Showing posts with label easter 2022. Show all posts
Showing posts with label easter 2022. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2022
Sunday, April 17, 2022
🐰Sunday's Short Stack🐰: Easter, 1929 by Frank W Butterfield
Nick & Carter Holiday #8
Sunday, March 31, 1929
Mrs. Wilson Jones (Louise) of Albany, Georgia, wakes up on yet another Sunday morning to discover her husband didn't come home after carousing down at Louray's by the river.
But she doesn't have time to worry. Easter dinner will be at her sister's house and Mrs. Jones has biscuits to bake. So, she turns on the radio, begins to sing with The Chambers Family Quintet, broadcasting over WSJ in Atlanta, and gets the buttermilk out of the icebox. There's work to be done and Mrs. Jones is a good cook, keeps a clean house, and always delivers on her promises.
Although this is an entry in the Nick & Carter Holiday series, Easter 1929 is a snapshot in the life of 8 year old Carter, long before meeting Nick. Having yet to read the Nick Williams Mystery series, I have only seen snippets of the characters both as a pair and individuals through these short stories so I imagine, like the other 3 I've read, we see reasons why Carter, in part at least, feels the way he does in regard to family and childhood.
As for Easter, 1929 I can't help but be reminded of my own grandfather who would also have been 8 that year(though only 7 at Easter) and a year later his mother died from breast cancer and his aunt moved in to help his dad raise him and his 2 sisters. From the stories I've heard, I can see similarities between Carter's family members and my grandfathers'(although my grandfather utterly adored his mother and took her death very hard and his dad was an uber Dutch Reformed Church member not a drunk) and I couldn't help but picture a young Berdean Vande Vrede in Carter's place. So not only is this short a very intriguing and I imagine telling peak into events that helped shape Carter into the man who falls for Nick Williams but it also helped me play out that moment in time in my grandpa's life in my mind's eye. I find stories that help the reader connect on a personal level and absolute treasure and that's what Easter, 1929 is for me.
I don't know just when I'll get to read the original Nick Williams Mystery series(I will though and I already have the first 2 on my kindle) but believe me with each new holiday short, it moves up a few notches on my TBR list.
Chapter 1
736 West 2nd Avenue
Albany, Ga.
Sunday, March 31, 1929
Half past 6 in the morning
Mrs. Wilson Jones (Louise) opened her eyes just as the sun began to flood the windows of her modest bedroom. Without looking, she tentatively reached out with her left hand and discovered that her husband was, once again, not in bed beside her on a Sunday morning. This was no surprise to Mrs. Jones, but she was disappointed that he hadn't bothered to show up before dawn on Easter Morning.
With a sigh, she threw back the covers, which consisted of a thin cotton sheet, a thin summer blanket, and her grandmother's handmade quilt. Granny Carter had made a quilt for each of her three granddaughters. Mrs. Jones happened to possess the one that was mostly green and blue, and she was always grateful it was that one and not the one that her sister Maria had insisted on which was an awful red and black pattern.
As she stood, she pulled on her cotton nightgown and cinched it tightly around her waist. She loved the feeling of security that the extra hard tug on the belt would bring her. Walking into the small bathroom that was included with the bedroom, she took care of her morning business. Once she was done, she picked up the new cake of Ivory soap and vigorously washed her hands. She'd read in The Atlanta Journal about how important washing one's hands was as a morning ritual, particularly upon rising. It helped get rid of deadly germs and Mrs. Jones was a firm believer that her attention to household cleanliness was the primary reason her two sons, Robert, age 9, and Carter, age 8, had both grown up free of the usual early childhood ailments, except for the chickenpox which, as Mrs. Jones well knew, every boy and girl needed to get as a child in order to avoid problems when they were young adults.
Once she had thoroughly rinsed her hands, Mrs. Jones left the bathroom, ensuring her hands were dry before depressing the electric light switch. She quietly made her way through the bedroom and out onto the landing. She saw that the doors to her sons' bedrooms and the bathroom at the end were all hygienically closed with the dormers open above them.
She made her way cautiously down the stairs, keeping a sharp eye out for toys that one or both of her sons might have inadvertently brought out during the night (something they had never done but it didn't hurt to check) and then confidently put her foot on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and made a right, walking through the living room and dining room and towards the kitchen at the rear of the house.
As she walked past the new sofa (all of Mrs. Jones's furniture was new, having been purchased in February when they took possession of the new house her husband had bought, all cash), she glanced to see if the sleeping body of her husband might be visible. It was not.
Mrs. Jones pinched herself on the inside skin of her left wrist in order to banish the passing hope that she might find his dead body strewn about somewhere out front or, preferably, in the backyard where the neighbors would be less likely to see it. Of course, Mrs. Jones considered, as she opened the radio cabinet door to switch on station WSB broadcasting from Atlanta, that, when the police arrived to take her statement as the grieving widow (Mrs. Jones liked that phrase—it gave her immense satisfaction), the neighbors would then have to know what happened. News would, as it always did in both white and colored Albany, spread like wildfire. The neighboring housewives, like Mrs. John Colbert (Roberta) who lived next door, would pick up their telephones (if they had one) and call their closest friends, making sure to speak loud enough for their colored maids to hear, like Ninny, Mrs. Colbert's maid who had also worked for Mrs. Colbert's mother until the poor dear passed in 1921. The colored maids would then tell the milkman or the butcher or the little colored boy who delivered the early-evening Atlanta Constitution all about it and the news would be off to the races.
As the radio began to warm up and she could hear the familiar voices of The Chambers Family Quintet singing "Bringing in the Sheaves," Mrs. Jones pinched herself one more time. She asked herself, "What sort of woman entertains such morbid thoughts?" Although, in her heart of hearts, Mrs. Jones well knew the answer, she was unwilling to look there. Instead, as she pulled out the pitcher of buttermilk from the icebox, she began to sing along with Hannah Chambers, the group's youngest member who was sweetly performing a solo on the second verse:
Sowing in the sunshine, sowing in the shadows,
Fearing neither clouds nor winter’s chilling breeze;
By and by the harvest, and the labor ended,
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.
That song always cheered her up. Mrs. Jones remembered seeing a photograph of the entire Chambers family in the Albany paper. The oldest had been the father, Adolphus, then his wife, Mary. In the paper, Mrs. Chambers had looked very strict but, being a Methodist, she would be. The oldest boy was Jeremiah, age 17, followed by Ezekiel, age 14, and then little Hannah, age 9. That was the same age as her Robert, and she was just as cute as you please. She had black hair pulled tightly into pigtails. Mrs. Jones had, on occasion, dreamed of having a daughter of her own. She could see her own little girl, blonde perhaps, sitting at a perfect little dressing table and allowing her perfectly shiny hair to be brushed a hundred times each night by her adoring mother. If she were only allowed to have two children, and Mrs. Jones had thought about this at length, she would have preferred to keep Robert and send Carter over to live with her sister Velma, who was childless, so she, Mrs. Jones, could welcome a little girl into the family home. Mrs. Jones was convinced that, if she ever had a girl baby, her husband would probably not drink as much as he did or be as rough with the children or with her as he was.
The phone in the living room suddenly burst through her reverie with the familiar two long rings followed by one short ring that meant the operator was calling their house. Mrs. Jones carefully covered the buttermilk pitcher with a towel to keep any flying or crawling bugs from getting in and immersing themselves into the liquid and become undetectable until someone accidentally found one in a biscuit. As the phone rang a second time, Mrs. Jones turned down the volume knob on the radio and then picked up the black candlestick phone, removed the receiver, placed it firmly against her ear to make sure she could clearly hear the far side of the conversation, and then conscientiously said directly into the device, "This is J-73."
"Louise?"
"Good morning, Velma. Happy Easter."
"Happy Easter to you, Louise. Did Wilson make it home yet?"
"No," was Mrs. Jones's crisp and curt reply.
"Well, I thought I'd call and let you know he should be on his way. Roscoe just crawled through the front door and he smells like the inside of distillery. I don't know yet whether he'll make it to church or not."
"Velma! It's Easter Sunday! What will the preacher think if you're there without him?"
Velma chuckled. "Brother Wilkins was down by the river with the rest of the sinners, Louise."
Mrs. Jones simply couldn't believe that was possible. "There must have been some sort of mistake, Velma. Brother Wilkins is a teetotaler. Everyone in town knows that."
Velma chuckled at the other end of the line again. Mrs. Jones hated when her sister laughed at her. She knew that Velma didn't keep to the same standards as herself. Mrs. Jones always felt as if she had to hold up the Carter family pride, even if Velma didn't. And Maria, their third sister, had a stubborn streak a mile wide so there was no reasoning with her. But Velma could be reasonable when she decided to. However, there were some things her sister did that Mrs. Jones simply could not abide.
One example that always got on her nerves was how Velma was so familiar with Mattie, her colored maid. It was all fine and well to talk about how those people were members of the family, but it really didn't do to be going over and having tea in dark town. It just wasn't right. Mrs. Jones, of course, didn't have a maid. Wilson didn't like having colored in the house, even if they only worked in the kitchen and came in through the back door. Mrs. Jones thought it was all for the best, in any event. She was sure Wilson would have been rude to anyone who came in to help. Besides, she could do her own housework, thank you very much. She never understood why Velma kept Mattie on. She didn't have any children. Of course, she and Leroy did live in that big old house just outside of downtown. But still—
"Louise? Are you there?"
"Yes, Velma."
"You didn't answer my question."
"What question was that?"
Velma sighed. "Are you still planning on bringing your biscuits over for Easter dinner today? If not, I need to let Mattie know right this minute. Otherwise, I'll be in trouble again and she might not cook dinner."
"Really, Velma. The way you let that woman boss you around is just shameful."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"Of course I'll bring my biscuits," replied Mrs. Jones with a sharp tone of irritation in her voice. "But how can I cook if I'm spending the whole blessed morning on the phone?"
With that, her sister hung up.
Nick Williams Mystery Series
In 1953, the richest homosexual in San Francisco is a private investigator.
Nick Williams lives in a modest bungalow with his fireman husband, a sweet fellow from Georgia by the name of Carter Jones.
Nick's gem of a secretary, Marnie Wilson, is worried that Nick isn't working enough. She knits a lot.
Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, is Nick's friend and lawyer. He represents the guys and gals who get caught in police raids in the Tenderloin.
Lt. Mike Robertson is Nick's first love and best friend. He's a good guy who's one hell of a cop.
The Unexpected Heiress is where their stories begin. Read along and fall in love with the City where cable cars climb halfway to the stars.
Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mahjong over tea.
Nick & Carter Holiday Series
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is a series of short stories with each centered around a specific holiday.
From New Year's Day to Boxing Day, each story stands on its own and might occur in any year from the early 1920s to the first decade of the 21st Century.
Saturday Series Spotlights
Author Bio:
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Easter, 1929 #8
Saturday, April 16, 2022
🐰Saturday's Series Spotlight🐰: Elves After Dawn Part 1
Summary:
Elves After Dawn #1
Mallow is a walking disaster when it comes to all things Easter, and for an elf in Bunnyville, that's the worst thing possible!
Mallow
I've tried every Easter production station possible. I sneezed the chickens bald, and there's no way they are letting me anywhere near the ducks or bunnies now. Basket weaving? The less said about my attempts there, the better. Preparing the real eggs? I set the water to boil them on literal fire, and when they moved me to egg painting, I broke out in hives. I swelled up so big, they had to bring me down from where I floated up to the ceiling. If we'd been outside, I'd have drifted off like some errant cloud! Candy testing is out as I hate sweets, so it all tastes disgusting to me.
I'm such a disaster as an Easter Elf that Peter Cottontail himself had a meeting with Kris Kringle to figure out where in Kringle Enterprises they could safely put me. That's how I found myself assigned to the human world, working for the Feed and Seed department. Arranging and collecting deliveries of fresh greens and stuff for the bunnies and chicks should be fine, right? I knew I'd struck gold when on my very first day, I found it- a place called Rabbit Food. And the human working there? Oh wow...I think he might just be my mate!
Summary:
Elves After Dawn #2
Arlo and Mr. Santa are enjoying their new life together, but when the actual Santa Claus asks them to help find the missing Easter Bunny, their relationship is put to the test. Arctic Elf twins, Finn and Torr, lead them on a wild duck(?) chase through the Appalachian Mountains while they try to get their new toy business off the ground and locate the missing rabbit(?) before the land dies, taking the magic of Easter with it.
***This is the third book in the universe with Mr. Santa and Arlo. To enhance the reading experience, make sure you read Secret Little Elf and Binding Dom first.***
Elves After Dawn #3
Alwyn
Secrets and ancient prophecies are all make-believe, right?
I’m nobody special, just your average person looking forward to the one day a year I get to spend with my best friend. Suddenly, when fairytales and prophecies storm into my life, everything changes... quite literally.
Llewellyn
Some secrets are necessary when the truth is unbelievable.
Alwyn’s always been special to me, but there are things I keep hidden from him. Revelations that are too unbelievable for the human world. When my best friend is suddenly thrust into my world, the truth must be told, and our friendship and future change in ways I never expected—but always secretly hoped for.
Blueberry Bunny Boy by Leona Windwalker
1
Mallow
I looked forlornly down at my arms. Thankfully, it had only taken one butterscotch candy to stop my eyes from and nose from running. The pink drying streaks of calamine looked almost pretty against the rich blue of my skin, the purple weals of my hives adding an attractive but most unwelcome bit of color to the overall pattern.
Peter stood next to me in the infirmary, shaking his head. “I could use some suggestions, Kris,” he said to the not looking so jolly elf next to him.
Yeah, I was deep in the rabbit droppings all right. This time, my failure had been kicked all the upstairs to the office of our head honcho, Peter Cottontail himself and he’d called in the CEO himself.
“Well, now, I’m not too familiar with this part of Kringle Enterprises,” Mr. Kringle said. “I know we merged our companies together after you and Kristelle mated, but us over at HQ have always held that you folks here in Bunnyville knew what you were doing and that it was better for us to remain mostly hands off.” He stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “Normally, I’d suggest sending him to the Pole and see if he fit in better at one of the departments there, but I’m not entirely sure that would be the best option here.”
Peter winced. “Yeah, no. Most of the reasons behind him not working out in any of the various departments would hold true over there as well.”
He wasn’t wrong. I hated sweets, for one thing, so working candy fulfillment in any way was out. It wasn’t just the overall sugariness of it all, it was what it did to me. Give real sugar, even just the tiniest bit during a necessary taste testing session, and I bounced around like a young jack rabbit on a pogo stick. Give me the sugar free stuff and I became extremely gassy. After I bloated up and floated up to the ceiling like a big, fat blueberry a la Violet Beaureguarde and had to be lassoed, brought down, and degassed, I wasn’t sorry one bit when they took me out of the candy section.
Sewing plush bunnies and other toys for baskets? Turns out I have a knack for breaking bobbin cases. Basket weaving? Yeah, I’m not that co-ordinated and while I did manage to turn out a usable basket, one basket every eight days turns out to be rather too slow. Sprig Sugarpeep next to me was churning them out one every ten minutes, his deft hands and magic just going at it. I tried using my own magic to go faster, but it presented me with what looked like an enormous misshapen coffee cup that couldn’t hold so much as a drop of liquid.
Collecting eggs? My feather allergy made me sneeze and I kinda exploded out a bit of natural defensive magic. I’m still getting looks over the bald chickens and they won’t let me anywhere near the ducks now, either.
“He can’t even paint the eggs, you say?” Kris murmured to Peter.
“No,” Peter sighed. “He burns water so can’t help boil them, and what he didn’t drop of the boiled eggs he was trying to decorate, he did okay with. Only it turns out he’s allergic to the dyes. This is the result. And he can’t go on plastic egg duty as they are full up.”
“What about Bunny duty?” Kris asked.
“All full up from the Krampus detail. Plus with those hives, we were worried about him being in a suit and scratching. Not to mention getting calamine flakes and smears all in there.”
“Is he allergic to fur? Was thinking about the real rabbits,” Kris said. “No, don’t tell me, he’s allergic to animal fur.”
“After the chickens, we didn’t want to risk it,” Peter sighed. “And the pixies refused to take him on for flower duty in case he was allergic to flowers and turned them all into giant Triffids or something in response.”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be good. Hey, what about collecting the extra feed, rather than doing the actual feeding?”
Peter looked dumbstruck. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” He turned to me. “Mallow, how long can you hold a glamor?”
“Um, depends on how complicated,” I answered honestly. “I can make my ears look less pointy, disguise my fangs, and make myself not look blue for as long as I want, unless I’m asleep. Making people think they are seeing a giant rabbit is harder, though, and I can only do that for a couple of hours at most, and then only if nothing distracts me too much.”
“No, no, not rabbits. We get our carrots and other veggies for the rabbits and bird feed for the chickens and ducks from the human world. We can’t buy it all in one place, so the Department of Feed and Seed sends out elves to pick up deliveries from local organic suppliers out in the human world.”
“I could do that!” I said excitedly.
“Well, glad that’s sorted,” Kris said. “You ever been out in the human world, son?”
“No, but I’ve watched a lot of TV shows and movies,” I replied earnestly. Peter and Kris exchanged glances. “I’ll assign Glitter to help keep an eye on him. They can stay at the same motel,” Peter said.
Kris nodded, turning his attention back to me. “Glitter is a well-intentioned elf, but I have one word of advice for you and you would do well to understand that it directly relates to why he earned enough Krampus points to get Mall Bunny duties. Do not eat anything he offers you unless you see it delivered by an actual restaurant worker and avoid any special snow globe side trips he offers.”
“I won’t,” I promised. In fact, given my allergies and sensitivities, I’d do one better. I’d not eat anything I didn’t get myself. As for the snow globe trip thing, I didn’t see that happening either. I was going to go to the human realm, do my job, and prove myself a useful Elf. Nothing else mattered at all!
Elfing Up Easter by Sophie E Russell
Prologue
“Sir,” the small man said after stepping onto a thick rug that spanned nearly the circumference of the round room with carved oak walls. He was shorter than the maroon leather wingback chairs he stood between, but his face was lined with age and worry. His silver eyes glowed in the firelight as he stared at his taller companion’s back. “I haven’t been able to reach him.”
The big man stroked his brocade smoking jacket and stuck his hand inside the deep pocket where he touched a letter. He turned his back on the gigantic snow globe—which appeared to have trapped a thunderstorm—and faced his friend. He smiled, and his blue eyes crinkled. “Don’t call me, sir. How many times do I have to remind you?”
The small man shrugged his narrow shoulders, and his dark green hat shifted to one side. “At least once more.” Without invitation, he sat on the plush leather sofa beside the man. “Has she called yet?”
“No, but I have a feeling I know what it’s about.” The big man moved between the other set of wingback chairs and sat on a red velvet sofa across from his friend.
“Word travels fast.” The small man’s feet dangled a few inches above the floor, but he leaned over and braced his elbows on his bony knees. “We’re going to need his help for this. Do you want me to try reaching him another way?”
The big man nodded. “You have permission. I’ll deal with Tez. You know how he gets about his mirrors.”
“I do. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to him.” The small man looked thoughtful, as his wrinkles of worry eased on his weathered olive skin. “The twins might be able to help, too, sir.”
Sighing, the big man nodded again. “I know.” He smoothed his trimmed white beard with a meaty hand and dragged his smile away. His shoulders angled downward in defeat. “ I just don’t want to send them away.”
His friend hopped off the sofa and gave him a wry, but knowing, smile. “Now you know how I felt.”
“Yes. Call the twins. I have a feeling Esther is just running late. When you reach him, ask him to bring the others. They’d probably help, too.”
“Yes, sir!” The small man gave a mock salute.
The big man’s cheeks flushed with irritation, but his eyes pinched as he fought a smile. “Stop calling me that!”
“Maybe later!”
Legend of the Easter Dragon by Kelsey Hodge
Prologue
A young elf stands in the middle of the field, surveying the surrounding landscape. Smoke hangs thick in the air that is filled with the sounds of shouting and roaring, the swish of approaching wings mixing the cacophony together. Looking up, the elf watches as a huge white dragon flies overhead, scanning the ground and appearing to be looking for somewhere to land. Though whether to fight or talk, the elf can’t be sure, and yet they continue to observe the beast while standing amongst the scorched scars of battle. The need to run and hide has long since passed. The battle is over; there are no victors... the paths have now been decided.
The dragon swoops down to land; such a majestic beast. His scales are a pure white and untarnished by the combat, the smoke trickling from his nostrils the only sign of his inclusion in the fight. Lumbering up to the elf, the dragon bows gracefully, acknowledging that he, too, knows of the decisions that have been made.
The elf approaches the dragon and bows in front of him, confirming the respect they have for each other. The elf’s green dress has the appearance of newly grown grass and is covered in fresh flowers, designed to mark the heralding of spring,
“So, great dragon, the paths have been decided,” the elf states in a voice that is both sweet and gentle.
The dragon nods in affirmation and walks in a circle around the elf before finally speaking.
“Indeed, the paths have been decided. The line of dragons shall end today.” The dragon bows his head again, but there is a hint of sadness in his eyes.
The elf places a hand on the side of the dragon's snout, feeling the heat resonate from the beast, which causes the elf's hand to glow white-hot, and yet there is no pain.
“Yes, my great white dragon, though this is not the end of your line. Hopefully, many years from now, a time will come when this”—The elf stretches out their hand and waves it around the scene before them—“will all be forgotten. A time when the decisions made upon this day will no longer mean anything. We may meet again, my great dragon friend.”
“No, my elf friend, the decisions made on this day are final,” the dragon states with little force behind his words, but the heaviness on his heart this causes can be felt emanating from him.
Knowing this is not the time to disagree or mention the plan the elf has set in motion, the elf, instead, heads towards the edge of the field and to the tree line. Turning, the elf watches as the great white dragon stretches his neck up towards the heavens and roars, becoming surrounded by a brilliant light of white, so bright that for a second, the elf is forced to shield their eyes. When they can look again, the dragon is gone, and instead, in his place stands the figure of a human man. Yet as the elf looks more closely, the eyes shining back at them are the same as the dragon who had been there moments before.
The man scans the tree line as if looking for someone, but the elf knows they can no longer be seen. The magic once contained within the dragon is gone. That is the price paid for the decisions made today. The elf feels a presence next to them and upon turning, a smile tweaks their lips.
“Llewellyn, this is no place for you. Best be on your way please.”
Llewellyn bows respectfully but pauses for a second, looking over the land before walking away. Once the elf is sure they are alone again, they take one last look at the human still standing in the centre of the field, and with a heavy heart, turns and vanishes into the woods, whispering, “I will see you again, Alwyn, my friend.”
Leona is a longtime staunch supporter of human rights and environmental causes. Her favourite genre to read is M/M fiction and she particularly enjoys science fiction, fantasy, and action/suspense subgenres—especially if they have a nice seasoning of romance. She has far too many books on her Kindle, has overloaded her phone with even more and, when not reading, writing, being driven to distraction by her children, or being overlorded by her three cats, can be found trying to locate the portal that the sock monster uses to steal socks from her dryer.
Sophie E. Russell is a meme addict and maladaptive daydreamer. She is the sole hooman of Archie the cat and is a fine arts and creative writing student at university.
She would live on pizza and smoothies—given the chance—and has an unhealthy obsession GIFs. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, painting, or printmaking. She loves to take naps and often wakes up singing.
Sophie loves writing about deep, sexy, and quirky men who find love and happiness in the schmoopiest ways possible. She is an emerging author of male-male romance, and Stroll into Love is Sophie’s first book.
Kelsey Hodge loves romance books, and has been reading them since she was little and discovering M/M books a few years ago was a turning point. She finally found stories that she wanted to write, making sure that her characters always get their happy ever after. She lives in the UK with her partner and cats.
Leona Windwalker
Sophie E Russell
Blueberry Bunny Boy by Leona Windwalker
Elfing Up Easter by Sophie E Russell
Legend of the Easter Dragon by Kelsey Hodge
Series
Friday, April 15, 2022
🐰📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🐰: Basil of Baker Street by Eve Titus
Named one of “13 Detective Book Series You Obsessed over as a Kid” by Buzzfeed.com and the inspiration for a hit Disney film, the masterful Great Mouse Detective series is now available to a whole new generation of readers!
Basil—the famous sleuth of mousedom—lives in the cellar of Sherlock Holmes’s house. A devoted admirer of the great detective, he has learned his craft by listening at the feet of Holmes himself. But will it be enough to help Basil solve his most baffling mystery yet?
The Mystery of the Missing Twins is one of the strangest cases in Basil’s career. With only a few crumbs of clues with which to find answers, how is he ever going to figure out where Angela and Agatha are being kept—and, of course, who mouse-napped them! Will Basil’s mouse sleuthing skills be up to the task of finding the twins before it’s too late?
THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING twins could never have been solved by an ordinary detective.
But Basil, of course, was far from ordinary. Even before the kidnappers’ note came, his keen mind had deduced what the criminals really wanted.
“Mark my words,” he told me, “the disappearance of Angela and Agatha is only the beginning. The criminals plan to strike at all of us!”
He was quite right. But there was a long and dangerous road to be traveled before the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
Who masterminded the plot? What was the motive behind it? How were the twins lured away?
And Basil—what sort of sleuth was he?
To make these matters clear, I shall tell you something of his amazing career as a detective, and then relate the events leading up to the crime.
The place is London, in the year 1885. . . .
Pray allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. David Q. Dawson, Basil’s close friend and associate.
Basil was as famous a detective in our world as was Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the world of people.
This came about because he studied at the feet of Mr. Holmes himself, visiting him regularly in his rooms at Baker Street, Number 221B.
I usually went along. We would scurry up to the sitting room shared by Sherlock and Dr. John H. Watson. Well-hidden, we would then listen closely as Mr. Holmes told his friend exactly how he solved his cases.
Thus Basil learned the scientific side of sleuthing from the best teacher of them all.
Mr. Holmes was tall and thin, with sharp, piercing eyes. And if ever a mouse may be said to resemble a man, then Basil was the mouse!
He even dressed like his hero, thanks to a clever little tailor who copied Sherlock’s wardrobe almost exactly.
But the long trips to Baker Street, in all sorts of weather, were tiring and often risky. We braved many a blizzard to reach our goal.
One evening, leaving by way of the cellar, Basil stopped so suddenly that I almost bumped into him.
“Observe, my dear doctor,” he remarked, pointing with his walking stick. “Observe how clean and spacious is this cellar. What a far cry from our crowded, dingy dwellings in the East End!”
His eyes lit up. “We could build a town here. Picture a row of cozy flats on that empty shelf next to the front windows—plus shops, a school, a library, a town hall, and other buildings. A name for the town? Ah, I have it—Holmestead!”
“A brilliant idea, Basil! Best of all, we could steal upstairs to listen to our beloved Sherlock as often as we pleased.”
“Precisely,” said my companion, smiling. “We shall put it to a vote at our next town hall meeting.”
The forty-four families in our community approved.
Basil drew up the plans. Carpenters traveled to Baker Street night after night, working at breakneck speed, and within two weeks the move was made.
Holmestead was a model town, and mice from all over London came to look and to marvel.
The flat Basil and I shared fronted the street, so that we could see our callers before they entered, just as Mr. Holmes did.
Basil listened long and often to the master, and it soon seemed as though there were no mystery too tangled for him to unravel.
Mice journeyed long distances to consult him, even French mice from across the Channel. Rich or poor, no one in need of help was ever turned from his door.
He brought so many criminals to justice that evildoers trembled at the mere mention of his name.
Then, but one month after we had moved to Baker Street, the strangest case of Basil’s career began.
Angela and Agatha, our neighbors’ young twins, vanished into thin air!
Release Date: July 2, 1986
Release Time: 74 minutes
Directors:
John Musker
Ron Clements
Dave Michener
Burny Mattinson
Cast:
Barrie Ingham as Basil, a mouse detective.
Vincent Price as Professor Ratigan
Val Bettin as Major Dr. David Q. Dawson
Susanne Pollatschek as Olivia Flaversham
Candy Candido as Fidget
Alan Young as Hiram Flaversham
Frank Welker as Toby
Frank Welker also voices Felicia
Diana Chesney as Mrs. Judson
Eve Brenner as Queen Mousetoria
Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes
Laurie Main as Dr. Watson
Wayne Allwine, Tony Anselmo, Walker Edmiston and Val Bettin as Ratigan's Thugs
Melissa Manchester as Miss Kitty Mouse
Eve Titus was the author of numerous bestselling and beloved children's books.
Her most famous characters include Anatole, a French mouse and Basil of Baker Street, a mouse who works as a private eye. Her book, Anatole, won the 1957 Caldecott Honor Book award.
She died in 2002 in Orlando, Florida.
Paul Galdone (1907–1986) illustrated hundreds of children’s books, including the Basil of Baker Street series and the Anatole books, which received Caldecott Honors. He was posthumously awarded the 1996 Kerlan Award for his contribution to children’s literature.
Eve Titus
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Paul Galdone(Illustrator)
Basil of Baker Street #1
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Series
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Film
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