DON'T FAIL ME NOW NANCY DREW!
I thought it would be fun to share this Character Guest Post from the Great Escapes Book Tour for HOUSE OF ASHES. House of Ashes
DON'T FAIL ME NOW NANCY DREW By Cassandra Mitchell, resident of Battersea Bluffs in Whale Rock, Massachusetts (Ghost written by Loretta Marion)
I love a good mystery. It was my Granny Fi who first introduced me to the sleuthing adventures of Nancy Drew when I was a middle grader. Nancy and I had so much in common. She was a boater and I was practically raised on my father’s sailboat. Nancy also painted, and Mama had me standing at my own easel by the time I was five. No wonder I felt an immediate kinship with this fictional heroine.
I was fascinated by the mysteries that befell Nancy’s small town of River Heights. So much so that I’d invent my own Whale Rock mysteries. Lying on the edge of the cliffs, I’d gaze down at the crashing waves, fantasizing about how I would solve them, just like Nancy had. Of course, the Mitchell family had its own lingering mysteries, not the least of which involved a suspicious fire at Battersea Bluffs. My great-grandfather had leaped off these very cliffs, holding the charred remains of his wife while exclaiming, “I am not finished.” Maybe Granny Fi had distracted me with books so I’d not dwell on my family’s tragic history.
After I’d made my way through the Nancy Drew mysteries preserved from my Granny’s childhood, I discovered The Nancy Drew Files at the Whale Rock Public Library, one of Granny Fi’s legacies. She’d been instrumental in raising the funds to restore the crumbling, old building. I recall her saying, “Whale Rock’s future starts in the library. It’s the heart and soul of our town.” It was for me anyhow. Then during my teen years, I became hijacked by LJ Smith’s The Vampire Diaries and anything written by Christopher Pike. Perhaps it had something to do with the unsettling nature of my family home that drew me to those gruesome horror stories. It had long been rumored that Battersea Bluffs was haunted by the spirits of my infamous great-grandparents, Percival and Celeste Mitchell. Though I rarely talk about it, I can attest to the truth of that rumor. Trust me, the lingering presence of ancestral spirits can get under your skin. Especially back then when I hadn’t understood what messages they were trying to get through to me. I trusted then -and still do- that they mean me no harm, otherwise they’d have done so by now, right? Or am I simply naïve? Regardless, you’ll learn more about them and their calling card scent of burnt sugar when you read the book.
I returned to reading mysteries again in my early twenties. When sorting through Granny Fi’s private library after her death, I found a treasure trove: everything written by Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Ruth Rendell and PD James. Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca was a favorite – I could tell by the worn cover and bent spine. Apparently, my Granny favored female mystery authors.
It was bittersweet to find bits of my Granny Fi within the pages of the books she so cherished. I’d come across one of her course gray hairs every now and again, notes she’d written to herself in the margins, a rare photograph of my grandfather - the love of her life and one of the Mitchell family tragedies. It was a rare connection, feeling her with me as I turned every page, and a gift my Granny left behind for me.
When I flipped through the pages of the book left on her bedside table, tucked in as a place marker was a delicate lace handkerchief. I brought it to my nose and nearly wept at her familiar lavender scent. I did weep when I realized it was probably the last page she’d ever read, that she died not knowing how the mystery ended.
These discovered books offered an escape, much needed after my parents died so young, and then losing Granny Fi soon afterward. This left me and my older sister, Zoe, as the only remaining Mitchells…the end of a bloodline resulting from a century’s old curse cast upon my great-grandparents. But Zoe was out on the West Coast and had no intention of ever returning to Battersea Bluffs. For some strange reason, she despised our home and the town of Whale Rock. Could it be the unsettling nature in the bones of our ancestral home? I guess you’ll have to read HOUSE OF ASHES to find out.
Knowing Granny Fi would be pleased, I donated the mysteries I could part with to the Whale Rock Library. There I discovered some extraordinary contemporary mystery authors: Elizabeth George, Tana French, Camilla Lackberg, Arnaldur Indridason. I’m also a sucker for a cozy mystery, especially those that take place in New England or near the shore. Water has been such a big part of my life and I seek it out even in my reading.
Now I’m faced with a real-life mystery, just as I’d fantasized about all those many years ago. Ashley and Vince Jacobson were two wandering souls who came into my life at a difficult time and lifted me out of a very dark place. But they are now lost to me – vanished without a trace after setting off on their bikes for a day trip to Provincetown – leaving behind their precious canine companion, Whistler. It has become clear that they are not who they told me they were, and I’m left with only haunting questions: Why would they lie to me? Who were they really? Are they in danger? I can only hope that I’ve absorbed some of the sleuthing skills of Rendell’s Inspector Wexford, Christie’s Miss Marple or Monsieur Poirot and James’ Adam Dalgliesh—because I am desperate to find out what happened to them.
DON'T FAIL ME NOW NANCY DREW By Cassandra Mitchell, resident of Battersea Bluffs in Whale Rock, Massachusetts (Ghost written by Loretta Marion)
I love a good mystery. It was my Granny Fi who first introduced me to the sleuthing adventures of Nancy Drew when I was a middle grader. Nancy and I had so much in common. She was a boater and I was practically raised on my father’s sailboat. Nancy also painted, and Mama had me standing at my own easel by the time I was five. No wonder I felt an immediate kinship with this fictional heroine.
I was fascinated by the mysteries that befell Nancy’s small town of River Heights. So much so that I’d invent my own Whale Rock mysteries. Lying on the edge of the cliffs, I’d gaze down at the crashing waves, fantasizing about how I would solve them, just like Nancy had. Of course, the Mitchell family had its own lingering mysteries, not the least of which involved a suspicious fire at Battersea Bluffs. My great-grandfather had leaped off these very cliffs, holding the charred remains of his wife while exclaiming, “I am not finished.” Maybe Granny Fi had distracted me with books so I’d not dwell on my family’s tragic history.
After I’d made my way through the Nancy Drew mysteries preserved from my Granny’s childhood, I discovered The Nancy Drew Files at the Whale Rock Public Library, one of Granny Fi’s legacies. She’d been instrumental in raising the funds to restore the crumbling, old building. I recall her saying, “Whale Rock’s future starts in the library. It’s the heart and soul of our town.” It was for me anyhow. Then during my teen years, I became hijacked by LJ Smith’s The Vampire Diaries and anything written by Christopher Pike. Perhaps it had something to do with the unsettling nature of my family home that drew me to those gruesome horror stories. It had long been rumored that Battersea Bluffs was haunted by the spirits of my infamous great-grandparents, Percival and Celeste Mitchell. Though I rarely talk about it, I can attest to the truth of that rumor. Trust me, the lingering presence of ancestral spirits can get under your skin. Especially back then when I hadn’t understood what messages they were trying to get through to me. I trusted then -and still do- that they mean me no harm, otherwise they’d have done so by now, right? Or am I simply naïve? Regardless, you’ll learn more about them and their calling card scent of burnt sugar when you read the book.
I returned to reading mysteries again in my early twenties. When sorting through Granny Fi’s private library after her death, I found a treasure trove: everything written by Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Ruth Rendell and PD James. Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca was a favorite – I could tell by the worn cover and bent spine. Apparently, my Granny favored female mystery authors.
It was bittersweet to find bits of my Granny Fi within the pages of the books she so cherished. I’d come across one of her course gray hairs every now and again, notes she’d written to herself in the margins, a rare photograph of my grandfather - the love of her life and one of the Mitchell family tragedies. It was a rare connection, feeling her with me as I turned every page, and a gift my Granny left behind for me.
When I flipped through the pages of the book left on her bedside table, tucked in as a place marker was a delicate lace handkerchief. I brought it to my nose and nearly wept at her familiar lavender scent. I did weep when I realized it was probably the last page she’d ever read, that she died not knowing how the mystery ended.
These discovered books offered an escape, much needed after my parents died so young, and then losing Granny Fi soon afterward. This left me and my older sister, Zoe, as the only remaining Mitchells…the end of a bloodline resulting from a century’s old curse cast upon my great-grandparents. But Zoe was out on the West Coast and had no intention of ever returning to Battersea Bluffs. For some strange reason, she despised our home and the town of Whale Rock. Could it be the unsettling nature in the bones of our ancestral home? I guess you’ll have to read HOUSE OF ASHES to find out.
Knowing Granny Fi would be pleased, I donated the mysteries I could part with to the Whale Rock Library. There I discovered some extraordinary contemporary mystery authors: Elizabeth George, Tana French, Camilla Lackberg, Arnaldur Indridason. I’m also a sucker for a cozy mystery, especially those that take place in New England or near the shore. Water has been such a big part of my life and I seek it out even in my reading.
Now I’m faced with a real-life mystery, just as I’d fantasized about all those many years ago. Ashley and Vince Jacobson were two wandering souls who came into my life at a difficult time and lifted me out of a very dark place. But they are now lost to me – vanished without a trace after setting off on their bikes for a day trip to Provincetown – leaving behind their precious canine companion, Whistler. It has become clear that they are not who they told me they were, and I’m left with only haunting questions: Why would they lie to me? Who were they really? Are they in danger? I can only hope that I’ve absorbed some of the sleuthing skills of Rendell’s Inspector Wexford, Christie’s Miss Marple or Monsieur Poirot and James’ Adam Dalgliesh—because I am desperate to find out what happened to them.
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