From a series originally posted to Facebook only. Mother of Miss Cassette called these the Little Stories and she quite liked how short and fun they were. I will be working to get these uploaded onto the website, as most people don’t follow My
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Allow me to read to you from one of my favorites, Daphne Du Maurier’s Gothic novel, Rebecca: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderlay again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for
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My friend and I liked to ride the Omaha city bus to all sorts of mysterious places when we were young. I know now it was a good education in the different parts of Omaha and a great study in people watching. I’d like to think that our parents
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From a series originally posted to Facebook only. Mother of Miss Cassette called these the Little Stories and she quite liked how short and fun they were. I will be working to get these uploaded onto the website, as most people don’t follow My
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You and I are obsessed with the look of a proper estate with tall creepers and twiner-covered wrought iron gates. Even typing this I tremble to think of the extravagance of it all. Just imagining having one’s morning coffee on a patina copper
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From a series originally posted to Facebook only. Mother of Miss Cassette called these the Little Stories and she quite liked how short and fun they were. I will be working to get these uploaded onto the website, as many people don’t follow My
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An amateur detective is a wild and highly-strung creature, whose mind trembles with each newly discovered (and imagined) clue. It is so strong and so persistent—this obsessive love. There is always another piece of the puzzle to resolve, to work
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I had left the blog for almost a year to get some research and writing done but during that time those of you who follow the Facebook page were privy to some fun, shorter posts. Mother of Miss Cassette called these the Little Stories and she
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I spent one of the happiest mornings of recent memory lounged on a chaise of Mr. Cassette’s family lake house dock, watching. Turned toward the beach, I lazily gazed as Mr. Cassette was bending down over the sand, head hanging and with quick,
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I was on my merry way into my newest Byzantine investigation at the W. Dale Clark Library when I happened upon the old club fenced in, like a wayward jailbird or some unruly cattle pen. My heart lifted for a split minute, imagining a resplendent