Welcome back to the 14-part Poe-themed murder mystery, which will continue on until Halloween! Sesame Swallow and friends are here to solve the mystery and save the day!
“Oh em gee! I got another line. Check it!” squealed Linds for the fifth or sixth time in the last hour, and we gathered round like respectful bitchachos, espressos in hand, and leaned over her shoulder.
“Damn, girl, how you do that?”
That was also the fifth or sixth time Regan had repeated that phrase, but while she did it playfully, and it never failed to make Linds sigh — she did immediately and looked up with her typical incredulous stare. It was all in fun. Linds was, in fact, truly amazing to watch, and she had long ago earned Regan’s respect. We wouldn’t tease Linds if we didn’t love her, I’d said more than once.
But there were the symbols from the table and next to them the words Linds had penned. It was a poem? I gawked as Linds jotted down the last word in the stanza with her handy pickle pen — she carried it everywhere and insisted on saying, “I’m kinda of a big dill” every time she used it. God love her! “This is all there is, but I nailed it, ladies. It was a typical Huffman Tree. Not the sort of cipher you typically see written in glowing letters that appear out of a ghost's mouth and then burn themselves into a coffee table.”
“Huh?” I wasn’t tracking, but it was also too fucking late o’clock in the morning, or too fucking early o’clock in the morning, and nothing was keeping me from bed much longer. Still, I was determined to let Linds do her thing. There was no stopping Linds anyway. Girl had seen a ghost, got a snapshot of ghostly letters fired into a table before they disappeared, and the fucking thing had gone right through her to get to me. I didn’t even ask why she insisted it had made her nipples hard.
Small victory though — I’d successfully avoided ever having to hear her say, “I never get to have a ghost pass right through me!”
“What’s it say, Sherlock?” Regan reached over and tried to push Lindsay’s hand away; she was hiding the writing underneath and instead beamed up at us.
“Okay, listen up, my dear Watsons, because this is going to blow your mind! You know how trees work, right? No, not the leafy ones—though those are cool, too—but, like, nerd trees. Binary trees. Imagine this: I’ve got a whole alphabet of symbols—runes, mystical and ancient, glowing with cryptic power and burned into a table. Oh em gee, ya’ll! That was so cool! Each rune stands for a letter, but here's the twist: the more common the letter, the shorter the rune’s path in the tree. The rare letters? They’re buried deep, like a treasure you’ve gotta dig for. Why? Efficiency! It’s data compression at its finest."
She paused for effect, grinning like a maniac.
"So, here’s how it works: First, I counted up how often each letter shows up in the original message. This gives me weights—like how much magical energy each rune has. Then I build a binary tree, merging the least powerful runes into stronger combos, step by step, until I’ve got one mighty magical structure. Boom! The Huffman Tree! Now, every path through this tree—from the root to a rune—is a unique binary code. Follow the path, and you get the letter. Pretty slick, huh?"
She giggled and waved her pickle pen and I braced for the line. Instead, she just went on.
"The encoded message is a sequence of these rune codes, smashed together like a really nerdy smoothie — strawberry banana, I think. No spaces, no breaks—just a glorious runic wall of binary. To decipher it, you trace your way through the tree like a wizard on a quest, reading each rune as you go. Start at the top, follow the branches based on the binary digits until you hit a rune at the end. That’s your letter! Repeat until you’ve unraveled the whole dang thing. It’s like playing Dungeons & Dragons, but with math. And, y’know, math trees. Like my character is a druid, cause, you know, druids live in the forest and stuff."
She sat back in the chair, removing her hand from the poem she’d unraveled, or deciphered or decoded, or whatever, eyes glowing at maximum Linds levels.
"This a genius way to compress data, but now it’s your move, Ses—ready to tackle this poem?"
And there it was, three stanzas all about Poe and books and secrets and lies and whatever the hell this was supposed to mean:
“In shadows deep, where ink-stained quills reside,
Family ties unlock secrets to confide.
With Poe's gaze on oversized tomes,
Raven's quill reveals hidden homes.
In echoes, whispers of leather-bound lore,
Verse by verse, a secret to explore.
Hollowed realm, where riddles swirl,
Unlock the hidden room at the heart of the whirl.
On shelf of dust, in gloom's embrace,
A silvered spine, out of time and place.
Veiled by webs, a title worn and shy,
The telltale lines where secrets lie.”
“Did the ghost tell you what the hell all this meant while he was at it?” Regan downed the last of her espresso and set her cup on the table as she plopped down next to Linds. She’d missed the whole thing, down at the bottom of the stairs, making sure no one came in and wrecked the party, and I wasn’t sure if she was a little sad or happy that she didn’t see the ghost. I wasn’t sure myself, having actually seen the gruesome ghost of one dead Victor Hughes still in Poe garb and make-up, his face as white as a sheet. Or was that just his Poe make-up? He’d died as Poe. Would he live on as Poe in the afterlife?
I grabbed the seat on Lindsay’s right and let my eyes work through the poem, feeling them getting heavy. Lindsay yawned, and I caught Regan’s eye and the look of relief that washed over her face. We had something, but that something would have to wait until the sun was up and the coffee brewing.
I stared at my empty coffee cup and wished upon a star that the server would come back. He was sorta cute and all, but he had coffee, and I was hoping that he didn’t confuse the way I gushed over him with flirting. I mean, yeah, you can have my money and my undying love, but I don’t have time to give you my number. I’m solving a murder with the help of a ghost Edgar Allan Poe.
Both Linds and Regan looked a little rough around the edges, but don’t try telling Linds that. Regan would just flip me the bird and point out that I wasn’t exactly ready to walk the red carpet myself. It was true. I was in hibernation mode almost, ready to curl back up under the blankets and have someone wake me in the spring, but we had a case to solve, and it wasn’t getting solved without some coffee and bacon and this lemon blueberry donut explosion happening in my happy mouth. I had to give the sleepy little Halloween village of Ravenwood some credit. They had a first-class ghost tour, a solid food scene, yummy coffee and the kind of entertainment girls like us enjoyed, even if it meant sitting next to a dead guy and being sent cryptic messages by said dead guy’s ghost the next night. Five stars!
“Have you two geniuses worked this out yet, or am I gonna have to step in?” Regan pushed the last of the bacon into her mouth, one well-manicured eyebrow cocked. Tight black curls bounced just over those magnificent brows, giving her even more of an incredulous look.
“Hey, I’m the crypto-code breaker of the group. I’m just here for the strawberry cheesecake French toast,” said Linds and forked another load of love into her pie hole. She grinned like she’d just tasted a slice of heaven, and I had to admit that she had, based on the little bite she’d given me earlier.
But she was right, and I wasn’t going to give her any gruff on that point. “I never paid much attention in Lit when the prof started on poetry. I was reading detective novels — hello.” But that wasn’t going to solve anything, I knew. I needed to buckle down and study the words, which were sitting right in front of me — in front of each of us, to be honest. Regan had made two more copies, although Lindsay’s was under that plate of French toast just now.
I glanced up at Regan and shrugged. “Ink-stained quills reside. Family ties. Poe’s gaze. Tomes. We got that part, right? Are we settled?” It wasn’t like we hadn’t been staring at the three stanzas for almost an hour, but in my defense, half of that hour had been sans caffeine.
“Right.” Regan scooted over, holding her copy, and leaned in. “So, you said Victor ran the bookstore with his sister, Charlotte. I think we’re right on that account. We need something there.”
“A quill? It’s the first thing in the first line.”
Regan nodded and pointed at her copy. “But not any quill. One that reveals a hidden home. What the hell? That could be anything. A home for what?”
“Yeah,” I said, my fingers drifting down to the next stanza, “but here we also need a hidden room in some place with lots of books. There’s no mystery here that we need to know where we can find dusty shelves — see this last stanza? Gloom tells us it’s dark. Some place that no one goes regularly.”
“So not the Poe bookstore. Or it could be. A back room? Storeroom? Where he keeps the top shelf stuff? Not that Edgy Ellen Hoe porn you got yesterday.” She cackled, slipping away, her chair screeching but unheard in the noisy cafe as I tried to punch her in the arm.
“Yeah, but you wanna read it.”
“Hey, a girl’s got needs, Ses. And the ones I’m talking about I can take care of myself. Maybe we can trade rooms, and you can bunk up with Snores-A-Lot here, and I can take the room with the tub.”
“Hey, that’s allergies. Don’t even,” said Linds, pointing a French toast laden fork a little too close to my face, so I snapped my teeth down on it and drew back with a mouthful of strawberry cheesecake. My smile faced off with her scowl, and I made a mental note to order the French toast next time.
“You two are missing the twirl part,” said Linds, setting her fork down in the middle of an empty plate and pulling her copy out. “Twirl, heart of the…oh wait, here it is, whirl. Heart of the whirl.”
I caught Regan’s shrug in the corner of my eye and offered one myself. “Where is that then? What's that? What’s whirl mean?” She had me there, and I didn’t hear Regan piping up. So far, we weren’t striking out, but we weren’t hitting home runs with our poetry skills either. I felt confident about the quill, some kind of quill being in the Nevermore bookshop. Poe, or Victor — bless his heart, was trying to tell us where to go in the only way he knew how — using Poe-esque poetry.
“Here’s what we have so far,” said Regan. “Find a quill in the family bookstore that leads to a hidden home. In that home, there are secret areas that contain books, and on one of those dusty shelves in the dark, there’s a Poe book. The Poe book we need to find for Victor to find out who murdered him.”
“Yep. Yes. I think we have it.” I twisted up my mouth, and not because there was no more French toast. “We still don’t know where though.”
“Oh, but we do, don’t we? It’s elementary, my dear Watson,” said Lindsay, giggling, and she flipped the paper over and held it up.
The bookstore was open, so that was awesome — did she ever close? And it was busy, and that was a bonus. Charlotte would know me, and I wasn’t walking out with another Edgy Ellen Hoe book or Poe bobblehead again. We needed a distraction, and I’d brought along the queen of them. No one could resist Linds, even a woman — and it wasn’t like it mattered if Charlotte was gay, although my gaydar was pretty solid. It was more like no one could resist Lindsay when she a) started talking to you or b) pretty much did anything nearby. Girl was a magnet for attention, and that was all the ammunition we needed.
Regan’s job was to play it straight while Lindsay played it loose, and I slipped along the edges of the bookstore, my face buried in my phone. Even from the other side of the little shop, the presence of the blonde bombshell was going off in spectacular ways. I pushed between two bookworms filling a tote with tomes, their hushed whispers and the little silver chains on their glasses making me wonder if there were a group of librarians in town for a spooky, spicy weekend. We were, after all, in the smut section.
I smiled to myself and peeked around the stack, listening as Linds’ voice went up an octave, and her tell-tale “Oh em gee!” rung out over the buzz of booklovers. The first thing I saw was the counter unmanned, and the next was Charlotte’s little black bob heading away. Linds had done her thing, whatever it was. I glanced up, pretending to look at a little black book on the shelf above me. I tipped it forward, then spun it around to read the back while my eyes scanned the corners of the little shop and the area over the counter. No cameras. Excellent.
Except, fuck. My feet were trying to not do their thing, and I had to throw them a little pep talk. We could do this. No, I didn’t know what I would say if Charlotte turned and saw me or caught me behind the counter. I would just have to fake it til I made it or hope her brother appeared out of nowhere to scare her into letting things slide. He’d helped before. Just go. Walk. Come on.
Of course, we’d thought about telling her, but how do you tell a woman her dead brother was sending you cryptic codes and ciphers to help you find a missing book in the heart of the whirl? Would she help you or tell you to fuck off? I was sure I knew the answer, and so I pushed away from the bookshelf I’d been hiding behind too long, and made a beeline for the counter. No customers waiting. Lindsay’s voice ringing out about how she was looking for something or other. My heart pounding so loudly in my ears that I couldn’t quite make it out. But I could see the little goth in the corner of my eye as I slipped around the wooden counter, and then it was done, nervousness gone as I weaved around a stack of boxes and out of sight.
There had to be a storeroom, an office, and a bathroom, right? Inventory, computers, and a toilet — what else did a local business need to run? But this one didn’t even have a little office. It was more like a clearly-marked bathroom “For Customers Only”, a long table stacked with receipts and files, a laptop open with the word ‘Nevermore’ across the desktop in black and white.
And just there, to the left, a wooden door with a silver knob, the kind that leads to — and, oh, there it was! Right on the table, next to the computer in a black inkwell — a quill, plain as day with a raven’s feather black as night.
I hesitated, my fingers hovering over it. It couldn’t be that easy, and yet, why not? Perfect item for this kind of place. A raven’s quill pen in a Poe-themed bookstore? I pulled it free, thankful when no ink spilled out across the table. Was it even real? Was this it? But how could it not be? I fingered the metal tip, the little leather wrap where you’d hold it when writing. Just above it, bronze or copper wire twisted around the pen in elegant swirls and loops, giving it a mystical feel and fixing the raven’s feather in place. But there, just below the wiring, was a little ring.
I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t tuned in to the pen and been clued in by the poem. I twisted the pen, hoping for a little Poe magic, and it spun, coming apart, until I pulled the tip away and found a slender, black key.
Author’s Notes: What’s the funnest thing about writing a Sesame Swallow mystery? I can’t really say. All of the stories I’ve already written, including the novels are different in a lot of ways. In the first novel, Sesame is actually on a missing person’s case, and the missing person is Lindsay — this is the origin story of their friendship, and Regan is there in the novel, too. They are meet and become besties in the next book, which is a murder mystery.
Which leads me to maybe actually being able to answer this question:
What’s the most fun thing about writing these stories? It’s the interaction between the three main characters. Sesame is the sleuth; she’s the common sense one, the brave one, sometimes the reckless one because she’s dedicated to solving the case. Regan is the stoic, the muscle, the sarcasm; she’s there to support and protect, keep Sesame from making bad choices, which is definitely needed, and to be Lindsay’s foil. Lindsay is the comic relief — she’s both a porn star and a genius — go figure. She’s over-the-top excited about everything, and she wants to do exciting things, like solve murders. But she’s also a handful.
There are other characters, and they are important, more so as the novel series progresses, but these three — Sesame, Regan and Lindsay — are the dynamic trio that make the books hum, and I love writing them. I hope you enjoy reading them.
Go on to episode 6 below:
Sip, Swallow & Scream
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