I began work on a new short with the working title The Case of Landon Manor. It’s a supernatural mystery set in 1924. My main character is a glamorous young heiress, who also happens to be a medium. I’m 2000 words into it and having a lot of fun.

Here’s the first beginning, although that’s likely to change.

The Case at Landon Manor

      The quarter-mile driveway from the main road to Landon Manor flashed by in a tunnel of green. Ginger Wickham knew her hair would be in a state when she arrived, but Cynthia’s telegram had sounded urgent. Besides, she had only had the Morris Cowley for a week and wanted to see how it handled the curves. She tugged at her cloche, hoping the hat had controlled the worst of the damage to her new Marcel wave.
     She pulled the Cowley around the circular drive at the front of the main house. One of Cynthia’s liveried man-servants came down the stairs as if he still expected to take the reins of a horse. Such a queer, old-fashioned way to run a house.

I’m pleased to report that I finished Waiting for Rain, finally. I thought I would never reach the end of this short story. I’m not even sure why it took so long. But, thanks to my New Year’s resolution, I wrote the last 4000 words in a week.

Rob is going to help me with the wine terminology and then I have to send it to a friend who’s offered to look at the India side of it for me. I also need to cut about 1000 words. It’s close to 10,000 words long and feels bulky to me.

Here are the first thirteen lines. Let me know if you’d like to read the rest.

Waiting for Rain

Mundari Vineyard 2045, Nashik (India), Shiraz
Black cherry, plum, and currant flavors mingle with aromas of pepper, bacon, and sweet smoke in this inviting Shiraz. It is an intriguing effort from India, an odd and emerging wine region.

     Sitting at the dinner table, Bharat swirled the Shiraz in his glass and lifted it to his nose without interest. The Shiraz carried the distinctive barnyard and horsesweat odors typical of the grape. Was this the 2045 or the ‘46 vintage? There was so little vintage variation since micro-climate manipulation became standard that he often found it hard to tell. Bharat set the glass down without tasting it.
     He pushed the dal and rice together on his plate, watching the consistency change as they clung to each other with moisture. It was like making mud from dirt and rain. But he couldn’t pay his weather bill, so where could he get rain?