Monday’s Musing on Creativity

This past month I’ve been teaching research to fourth and fifth graders. I have each of them choosing a topic they have a passion for (sports, social issue, art, etc.), and then they learn more about their topic using the internet, databases, and books. Their final project must be a creative representation and two minute talk about what they learned.

I have a passion for writing and creativity which has led to me delving deeper into the creativity process. Can creativity be taught? Are all people creative? How do you tap into creativity? These are all burning questions I’ll explore further with a weekly creativity tip or activity I’ll share on Monday’s Muse on Creativity.

This week’s creativity exercise: Imagine your character is deathly afraid of heights. They agree to go on a hot air balloon ride with friends. They shut their eyes tight during the flight. What takes place in the minutes after they board the hot air balloon? – adapted from Regina Pacelli’s Whole Lotta Creativity Going On. *

Empty basket hot air balloon beautiful background

*I highly recommend this book if you are looking for quick activities to spark your creativity. Available at public libraries and all major bookstores.

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Friday’s Writing Tip

I’m happy to announce the words “the end” were typed on the first book in a new mystery series based in the 1920s entertainment industry. Switching from my comfort zone of the Phee Jefferson series to a historical mystery stretched my librarian research skills and my writing.

Today’s tip involves editing. Once you finish your first draft, walk away and DO NOT look back… at least for a week or two. Here’s why. You have marinated in your characters’ lives and your plot for months, possibly years, and they have become your children. You need some distance to recognize their flaws. Ask my grown sons. Now that they are out of the house, I can recognize them as separate entities with lives and personalities of their own. Your novel characters are the same. They need some distance. Some breathing room. Once you’ve had the break, go back and look at your manuscript with fresh eyes. Remember, you want your children (and your novel) to have a personality and life story separate from your own.

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Teenage angst and a crime caper

I tortured myself with this one for NYC Midnight Round 2 of the Short Story competition. They assigned crime caper, an art project and a misfit. Here’s my interpretation of the assignment. NOTE: Adult language is used!

Banksy of Brooke Point High

Ana, Harley, and Freddi make an artistic senior year statement when they break into Brooke Point High.

Harley propped his feet on the corner of my bed and leaned back in his chair. His dyed bangs fell across his eyes like a raven’s broken wing. I ignored the fine coating of dust on his combat boots. Every twitch of his foot sent a small shower of dirt onto my favorite Pooh blanket.

“You could be the Banksy of Brooke Point High if we pull this off,” Harley said. He pointed his half-eaten twist of black licorice at me. “What have you got to lose?”

I swatted his feet off my bed and stood. “I don’t know. Graduation. My scholarship to Cranbrook. Jail time. Look at me. I would look horrible in an orange jumpsuit.”

“Ana, quit being so… mundane,” Freddi said, pulling out her earbuds to add her two cents. “We graduate in two months. I can name on one hand the seniors who know my name. You, Harley, and Hollis, the kid with the glasses that make him look like a fly. That’s it. We’re nothing but a comma in Brooke Point’s book of life.”

Freddie flopped back in her chair. I sighed. “Dramatic much? I don’t know, guys. How would we even get in the school?”

Harley stuffed the rest of his licorice into the pocket of his army jacket and pulled out a white plastic id card. “I swiped this from my mom’s purse this morning. We can get in and out of the building with no problem. Come on, Ana. This is gonna be epic.”

I weighed the pros and cons in my head. The con list was so long it went off the virtual page in my brain, but the pro side had one item. Ana Baker would no longer be the silent, invisible girl. “Okay. I’m in.”

“Yes!” Harley cried and fist bumped Freddi. “We go at midnight.”

Five hours later, the three of us skirted along the side of the school. Harley had done us a solid by drawing a map of the locations for the outdoor security cameras. His ability to remember weird details like that always amazed me.

“Let me swipe the card reader and grab the door. You guys need to stay low and move fast,” Harley whispered.

Black greasepaint covered half his face and made him look like a rabid raccoon. He made some hand motions that he had probably learned watching Rambo, then he dropped into a low crouch and darted to the door. He reached up and waved the badge in front of the black box. The red light turned green. Harley grabbed the door and opened it. High-pitched beeps filled the night air.  

“Fuck!” Freddi scrambled backwards. “Who puts an alarm on a school? What’s somebody going to steal? Textbooks?”

My bladder clenched, and I felt perspiration dot my forehead. I whisper shouted, “Harley, let’s forget it.”

The beeps stopped. In the dark entryway, I saw white teeth smiling in a sea of black greasepaint. “Come on. I turned the alarm off and disabled the cameras,” Harley said, waving a pair of wire snips.

“My god. He’s an evil tech genius,” Freddi whispered.

Freddi and I skittered spider fast to the entrance. It wasn’t easy with the package we carried between us, but we managed. Harley pulled the door shut behind us. He reached into his jacket and presented us both with small flashlights.

I swear that jacket was like a clown car. I don’t know why he doesn’t jingle, shake, and rattle when he walks with all the crap he has in the pockets. I was grateful for the additional light. The pale glow from the emergency lights did little to dispel the gloom of the locker-lined hallway.

“Let’s go to the gym and get this done,” I said, grabbing the flashlight.

I stuck to the shadows. My backpack was heavy on my shoulders. It contained all the supplies I would need to complete tonight’s task. Freddi followed behind me, holding her end of the package. Harley brought up the rear. He walked backwards, using his light to scan the side halls for intruders. I had disappointed him when I’d vetoed his use of night vision goggles.

The double doors to the gym were unlocked. Harley opened them and bowed.

“Ladies, your kingdom awaits,” he said.

I rolled my eyes but said nothing. Harley could be moody and pedantic with certain things, but he was always a gentleman. Not that the girls at Brooke Point would know. Their noses stuck so high in the air that it surprised me when they didn’t drown during a rainstorm. 

Freddi and I lay the package on the floor. I untied the twine. With its tethers gone, the canvas rolled open until it stretched out to its full glory. Twenty-seven feet filled with color and shapes lay on the gym floor before us.

Freddi shone her flashlight on it and gasped. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, Ana.”

I felt warmth rush to my cheeks at the compliment. “Thanks. I can’t believe I finished it.”

Harley bumped his shoulder against mine. “I bet if your dad could see this, he’d be proud of you.”

I ducked my head so he couldn’t see the effect his words had on me. My dad had been my biggest fan and my harshest critic. When he was too weak from the chemo to come out to my makeshift studio in the garage, we would chat via video. Dad would have his laptop in bed while I would use my phone to show him the newest additions to my makeshift wallpaper canvas. He hadn’t lived to see the finished work.

I wiped the tears away and cleared my throat. “I’ll need more light to get this thing hung. Come help me.”

Harley grabbed my backpack and pulled out the work light I’d found on a shelf in my garage. Using an extension cord, he plugged it in. Light filled the gym and cast eerie shadows on the bleachers. I dumped the contents of the half-gallon bottle I’d bought at the local hardware store into an old cake pan my mom would never miss and pulled out a wide, flat brush.

“How do you wanna do this?” Harley asked, a twist of licorice dangling from his mouth like a cigarette.

“Freddi, you hold the pan. Harley, you can roll this back up. While I paste it on the wall, slowly help me unwind it. Got it?”

Freddi gave me a two-fingered salute and picked up the pan. Harley and I struggled up the bleachers with the roll between us. Once we were in place, I dipped my brush into the goo in the pan. With long strokes, I covered the wall in front of me.

Silently, we worked with only the creaks and groans of the boiler occasionally breaking the quiet. It was almost six when I patted down the final corner. We climbed down and admired our work.

“Brilliant. Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant,” Harley said.

“Thanks.” I rubbed the grit from my eyes. There was no way I would stay awake in chemistry today. “Let’s get out of here before anyone comes.”

We cleaned up our supplies and stuffed everything back into my pack. Harley told us to wait while he made sure the coast was clear. After five minutes, he returned to the gym and gave us a thumb’s up.

Our steps were heavy, and we moved slower than when we had arrived. It was a good kind of exhaustion.

“I’m glad you talked me into this, Harley,” I said. “I—well, you know with my dad and all…”

“Ride or die, Ana. Ride or die. Both you and Freddi.” He gave me a little grin.

The sound of a voice interrupted the moment. “Yeah. I know I’m supposed to pick up the kids on Friday, Marge, but something’s come up.”

Eyes wide, Freddi and I looked at Harley. “Who is that? You said the teachers don’t come in early.”

The voice continued, “No, Marge, I’m not going to a bar. I’ve got an appointment with a foot doctor about my bunion.” There was silence for a moment. “Fine. I’ll be there, but it’ll be late.”

“It’s the janitor,” Harley said. He looked at his watch. “He’s early. He opens the building and turns off the alarm for my mom and the other cafeteria ladies. Stay here.”

He pushed us against the wall and into the shadows, then he slid down the hallway and did a fast peek around the corner. He turned back to Freddi and me. He pointed to his eyes, then pointed down the hall. I shook my head at his five-digit traffic directions.

“What?” I mouthed.

He began his complicated hand motions again, but he gave up when Freddi gave him her own one-fingered direction. Instead, he motioned for us to come next to him. On tiptoes, we joined him.

“He’s headed to the cafeteria. You two go down the hallway near the library. I’ll bring up the rear. If he sees us, I’ll be the decoy. You two run like hell and don’t look back. Never look back. Got it?” Harley whispered.

We nodded. I gave him a quick hug, then motioned for Freddi to follow. Like a gazelle running from a cheetah, I sprinted down the hall. I could hear Freddi’s shoes slapping the floor behind me. Harley’s jacket rattled a tune at the rear.

I was about to breach the exit and make my escape when a voice shouted, “Hey! What are you kids doing in here?”

I stretched my hands in front of me and slammed the breaker bar on the door. The cool air of pre-dawn touched my cheeks and gave me the extra push I needed to keep going. I ran, my two best friends at my heels, and didn’t stop until I was well out of sight of the school.

When I rounded the corner, I bent over and grabbed my knees, trying to catch my breath. Freddi flopped down on the asphalt next to me. Harley almost stumbled over us.

“What a rush,” he gasped.

“I don’t think I’ve run so fast in my entire life,” I said, sides heaving.

Freddi giggled. “I think I pissed myself.”

I laughed and slid down on the ground next to her. “It’s okay. I think I did, too.”

Two hours later, I walked into the school. My tight braid of carrot orange hair swung behind me. I had used a heavy hand with the makeup to hide my freckles and the dark circles beneath my eyes. The hallway buzzed with excitement. Cheerleaders flew from person to person, spreading the news.

“What’s up?” I asked one of the Ashleys. Every popular girl at Brooke Point High was Ashley or Ashli or some other variant.  

She flicked her blonde hair behind one shoulder and looked at me. She wrinkled her brow as she tried to place me in her category of friends. When my presence didn’t compute, she shrugged and said, “Someone put up a hideous mural in the gym. It makes fools out of all of us.”

I turned before she could see my smile. I pushed my way through the throng of backpack-laden kids to the gym. Angry mutters and an occasional laugh filled the surrounding air.

A hand touched my shoulder. “How did you do it?”

I jumped and turned. Miss Nyström, my art teacher, stood behind me. A small smile lifted the corner of her mouth.

“It wasn’t me,” I said.

She arched a brow. “Hmm… well, whoever it was has made quite a statement about the inequality in our school. The faces of that group of girls is particularly well done.” She pointed to the scene of flying monkeys with the faces of the Ashleys pelting students with words shaped like arrows—ugly, loser, scrub.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I admired my art project.  

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The new normal

Ch-ch-changes are certainly happening here in the United States and around the world. I now work from home (telelibrarianing is my new made up word), and like many of us, I must define what that means.

I’m an elementary school librarian by day and author by night. This week, Governor Northam closed all Virginia schools for the remainder of the academic year. While not unexpected, the shock and grief I felt knowing I would not see my beloved students again this year was the proverbial “punch in the gut.” I can’t comprehend what this will mean for students and their families, but I am sure that the amazing teachers I work with will help ease the transition to an online learning environment.

For my writing practice, this additional time at home will eliminate the excuse of “my day job gets in the way of my writing job.” Not having a commute, not needing to gussy myself up for work, or prepare a lunch to take with me has freed up additional time in my day. It can be dedicated to my writing craft if I make that concerted effort to use it. Otherwise, binge watching Netflix or Hulu can easily suck me into the hole of laziness.

I have a stack of half-finished books, craft projects, and stories that have been making me feel guilty from the corner of my creativity room. With this newly found time, I’ll need to guard against feeling I have to complete them all. Some of those projects may continue to sit and I need to be okay with that decision.

Confession time. For months, I would start and stop working through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. I found writing my three morning pages daily helped clear my mind of the debris which blocked my creativity. When life got a little busy, I set the journal aside. (I’m seeing a trend. Maybe I should add perseverance as a life goal!) With no rush to leave the house in the morning, I can finish working through Cameron’s notebook and define my path for creativity.

I’m hoping that you all are taking a moment to acknowledge the small blessings in the midst of this world tragedy. Each day take a moment to be mindful of the positives in your life. Step away from your phone, your television, and your social media on occasion, so you aren’t overwhelmed with the negative.

If you’re taking this time to embrace the artistic side of life, I encourage you to read The Artist’s Way. A classic for creatives, it helps you find your purpose, as well as gives you the tools to change your creative practice.

I’d love to hear what you’re doing to practice self-care and how you are tapping into your creativity. I hope you all stay safe, stay healthy, and wash your hands!

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Ain’t Mythbehavin’

Please enjoy my first sound recording of a short story I wrote. I’ve been working on developing a podcast, Jazz Age Crime, and today was my first time hooking up my sound equipment. It’s a little rough, but I hope you enjoy my story (and the intro 1920s music!)

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Witch One Did It?

I made it to Round 2 of the NYC Midnight Screenwriting Challenge. My assignment? An 8-page mystery with a vandalism and the mayor as one of the characters. This is my interpretation of the challenge.

Disclaimer: Transferring from my script writing software to the blog is horrible on formatting, so apologies!

Witch One Did It?

When Sheriff Dan Foster receives a call that someone committed vandalism and witchcraft on the mayor’s property, he must use his investigative skills to solve the crime.



A man and woman are asleep in a king-sized bed when a cell phone on the nightstand buzzes. The sound rouses DAN FOSTER, an older man with gray hair and a tanned face etched with too many lines for his age. He grabs the phone, looks at the screen, then answers it.


Sheriff Foster here. This better be worth waking me up on my day off, Deputy, or your ass will be patrolling the road to the dump for the next month.

Dan listens to the caller. He sits up and rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin and sighs.


Witchcraft? Tell the mayor I’ll be there in fifteen.

Dan sets the phone down. He turns on the lamp next to him and picks up the pair of pants he had dropped on the floor the night before and pulls them on.


Dan pulls his cruiser up to the house. MAYOR SHANTWELL, a balding man in his early sixties with a slight paunch, stands on the steps. The mayor has a bathrobe tied tightly around his waist and old, paint-splattered sneakers on his feet.

JOSIE WHITAKER, a tall woman wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt, stands off to the side with her arms crossed.

Dan steps out of his car and walks over to them. Mayor Shantwell looks pointedly at his expensive watch.



About damn time you got here, Dan. I want that woman arrested.

The mayor stabs his finger towards Josie.



What did she do this time? The mayor’s face darkens with anger.



What did she do? She not only vandalized my property, but she put a curse on me, too. The Bible says thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, and it was talking about her! This town doesn’t need her or her granola-eating cronies.

Josie uncrosses her arms and takes a step towards the mayor.


Listen, you pompous little toad! This isn’t the Dark Ages, and no one did jack shit to you! I want you to arrest him for being a stain upon humanity and Mother Earth!

Dan steps between Josie and the mayor. He puts his hands up to stop them from moving closer to each other.


Both of you calm down. I’m not arresting anyone until I find out what happened.

(turns to Mayor Shantwell)

You tell me what’s going on.

Mayor Shantwell gives Josie a triumphant look.


I woke up around 5:30. I like to take a morning swim, so I walked outside to turn on the pool heater. That’s when I saw the Satanic mumbo jumbo. She painted a pentagram on my new pool house! She’s cursed me!

Dan holds up his hand to stop Mayor Shantwell from saying anything else.


Satanic symbol? Did you actually see Josie paint it? Was anyone else at home?



That woman and her dilapidated shack are a menace to this town. She and her kind need to go.



Are you going to take care of this, Dan, or do I need to endorse another candidate for sheriff come fall?


My kind? You mean organic farmers? Beekeepers? Or women in general? Which is it, Shantwell?


I was on my property feeding my chickens when you buffaloed your way through, trampled my herbs, and called me a witch. I’ll sue you for defamation of character!

The mayor sputters again and clenches his fists, but Dan pulls him aside before he can do anything else.


Show me the damage.

Mayor Shantwell gives one last glare at Josie before turning and walking towards his backyard.


Dan and the mayor walk to the huge swimming pool and pool house. Behind the pool house is a line of oak trees.

Dan looks around at the extensive landscaping. Shrubs are precisely trimmed. The lawn is a lush, almost unnatural, green. There are no weeds visible to the naked eye. PHILIP, a young man in a blue work uniform is trimming the hedges. The mayor stops at the back of the pool house. There is a crudely sprayed black pentagram on it. The mayor gives Dan a triumphant look.


As you can see, that woman spray- painted my pool house with the symbol of Satan. She did that, too.

The mayor turns and gestures to the row of trees behind him. Small, white objects swing from the branches.


Witchcraft! What are you going to do about it?


Now, hold on. Anyone else around who might have seen anything? Your wife? The gardener?

Dan nods toward Philip who has been moving closer to the two of them while they spoke.


(shaking his head)

Wife’s been out of town for weeks. She’s visiting some ashram trying to find herself or some other foolishness. Philip got here right after I discovered the damage. He’s a good kid. Punctual. I gave him a job when his daddy died last year. I’m telling you it was Josie Whitaker.

Dan leaves the mayor’s side and walks over to Philip.


Hello, Philip. The mayor tells me you got here early this morning. Did you see anyone or anything?



N-no, sir. I d-didn’t see anything. Miss Whitaker was outside feeding her chickens.

(leans in and whispers)

But I don’t think Miss Whitaker d- did it. She’s a n-nice woman.


Beyond the trees is a woven wire fence that surrounds an old farmhouse with peeling paint. There is a small field filled with vegetables and herbs. Beehives line one side of the field. Chickens with funny tufts of feathers at their neckline peck along the fence.

Dan walks over to the hanging objects. This close, he sees they are white eggs with small stick figures wrapped and hung with twine. Dan looks closely at each of them. He walks to the fence and gazes at the farmhouse. After a moment, he squats down and grabs a handful of grass and holds it through the fence to a hen. She snatches it from his hand. Dan puts a few pieces of grass into his pocket then stands.

Dan returns to the mayor.


I think I’ve got all I need from here, sir. Can you tell me why you think Josie is behind this?



That fence beyond my trees marks my property line as well as the town limits.

The mayor points to the fence.


She’s pissed off because the council wants to incorporate her farm and the surrounding properties into the town limits. That will change the zoning from agricultural to residential. Great opportunities for new subdivisions with HOAs.

Bigger tax base means growth.


(nods slowly)

She won’t be able to have her chickens or beehives. Don’t you own the land to the west of her property, too?

The mayor gestures for Dan to walk with him back to the house.


I do.


Dan, you have to have vision as a leader. Cedar’s Edge might be a small town now, but it could become a bedroom community for the city.

Bigger and better. It will be great. It could mean new patrol cars and officers for you.

Dan doesn’t respond to the mayor’s thinly-veiled hint. Instead, he looks down at the grass.


You’ve got a really nice lawn.

The mayor beams with pride.


It’s the special fertilizer and weed killer mixture I use. I’d be happy to mix you up a batch.


Hmmm. Probably not good for organic produce or bees.


Listen, I sure could use a cup of coffee while I figure out my next step.


Sure. Come on into the house, Dan.


The kitchen is a gleaming testament to a designer’s dream of modernism from the stainless steel appliances to the white marble counter tops and black cabinets. It’s spotless.

The mayor opens a cupboard and grabs two black coffee mugs. A state-of-the-art coffee machine sits on the counter. The mayor pushes a few buttons, and moments later, he hands Dan a mug of hot coffee.


You have any creamer or milk?

The mayor gestures towards the refrigerator. Dan opens it and looks around the nearly empty interior. He pulls out a small carton of creamer and places it on the counter, a hint of a smile on his face. Checking to make sure the mayor can’t see, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tuft of grass.


Oh, hell. I’ve got grass on my pants. I don’t want to track it all over your house. Where’s your trash?


In that tall cabinet to your left. The maid comes today, so no worries about the floor. She’s paid good money to clean it.

Dan opens the indicated cabinet where he sees a stainless steel trash can. Popping it open, he looks in, then he drops the grass into it.


I won’t be pressing charges against Josie.

The mayor slams his cup down on the counter.


Josie Whitaker and her farm are a thorn in my side. If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.


You don’t want to do that. You wouldn’t want the truth about today to come to the attention of the rest of the town, would you?


Dan and Josie walk to Dan’s car. Josie turns and shakes his hand.


For just a moment, I thought I was going to jail.


My wife would make me sleep outside for a month. She loves that herbal tea mixture she gets from you.

Helps her insomnia better than those pills from Doc Calvert.


Sometimes the old ways are more effective than the new. Tell Anna to come see me on Saturday at the farmer’s market for a new batch.

Josie starts to leave, but she hesitates. She turns back to Dan.


I don’t get it. How did you know I didn’t do it? The mayor’s a powerful, wealthy man who runs the show, and I’m…well, I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.


I never assume guilt or innocence based upon a person’s income or lifestyle.



You’re no more a witch than I am. I know you love your herbal remedies and organic produce, but that makes you more of a hippie than a witch.



It still doesn’t explain how you knew it was the mayor.


(holding up three fingers) One, he was fully dressed under his robe and had his watch on despite saying he swims first thing. Two, I spotted black paint on his shoes.

Three, the eggs were white.



Ah. My flock of chickens saves me from the slammer.

Dan laughs.


Your Aracauana chickens only lay blue and green eggs, not white. His refrigerator contained creamer and a takeout container of Chinese food. Nothing else, not even condiments, yet he had an empty egg carton on top of the trash.


Why frame me?


Your farm stands in the way of progress as far as he’s concerned. He wanted to discredit you in front of the town council to push through his expansion and rezoning plan.

Dan opens his car door but stops and turns back to Josie.


I guess you can take the lawman from the farm, but you can’t take the farm from the lawman.


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Find Her

To get my writing back on track, I signed up for NYC Midnight’s Screenwriting challenge. Unlike fiction, if the camera can’t see it, you don’t write it. I find it a nice change of pace to participate. As always with NYC Midnight, they provide the genre, etc. This time my draw was ghost story/maternal/mortician.

Find Her

When Nina brings a memorial diamond into the Death Museum, Percy knows she needs to investigate the mysterious happenings that are tied to the jewel.



NINA DAVIS stands outside an old Victorian home with faded shutters and paint that is starting to peel. A large black sign with white lettering rests atop the door announcing Death Museum – Open Mon-Sat 11 a.m. – 8 p.m.

Nina opens her purse and pulls out a black velvet bag. She clutches it tightly before opening the door to the museum. A small bell jangles as the door opens and closes.


PERSEPHONE “PERCY” ALLEN, owner and operator of the museum sits behind an antique desk reading Medieval Funeral Practices. She looks up as Nina enters.


Good afternoon. Welcome to the one and only Death Museum, home to the commonplace, the bizarre, and the eclectic. We have artifacts related to death and funerals with an occasional nod to Spiritualism thrown in for good measure. Tickets are ten dollars and tours are self- guided. Ticket for one?

Nina looks around furtively. No one else is in the museum.


Are you Persephone Allen? I need your help.


Certainly. We strive for excellent customer service here at the Death-


Listen, I’m not here about the museum. I need your professional expertise. A friend told me Persephone Allen is the closest thing to an expert on the supernatural and occult in the area. Is that you?

Percy straightens up at the compliment and looks pleased.


An expert, huh? Yeah. I know things. Growing up in a funeral home fostered an unhealthy preoccupation with things that might go bump in the night. I go by Percy, by the way, not Persephone. The whole goddess of the underworld moniker tends to scare off prospective boyfriends. And you are?

Nina thrusts the velvet bag at Percy.


Nina Davis. Here. I picked this up at a flea market. Even though it isn’t exactly my taste, I felt oddly compelled to buy it. Ever since…well, strange things have been happening at my house.

Percy takes the bag from Nina. She opens it and a diamond solitaire necklace in a dramatic white gold setting drops into her hand. She picks up the diamond and holds it up to the light.



Hold on. I need to grab something.

Percy opens a drawer and pulls out a jeweler’s loupe. She picks up the necklace and looks at it closely with the loupe.


Hmmm…just what I thought. (Percy removes the loupe and looks at Nina)

The diamond in this necklace is made from cremains.

Nina steps back from the desk, a look of revulsion on her face.


Are you kidding me? I’ve had a dead person’s ashes hanging from my neck? I think I’m going to be sick!

Nina makes a small gagging noise. Percy, looking amused, nudges the trash can next to her desk closer to Nina.


It’s really not a dead person anymore. It’s a manufactured diamond. The difference between memorial diamonds and other manufactured gems is the carbon for this one comes from a loved one’s ashes.


But why? Why would someone turn their loved one into a necklace? Why not just bury them like a normal person?

Percy chuckles and walks out from behind the desk to stand next to Nina.


Why? Personally, I think it’s sweet and smart. You have grandma made into a necklace, then you don’t feel obligated to place flowers at her grave every holiday. No worries about vandals on Halloween, or concerns about the cemetery being relocated for a new strip mall.


I guess. It seems weird to me, but now that you put it like that, I can see why it might appeal to someone. Can I ask you a question? Why a death museum? It seems an odd choice for a…for a…


For a girl? Well, this used to be our funeral home business. We lived upstairs. I went to school to be a mortician and was all set to take over when one of those chain funeral homes opened up a few miles from here. Fancy coffins, fancy hearses, we couldn’t compete. Dad died a few years ago, and mom decided to pack up and move to Florida. Gave the business over to me, and I decided a death museum would be more profitable and fun.


Interesting lateral career move.


Anyway,enough about me. You said strange things have been happening since you bought this necklace?



Doors opening and closing on their own. Whispering. My mother keeps staring at the corner of her bed and carrying on a conversation with someone who isn’t there. She’s only sixty-five and until now, I thought she still had all her faculties even after her stroke. Now, I’m not so sure. It all started the night I brought the necklace home.


Are you doing anything this evening? I’d like to bring some equipment with me and observe what’s going on in your home if that’s okay with you? I can come by right after the museum closes.

Nina hesitates.


No charge. I’m dying to see if you have an actual artifact haunting.


Sorry. No pun intended.


Okay, but haunted or not, I definitely want to rid myself of this necklace now that I know it’s a dead person.



Percy, Nina, and Nina’s mother, GLADYS, sit in the living room. It is filled with chintz-covered chairs and an overstuffed sofa in a hideous pattern of red and green plaid. Victorian-style lamps do little to light the room. Several china statues of English Springer Spaniels dot the room on various small tables. It looks dark and oppressive.

The velvet bag containing the diamond necklace is in the center of a large coffee table that dominates the space between the chairs and sofa.

Percy looks around and spots a stuffed fox with a duck in its mouth. A mounted elk head stares down at the assembled women. Percy shudders. Nina notices and gives a small smile of understanding.


Thanks for coming. As you can see, my dad was quite the enthusiastic hunter. He would hunt anything as long as it moved.


Yes, Everett loved hunting things. Why I remember back when we were first married, he took me hunting for small prey. Like scared rabbits. It was quite the honeymoon.

Nina rolls her eyes at Percy.


Daddy was always a romantic. Are you okay to get yourself ready for bed or do you need my help?

Nina touches her mother’s arm.


(slaps Nina’s hand away) Don’t fuss.

Gladys stands up and wobbles a little. Nina leaps to her feet and pulls a walker from the corner. She makes sure her mother has a tight grip on it. Gladys slowly makes her way out of the living room and down the darkened hallway.


Your mother doesn’t seem like she’s suffering from dementia, but I’m not a doctor. You say that she talks to someone at night?


Yes. At 8:42 every evening, everything starts going crazy here in the house.

Nina picks up the velvet bag and pulls the necklace out. She lays it in the center of the table.


If it’s okay with you, I want to get my recorder and cameras out and ready to go before the witching hour of 8:42.

Percy pulls out a digital recorder and a video camera from a bag she has at her feet. Percy starts the digital recorder and sets it in the middle of the table by the necklace.

The door on the far side of the living room slowly creaks open. Percy’s eyes widen and she whips the camera up to start recording.


(checks her watch)

8:42 exactly. If nothing else, our ghost is punctual.


Yeah. I hate a haunting that starts late.

Percy leans down to make sure the recorder is on.


Is anyone here with us tonight? (Waits a moment)

Anyone here who wishes to speak to us? Someone who is tied to this necklace?

The door slams shut so hard that one of the china spaniels falls to the ground and shatters.


(frightened) It’s here.

Percy gives her a wide smile and a thumb’s up. She aims her camera at the closed door and walks towards it.


You’ve got my attention. Why are you here?

Air ruffles Percy’s hair. She reaches out to smooth it down, but jerks her hand back.


What’s wrong?

Nina’s breath comes out in smoky puffs because the temperature has dropped rapidly.



Nothing. I just thought I felt someone touching me.

A murmur of voices comes from the hallway. It is clearly two voices. One of them is Gladys’s. The other voice is clearly masculine.



Nina scurries up from her seat and dashes down the hallway towards her mother’s room. Percy is close behind her with the camera in her hand.


Nina grabs the doorknob to open the door. She screams and pulls her hand back. An angry red blister in the shape of the handle is branded on her palm. She bangs on the door.


Mama! Let me in!

Percy comes up behind her. She puts the camera down.


Let me try.

Percy knocks on the door then grabs the doorknob. It doesn’t turn. She slams her shoulder against the door. It crashes open as if it was never closed. Percy tumbles to the ground.


Gladys sits in her bed under the covers. She turns and gives Percy a ghastly smile.


Hello, dear. Are you one of Everett’s girls? He does like them young and pretty.

Gladys turns back to look at the end of the bed. Her eyes roll back in her head then turn a milky white.


Everett, I told you not to bring them to the house.



Home and play should always be separate. You promised. Think of Nina.

A horrifying man’s laugh echoes loudly across the room. The lights flicker. An unseen hand pushes Percy backwards. She tumbles out of the door into Nina. The door slams shut. Nina and Percy stand up, but despite repeated efforts, they are unable to reopen the door.


I don’t know how to say this, but your mom seemed to be talking to the ghost of your father. He didn’t seem like a friendly ghost at all. Are you sure that everything started when you brought the necklace home?


Definitely. My father died six months ago. I moved back home to take care of my mom two months ago after her stroke. As far as I know, nothing weird happened until I bought the necklace. If it had, I honestly wouldn’t know. I haven’t been home in a long time. Things between my parents and me were…well, strained.

The door at the end of the hallway opens. A set of stairs is visible.


(whispering) Follow me.

Percy picks up her discarded video camera and walks down the hallway to the open door. She turns back to look at Nina.


What’s up here?


It’s the attic. I wasn’t allowed up there. It’s where my dad kept his guns. He whipped me with a belt the one time I disobeyed him. I haven’t been up in the attic since I was eight.

Percy slowly walks through the door and starts up the stairs. Nina reluctantly follows.


Nina reaches up and pulls a chain. A single bulb illuminates the space. The attic is dusty and filled with boxes, old furniture, and several gun safes. A mouse scurries out from a box overflowing with papers.


Find her.

A breeze ripples the papers and scatters them across the attic. Several newspaper clippings now litter the floor.


Find who? Who do you want us to find?


Find her.


This is freaking me out. I’m getting Mom and taking her to a hotel room for the night. Take the necklace. I don’t need to know what’s going on. I just want it to stop.

Nina turns to leave, but a dark mass forms in the air and flies across the room. It enters Nina’s body through her mouth and nose. Nina, no longer in control of her body, turns stiffly and points to one of the newspaper clippings that has landed at Percy’s feet.

Percy leans down and picks it up. She reads the clipping.


Oh, shit! You need to see this.

Nina’s eyes are wide and unblinking. She opens her mouth to speak, but instead emits a gut-wrenching scream. The black mass flies out of her body. For a moment, it becomes the shape of an older woman with a kind face. Tears run down her cheeks. She points to the corner.

Nina goes silent and collapses to the ground. She begins to sob.

Percy runs over to Nina and drops to the ground next to her.


Nina? What’s wrong? What’s going on?

Nina doesn’t speak. Instead, she crawls over to a large green military footlocker in the corner where the ghost had pointed. The name Davis is stenciled on the outside. She fumbles to open it, but it’s padlocked.

Nina drags herself up and grabs a golf club from a set laying nearby. She hammers at the lock with the club.



You son of a bitch. You sorry worthless son of a bitch. I knew it. I knew you were evil.

Percy grabs the club from Nina. Percy lifts it and gives the lock a hard whack. The lock breaks. Percy slowly opens the lid.



Two police cars are parked outside on the street with their blue lights flashing. A coroner’s van is in the yard. An ambulance is parked in the driveway. Crime scene tape is strung across the yard preventing nosy, pajama-clad neighbors from moving in for a closer look.

Two EMTs roll a gurney out the front door with the sheet pulled up over the body. They load it into the ambulance.

Nina sees the gurney and lets out a small sob. Percy huddles by Nina.

DETECTIVE JON STABLE stands next to the women, a notepad in his hand.

The three of them watch as a second gurney is trundled out of the house with a black body bag on top.


Miss Davis, you had no idea there was a dead body in your attic all these years?

Nina shudders and Percy gives her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.


No. I left home the day I graduated from high school. To be honest, I didn’t have the best relationship with my parents.



When I lived at home, I wasn’t allowed in the attic because my father stored his guns there.

He jots a few words.


And what made you want to open the trunk on a Saturday night after all these years? Any reason you went snooping around?

Nina opens her mouth then shuts it.


Actually, it was my idea. I run the Death Museum here in town. You’ve heard of it, right?

The detective curls his lip in distaste. He nods.


Nina thought her dad might have collected a few artifacts when he was stationed overseas with the military. She invited me to come over and go through stuff.

The detective raises a brow in skepticism. He snaps his notepad shut.


I guess that’s all I need to know for now. I’ll need you both down at the station tomorrow morning at eight sharp to make a formal statement. Miss Davis, my condolences. The shock of a corpse in the house must have been too much for her heart.



Nina walks in and drops the black velvet bag onto Percy’s desk.


You keep it. I never want to see it again.

Percy opens up the bag and pulls the necklace out. She lays it on top of her desk.


I saw everything. It was like a movie inside of my mind. My father. The girl. The horrible things he did to her. The worst thing is my mother knew. She knew and let it happen.

Nina covers her face with her hands.


You need to see something.

Percy opens the desk drawer and pulls out a yellow scrap of newspaper and hands it to Nina.



Twenty-five-year-old Amber Whitaker went missing Saturday night after finishing her shift as a bartender at Faster Pussycat at eight o’clock. Reported missing by her roommate when she failed to return to their apartment after three days, Miss Whitaker was last seen wearing blue jean shorts, a cropped red top, and white cowboy boots.

Her father said, “Amber wears a piece of her mama around her neck. It’s her good luck charm. I’m hoping her mama’s spirit will help bring my little girl home.”

Nina looks at the photograph that accompanies the article.


Oh my god! It’s the necklace! How in the world did it end up at a flea market?

Percy picks up the necklace and lets it spin in the sunlight shining through the front window.


There are more things in heaven and earth, Nina.


 338 total views,  1 views today

Tit for Tad

I made it to Round 2 of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. This time my assignment was political satire, a fundraiser, and a cartoonist. Here’s my entry!

“Sir, I think it’s a mistake to attend this fundraiser. You won’t find people friendly to your campaign.”

 “That’s exactly why it’s the place I need to be, Walker. Those women don’t know my ideas are what’s good for them. Instead, they’re listening to that dried-up husk, Millie Highpoint, who wouldn’t know what to do with a man if he showed up on her doorstep naked and willing.” Thaddeus Trench tightened the knot in his tie and gave himself an appraising look in the mirror. “Going to Save the Moo Moos will show these women I support their breasts and understand their problems.”

Walker let out a snort of laughter which he quickly turned into a cough. “Mr. Trench, it’s Save the Ta–”

Trench held up his hand. “I don’t need to be schooled by a kid like you. I come from a long line of political men. My daddy and my granddaddy both served in the state senate. Come November, those women will line up and beg to vote for me. You focus on my speech for next Saturday’s debate, and I’ll worry about tonight. Any idea where my wife is?”

“She said she’d meet you at the gallery. She had some…um…errands to run.” Walker knew the errand was boning her new yoga instructor, Hans, but what the senator didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Stella Trench paid him a nice healthy bonus every month to help hide her indiscretions.

 An hour later, Senator Trench eased his SUV into the parking lot next to the gallery. It had taken him three tries to park, but he prided himself on his ability to maneuver big things into little spaces. He licked his palm and used it to smooth his hair into place. At sixty-one, he still had a full head of hair that he kept black with a bit of help from a bottle of dye he hid under his bathroom sink. Opening his door, he felt it slam against the silver Prius in the next space.

“Damn ridiculous,” he muttered. “Got spots for the handicapped, compact cars, pregnant mothers, but they can’t make a spot for a God-fearing man with a real vehicle.”

He strode to the door of the Middleton Art Gallery. At the entrance, he spotted Stella standing close to a deeply tanned man with a shaved head and small goatee. Trench reached out and grabbed his wife’s ass. She gave a squeal and whirled to face him, her face pink. “Dang it, Tad! You about gave me a heart attack!”

“Just keeping my little lady on her toes.” He held his hand out to the bald man. “Senator Thaddeus Trench. Good to meet you.”

“Tad, this is Hans Oliver, my yoga instructor. Remember I told you how much he’s helped improve my downward dog position.” Stella giggled. “I feel like a new woman after a session with him.”

Trench eyed him. A pink handkerchief was neatly tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket. It told him everything he needed to know about Hans Oliver. He smiled. “Glad to hear your helping my wife. You must really give her a workout. She comes home exhausted after her evening yoga class. Keep up the good work. I like to support your kind.”

Hans lifted an eyebrow. “My kind?”

“Yeah. You know…” Senator Trench lifted his hand then let it droop. “It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me. I can’t say that I agree because the good book says it’s a sin, but I’m not one to throw shoes in glass houses.”

“Good to know you’re so open-minded, Senator.” Hans smirked. “I’ll be sure to let my kind know about you. Stella, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stella watched Hans walk away, her eyes gleaming. “He really is a fine yoga instructor. I’m not getting any younger, Tad. Thirty is right around the corner, and I like to keep my body a temple.”

Trench ogled his young wife’s plunging neckline. “You’re the finest temple I’ve ever seen, darling. I got lucky the day you walked into my church. A beautiful and virtuous wife is a blessing to her husband.”

“Oh, Tad, I’m the lucky one.” Stella looked up at Trench from under her lash extensions. Trench didn’t know she had stumbled into his church by accident that Wednesday evening five years ago after drinking one to many mojitos with the girls after work. 

“I’m glad you wore the dress that shows off your tits,” Trench said. “It will demonstrate to these women that you support their breasts, too.”

Stella rolled her eyes. Lately, she’d been replacing Trench’s little blue pills with vitamins similar in shape and size. After a few failed attempts on his part, her husband had retreated to his side of the bed and stayed. She couldn’t divorce him. She had her eye on the governor’s mansion one day. She couldn’t wait to host a cocktail party there and invite all the women who had turned up their noses at her. Once she was the wife of a governor, they would all have to kiss her ass. It was a finely molded ass, too, after all her sessions with Hans.

The two of them walked into the gallery. Stella snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Trench declined. He never drank in public. His constituents had certain expectations of a preacher and senator. If he wanted the governor’s mansion, he needed to maintain his façade and keep his liquor consumption private.

“Senator Trench and Stella! I’m surprised you accepted the invitation tonight.” A young woman with one side of her head shaved and the other side bedazzled with hues of pink and purple greeted them. “I’m KD, the featured artist for this evening’s charity auction.”

“Nice to meet you. What’s your media of choice, Katie?” Stella asked, looking around the gallery at the various sculptures and paintings.

“Now, sugarplum, we’re not talking about reporters tonight. I’m sure Miss–I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name,” Trench said as he placed his hand on the artist’s shoulder.

“I don’t use a last name, and it’s KD, not Katie.” She enunciated the letters. “I feel the use of last names by women supports the patriarchy. I’ve sloughed off the burden of years of female servitude and only go by KD. I’m a cartoonist, Stella. It’s okay if I call you Stella, not Mrs. Trench, right? I mean, you of all people should realize that we women have been on our backs to the patriarchy for much too long.”

Stella narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been on my back for the patriarchy.”

KD laughed. “If you say so. Let me show you one of the pieces I’ve donated for the auction, Senator. I’m sure you’ll appreciate it.”

KD led them over to a large canvas. A scarecrow with jet black hair and vacant eyes sat on a crate milking a cartoon cow with large udders. The words tax dollars were printed on the udders. “Rather telling isn’t it, Senator?”

“You’re darn tootin’ it is. This is a piece of work. You’ve captured the plight of the American farmer. I’m going to bid on it,” Trench said. He gave KD a predatory white smile. “You’ve got some talent. Have you ever thought about painting portraits? I’ll need one done when I’m elected governor of this great state. It would be a feather in your cap if you could capture my likeness.”

KD snorted. “I’m sorry, Senator. I don’t work with oil.”

“Darling, you’re missing a prime opportunity to be famous. Cartoons are for the Sunday funnies, but you can’t make a living with them.” Trench squeezed her shoulder. KD slipped from his pawing hand, her lips tight.

“Actually, I make out just fine with my art. I’m the editorial cartoonist for the Middleton Times, and my work’s been featured in several national newspapers.”

Stella tugged on Trench’s jacket and pointed. “Tad, look at the face on the scarecrow.”

Trench smiled. “I know. It’s great, isn’t it? KD has some real talent, even if it is only a comic. That scarecrow almost looks like a real person.”

“Tad, look closer,” Stella insisted. She pulled him in front of the piece. “You don’t see the resemblance?”

Trench squinted his eyes. “No, honeybuns, I can’t say it looks like anyone I know. Is it someone from your yoga class?”

Stella sighed. She wondered if she could make it to Hans’ apartment for a little stress relief tonight. She glanced at KD. A thin woman with graying brown hair pulled into a tight chignon had joined them. Millie Highpoint, her husband’s most vocal opponent in the state senate, gave her a tight nod. “Mrs. Trench, you look lovely. Thaddeus, I didn’t expect you this evening. An auction to raise funds for breast cancer research doesn’t seem like your normal venue.”

“I love breasts, Millie. Some of my favorite people have breasts. I’m happy to come out and support Save the Moo Moos. More men should support breast research.” Trench beamed at the women. “You all have great tits. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them healthy.”

KD flushed cherry red. Her fists tightened at her side. “Listen here, you pompous–”

Millie laid a restraining hand on KD. “Sweetheart, I think we should give the Senator a chance to speak this evening. We need all the help we can get to raise money. I think the bids might reach an all-time high with Senator Trench’s inspirational words.”

“I don’t know, Mom. Do you really think it would help?”

“Mom? Millie, is this your daughter? I was just telling KD here that she has some real talent. She should consider doing portraits. Capturing the likeness of people could really boost her career. I’m bidding on this piece here. Such a powerful statement. I plan on hanging it behind my desk at the governor’s mansion.”

Millie’s eyes widened. She looked at the senator, then at the large cartoon scarecrow on the wall, and then back at Trench. “You might be right, Thaddeus. Capturing a face takes talent. Now, will you open up the fundraiser with a speech?”

“I’m happy to help, Millie. It shows real bipartisan support to our constituents. Give me a moment to compose myself.” Trench buttoned his suit jacket and popped a mint into his mouth.

“See you at the podium, Thaddeus.” Millie winked at KD.

“If you’ll excuse me, Senator. I see someone I need to speak to,” KD said and hurried away.  

“Tad, do not tell these people you love tits,” Stella hissed. “It’s guaranteed career suicide.”

Trench patted Stella’s arm. “I’ve got this. You just stand next to me and smile pretty for the cameras.”

“I need to go to the little girl’s room,” Stella said. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

“Don’t take too long. This will be a prime opportunity to appear in the newspaper.”

Stella started walking towards the ladies’ room, but when she was out of Trench’s sight, she dashed towards the exit. She wondered how much she could hock her engagement ring for and if there was any cash at the house.

Senator Trench stood in front of the podium. He cleared his throat. Cameras flashed, and he gave the reporters and crowd his politician’s smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to speak here tonight in support of this important fundraiser. As I look at this amazing piece of art from KD, I realize that women and cows have a great deal in common.”

At the collective gasp from the crowd, Trench’s smile grew wider. He knew in an instant that he had won them over.

 211 total views,  2 views today


I’m competing in NYC Midnight’s Short Story Challenge again this year. You have one week to write a short story (2500 words) on a topic they provide. This year I was given crime caper, setting was funeral home, and character is chocolatier. This seemed perfect for Phee and Juliet to tackle since they had just been on a crime caper with Nellie Jo to dispose of Mike’s ashes.

Double-dipped Disaster

“Nellie Jo told me how you helped her out with Mike’s body down in Louisiana,” Chantal said. She pronounced it loozy anna.

“Did she also tell you we almost got killed trying to dump Mike’s ashes in the bayou?” I grimaced at the memory of the alligator that had almost made me into its dinner. “I’m a librarian, not a detective. If I’ve happened to stumble over a dead body or two in the course of retrieving a few overdue library books, it was more a case of bad luck than crime solving.”

“Please, Phee, I don’t know who else to ask. I just need you to get that recipe book before they bury Uncle Henri,” Chantal pleaded, tears threatening to fall. “It’s my legacy, and Carl had no right to take it. The funeral is tomorrow morning. I’m out of options.”  

My gut told me to walk away and hope she could find somebody else to help her, but my marshmallow heart was toast. “Fine. I’ll help, but only if Juliet agrees. I’m not breaking into Nash and Slaw’s on my own.”

Chantal wiped her eyes with a tissue and smiled. “Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate this. I’ve been pacing the floor like a caged panther trying to figure out another way. If Carl wasn’t such a snake who has my mama fooled six ways to Sunday…well, I say never trust a man who goes sockless with leather loafers. He thinks me going into the chocolate business is a waste of time and money, and now Mama agrees with him. Uncle Henri left me that money to continue his chocolate shop. The recipes in that book are my family’s heritage. Carl thinks it all needs to be buried and forgotten because Uncle Henri was Daddy’s brother. Carl wants to take my inheritance and invest it in something safe. Safely in his pockets, I’m sure.”

After Chantal left, I called Juliet. She agreed to meet me at Odd Couple’s Diner after she finished teaching her last yoga class. I spent the rest of the day cataloging books and researching how many years I would serve in prison for breaking into a funeral home.

 When I got to the diner, Juliet was already seated in a corner booth. Tall and slim, no one would ever guess she was my sister. Juliet’s blonde hair would have made Goldilocks envious. I was short and fluffy with red hair. Fortunately, I had inherited the brains.  

I waited until our food arrived before I gave her the lowdown. Juliet operates better after she’s eaten a double order of fries and a chocolate cherry shake. I stuck with my oh-so-tasty house salad.

“Chantal needs us to take the book and replace it with a fake,” I said, pushing a limp lettuce leaf around in an oily substance with flecks of oregano in it.

“So why do we have to put a fake one in its place? How will they ever know? It’ll be buried six feet under. Unless Henri comes back as a ghost and tells all.” Juliet’s eyes widened, and she gave a slight shiver. “Haunted by a chocolatier. Sounds like the title to one of those cozy mysteries you read all the time.”

“They’re having a final open casket viewing tomorrow before leaving for the cemetery. There won’t be another chance. It’s not like we can snatch the recipe book out of his cold, dead hands while we pass by and pay our respects. We’re going back tonight after closing.”

“Break into a funeral home? In the dark? With dead bodies? We’re supposed to be crime stoppers, not crime committers!” Juliet’s voice rose in pitch and volume, and a few of the diners turned to look at us.

“Shush!” I whispered. “The word is criminals, not crime committers. Anyway, we’re technically not stealing anything. We’re righting a wrong. Henri would have wanted Chantal to have those recipes. If only he had given her the book before he died, but I guess he thought he had a few more good years.”

“Funeral homes are bad juju. We’ll have dead people cooties on us and that will mess up my aura.”

“It’s just dead people. There’s nothing to be afraid of, you ninny.” My sister is a firm believer in the afterlife, ghosts, and any other New Age woo woo crap that was hot for the moment.

“Why can’t Chantal do it?”

“She has to be with the family tonight. No one will ever suspect it’s us, and she’ll be in the clear. We’ll go to the viewing and get the layout. It’s a funeral home, not the Tower of London. It should be easy.”

Several hours later, I eased Velma, my ‘sixty-eight VW van, into a side street a block from the Victorian house that served as our local funeral home. We had paid our respects to the family earlier that evening. Chantal had been jumpier than a mouse at a cat show when we had shown up. When we passed through the line to pay our respects, I had given her a small thumbs up, and she seemed to relax a little.

I handed Juliet a black ski mask. I slipped mine over my head. I had bedazzled it with a cursive “L” in the middle of the forehead for librarian. Juliet’s sported a “Y” for yogi. If I was going to get arrested for body tampering, I wanted to be stylish.

Juliet rolled her eyes at the mask, but she slipped it on. I tucked a penlight into my bra and motioned for her to follow me. We crept along the wrought iron fence that surrounded the cemetery and slipped through a gap in the hedge.

When I saw the backyard was lit up like a football stadium, I stopped. Juliet plowed into the back of me. I tumbled into the grass. Rolling over, I stared up at the night stars and counted to ten.

“Oh, my goddess! Are you okay?” Juliet reached down to grab my hand.

“Yes,” I whispered. I brushed my hands off onto my pants. “Listen. Here’s the plan. I’m going to run across the lawn to the back. You count to thirty then follow me. Got it?”

Juliet gave me a thumbs up. I sprinted across the yard, then squatted down behind a large rhododendron near the back. Thirty seconds later, Juliet began to run across the yard to join me. She would have made it in record time with those long legs of hers, but when she was almost to me, a jet of water shot up from the ground and hit her in the butt. The automatic sprinklers had started. She squealed, did a pirouette, then a jig, and finally cartwheeled into a rose bush.

“Juliet!” I hissed. No response. Crap. I was going to have to rescue her.

I slid along the side of the building until I reached her. My sister had faceplanted into a teacup rosebush. She groaned and stood up. She plucked a thorny stem from her mask.

“I’m fine. Let’s just do this and get out of here.”

I tugged on a basement window. It resisted for a moment then opened. Juliet eased through the narrow space. I followed her, but my bountiful bottom decided to stop me. I was stuck between the window and the frame.

“Pull me,” I said. I reached my hand out to Juliet. She gave a mighty tug, and I popped out of the window like a champagne cork.

“Perhaps Chantal could give you some sugar-free chocolate as a reward,” Juliet said. She gave me a toothy grin.

“Perhaps we should hurry up and get out of here before we’re discovered,” I said, giving her the evil eye. “We need to find out how to get upstairs.”

I pulled the penlight out of my bra. The narrow beam provided just enough light for me to see we were in a storage area surrounded by coffins.

“This is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Juliet said. “I want to be a tree.”

“What the–a tree? What in Sam Hill are you talking about?” I demanded.

“Promise me that when I die, you won’t put me in a coffin. Have them make me into a tree or pressed into a diamond, but no coffin. Promise?”

“Fine. I’ll make you into a tree and plant you. There’s a door.” I shone the flashlight across the room. “Maybe it will lead upstairs to the viewing rooms.”

Juliet skirted past the coffins making sure not to touch them and opened the door. She slammed it shut. “Nope. Not doing it. I’m outta here.”

I reached out a hand to stop her. “What’s behind the door?”

“Dead people. I see dead people, Phee!”

I sighed. Maybe I should have asked someone else to be my sidekick. “We’re in a funeral home. They have dead people.”

I yanked the door open and glanced inside. In the middle of the floor on a metal table was Mrs. Sampson. I’d heard that she’d died. I hadn’t been saddened to hear of her passing. She was old, plus she had threatened my dog, Watson, with her cane when we were at the park the previous week. Unfortunately, her dead body lay between us and the elevator to the upstairs. I had to get Juliet to pass by her.

“Close your eyes and hold on to my hand,” I said.

“I can’t do it, Phee.”

“I’m your big sister. I promise I won’t let you get dead people cooties on you. Do you trust me?”

Juliet nodded and squeezed her eyes shut. She held her hand out, and I grabbed it.  I led her around Mrs. Sampson and hit the button for the elevator. A moment later, it groaned to a halt and the doors slid open.

“You can open your eyes. We’re going up.”

It was more like a large dumbwaiter than an elevator. I suppose it’s how they were able to get the bodies upstairs after they were prepared. When the doors opened, we were in a hallway. The Blackbird Room where Henri was laid out was to our right. I pointed to it with my chin and motioned for Juliet to follow me. Inside the room, the casket was closed.

“I can’t look,” Juliet squeaked.

“I can’t lift the lid on my own. You need to suck it up and help me. Please.” The ski mask was making me hot, so I yanked it off and tucked it into my back pocket.

We reached over and lifted the lid. Inside, Henri Rocqueville was in a three-piece gray suit with a red silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. He looked the same as he had the last time I had seen him in the library. I always thought he was the most well-dressed man in town. I looked down. Clasped in his hand was a small leather book.

“There’s the recipe book,” Juliet whispered. “Did you remember to bring the fake one?”

I reached into my bra and pulled it out. “Of course.”

“What the heck do you have in that bra of yours? My goddess, it’s like a clown car. Things just keep popping out.”

“Ha ha. You’re jealous because you don’t have my voluptuous body. Grab the book.”

“No. Not just no, but hell no. I’m not touching anything in this coffin.”

I pushed her out of the way, grabbed the book, and tucked it into my bra. I was opening his fingers to place the new book into his hands when the lights came on.

“Hands up or I’ll shoot!”

Juliet screamed and collapsed in a faint. I held my hands up and turned around to see old Mrs. Nash standing in a white nightgown in the doorway, a shotgun in her hand.

“Hi, Mrs. Nash. Would you believe me if I said we just wanted to pay our respects?”

“Ophelia Jefferson?” She squinted at me. “Is that you? What in the world are you doing in here in the middle of the night? Is that Juliet passed out on the floor?”

“Yes, ma’am. I can explain.” I put my hands down as she lowered the shotgun.

“Hell’s bells, girl. If you’re standing over Henri’s body, I know it has something to do with the screaming match I heard between that tight ass Carl Shockley and Chantal. I’m better off not knowing. Get some water and toss it on that sister of yours to wake her up.” Mrs. Nash indicated the water cooler that was in the hallway. I did as she instructed. I yanked off Juliet’s ski mask and dowsed her. She sputtered and sat up.

“Am I dead? What happened?”

“You’re not dead. It’s Mrs. Nash.”

Juliet stood up with a sheepish look. “I thought you were a ghost in that white nightgown.”

“Shucks. I still have a few good years left. I sometimes sleep in one of the empty coffins. Ed snores so loud it shakes the entire house. I have to leave and come next door to get any rest,” Mrs. Nash said.

“Are you going to call the police?” I asked her.

She stared at me long and hard. I tried my best to look wholesome and innocent. “I tell you what. I don’t know what you two are up to, but I’ve heard rumors about Carl and how he treats that stepdaughter of his. I also know that Henri thought the world of his niece. I’m guessing you two creeping around here in the dead of night has something to do with Chantal.”

“It does. We’re just trying to do right by Henri and Chantal,” I said.

Mrs. Nash held up her hand to stop me. “If you don’t tell me anything, I won’t have to lie.” She yawned. “I’m awfully tired, so I think I’ll go back to bed. You girls make sure you lock that back door when you finish.”

With a wink and a smile, Mrs. Nash walked away with the shotgun slung over her shoulder. Juliet slumped against me. I reached over and gave her a hug. “Come on. Let me put this book in his hand, and we can get out of here before anything else happens.”

Ten minutes later, we were back in my van. I leaned my head against the seat and let out a laugh.

“What?” Juliet demanded.

“Mrs. Nash sleeps in a coffin. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Juliet grinned. “No crazier than a librarian breaking into a funeral home in the middle of the night. Let’s go home.”

Juliet was right. I fired up the van and headed towards home.

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My hands are old. As I stick my hand in the hot water to wash the fragile wool fleece, my hands blur under the water, and for just a moment, I am young again. The illusion quickly fades when I pull my soap-covered hands from the water and dry them. Craft is aging them, but I’m glad. In a world that caters to the young, fresh, and instant, old hands earned through craft have value.

A friend commented that she doesn’t understand my love of washing, combing, and spinning fleece into beautiful yarns. “You can just go to the craft store and buy it,” she said.

She’s right, but she’s also wrong. As the fiber slips through my fingers and winds onto the bobbin, it forms a connection to the past. I create the same motions and feel the rhythm of the pedals like generations of women before me. Women who had to craft in order to clothe their families. Women who felt the mean pinch of winter on their skin when they walked out to the barn to feed their flock of sheep but knew the importance of keeping their animals alive – for food, for clothing, and for love.

So I’ll take these hands and know that while I don’t face hardships like those who crafted before me, I can honor them. I can maintain the link to the past and those artisans whose hands are old like mine.

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