Intro: The Other Cats of Moose County

Anyone who has spent time in the pages of The Cat Who... series by Lilian Jackson Braun knows the stars of the show: Koko, the brilliant Siamese with a flair for detecting the scent of scandal, and his dainty companion Yum Yum, equal parts elegant and endearing. Across twenty-nine novels, Braun built an unmistakably cozy—yet surprisingly twisty—world of small-town mystery, anchored by these two cats and their human, Jim Qwilleran, the journalist with the legendary mustache.

For decades, readers followed Koko’s mysterious yowls, cryptic clues, and uncanny instincts that often led Qwill to uncover murder, deceit, and hidden truths in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. Yum Yum, while less dramatic, brought heart and domestic charm to the home they shared at the converted apple barn.

But anyone paying close attention to the richly populated world of Pickax and beyond will notice that Koko and Yum Yum aren’t the only felines in town.

There’s Toulouse, the tough ex-stray with aristocratic taste buds who’s adopted food editor Mildred Hanstable-Ryker. There’s Jetstream, the weatherman’s thundering meteorological sidekick. Brutus and Kata, another pair of Siamese, now live with Polly Duncan. Winston keeps watch at Ed’s Bookstore. The Bamba family has a whole purring alphabet of troublemakers. And who could forget the visiting cat program at the senior center as well as the Tipsy Look-Alike Contest?

These cats may not get the spotlight, but they live lives just as rich—perhaps even wilder—than the Apple Barn's famous residents.

This fan fiction series is for them. For the cats who haunt the edges of Moose County’s mysteries. For the strays who turned smugglers’ plots to sawdust. For the bookstore loungers, the dockside prowlers, and the ones whose mischief never quite made the headlines.

Because if we’ve learned anything from Koko and Yum Yum, it’s that cats always know more than they’re letting on. 

Toulouse and the Autumn Smugglers

Main Characters:

• Toulouse: Tough, elegant, unflappable. A former stray turned gourmet sleuth, he uses his street smarts and refined instincts to sniff out trouble along the lakeshore.

• Mildred Hanstable-Ryker: Retired art and home economics teacher; now the Moose County Something’s food editor. Devoted to Toulouse, culinary perfection, and community kindness—though often a little too trusting.

• Dwayne and “Beebs” Shroat: Supposed handymen renting a run-down boathouse. Beneath their rough exterior lies a shady operation involving nighttime deliveries and questionable cargo.

• Willa Yarrow: Proprietor of Mooseville’s general store/post office. Sharp-eyed and well-connected, Willa suspects something fishy but isn’t one to gossip—unless prompted by feline interference.

• Officer Pratt: New to Mooseville but earnest and observant. He’s slowly earning the town’s trust, and Toulouse’s silent guidance might just be what he needs to prove himself.

Plot Summary:

Mildred is enjoying her quiet lakeside days, making duck confit and baking pumpkin tarte tatin for The Moose County Something’s fall recipe issue. Toulouse, however, is restless. He has taken to patrolling the windowsills at night, sniffing the wind, and tracking the comings and goings of the new “neighbors” down the road. Their boat, curiously, only goes out in bad weather. They never seem to fish, yet the cooler they carry to and from the docks smells off.

Toulouse’s first warning sign comes when he noses through Mildred’s recycling bin and finds a discarded bottle of codeine syrup with no label, one Mildred never used. Then he begins leaving gifts at her doorstep—shredded latex gloves, a wet plastic bag, a crumpled receipt for duct tape and bleach. Mildred assumes he’s being quirky. But when a delivery goes awry and a mysterious plastic-wrapped package floats to her dock, Toulouse goes full operative mode.

He slips out one evening, trails the Shroats to their hidden stash beneath the boathouse, and, using a combination of distraction (dead fish on a motor) and precision sabotage (knocking over a gas can near a citronella torch), sets the stage for a scene that draws the attention of both Officer Pratt and the ever-curious Willa Yarrow. Toulouse is found—wet but proud—curled next to the evidence like a lion beside a kill.

Archie Maclean's Sea Stories

Intro:

M.C. Beaton's Hamish Macbeth series is a delightful collection of cozy mysteries set in the fictional village of Lochdubh, nestled in the rugged Highlands of Scotland. The series follows Hamish Macbeth, a charming and often exasperated constable with a keen mind and a knack for solving crimes that baffle even the most seasoned detectives. Hamish, while perfectly content in his quiet corner of the world, is regularly called upon to untangle the mysterious goings-on of the quirky villagers and the strange occurrences that surround them.

One of the many colorful characters who helps add to the rich tapestry of Lochdubh is Archie Maclean, a local fisherman with a gift for storytelling. Known for his easygoing nature and love of the loch, Archie spends his days giving tourists boat rides across the tranquil waters, while weaving tales of the Highlands—stories filled with mystery, folklore, and a touch of the supernatural. With his weathered face and a voice like the sea breeze, Archie captivates visitors with his sea stories, offering them a glimpse into the region’s mysterious past.

Archie’s stories often pull from the rich well of Scottish folklore, steeped in ancient legends, ghostly encounters, and the magic of the land and sea. One of his favorite tales is that of Loch Uamh—the Lost Loch—a place shrouded in myth and hidden by a fog that rolls in, claiming the village that once lived beside it.

The Hamish Macbeth novels, while firmly grounded in the cozy mystery genre, draw heavily on M.C. Beaton's own love for the Scottish Highlands, a place she knew well and found endlessly inspiring. Beaton, a Scottish author who spent much of her life in rural areas, infused her stories with the charm of small-town life and the timeless beauty of the Highlands. Her work often reflects her admiration for Scotland’s rugged landscapes, the myths and legends that haunt its history, and the complex, sometimes humorous, relationships between the people who call these places home.

As you embark on this fictional journey with Archie, you'll get a taste of Lochdubh's atmosphere, where the past and present mingle in stories that seem just a bit too real, and where even the simplest of boat rides might lead to a ghostly encounter. Through Archie’s tales, the magic of the Highlands comes alive, weaving threads of mystery, history, and the supernatural into the very fabric of Lochdubh.

The Tale of the Lost Loch

Archie Maclean stood at the prow of his small boat, the Jaunty Lass, the faint sound of the loch lapping against the sides of the boat blending with the soft murmurs of his group of tourists. The sun was just beginning to dip below the distant hills, casting a golden glow across the water, and Archie had a tale to share, as he always did.

"Gather 'round, folks," Archie said, his gravelly voice carrying over the gentle breeze. The tourists, a mix of wide-eyed city folk from Edinburgh and a couple of American backpackers, leaned in closer, eager to hear what the old fisherman had to say.

Archie smiled and wiped his weathered hands on his worn jacket. He had told this story countless times, but each time he told it, it felt as fresh as the first.

"There’s a wee loch," Archie began, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the distance, "not too far from here, though ye won’t find it on any map. Folks 'round here call it Loch Uamh—the Lost Loch."

The tourists exchanged curious glances, a few leaning forward.

"Ye see, long ago, there was a village that lay at the edge of it," Archie continued, his voice taking on a hushed, mysterious tone. "The folk there were hearty people, living off the land and the water, much like we do today. But they were secretive. Wouldn’t talk much about what they were up to, and that made them mighty strange in the eyes of the rest of the Highland folk."

"Now, one night, a thick mist rolled in from the sea, darker than anything you could imagine. The sort of mist that wraps itself around you like an old woolen blanket, but much colder. And when that mist cleared, the village was gone—just... vanished. Not a single person left behind, not a building, not a scrap of food. Not even the boats. Just the loch, as calm as you see it now."

He paused for effect, letting the quiet mystery settle into the air. The tourists were staring wide-eyed, their eyes flicking to the water around them.

"But here's the thing," Archie said, leaning forward slightly, "the villagers didn’t disappear by chance. No sir. Some say they made a pact with the sea, trading their souls for eternal life. And now, every hundred years, the village appears again, just as the mist rolls in. But not all who see it make it back."

The tourists gasped, a couple exchanging nervous glances.

"So," Archie said with a wink, "if ye ever find yerselves out on the loch on a foggy evening, ye might catch a glimpse of the village. But if ye hear a voice callin' yer name from the mist... well, best to turn and row away fast, before ye’re caught in the spell of the Lost Loch."

He let the story hang in the air for a moment, watching as the tourists' eyes darted nervously to the edges of the loch, where the shadows were growing deeper with the fading light.

"That’s the tale, anyway," Archie said with a chuckle, breaking the tension. "Ye can believe it if ye like, or not. I’ve seen some strange things on these waters in me day, but that’s the way of the sea. It keeps its secrets well."

The boat floated quietly for a few moments, the tourists absorbed in their thoughts.

"Where does the mist come from, Archie?" one of the Americans asked, breaking the silence.

"Ah, that’s the real question, isn’t it?" Archie replied, his voice light once more. "Some say it’s the sea’s way of keeping its treasures hidden. Others say it’s the souls of those lost villagers, still waitin’ for someone to make the trade."

The group fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound being the gentle rocking of the boat as it glided across the calm waters.

"Now," Archie said after a moment, "who wants to hear a tale about the ghost ship that sails these waters on the full moon?"

Character Backstory: Julia Carstairs in Elephants Can Remember

🕵️‍♀️ Character Backstory: Julia Carstairs in Elephants Can Remember
💐 A fanfiction tribute inspired by Agatha Christie

If you're a long-time Agatha Christie fan like me, you've probably wandered down some delightfully dusty corridors of her lesser-known novels. Elephants Can Remember (1972) may not be her most critically acclaimed work, but it’s one of the strangest and most poignant. Featuring the always-curious Hercule Poirot and the gloriously exasperated Ariadne Oliver, the novel unfolds like a foggy memory—hazy details, whispered scandals, and one of Christie’s most haunting murder puzzles.

In this post, I do a light-hearted sketch of one of the side characters who stuck in my head like a vintage brooch on a moth-eaten lapel: the gloriously barbed Julia Carstairs. With her gossipy disdain, colonial baggage, and unforgettable throwaway lines—yes, “all the bridesmaids in a vile shade of apricot!”—she leapt off the page and into my imagination.

That one line, by the way? I once quoted it at a relative’s wedding reception—about the dresses, no less. It did not go down well. There were glares. There may have been cake withheld. But some truths demand to be spoken.

Anyway, this is my attempt to imagine a fuller backstory for Julia Carstairs: her upbringing, her years in India, and her take on that tragic business with the Ravenscrofts. I hope Dame Agatha would forgive the liberties I’ve taken—and perhaps even smile at them over a dry martini.

Read on for scandal, silk wigs, and Sussex gossip . . .  

Backstory of Julia Carstairs

Julia Carstairs (née Wentworth) is a widowed gentlewoman in her late seventies who resides in her family’s manor house in rural Sussex. Though time has softened her social calendar, it has not dulled her razor-sharp memory or her talent for well-aimed gossip. She occupies a particular stratum of English society: not titled aristocracy, but firmly upper-class through marriage, family legacy, and colonial ties.

Early Life

Born Julia Wentworth in 1883 to a family of comfortable means, Julia grew up with the quiet expectations of a daughter destined to marry well. Her father, Frederick Wentworth, was a Cambridge-educated civil servant whose elder brother had inherited a minor baronetcy. Her education came from a mix of governesses, finishing schools, and long summers spent at the homes of more prominent relations, where she learned to read a room better than most men could read a newspaper.

Her upbringing instilled in her a blend of duty, discretion, and unshakeable class instinct. She was not especially ambitious, but she knew how to hold her own.

Marriage and Life in India

In 1907, Julia married Major Harold Carstairs, a solid and affable career officer in the British Indian Army. She followed him to Amritsar shortly thereafter, stepping into the world of the Raj with equal parts curiosity and disdain. She made no secret of her discomfort with the heat, the servants' unpredictability, or the forced intimacy of colonial society—but she adapted. She always adapts.

It was in Amritsar that she encountered the Ravenscrofts. Alistair, like her husband, was military. Margaret, his wife, stood out: nervous, theatrical, given to melodrama. Julia had never liked wigs (she found them suspicious), and Margaret's constant fiddling with her own—especially in the heat—struck her as faintly indecent. Rumors swirled about the Ravenscrofts even then: arguments, odd silences at parties, and Margaret’s habit of staring too long at nothing in particular.

Still, it wasn’t until years later—long after both couples had returned to England—that the true scandal emerged.

Return to England and Widowhood

After Harold’s retirement in 1931, the Carstairs returned to England and settled into the Carstairs ancestral manor in Sussex. The house had passed to Harold from an uncle, and Julia has lived there ever since. After Harold’s death in 1940—pneumonia, swiftly and quietly—Julia chose to remain alone at the manor. She manages the estate with the help of a housekeeper, a gardener, and an ancient chauffeur who pretends not to hear her cursing.

Though she doesn’t keep much company anymore, she maintains a sharp interest in local goings-on and the social fates of people she once knew. She remembers faces, shoes, dogs, and the scandalous color of bridesmaid dresses—things that people often forget. But she never forgets. Not the wigs. Not the French girl. Not the revolver.

Upon returning to Sussex, she heard the full story: Alistair and Margaret, dead in a field. A revolver between them. The dog found wandering. Gossip about the French girl taking dictation. Whispered suggestions of an affair. Or madness. Or both.

Julia’s never believed the neat version of the story. She’s certain something is missing. Her instincts, honed over decades of drawing-room diplomacy and colonial code-switching, tell her there was someone else—another man, perhaps. Or perhaps Margaret was never quite what she appeared to be.

One thing she’s sure of: no one in their right mind ever keeps wigs in Amritsar unless they have something to hide.

A Satirical Essay to Assuage my Angst

 There was a time when I responded to the state of the world with action: organizing, educating, resisting with purpose. But lately, I find myself exhaling through sarcasm and side-eyes instead. This piece marks a shift — from positive political engagement to the jaded comforts of dark humor. Originally published on my Indiana Substack, it’s part history lesson, part roast, and fully the sound of someone watching empire unravel through a cracked phone screen and a clenched jaw.

Sometimes, snide remarks are the only protest left when the bread and circuses are streaming in HD.

Read the full satire here:
👉 From Gladiators to Influencers: A Civilization’s Final Scroll