We’ve all wondered about 412 North 96th Street. The imposing fortress of a house on 1.6 flat felled acres stands on the outer rim of Regency. Austere and mysterious, what is possibly most unusual about 412 North 96th Street is that no
Tag: Great Depression
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Jay Malkin wrote in to the Miss Cassette Detective Agency a while back. No longer living in town, Jay was trying to track down his father’s drugstore once at the southwest corner of 24th and Leavenworth and it was in that initial hunt that I
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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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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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My obsession with Frank Salontay began quite innocently. I was actually shadowing his short-lived business partner and sometimes rival, hairdresser Robert Siegmann. At one time Siegmann lived in a mansion I began spying when I started the
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I shall never forget the thrill I had when I first saw a photograph of the darkened Cudahy Mansion. It was a pleasant, summer day and had been invited to an intimate noon gathering. Let us pretend this was a get-together with Miss Cassette’s
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Early in the 1940s, racing “a murky sky between showers, five cars of Omahans, four to a car, went treasure hunting,” under the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Stocker. The Stocker couple, no doubt, enjoyed hosting themed parties, as was the
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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,