When we last dispersed and everyone was tucked into bed, I ventured out alone in the darkness. I pressed on, searching, as the Hidden House’s Byzantine plot swirled with other smoky ringlets in the air. I hope you can excuse my secret beat. I
Category: Mysteries of Omaha
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At last meeting, we had assembled for unpardonable diversion and it was divine. Veiled Mystique! Intrigue! The Hidden House on the Hill! We couldn’t help but obsess in our growing group of detectives. Cloaked in dark tweed and a good deal of
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Omahans near and far, sleuths, snoops and the merely curious, thank you for meeting with us again. This is Part Two of the Hidden House series. If you have not yet read Hidden House Part One, here is the link to get you started. Mysteries of
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I have always felt that winter was the absolute best time of year for house spying, what without all of the beautiful, interfering foliage, the disturbing undergrowth, the distracting flowers, all forms of plant life that normally wink and
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When I was judged to be just old enough, my mother gave me her 1940’s dollhouse. This was not any old dollhouse. Mother of Miss Cassette had first viewed it and its building specs in a Popular Mechanics magazine at her Aunt Etta and Uncle Hank’s
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I have been told there was once a dark mansion, somber but rich. Enclosed in dense trees and shrubs, this unapproachable beauty was settled within the wood of a hill overlooking Leavenworth Street. The Mansion in the Trees. If you had happened
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Here in the detective office, just as at home, I like to keep up appearances, if for no one but myself. The mishmash of a period-imbued backdrop fans my little dream, nudged along by the likes of Ethel Waters and Scrappy Lambert and his Colonial
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The Miss Cassette Detective Agency had suddenly sprung into being one day in a rented, 1940s furnished office enshrouded in Midtown. My objective was to handle and solve the closed book architectural cases with which I was perplexed and couldn’t
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Years ago, when I had first hired Mr. Cross to address my messes in the detective office, attend to telephone calls and handle my mailings and such, he placed an opened, pale blue envelope on the ol’ tanker in a la-de-da manner. With
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I wish I could recapture a bit more from my child’s eye view of the large, Asian house. The memory is a tissue thin scrim of standing by the railed porch with my father and his friends, awaiting entrance to a blurred art opening. The ambiguous