We’re thrilled to welcome Julie Mulhern back to the coop! Today the multi-talented, multi-series-writing author gives us the long and short of writing shorter form fiction–complete with a prequel preview. Take it away, Julie!

Part of the Process

It’s a truth universally acknowledged, at least at my house, that it’s harder for yours truly to write a short story than a novel.

Novels allow space.

Stories must be tight.

Novels let characters stumble and fall and pull themselves up.

Stories insist that characters stay on point

And try, just try, to find a body, investigate, and solve the crime in less than twenty thousand words.

Right now, I’m working on a prequel novella for a 1920s mystery.

I have an outline, which for a pantser like me is unheard of. Mind you, my outlines tend to go something like this:

Chapter 1 – Freddie and Nick go to a speakeasy in Harlem. Before they enter, Bony approaches Freddie, and she places a bet with him. Nick disapproves. Freddie is annoyed with Nick, but swallows her feelings so that their evening isn’t ruined. Something about women subverting their feelings to keep men happy.

Which translates to this, thus far:

Nick smirked at her. Smirked. As if his knowing about a new club before she did was a feather is his cap.

Freddie remained dubious. There were plenty of walk-up speaks in the fifties. They didn’t need to motor to Harlem to find one. She paused on the cracked sidewalk, taking in the spiffy red door, made smarter by its neighbors, a laundry with dingy windows to the left and a cigar store to the right.

Around her, the other people on the sidewalk—people in evening clothes, who were presumably eager to reach their destinations—grumbled at the white woman who impeded the flow of traffic.

“Why this place?” she asked.

“There’s a singer I’d like to hear.” Nick produced shows on Broadway. He was always on the lookout for new talent.

“Miss Freddie?”

She turned and, in the yellow glow cast by the nearest streetlight, spotted a boy made up of knobby knees, sharp elbows, and big, dark eyes. “Bony!”

The boy smiled. That smile. The sweetest, friendliest expression to ever grace a face.

“What a fantabulous surprise.” She glanced at her watch and frowned. Surely a child Bony’s age should be in bed. What was he doing on the streets at this hour?

As if he’d read her mind, he held up a policy book. “Place a bet?”

“Bony Johnson, what are you doing?”

His smile faltered, and he ducked his head

“Where’s your mama?” Did Penelope know her son was in the numbers game?

Bony’s smile disappeared entirely. “She’s not doing so good.”

Penelope Johnson, her parents’ upstairs maid for nearly twenty years, had helped raise her. When Penelope left their employ for a better job, Freddie had wept. “What’s wrong?”

Bony studied the sidewalk. “Cancer.”

Freddie’s heart sank. Was Penelope so ill that Bony had to keep a policy book to support her? “I’m so sorry. May I visit her?” She’d take fresh flowers and a hamper of food. She’d offer money, and Penelope would refuse. She’d insist.

“She’s not taking visitors, but I’ll tell her you asked after her.”

Freddie swallowed a frustrated sigh. If she talked to Penelope, she could get Bony sorted, get him into school, and off the streets. Her eyes narrowed on the book clutched in Bony’s left hand. “How much do you need before you can go home?”

“Two dollars.”

“Then that’s what I’ll bet.”

The boy nodded, and the smile made a return. “Your numbers?”

“Six-two-seven.”

His gaze caught hers. He knew what those numbers meant. He gave a quick nod, made a note in his book, and handed her a receipt. “Thank you, Miss Freddie.”

“Bony, I want you to come see me. I’m at the magazine office most days. Gotham. This week.” She speared him with a serious gaze. “I mean it.”

“Yes, Miss Freddie.” He shuffled his feet as if he were eager to be gone, and she doubted his sincerity.

“I’ll see you soon, Bony.” If she didn’t, she’d find him.

He nodded and took off at a brisk pace.

Next to her, Nick bristled, a veritable porcupine of disapproval. He waited till Bony disappeared round the corner before he asked, “You know that boy?”

Surely the answer was obvious. “His mother used to work for my parents.When he was little, she brought him to work.”

“How old is he?”

“Fourteen.”

“He should be home. In bed.”

She didn’t disagree. “You heard him. His mother is sick.”

“Your placing a bet encourages his bad behavior.”

Nick regularly bet princely sums in casinos, and he was scolding her for a two-dollar bet? Or maybe he disapproved of Bony? If the boy needed to support his mother, running numbers was a better way to make a living than toiling in a sweat shop. She tamped down her excellent points. Nick didn’t like it when she made sense. It was easier to hold her tongue than listen to his detailed explanation of all the ways she was wrong.

He gently claimed her elbow and walked her toward the red door. “How did you select your numbers?”

“I always bet those numbers.” June twenty-seventh. Gray’s birthday. He’d have turned thirty this summer, if he’d returned home from the war. “In memory of my brother.”

A frown darkened Nick’s handsome face. Truly, the man was ridiculously handsome, with strong cheek bones, full lips, a divot in his chin, and dark blond hair. When he smiled, he was devastating. When he frowned, he looked like a spoiled child. “How often do you bet?”

“Why on earth do you care?” She had plenty of money—the trust her grandparents had left her, her job at Gotham—a few bets didn’t begin to make a dint.

“It’s unseemly. And you might lose.” Was her worried about appearances or her?

“You play roulette and poker.” And he regularly lost.

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“It’s in a casino, not on the street.” Nick bet in a posh environment, where men in tuxedos and ladies in silk evening gowns sipped Champagne or good scotch before they rolled the dice. When Nick handed over his money, he received chips, not a slightly grubby paper receipt like the one in her hand.

Still, gambling was gambling.

Nick’s bets at a casino lined its owner’s pockets. The numbers games fueled Harlem. Bony’s boss and men like him loaned money to black businessmen (who white bankers wouldn’t let through their doors). They invested in community schools and programs. They gave money to worthy causes.

Nick opened the door, and his hand on her lower back propelled her inside.

The club was dark and smoky, and a trio played passable jazz in the corner. A bar made from a heavy, dark-stained wood reached across the back wall. Behind it, a mirror reached for the tin ceiling. As speaks went, she’d seen it a thousand times.

Nick led her to a small table and pulled out her chair.

She sat, and Nick joined her, reaching for her hand. “Thank you for coming. Maybe you can write about this place.”

Not likely. It was nothing special, and the owner didn’t advertise in the magazine. The only thing that made the place unique was the patrons. The club was integrated, serving both black and white customers. That made for a nice change.

As you can see, I’m only part of the way there. If you’ll excuse me, I have words to conjure.

But, before I go, do you read historical mysteries? If so, what’s your favorite era?

Julie Mulhern is the USA Today bestselling author of The Country Club Murders and the Poppy Fields Adventures.

She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean–and she’s got an active imagination. Truth is–she’s an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions.