EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
AFTERWORD
LETTER TO THE READER
SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM BLESS HER DEAD LITTLE HEART
With great respect and admiration, and with
thanks for countless hours of pleasure and vicarious
adventure, this book is dedicated to the memories
of Mildred Wirt Benson, Margaret Sutton, and Julie
Campbell Tatham. Without Nancy Drew, Judy Bolton,
and Trixie Belden, I would never have had so
much fun in childhood and adolescence.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks go as always to the members of my weekly critique group for their consistently valuable input: Julie, Kay F., Kay K., Laura, Millie, and Bob. Huge thanks as well to the Soparkar-Hairston clan for their hospitality in providing an inviting atmosphere for our meetings.
Without the support and patience of my wonderful editor, Michelle Vega, and my indefatigable agent, Nancy Yost, I would be lost. Berkley Prime Crime has provided a happy home for Charlie and Diesel, and I am thrilled with the consistently gorgeous covers. Diesel thinks the “cover cat” who serves as his body double is a handsome dude—though, of course, not nearly so handsome as he is!
Finally, my two dear friends and constant cheerleaders, Patricia Orr and Terry Farmer, patiently read each book, chapter by chapter, in spurts and deluges, and offer helpful comments and unfailing support. I am truly blessed to have such friends.
ONE
Lightning tore through the sky, and a brilliant flash of light struck the ground near the road. Sparks flew, and a massive tree split and started to fall. The pert red roadster trembled as Veronica Thane urged it forward.
The huge oak threatened to land on her car, and only the girl’s swift reflexes saved her from sure annihilation. The car shot ahead as a section of the mighty tree struck the road behind it.
Veronica Thane’s hands tightened on the wheel as she peered through the sudden deluge of rain on her windscreen that rendered her all but blind. When another bolt of lightning briefly illuminated the dark sky, the intrepid girl caught a glimpse of a driveway ten feet ahead.
Her heart thudded painfully as terror gripped her, but she called upon her deep reserves of fortitude and guided the roadster through the storm. Her breath coming in gasps, she jerked the wheel to the right, and her car shot into the driveway at a fast clip. More lightning, now mercifully farther away, offered her just enough light to see the dark, hulking outlines of a mansion some distance ahead.
Shelter lay before her!
Through the wind-whipped trees that lined the drive, Veronica spotted dim lights in several windows. Now she had only to reach the house, and surely the residents would offer her refuge from the wild turmoil of the storm.
The roadster shuddered to an abrupt halt as Veronica reached the impressive double front door. Lightning once again offered a fleeting look at the building that now loomed over her. Rain pelted down as the light faded, but the plucky girl had seen her goal.
She thrust her door open and stepped into the tempest. As she darted forward, instantly drenched, she recalled her handbag, still in the roadster. Now there was no turning back.
The girl pounded up the stairs of the portico that protected the massive front entrance. She raised the heavy, ornate knocker, shaped like a gargoyle’s monstrous head, and banged it against the dark heavy oak. Surely, despite the fury of the storm, someone within would hear her and invite her inside.
I smiled as I closed the book and laid it next to me on the bed. I first read The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion over forty years ago when, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I discovered my late aunt Dottie’s collection of the adventures of Veronica Thane. I had finished my library books and was desperate for something to read, but the library was closed. Aunt Dottie sent me to one of the spare bedrooms on the third floor and told me to search the bookshelves there.
“That’s where I keep some of my treasures.” Aunt Dottie had smiled as she shooed me out of the kitchen. “Mind you, handle them gently.” The words floated after me as I scurried away.
Odd how certain memories linger.
I recalled my headlong rush up the two flights of stairs and the moment when I turned on the light and beheld a wall of books. How had I missed this room before?
I don’t know how long I stood and gazed at the hundreds of books, but I ended up seated on the floor in front of the shelves. My hands ran over the spines, all covered in dust jackets, and the titles in one section tantalized me with words such as mystery, secret, clue, and terror.
Finally I stopped my fingers from roaming and pulled a book gently off the shelf. I examined the cover. A dark-haired girl stood under a tree in the foreground, her eyes focused on a spooky-looking manor. The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion stood out in bold letters, followed by A Veronica Thane Mystery by Electra Barnes Cartwright.
I stretched out on the floor, opened the book, and began to read.
From what I recall, I didn’t move from the spot until I finished the book. By then, Aunt Dottie was calling me down for dinner. All I could talk about that evening was Veronica Thane, and Aunt Dottie joined in the conversation about her childhood favorite.
After that I always associated Aunt Dottie with Veronica and the other girl detectives whose adventures made up that amazing collection. Nancy Drew, the Dana Girls, Judy Bolton, Cherry Ames, Vicki Barr, Connie Blair, Penny Parker, and more besides. Then there were the boy sleuths: the Hardy Boys, Ken Holt, Rick Brant, and so on.
Over the next several years I worked my way through hundreds of those books before moving on to more adult fare, such as Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, and Henry Gamadge. Aunt Dottie sparked my love of mysteries and fed it with her huge collection. I still had every one of her books, each too precious ever to let go.
A large, furry creature leapt onto the bed near my feet and interrupted my reverie. My Maine Coon cat, Diesel, chirped at me, determined to capture my focus.
“Sorry to neglect you, boy, but I was reliving my youth for a few minutes there.” I grinned as Diesel butted my head, still chirping. He loved attention, and he returned it with often energetic affection. He climbed onto my legs, all thirty-six pounds of him.