room was as neat as only a home devoid of children could be.

I could have moved in here after Diana and the children had gone. It was a handsome, echoing old house. But that would have been an admission that they weren’t coming back. Neither of us could bear that.

Nothing had changed in this room in the last year. The children’s photos on the mantel I understood. The wedding photo was less explicable. I straightened a picture of the kids around the Christmas tree, freckled faces split into smiles.

I shouldn’t have come. The echoing emptiness of the big house hurt my heart. Why had I let myself be drawn inside then?

Carter hadn’t asked me to stay and keep watch for his delivery, but our neighbors had had a package stolen from their front porch last week. It would have been just as easy to keep watch from my in-law cottage. However, my caretaker, Hayley was there. Carter had provided her for me, too.

My gaze fell on the old-fashioned mantel clock beside the photos. There it sat, a clock that had once hidden a will and turned my undignified bout of meddling into salvation.

Of course.

I’d come because the tug of that restless current had found me again, and I knew what it heralded. I wanted another adventure, another mystery to solve like the one that had gained me that clock.

I won’t say my life had narrowed with age. When the children had gone, it had simply compressed. I had compressed.

Last year’s hunt for that missing will might have been my attempt to expand again. Or an attempt at avoidance. As Carter had pointed out, that adventure and the secret the old clock had revealed had coincided with Diana taking the children to California.

I was no doubt imagining this feeling of... anticipation? It had been so long since I’d last felt it, and the odds of another adventure were low. After all, how much excitement could come the way of great grandmother and retired homemaker, Ellie Drew? (Nan, to my grandchildren).

I resettled myself in a wing chair facing the window and retrieved my book. If a literary mystery was all I was to have, then I would enjoy it. But my thoughts were divided between the words on the page and the events of last year.

The doorbell rang, and I started. The delivery man. Finally.

Before I could rise, the bell rang again and my mouth pinched. Not a delivery person. Delivery men didn’t ring twice—not unless they needed a signature.

My pulse sped pleasantly. As mysteries went, this one would soon be resolved. And yet...

Dropping my book, I hurried to the door and opened it. Definitely not a delivery man.

He was tall and rawboned, the hollows of his cheeks aging him, though he couldn’t have been more than forty. His charcoal suit was loose, as if it had once belonged to someone more substantial, and he wore a fedora like a Prohibition gangster.

But that wasn’t what made me step back. It was his eyes, blue and fierce and fanatical.

Before I could speak, he stepped past me into the foyer, knocking my shoulder. “I’m looking for Carter Drew.”

I did not rub my shoulder, though the blow had been jarring. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “And you are?”

“Norris Graves. He’ll know me.”

“I’m sorry,” I lied crisply, “he’s not available.” As a lawyer with an eclectic career, Carter had all sorts of intriguing visitors. I wondered, not for the first time, if that career and those visitors didn’t partially explain the divorce.

“He’ll make himself available for me.”

“In this case,” I said, “it’s quite impossible. He’s not home. If you’d like to leave a message—”

“I wouldn’t like.” Norris strode deeper into the house. Behind him, the hallway spooled out like a corridor in a dream, the study door receding with every step he took.

I pressed my palm to the wallpaper for balance, then straightened. “Excuse me,” I said tartly. “You’ll have to leave.”

“Not without those papers.” He looked around and beelined toward the open door to Carter’s study.

“You’re trespassing,” I hurried after the man.

“And your boss is a cheat.”

He thought I was the maid? I was more flattered than offended if he believed I could still lift buckets of water and mop floors. I could, of course. It was nice for that to be recognized. “Get out.”

He stopped short in the doorway to Carter’s study. His head swiveled, scanning the bookshelves, the paintings, a collection of metal filing cabinets (locked), the old-fashioned wooden desk. “Tell me where the deed is, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What deed?” I asked, exasperated.

“He cheated me out of my land down by the river. Tricked me into selling it at a price well below what it was worth.”

“I doubt that very much.” Carter was many things, but he was not a cheat. As far as I knew, he was also not a realtor.

The man moved toward the polished desk, envelopes stacked atop the blotter.

“Don’t you dare,” I said, but of course he ignored me. I looked no threat in my baby blue cardigan, skirt, and sensible shoes, my strawberry blond hair faded to white.

He yanked open a drawer and pawed through it.

“Get out of there.” Outraged, unthinking, I grasped his coat sleeve. It was a silly, ridiculous gesture at my age.

He easily jerked his arm free and wheeled to face me. His face convulsed with rage.

There have been three times in my life when I sensed evil.

Once, in a hospital corridor, when I barred a soft-spoken nurse from my infant grandson’s crib. They thought me mad—until the headlines appeared months later.

ANGEL OF DEATH.

THE UNIFORM THAT HID A PREDATOR.

KILLER IN SCRUBS.

The second time, investigating that missing will and the old clock.

And now today. Not a cunning, clever evil, but a raw and stupid sort, which can be equally deadly.

I fell back, raising my hands in a defensive gesture that was more symbolic than useful. I’d let a stranger into my grandson’s house, and now I would pay the price.

Watch for Chapter 2 next week!

Enjoying Ellie Drew?

If you like sharp women of a certain age who find themselves in strange situations, you may also enjoy my Mystery School series — midlife witches, secrets, and a stronger dose of the surreal.

Start here → Legacy of the Witch

Why I didn’t start with Secret of the Old Clock

Substack Live!

I’m holding a Substack live on July 30th with author Joanna Devoe about her new book, MAJOR ARCANA!

Stop on by to catch our discussion about writing, magic with a k, and more: https://open.substack.com/live-stream/290270

And now, a short essay…

The Hunger for Usable Stories

It was a bestseller.

Groundbreaking supernatural suspense in a dystopian, nihilistic world.

The “heroine” was dark, and her badass behavior darker.

I couldn’t finish it.

While reality can be plenty dark and dystopian, I need books with at least a little hope.

There’s a place for narratives that wallow in darkness—stories where systems are broken, characters are powerless, and the only response is despair or rage—just not on my bookshelf.

These books and shows are often brilliant (Breaking Bad’s depiction of a normal man’s descent into evil is incredible), but they leave me hollow.

They describe the storm but don’t extend an umbrella.

(Rude!)

What I want are stories that don’t just show the darkness, but demonstrate the mindset to meet it.

I’m not talking about lesson plans or propaganda.

Those are boring.

I’m talking about a reflection of a different facet of reality that I can lean into, because the light exists too.

The Power of Stoicism

Enter Stoicism: a practical philosophy built for the reality of living.

People think it’s about becoming an emotionless robot.

It isn’t.

It’s not about mysticism or fate either—it’s about choice.

It doesn’t promise to banish the dark. In a fallen world, that’s not always possible.

Instead it teaches you to control what you can—your judgments, your actions—while accepting what you can’t.

That same practical stance shows up in an unexpected place: cozy mysteries.

Cozy sleuths are some of Stoicism’s most stand-up modern practitioners.

They don’t panic (at least, not for long) when the body turns up in the library or the ghost rattles the teacups.

They act.

(Tarot has always hinted at this posture; my UnTarot does more than hint.)

The Hope of What You Can Control

A lot of contemporary fiction falls into one of two traps:

1. Nihilism: The world is broken, and so are we.

2. Forced Positivity: If you just believe hard enough, the universe will comply.

Stoicism cuts through both. It says: Focus on what you can control. Let go of the rest.

Cozy heroines live this out.

Instead of wasting energy raging at the killer’s existence, they gather evidence.

Instead of despairing over the town’s scandals, they listen, and bake, and solve.

Instead of ignoring the darkness, they meet it with competence, humor, and courage.

They’re not Pollyannas either.

In a cozy mystery with a decent character arc, there’s always a moment of doubt, a moment of anguish.

(Writers call this the “Dark Night of the Soul” beat. It follow the “All Hope is Lost” beat).

But the hero pushes through the doubt, because cozy stories are secretly Stoic.

Cozy sleuths don’t deny evil—murder is serious and awful—but they refuse to let it have the final word.

Because a lot of readers (maybe you?) don’t just want to understand the dark. They want to navigate it.

Stoicism—and the cozy mysteries that embody it—offer something necessary: practical hope.

The best stories don’t just reflect the world.

They give us the second-hand experience to be our best human selves in it.

Not with grand gestures, but with the daily discipline of showing up, paying attention, and doing the right thing at the right time (the ancient virtue of Prudence).

Cozies do exactly that.

And that’s why, in a world that can seem full of darkness, they feel like light.

What’s a story that left you feeling more equipped to face the dark? Hit comment—I’d love to hear your picks.

Writing News

This week, I sent Winter of the Witch to my editors at misterio press.

Next, I turn to the puzzle that readers must solve to get this novella.

As an experiment in transmedia storytelling (see link below), my goal is to make the puzzle a part of a the story.

The game will reveal secrets about the Mystery School world and the Black Lodge that’s been causing it so much trouble.

Plus, there will be a short choose-your-own-adventure-style computer game, because I loved those things as a kid.

That game has turned into the biggest challenge, mainly for technical reasons.

Grok is creating the code for me. I’m inputting the story.

It turns out, it’s really easy to mess up computer code.

But I expect to have it all sorted out by the time my editors revert the manuscript to me (i.e., before Halloween).

A spooky game with a prize at the end seems like the perfect way to get in the mood for that holiday.

At some point, I will also put the novella up for sale online, because… Yes, I do like making money on things too.

But it’s a prequel to the next book in the series, Refuge of the Witch, so I’m treating this experiment as a fun promo.

Take advantage while you can, and watch this space for clues!

FINALLY, my top-secret serial novella will launch this August!

Since August starts next week, I’m going to give myself some wiggle room and just say “August” rather than nailing down an actual date.

But August for sure.

Back in 1870, one in five Americans couldn’t read.

By 1940, nearly everyone could.

That seismic shift didn’t just unlock doors—it ignited a cultural wildfire.

Edward Stratemeyer spotted the spark and built an empire on it, cranking out cheap, addictive series fiction like a well-oiled machine.

His syndicate launched Nancy Drew in 1930 as the bold, brainy counterpart to the Hardy Boys.

Ghostwritten by Mildred Wirt Benson under the name Carolyn Keene, the first three books dropped on the same day and flew off the shelves. Hundreds of thousands sold in weeks. Tens of millions over the decades.

Why? Because for the first time, millions of girls had the keys to their own adventures—and they couldn’t get enough.

The Unraveling

Fast-forward to now.

That broad, book-hungry public we once took for granted?

It’s slipping away. Today, 28% of U.S. adults struggle with basic reading tasks—up from 19% in 2017.

We’re splitting into two Americas: readers and non-readers.

Forty percent of adults read zero books a year.

Another forty percent read between one and nine.

And yet… book sales in 2025 topped 2019 numbers.

Independent bookstores are exploding—605 new shops opened last year alone (an 87% jump from 2024), with 299 more on the drawing board for 2026.

A new Barnes & Noble is opening up where I live.

It’s weird.

We’re drowning in words, but for too many of us they come in frantic fragments: scrolls, headlines, soundbites.

The deep focus, the sustained attention, the pattern-seeing that fuels real thinking and creation? That’s fading.

A mind fed only on snippets atrophies. The long-form narrative that once shaped souls is starving.

The Superpower of Reading

Here’s the truth that never changes: readers hold the edge.

Reading sharpens vocabulary, pattern recognition, critical thinking, empathy, and develops a deep inner calm.

That makes reading more than a hobby—it makes it a superpower.

Nancy Drew didn’t just crack cases. She handed generations of girls the mental tools to solve their own.

And now it’s our turn to pass that torch.

A Call to Arms (and Bookshelves)

Don’t wait for the system to teach your kids to read.

It might not.

You can hand them the map for their own hero’s journey right now.

Give them a Nancy Drew-style story that lights them up.

Reward reading time like the treasure it is.

Let them stay up late—if a book is in their hands.

Keep books visible around the home.

Model reading yourself—let them catch you lost in a story.

Carve out family reading time.

Ask them what they’re reading and really listen.

In a world where literacy is no longer guaranteed, every girl who falls for a clever, courageous heroine like Nancy becomes a revolutionary.

She’s not merely reading.

She’s arming herself for the mysteries—and the triumphs—ahead.

What’s on your nightstand this week? Drop your favorite reads, the books that shaped you, or the stories that still haunt you in the comments. Let’s grow a community of readers—one page, one adventure, one transformed life at a time.

Major Arcana by Joanna Devoe

I love a good Tarot-themed book.

Unfortunately, they’re not always easy to find.

Joanna Devoe delivers with a fresh story that delivers believable antagonists, taut supernatural suspense, and terrific prose.

You can find Major Arcana, book one in The Arcane Pentalogy on Amazon here (and maybe other places too!).

Recovery from the 4th

Independence Day landed on a Saturday, thank God, the calendar offering a soft landing.

I’d gotten roped (maneuvered?) into organizing the neighborhood block party.

It went great—no hitches, no disasters, just the kind of gut-stuffing fun that’ll probably end up as fodder for a future cozy mystery.

But damn, it emptied the tank.

It was also so very, very American.

I didn’t have to micromanage a thing. Just printed flyers with the only two rules that mattered—bring your own meat and something to share—set out the tables with the usual barbecue artillery and red-white-and-blue bunting, then stepped back into the shade.

It all came together like an A-Team plan.

People saw what needed doing, and they did it. No committee meetings. No begging.

Extra tables appeared because a neighbor noticed we were short.

A trash bin materialized when the bags started overflowing.

Shade? Someone rolled out a massive pop-up awning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

One woman brought a massive shortbread dessert decorated like the American flag—stars, stripes, the whole glorious spectacle. The food was ridiculous in the best way. Everyone brought their best.

All I’d had to do was build the stage. The neighbors filled it.

I couldn’t have created a better cozy scene on the page.

Sure, maybe a little ego was in the mix. The two kings at the grills were clearly having the time of their lives, soaking up every “damn, that smells good.” And the guy with the awning? Absolute hero when a sudden rainstorm rolled through and tried to crash the party.

We didn’t just celebrate freedom that day.

We lived a sweet little piece of it.

No fuss.

No fireworks. (Colorado’s got a strict ban this year).

But I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in the sweat and the smoke, a clue was left behind.

Maybe for the next story.

Maybe for us.

If you missed my meditation on the Gettysburg Address (and some writing lessons), read it here:

Writing Update

First, thank you to everyone who bought Death in Red, White and Rooibos, and to those who participated in the Cootie Catcher giveaway. Your support means the world to me! I’ve sent emails to the twelve winners and the cootie catchers are in the mail.

Second, the cozy mystery writing continues. I’m currently working on three projects at once, (which is basically back to normal for me).

I’d put Refuge of the Witch on a backburner, because I realized something wasn’t quite right with my draft, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. After some noodling, I understood the story needed a more cohesive theme. Once I realized what that theme had to be, everything started coming together, and I’m now REALLY excited about that book again. (Though I need/get to do some new magickal research first). Since I hadn’t gotten very far into my edits on Refuge, there shouldn’t be too much publishing delay.

Before Refuge, however, comes Winter of the Witch, a novella that’s a prequel to Refuge. I expect that will be available in mid-September, and it will be free, but only for readers who follow the clues…

And that third mysterious project?

All I can tell you is it’s an ode to American mystery, and it will be landing sooner than you think.

Third, on August 8th, I will be at the Castle Rock Writers Conference talking about working with beat sheets.

Here’s the conference blurb:

Discover the power of beat sheets for crafting compelling stories. In this hands-on workshop, we’ll explore story structure essentials, the evolution of modern beat sheets, when and how to adapt them, and genre-specific variations—perfect for emerging writers ready to level up their plotting skills.

More info HERE.

If you’re anything like me, you’re spending the day enjoying the long weekend, having a good time, and avoiding your electronic devices.

So this message is going to be short:

I love America.

I lived many years outside it, and the sense of freedom and energy in this country is heartbreakingly palpable.

America has also produced some amazing writing.

One that I keep coming back to is the Gettysburg Address.

It’s short. It’s powerful. And Lincoln clearly knew his stuff when it came to rhetoric.

Lincoln wasn’t the main act that day. Edward Everett, a famed orator, spoke for two hours. Lincoln followed with remarks that clocked in at just over two minutes.

And yet, history barely remembers Everett’s speech.

Why? Because Lincoln understood something profound: restraint and precision beat volume every single time.

And what rhetorical precision.

Lincoln used repetition (technically anaphora) to build momentum.

We can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground.

He used tricolon, the rule of three for unforgettable symmetry:

Government of the people, by the people, for the people.

He used contrast for drama, pitting the living against the dead, words against deeds, the temporary against the eternal:

The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

And let’s not forget the rhythm and alliteration:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth…

I could turn this short essay into a lesson on writing. In a world drowning in noise, the writer who can say more with less—who can make 272 words feel like scripture—will always stand out.

But the Gettysburg Address is worth a read on this day and any day for its own sake. Here it is:

Now, get out there and barbecue something!

P.S. Tomorrow Death in Red, White and Rooibos (the ebook) goes off sale. So if you’re looking for more Independence Day spirit this weekend, grab it now!

All it takes is a little curiosity.

Alas, when I was younger, I knew everything. So I had none.

My father once told me about an uncle who could pull healing magic from a potato and a slice of moonlight.

I laughed it off as silly superstition and asked no questions.

The arrogance of youth tends to keep the wonder out and the certainty in.

It was only later, far too late, that I learned more of that old craft: Pennsylvania folk healing magic, known as powwow or braucherei.

The words themselves feel like a spell half-forgotten on the tongue.

Learning about my family’s folk magic tradition sent me reaching backward through time toward the immigrants themselves—the stubborn German farmers who carried these traditions across a black ocean into an even blacker wilderness.

They left behind the ethereal, kindly forests of home. Their new world was dark, brooding, chestnut-vaulted and walnut-shadowed.

Aware.

With every leaf-rustle and branch-crack, those old farmers felt their watchers. Malevolent intent pressed hot against their damp backs like dragon’s breath.

They feared illness, feared Indian raids, feared starvation gnawing at their bellies.

But the real terror came from the woods. The real terror came from the witches.

And so they carried talismans scrawled on fragile pages for protection, small shields against the unseen:

I.

N. I. R.

I.

SANCTUS SPIRITUS

I.

N. I. R.

I.

Stubborn, reverent, industrious, they cleared the land anyway.

They sowed barley and buckwheat, raised flax and rye, carving sunlit, hard-won clearings from the teeth of the wilderness.

They built barns for uneasy livestock that shifted and stamped through the nights.

Resentful, waiting, the eyes witnessed everything from the wood’s edges.

Chalk toad’s feet above the windows to turn away evil.

There remains something uncanny about the Pennsylvania woods. Even now.

Summer canopies lock in the heat, humid and smothering and thick. Oak and chestnut, beech and birch press together, whispering. Spirits still dwell in the trees—some protectors, some malignant, all of them watching.

Plant hazel as a ward.

So we tread carefully. Wary of the witches. Wary, too, of the parts of ourselves that once dismissed them.

Because the magic didn’t die with the old farmers. It simply learned to hide in plainer sight—in the potato left on the windowsill, in the moonlight pooling on the kitchen table, in the moment when curiosity finally arrives and asks its first real question.

This is the same living power April discovers in my metaphysical mystery Legacy of the Witch—the deep, daimonic undercurrent that asks us to confront our shadows, heal old wounds, and finally listen when the woods begin to speak.

Because if you listen closely enough, the woods will answer.

And they still watch.

Death in Red, White and Rooibos Launches Today

Today is the official launch date for my new Tea and Tarot cozy mystery, Death in Red, White and Rooibos. The glitches I mentioned in my panicked email a couple days ago appear to have been resolved.1

Here’s what this Independence Day cozy mystery is about:

A hit-and-run “accident”… a ghost from the past… and one unpaid debt that’s about to boil over.

When San Borromeo kicks off its summer festival season with near-daily parades, picnics, and concerts leading to the July 4th finale, Beanblossom’s Tea & Tarot is the coziest spot on the beach. Abigail pours perfectly steeped rooibos, her partner Hyperion reads Tarot cards that actually help, and his cat bosses everyone around—until a woman from Abigail’s past is found dead on the street, weeks before the 4th.

Now, Abigail owes a debt she never settled. The only way to pay it is to team up with her quirky gang of amateur sleuths, meddling relatives, and eccentric locals. Together they dive into a puzzle of small-town secrets, red-white-and-blue alibis, and whispered scandals.

But every steeped cup uncovers another layer of betrayal, and the closer they get to the truth, the more the killer seems determined to make Abigail’s own independence day her last.

Can this ragtag crew unmask the killer before the fireworks explode—or will Hyperion’s final reading predict liberty… and justice… for none?

DEATH IN RED, WHITE AND ROOIBOS is book 11 in the Tea and Tarot small-town mystery series. If you like laugh-out-loud smart sleuthing, satisfying justice, and slow-burn romance, get cozy with DEATH IN RED, WHITE AND ROOIBOS today!

Tearoom recipes in the back of the book!

Buy Direct from the Author (US Only)

Amazon | Apple Books | Barnes & Noble | Google Play | Kobo

Tea & Tarot Cootie Catchers!

To help get the word out about my new cozy mystery, Death in Red, White and Rooibos, I’m giving away 12 Tea and Tarot cootie catchers.

They feature the classic Tarot de Marseilles on the outside and the typical Hyperion Night Tarot-reading goodness on the inside.

The sweepstakes runs through July 5th, 2026. For a chance to win, click the button below and follow the instructions:

Cootie Catcher

Here’s how they work (this may bring back some childhood memories).

1. First, the querant chooses a tea blend, let’s say “chai.” Chai has four letters in it, so you open and close the cootie catcher four times, then look inside.

2. The querant then chooses a number. Open and close the cootie catcher that same number of times.

3. Then the querant chooses a Tarot card. Unfold the cootie catcher to expose the message beneath that card. That is their fortune.

Or just watch the video below. It’s not quite as explanatory, because I really am better at writing than talking. But you’ll get the idea.

I hope this finds you relaxing with a cup of tea (or something stronger) and not currently wrestling with any formatting gremlins of your own.

First, the bad news: I just discovered a big formatting error in the pre-order version of DEATH IN RED, WHITE AND ROOIBOS on Amazon.

Somehow, extra duplicate chapters snuck in like uninvited guests who won’t leave the party.

(Better than missing chapters, I suppose, but still... not ideal.)

I’m genuinely sorry about this.

As someone who obsesses over clean, readable ebooks, this one stings. (If you’re curious about what went wrong, I explain below.)1

Amazon’s pre-order system has locked it down, so I can’t fix it there until after the Kindle drops on June 27th. (So don’t pre-order the ebook).

Here are two easy ways to do it:

1. Wait a few days for the automatic update
As soon as the book goes live, I’ll upload the corrected files and ask Amazon to push the new version to everyone who pre-ordered. This usually takes a few days, but you won’t have to do anything.

2. Get the clean copy right away
Just email me at kweiss2001@kirstenweiss.com with the subject line: I pre-ordered on Amazon.

I’ll send you the properly formatted ebook immediately (plus the PDF of all the recipes from the back of the book as a thank-you).

In the meantime, I’m double- and triple-checking everything for the wide release so the rest of you get the smooth, polished version you deserve.

Lesson learned: even after 70+ books, the gremlins can still find a way in.

Thank you for your understanding and for being part of this wild writing adventure with me.

Your support means the world—formatting disasters and all.

Sheepishly,
Kirsten Weiss

Chapter 1

Is there anything more problematic than a tearoom on the Fourth of July?

Those bold Bostonians had good reason to dump tea into the harbor back in 1773—and after my latest tax bill, I was starting to sympathize. But a tearoom that hasn’t blasted into July Fourth spirit by mid-June?

Downright treasonous.

Paper butterflies dangled from the tearoom’s ceiling. Sunny-orange table runners bisected the white-clothed tables. Daisy bouquets spilled from jam jars. The decor was summery, not patriotic. Not that anyone had complained.

“How about a red, white, and brew celebration?” Hyperion leaned against the window frame and adjusted his Uncle Sam top hat.

The blue of his three-piece suit almost perfectly matched the American flag. Tall and handsome, straight of nose and chiseled of jaw, my business partner always managed to look like he’d stepped from the pages of a men’s magazine.

It was irritating. I had to work to look reasonably put together. I’m petite—five-four if I don’t tease my hair (blond, FYI), five-four-and-a-half if I do. Wearing heels is easier.

The ladies in the tearoom—and some of the men—darted glances at Hyperion, but not because of that ridiculous hat. It was his high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and tousled shock of black hair that attracted the looks.

“The coffeehouse down the street is already using red, white and brew,” I said.

“The coffeehouse whither?” Hyperion loosened another button at his collar.

“Down the— What?” Whither? Since Hyperion had given up his Lovecraft word-of-the-day calendar, he’d been expanding his vocabulary in new and alarming ways.

Hyperion gusted an exasperated huff. “You’re overthinking this. No one’s complained about the decorations.” He paused. “I don’t think people are really into the Fourth this year.”

I’d noticed that too, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t go all in. Maybe it was a bit delusional to hope my contribution could raise people’s spirits. Except I hadn’t made any contribution yet. “I know, but...”

My boyfriend, Brik, ambled from the rear hallway. He set a cardboard box overflowing with decorations on the white-quartz counter. I straightened off the hostess stand and hoped my smile wasn’t too gooey.

POP!

I started and whirled toward the windows. Hyperion grinned, the ends of a holiday popper in his hands. “Red, white, and rooibos?”

I swallowed my annoyance. He knew my startle reflex was off the charts. “It beats red, white, and pea flower.” Butterfly pea flower was the herb of the moment when it came to brewing blue-colored tea.

“We’re trying too hard,” Hyperion said. “Beanblossom’s Tea and Tarot is America par excellence—flashy, unapologetic, and serving scones rocket hot.”

“Anything hotter than warm would be a lawsuit waiting to happen.” I smoothed my sunflower apron. “And Beanblossom’s is more elegant and genteel.”

“Is it though?”

The blue door to the tearoom swung open, the bell above it jingling. Beatrice Carson, communications consultant and PR maven, strode inside wearing a trademark vintage 1940s suit. Its lapels were wide, its skirt was tight. It was a mystery how she took a step without teetering over.

Her full lips curved in a frown. “Why aren’t the decorations up?” Beatrice was a good fifteen years older than me, with gray streaks in her coffee-colored hair. She was also a whole lot taller.

“Don’t you see the butterflies?” Hyperion motioned toward the ceiling.

Beatrice sputtered. “It’s June nineteenth. The Fourth is in two weeks. You should be done. If you’re not done, you should be decorating. Why aren’t you decorating?”

“We’ve just seated everyone,” I said. To keep things organized, we didn’t let people make reservations willy-nilly. There were strict seating times, and the first was 11:00 to 11:30 AM. It was now 11:35, and the tables were full, waitresses were bustling between them.

Hyperion’s Tarot readers hadn’t made their appearance yet. They preferred to let people settle in before making their rounds.

“I’m decorated.” Hyperion tapped his top hat. “I got the hat just for the semiquincentennial.”

“I can see that.” She scowled. “What I don’t see are your decorations for the Great San Borromeo Patriotic Porch Parade & Contest. What is wrong with everyone?”

How did she manage to squeeze capital letters into her speech? Maybe it was her communications training from when she’d worked at the White House.

“It’s important that everyone participate in a timely fashion,” she continued. “We have a memorandum of understanding. If you can’t fulfill your obligations—”

“The decorations are going up outside today.” I motioned toward Brik, pulling bunting from his box at the counter, and this time the quiver in my gut was trepidation. Our exterior wall was purple stucco. I wasn’t exactly sure how it would work with the patriotic bunting.

“You’re cutting it close,” Beatrice warned.

“The summer solstice is Sunday. A witch’s group is having a pre-solstice party Saturday. We can’t take down our Magical Summer decorations before then,” I said, because I could squeeze in capital letters too. “That gives us Monday to put up our interior decorations for Independence Day—”

“The semiquincentennial,” Hyperion interjected.

“And San Borromeo’s 150th anniversary,” Beatrice reminded me, her green eyes narrowing. “This Fourth of July is a big deal. If people like you don’t get with the program—”

“We will be rocking American independence for the rest of the summer,” I assured her. Because I love July Fourth. The history. The fireworks. The thumb-your-nose-at-the-man verve.

But the head witch was a good friend of Hyperion’s and a good client of the tearoom. We weren’t going to diss the solstice.

“Hmph.” She opened her oversized scarlet purse and retrieved a clipboard. “You’ll be selling mini-scones and iced tea at the Community Beachside Picnic & Old-Time Games Day next Saturday.”

“The twenty-seventh.” I jammed my hands in my apron pockets. “We’ve got it.”

“I’ve booked a tent for Tarot readings.” Hyperion rocked on his heels. “For the semiquincentennial.”

“Please stop saying that word.” She didn’t look up from her acrylic clipboard.

Hyperion’s dark brows pulled downward. “But—”

“It won’t fit on a t-shirt,” Beatrice said. “You’re also doing the Farmer’s Market this Tuesday. You don’t usually participate in that.” She looked up and slipped one hand into the wide pocket of her jacket.

A trio of women burst into laughter at a round table.

“I thought since the pier’s reopened…” I trailed off, my breath slowing. “It just seemed fun.”

I’d gotten my start selling tea on that pier. Now that I was part owner in a Tea and Tarot room, it seemed right to support the farmer’s market—like coming full circle.

Thanks to local support, the pier that held the farmer’s market was back in order after a storm had devastated it last year. The storm had wrecked much of Front Street, along the water.

My heart heavied, and I glanced at Brik. The community had rallied, and San Borromeo was once again shipshape. But the storm had taken some things we couldn’t replace.

Jude, an acquaintance of Brik’s, had been swept away by the waves after saving me from a killer and the storm. I still hadn’t gotten over the guilt—or the hope that she might still be alive.

It wasn’t that crazy an idea. Jude had been indigent before the storm, and came and went when she pleased. Just because we hadn’t heard from her in over a year, didn’t mean she was gone gone. Did it?

The blue front door opened behind Beatrice. My grandfather and his best friend, Tomas, ambled inside. They glanced at the PR specialist, ducked their heads, and hustled toward the counter.

The twin lines between Beatrice’s eyes deepened. “And you’ve got a booth at the Twilight Concerts Stars & Stripes Edition.” She looked up from her clipboard. “Are you prepared for all that?”

“Of course we are,” Hyperion said stoutly. “Our team is ready and revolutionary.”

Her emerald eyes narrowed. “Hm.”

My eyes narrowed too. Hyperion was the best partner a tearoom owner could hope for, but organization wasn’t his strong suit.

Hyperion cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.” Looking shifty, he edged behind the hostess stand.

Beatrice jabbed her pencil toward the windows. On the sidewalk outside, a man in board shorts carried a surfboard past. “I expect to see your exterior decorations up by close of business today. The bad news is, I seem to have run out of tickets for the fireworks on the pier.”

“What?” Hyperion howled.

My insides jumped. “Run out?” We’d been promised tickets in exchange for sponsoring the Community Beachside Picnic & Old-Time Games Day. “I thought—”

“Keep your shirt on,” she said. “I’ve got more back at the office. Come by this afternoon and get them.” She pointed at me. “You come.” She pointed at Hyperion. “Not you.” Pivoting, she strode from the tearoom.

I exhaled slowly. We’d had a rocky relationship with Beatrice in the past, but she knew her stuff. I was glad the celebrations were in her hands. She’d make sure they were memorable.

Besides, we lived in a California beach town. Surf. Sun. Bonfires on the beach. Fireworks reflecting off the Pacific. Where better to celebrate America’s big day?

I scraped my teeth over my bottom lip. But had we overextended ourselves?

After confirming with the reservation book that no more guests were expected, I turned toward the counter. The door opened behind me, paper butterflies dancing in the Pacific breeze.

Greg, the guy who owned the t-shirt shop across the street, slouched into the tearoom. He ruffled his blond hair. “Hey, Abigail. You got a minute?” He scrunched his face, brown and weathered from a lifetime of surfing.

I looked around the crowded tearoom. “Ah...”

“I’ll be quick. As you may have heard, I’m stepping down from the town council.”

I hadn’t even known he’d been on it. “Oh. Is everything okay?”

“My doctor says I need to slow down. My wife does too.”

I took a half-step closer and lowered my voice. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Ah... We’ll see. The thing is, I was wondering if you’d run to take my place.”

I took a step back and bumped into the hostess stand. “Me? Why me?” Menus cascaded from the top of the platform, and I bent to grab them off the laminate floor.

“You started that neighborhood watch. Aside from Beatrice, you’re the most involved in the July Fourth events. You’ve helped out the police all those times. You seem pretty civic minded.”

I straightened, clutching the menus to my chest. “Yeah, but I’m not political.” My default reaction to politicians was to run. My second was to check my pockets.

“No one who’s worth a damn is political,” Greg said hotly. “That’s why we need people like you on the council.”

“No, I mean, I’m really not political. I didn’t even know you were on town council.”

He rubbed the back of his sunburnt neck. “Just think about it, will you? We need someone on the council who understands the business and the residential side of San Borromeo.”

“I really don’t...”

“Think about it. It’s for my health.” Greg walked out.

“No pressure,” I muttered, replacing the menus on the hostess stand. I walked to the counter.

“I guess it’s half of five hundred years?” my grandfather was saying doubtfully. “Quincentennial? Five hundred?”

I studied him. The buttons of his brown-checked shirt had been doing extra duty lately. He had a girlfriend now, and they’d been eating out a lot. One collar stuck up from the edge of his cognac-colored knit vest.

Resisting the urge to smooth it down, I kissed Brik lightly on the cheek. His trim blond beard tickled my lips.

“Hey,” he rumbled, looping an arm around my waist and giving it a quick squeeze. “How does this look?”

I grimaced. The bunting looked like it had been balled up wet and packed away. “It will be perfect. The colors are as good as new. I’ll need to iron this before you hang it though.”

Naturally, I didn’t have an iron in the tearoom. I’d have to run home.

“Not a problem,” Brik said. “I’ll just use Hyperion’s steamer.”

I blinked. “He has a steamer? Here?”

Brik gave me a look. “How do you think he keeps his clothes so perfect?”

“Those steamers are handy.” My honorary uncle, Tomas, peeled off his orange-and-black baseball windbreaker. Lifting off his seat, he sat on his jacket and grinned, deepening the wrinkles in his aged-leather skin.

“What’s today’s special?” Gramps asked me.

“Roast beef and your horseradish,” I said.

“I’ll take one. And speaking of horseradish…” Stooping, he picked a shopping bag off the floor and pulled out a jar. “Check out my new label.”

I squinted at the red, white and blue label. Eagles screamed from the top corners like they were defending their nest egg from an IRS audit. “Liberty’s Burn Horseradish? That’s... a name.”

“That’s nothing,” Tomas said and pulled out three jars of salsa with similarly patriotic labeling. “Liberty Bell Salsa—mild with a crack of spice. Freedom Flame Salsa—extra hot. And Patriot’s Pico. That’s medium.”

“We’ve got a new banner for the farmer’s market too.” Gramps reached into the bag again and unfurled a wide sheet of white fabric: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Heat.

“You’re going to sell out for sure,” I said.

“We’d better.” Gramps looked around.

Tomas nudged him. “Not bad for two old geezers. I told you it’s never too late.”

My grandfather frowned.

“No one thinks you’re geezers,” I said, reaching over to touch his shoulder. But I worried. Gramps didn’t take care of himself. I brought him healthy meals a couple times a week, but he wasn’t what you’d call fit.

“I thought you’d have your Independence Day stuff up by now.” Tomas jerked his thumb toward the dangling paper butterflies.

“We’re waiting until after the solstice,” I said.

“Right.” My grandfather nodded. “The witches.”

I got sandwiches and tea for Gramps and Tomas and borrowed the steamer from Hyperion. In the hallway, Brik took it from me. “Don’t worry about it. I got this.”

“But—”

The bell above the front door jangled, and I looked toward the front of the tearoom. A bulky man in a stained beige suit walked in and scanned the tables.

My stomach clenched. Baranko.

Baranko was a local detective. He never ate at Beanblossom’s, and we weren’t friends. His appearance was never good news.

Smoothing the front of my apron, I walked to the front door and pasted on a smile. “Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?”

Brik came to join me at the hostess stand. He set the steamer atop the menus there.

“Mr. Jacobs.” The detective’s lip curled. “I thought I might find you here.”

My pulse accelerated. What did he want with Brik?

Brik stood motionless. “Yeah?”

“Let’s talk privately,” the detective said.

“What about?” Brik asked.

The detective’s paleolithic brows lowered. “It’s private.”

“I don’t have secrets from Abigail,” he said, and my chest warmed a little.

Baranko shrugged. “Your funeral. Your name was on a missing person’s report for a Ms. Jude St. James.”

“You found her?” I grasped Brik’s muscular arm. “Is she alright?”

“We’ve found a body—”

“No.” My breath caught, nausea rising in my throat. No, no, no.

I knew I hadn’t been entirely realistic. But despite her problems, Jude had been tough, loyal, and weirdly ingenious. If anyone could have survived that storm, it was her.

Baranko reached into the inside pocket of his rumpled suit jacket and pulled out a phone. “We’d like you to take a look, if you wouldn’t mind.” He touched the screen, and it lit.

Brik took the phone from Baranko’s extended hand. He glanced at it, his face expressionless. “That looks like her.” He nodded. “That’s Jude.” His jaw clenched, the faint lines at the corners of his mouth whitening.

My hand found his arm before I’d realized I’d moved, my fingers closing on warm muscle, my heart folding in on itself. Jude.

Want to read more?

Pre-order on Amazon for the discounted pre-order price of $4.99 (more sellers coming available soon).

Or buy direct now for $4.99 and get printable PDFs of the recipes!

Writing Update

Death in Red, White and Rooibos is done!

One benefit of my last-minute edits is that I was able to slide in a World Cup reference. I don’t know about you, but the videos of foreigners enjoying America has definitely boosted my Independence Day spirit.

This Tea and Tarot cozy mystery is available for pre-order on Amazon now, and will be available on other sites on a random and rolling basis.

If you pre-order (or buy) before July 5th, you can take advantage of the discounted price of $4.99!

Next week, I return to working on Refuge of the Witch and the not-so-secret project accompanying it.

Here’s the plan:

To promote Refuge of the Witch, which I’m still editing, I’ve created a novella about a minor character in the book, called Winter of the Witch.

Winter of the Witch takes place about a year before Refuge.

Winter of the Witch will be free (at least initially).

But in order to get it, you must complete an online puzzle.

The puzzle will be a mystery in and of itself.

Players will have to follow the clues across the internet, and as they play, they’ll learn more about the background of the black lodge that has been causing my witches and the world so many problems.

The reason this is so much fun for me is storytelling through a game is a different animal than storytelling in a novel.

I’m learning.

Formulaic.

It’s a word that lands like a sucker punch for any writer.

Mention beat sheets or three-act structures, and suddenly you’re staring down the barrel of the same story, book after book after book.

So when a journalist complained that the old TV show House was formulaic, actor Hugh Laurie clapped back.

Hard.

He later apologized for the snark.

But the journalist wasn’t entirely wrong.

TV scriptwriters are tightly bound by commercial breaks and beat sheets. Formula is how they get it done.

Novelists have more room to play, but beat sheets, structures, and genre conventions remain.

So how do genre writers keep themselves from writing the same story over and over and over again?

One of my favorite tools for keeping things surprising is the subplot.

Cozy mysteries live and breathe subplots.

There’s usually a B-plot and a slow-burn romantic thread weaving through the story. Sometimes more.

The murder plot? It follows a reliable groove: body drops, amateur sleuth digs in, another body is discovered (maybe), reassess, solve. Predictable on the surface.

But the subplot? That’s where anything can happen.

In my Paranormal Museum series, the B-plot often spins around some weird object Maddie’s chasing down.

In the Tea & Tarot books, it’s tied tight to the tearoom.

In Death in Red, White and Rooibos, the subplot explodes with Independence Day shenanigans.

Running gags can be subplots too. Remember the monster truck that kept tormenting Abigail in Matcha Murder? (Okay, it made me laugh).

But gags aren’t just cheap yuks. Every subplot has to earn its ink. It needs an arc that tangles with the hero’s inner and outer journey. Otherwise, it’s just filler dressed up as clever.

The main murder plot is the “necessary chaos” that kicks down the door and disrupts the hero’s life.

The subplot is where the amateur sleuth (and reader) chooses to step into their own smaller, personal chaos—like fixing the tearoom’s community event gone wrong.

Subplots turn a novel into a series of nested journeys: the crime-solving restores order, the subplot shows how the hero grows through the everyday disasters she chooses.

The subplot also needs to somehow affect the murder-plot—either hindering or helping in the solution of the crime.

In Death in Red, White and Rooibos, Abigail wrestles with her lifelong love for the Fourth of July against the new realities of her beach town—the suspicious death of a homeless woman, the crushing crowds, the mounting costs. It leaves her feeling flat about America’s big 250th anniversary bash… and guilty for feeling that way.

As Abigail unravels the murder, she’s forced to confront her doubts and make some big decisions about her role in her community.

In my cozy mysteries, the murder isn’t the heart of the story. It’s the accelerant.

The true pulse lives in the tearoom drama, the personal stakes, the daily battles that matter most. The crime just forces everyone to face them on fast-forward.

Before the sleuth can close the case, the subplot demands a shift in seeing. It pries loose old attachments—to Maddie’s museum relic, to Susan’s flawless event planning—through a series of small triumphs and gut-checks.

The subplot becomes the inner work that makes the outer resolution feel earned and fresh every time.

You can grab my cozy mystery beat sheet in my Cozy Mystery Toolkit! No formulaic BS, just solid structure to help you plot your cozy, subplots and all.

Writing Update

My second and third editors have reverted their comments on Death in Red, White and Rooibos, and I’ve processed them all.

Now, I’m doing a final final final edit of my own.

Minor tweaks. Punching up jokes. Playing with words. That sort of thing.

In short, a June 30th launch date (or even sooner) is looking good. As soon as I get the links up, I’ll let you know.

Meanwhile, I’ve finished the first draft of my secret project.

Sort of.

Like all fun projects, this one is expanding in surprising ways. I’ve gotten started on Phase II, and it’s even more entertaining (for me at least) than Phase I.

More details to follow…

People DO Judge Books by Their Covers

It was the Victorian’s who figured it out. A beautiful cover could sell a bad book—in the short-term, at least.

Before the 1820s, books wore plain leather.

The books were bound by the bookseller, not some distant publisher.

Then the machines arrived.

By the 1840s, publishers started paying designers real money to craft covers so eye-catching they could move books that otherwise wouldn’t sell on words alone.

This is where we get the adage, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” It slipped into print around 1860 in George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss.

But humans being humans, we still judge objects and people by their packaging.

A good cover can make us pick up a book.

A bad cover makes us wonder—did the author do the editing on their own too? Or bother with any editing at all? Bad covers raise suspicions, and that’s not a good thing—even in the mystery genre.

Today’s tech is making it more and more tempting for authors to design their own covers.

Few can pull it off.

A reader recently asked me for some book cover design tips. Here are my top 5:

1) Hire a professional cover designer. Not an artist. Not a graphic designer. Hire someone who actually knows book cover design. Just because the cover looks cool, doesn’t mean it will sell.

2) The cover should indicate what emotional experience the reader will get from the book. If this sounds weird, know this: emotional experience is the main “benefit” a fiction writer is selling. My traditional cozy mysteries provide laughs and good vibes, and the covers reflect that. The emotional experience should be a key element of any fiction author’s marketing, including the cover design.

3) The second selling point is the genre, so that should be fairly obvious from the cover as well. (This is why you’ll frequently see crime-scene tape on my book covers. It’s a genre signal).

4) Study other book covers in your genre. If your book fits neatly into the genre, using a similar design “vibe” may help sell it. If it’s not comparable, if you color outside the genre lines, your cover should indicate that as well.

5) Make sure the cover is attention-getting at thumbnail size. Today, that’s the first look most buyers will see if they’re shopping online. If fine detail is a critical part of your cover design, it will be lost at thumbnail size, or worse, look muddy.