It was several seconds before the elevator cage rumbled down to the lobby. As the operator opened the sliding door, I stepped out of the cage into the carpeted hotel corridor and looked for My Man Friday attired in a black frock coat. The
Tag: Elmwood Park
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This is the case of the quiet Tudor at 808 South 60th Street, perched on the eastern edge of Elmwood Park. I began trailing her history, spurred by a tip from a friend. The contents of my dossier shared today are an ode to her secret past.
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Every now and then I receive a letter in the office that just stirs me and gives goosey bumps. The following is one of those electric memos. The writer’s quandary is a mystery for all those Hanscom Park Neighborhood kiddies of long ago, Omaha
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As I had mentioned in Park Avenue Recollection, when I first saw the building at 501 Park Avenue, evidently, I took no great interest in it. Carelessness on my part but there were many eyefuls in the surrounding neighborhood, which claimed my
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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
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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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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
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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 Manderley 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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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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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,