Lockie yowled from the back seat, taking the latest gust against the car as a personal attack. Cats and storms. Never a peaceful combination. Tammy pressed her forehead to the cold window of Olivia’s hatchback. Beyond the trees, thunder growled, low and menacing.

The group tumbled from the cars, coats flapping and scarves flailing. The wind tearing down the drive cut straight through Tammy’s layers.

Hollowell House loomed through the rain, more apparition than architecture. Gothic Revival bones carved themselves into steep gables and narrow, uneven windows. Icicles spiked from the eaves in frozen claws, thick as her wrist. A sagging wraparound verandah buckled beneath the weight of rusted ironwork. An off-center tower jutted overhead, crooked and watchful, its shadow slicing across ivy-clad walls and heavy front doors built to bar more than just the weather.

A gust thrashed the bare branches overhead. Inside, light bled through the curtains.

Mrs. Hazel Temperance, affectionately known as Mrs. T, wore her Valentine’s shawl of pinks and rogue tinsel and hummed her approval. “Well. That’s Gothic meeting Queen Anne at a disastrous affair. Harold would have adored it.” Her fingers fussed at the fringe with tight little tugs.

Betty bounced beside her. “I’m manifesting romance. Crypts and thunderstorms are very on-brand for me.”

Wally studied the roofline and the shadows beneath the porch. “I’ve seen friendlier houses in hostage scenes.” He scanned the windows, the corners, the dark spots. The retired detective was falling back into his old habits.

Marjorie Hubbard strode past them all. “Inside. Now. Before we lose toes or Betty plans a wedding.”

The storm worked its teeth into the house. The wind raked at the eaves and set the verandah rails chattering like loose bones. The whole place creaked and ticked in reluctant reply.

Olivia craned her neck to follow the tower. “It does have a certain atmosphere.”

“That’s one word for it.” Tammy had a few others in mind. Haunted wreck. Deathtrap. Money pit.

Lightning cracked near enough to carve the porch into hard-edged shapes. Marjorie anchored herself at the base of the stairs, both fists planted on her hips. “Well? Are we going in, or are we standing out here like a gaggle of hens?”

Wally reappeared with the luggage. “Who are you calling a hen?”

Marjorie harrumphed.

“Why are you here again?” Wally wrestled the bags into submission. “Isn’t this supposed to be a singles event?”

“Gerald doesn’t have a single romantic bone in his body.” Marjorie hauled herself up. “Why should I miss out on the fun? Besides, Olivia’s not single.”

Tammy kicked a chunk of ice off the step. “She might as well be. Mike’s mother’s birthday is Valentine’s Day.”

“Never make your partner choose between their mother and you,” Mrs. T said.

Olivia muttered something under her breath.

Lockie bolted for the shelter of the porch, paws slipping on the wet stone. He flattened himself against the door, ears back, fixing her with a look that clearly indicated she was taking too long.

Tammy climbed the worn stairs just as the door swung inward, revealing a figure backlit and theatrical. Mid-forties. Expensive suit. Confident posture.

The man flung both arms toward the ceiling. “Welcome, welcome!” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m Adrian Hollowell. Host extraordinaire.”

Marjorie sniffed. “He’s certainly pleased with himself.”

“Understatement,” Olivia said.

Wally tracked Adrian’s every move. “He’s playing a role.”

“I cannot tell you how thrilled we are to welcome the brilliant minds behind Willowcroft’s most impressive solved cases. Tonight, you’re our guests at the Mystery Theater Weekend, inspired by the Waves of Willowcroft radio station and its most beloved program. Truly, it’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Please, come in before the weather finishes what it started.”

Adrian stepped aside and swept one arm toward the entrance. The heavy front doors groaned on their hinges as he hauled the nearest one wider. Wind shoved at their backs. Sleet stung exposed skin and pinged off the stone steps. Tammy ducked through first, and something made the hairs on her arms stand up as she crossed into the house. Not just a doorway. The others filed in behind her, coats dripping, shoes tracking wet across the threshold.

The lights stuttered. A single blink, as if the wiring reconsidered, then everything held.

“Oh,” Betty said. “Not very reassuring.”

Warmth enveloped them as the door closed, shutting out the wind. Tammy counted heads without meaning to. No Xander. Good. Between Valentine theatrics, forced social interaction, and lightning overhead, this would have been his personal idea of torture. Better off at home, barricaded in his room with noise-canceling headphones and multiple monitors running.

The foyer opened around them, all wood and old wealth. A sweeping staircase climbed toward the upper landing, its banister gleaming under a chandelier that scattered light across gilt-framed portraits. The bones of the house were good. Better than good. But the polish couldn’t quite hide everything. A hairline crack traced the crown molding above the front door. The wallpaper along the stairwell was a shade too bright against the older panels flanking it, fresh paste doing its best to blend. One of the stair treads dipped slightly where the wood had softened beneath the runner. 

The air carried something faintly floral, but underneath it, the deep mustiness of a house that remembered every decade it had stood. Someone had invested in making Hollowell House presentable, but it was clear there was still more to be done. 

Lockie bolted across the foyer, stopped to shake one damp paw with sharp, irritated flicks, then retreated to the driest corner he could find.

“Welcome to Hollowell House.” Adrian spread his arms. “Tonight, we offer you a puzzle—”

“A crime,” the women joined in.

“And a race against time!”

Wally grunted. His eyes conveyed the rest.

It was the catchphrase of the Waves of Willowcroft, otherwise known as WoW’s hit weekly program, the Willowcroft Mystery Theater Show.

“Coats, coats.” Adrian steered them toward the rack. “Let me take those. Serena will be along shortly. She’s putting the final touches on the refreshments with the caterers.”

Wally shrugged out of his coat. “How long has the house been in your family?”

“Five generations.” Adrian hooked the coat. “Though I’ll admit, the upkeep is murder.” He winked.

Tammy groaned internally.

The chandelier light sagged to a sickly half-bright glow before recovering.

Betty shuffled toward Marjorie. “The storm’s closer now.”

“Or the wiring’s faulty,” Marjorie replied. 

A grandfather clock ticked in the corner, its pendulum swinging with patient insistence. Portraits stared down at them, stern ancestors suspended in permanent disapproval. 

To the right, anchored to the wall, was a narrow wooden rack where old-fashioned keys dangled from hooks. Iron, brass, tarnished silver. Some ornate, some plain, their teeth worn smooth by generations of use.

One hook sat empty. A faint outline in the dust marked where a key had once hung, the wood beneath darker where it had been shielded from the air. A missing key was the kind of detail that turned a first page into an intriguing promise.

Lockie made a beeline for an open doorway where firelight promised warmth.

“You must be Tammy Rumbelow.” Adrian’s attention snapped to her, his mouth stretching wide. “The writer with a talent for solving the unsolvable. Your reputation precedes you.”

“We’ve been lucky. A team effort.”

“Lucky?” Adrian scoffed. “Multiple cases solved in a town this size? That’s talent. All of you.” He gestured broadly. “Willowcroft’s finest amateur sleuths gathered under my roof. It’s an honor.”

Betty fidgeted with her scarf. “We’re really just here for fun.”

“And fun you shall have!” Adrian clapped his hands. “Though I should warn you, I’ve worked very hard on tonight’s mystery. You may find yourselves outmatched.”

Tammy manufactured a laugh. “We’ll do our best not to disappoint.”

“I’m certain you won’t.” His stare lingered a beat too long before he turned to greet another guest.

Olivia shifted closer. “He’s laying it on thick.”

“Mmm.” Tammy twisted a strand of hair, her mind snagging on the key rack.

A woman emerged from the corridor, dark hair pulled into a sleek bun. She wore a cream blouse and a structured dark-charcoal pencil skirt that matched the severity of her expression. Her posture was immaculate, ending in a pair of polished, sharply pointed shoes that clicked against the hardwood.

She murmured into Adrian’s ear. “We’ve had an unbooked guest turn up.”

Adrian let out a short huff of amusement. “The more, the merrier.”

The woman’s mouth compressed into a hard line. She raised her clipboard. “If everyone could sign in, please.”

Adrian stepped aside to make room for her. “My sister, Serena Hollowell. Co-host.”

Serena said nothing. She handed the board to Olivia, who scrawled her name first. 

Footfalls sounded on the stairs, and a woman in her thirties descended, her blunt bob dyed a deep burgundy that caught the chandelier light. She wore jeans and a patchwork jacket, a phone in one hand and a notebook in the other, switching between them as she cataloged everything in her path.

“Felicity Frankel.” She pocketed the phone and offered a hand. “I’m a blogger and influencer. Food, events, local culture. I’m here to cover Willowcroft’s most original Valentine’s weekend.”

The woman’s handshake bordered on aggressive. A red smear streaked across her thumb.

“Your pen’s leaking,” said Tammy.

Felicity grimaced and held up the culprit clipped to her spiral notebook. “Third one this month. They self-destruct on purpose, I swear.” She scrubbed at her thumb with a tissue. The color only spread. “Hazard of the trade.”

“You’re reviewing the event?” Mrs. T asked.

“Reviewing, documenting, sharing.” Felicity photographed the chandelier. “A historic mansion, a Valentine’s mystery, and a storm? My audience is going to love this.”

Adrian claimed the space beside her. “Especially since you arrived a day early.”

“Oops.” She shrugged. “My bad. I thought the weekend started on Friday. Serena and Adrian were kind enough to let me stay the extra night.”

Adrian barked an overly loud “ha,” his face flushing.

Serena’s mouth twisted as she slapped the clipboard against her thigh. “Ms. Frankel arrived yesterday morning, before we’d even finished cleaning. She’s had to be very… self-sufficient.” Her lips compressed. “She’s had plenty of opportunities to explore the house at her leisure and livestream while taste-testing our entire welcome basket.”

Felicity flashed a peace sign at Serena, then swept her phone in a wide arc across the room. “If you have an influencer in the house, you might as well get your money’s worth. I’m already up four hundred new followers.”

The blogger grinned. “The architecture’s insane. I did a whole reel of the attic stairs. People are obsessed with old banisters. Don’t get me started on the basement.”

Serena turned her back on Felicity. “We’ll deal with your luggage if you leave it here.”

Thunder landed directly above them, a heavy blow jarring the panes. The chandelier responded with a clatter of crystal.

Felicity rose onto her toes, peering at a light fixture. “Loose wiring?” Her fingers probed the glass casing of the nearest wall sconce.

The clipboard reached Tammy next. She scanned the names. Felicity’s handwriting looped extravagantly across the page, a faint smear of red ink trailing one letter, the same mark as on her thumb.

Lockie stalked back into the entry hall, tail lifted. He halted in the center of the room, ears swiveling toward the doorway he’d just come through. He sat, staring at the threshold.

“Lockie?” Tammy closed the distance and crouched. “What is it?”

His whiskers twitched. He didn’t look at her.

“Come on.” She scooped him up. His muscles tensed. “Let’s see what you’re reacting to.”

The parlor doorway to the right revealed a room straight out of a Victorian photograph: a massive stone hearth, fire crackling behind an ornate screen; wingback chairs clustered for conversation; a table draped in velvet, drinks arranged in delicate glasses; a candelabra on the mantel. The walls were papered in deep crimson with gold filigree.

Beautiful. Elegant.

And somehow, airless.

Tammy set Lockie down. He stayed at her feet this time, rubbing against her shin.

Marjorie sidled up beside her. “A bit gloomy for a Valentine’s event, don’t you think? Where’s the pink? The hearts?”

Betty joined them. “Maybe the mystery takes place in a gothic romance.”

“Or a gothic tragedy.” Olivia eyed the candelabra.

“Ladies!” Adrian’s voice boomed from the hall. “Come meet your fellow players.”

“Is there a dessert table?” Betty asked. “I brought conversation hearts.”

“There is indeed.” Adrian pivoted toward the arched doorway opposite the parlor and to the left of the staircase. “Through to the salon. Drinks and canapés are being served now. A smaller selection is available in the parlor.”

Marjorie barreled past, already halfway there. Mrs. T lingered by a portrait, her head tilted as she studied the brushwork.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour, deep and resonant. Outside, the wind revised the house in rough drafts, crossing out silence and replacing it with rattles and groans.

Serena snatched the clipboard. “The rest of the guests should be here soon, assuming the roads don’t wash out.”

“They won’t.” Adrian said it with the confidence of a man who believed the weather took orders. “The universe wouldn’t dare ruin my event.”

Serena brushed past him without a word.

Felicity jotted something in her notebook before meeting Tammy’s gaze. “This is going to be great content.”

That’s one way to put it.

The storm intensified behind them.