Dearest Detective,

I’ve found your darling website and couldn’t help but write to ask for your help. Mr. Durham tells me I’m probably worrying over nothing, and though common sense inclines me to trust his judgement, I can’t help but feel dissatisfied. He’s a good man, and smart no doubt, the lead on my case. He’s agreed to take a closer look but, bless his heart, he’s not very quick. That’s where you come in.

My house has gone up in flames. Hold your condolences, I can go on without the coffee-stained furniture and mementos of my years. I’d been starting to feel restless, out in the middle of the woods, and this is probably as sure a sign as any to move on. I only regret the young man renting a room in my little cabin will also be left to scramble. He’s been a welcome bit of company; these mountains get cold and quiet.

Ah, but back to the details of your task.

I think something isn’t quite right. The old cabin has been standing strong long before I took up its mantle, surviving harsh weather and harsher tenants. And yet on a clear and quiet afternoon, I go out to the store and suddenly it’s all gone. This is a nice tourist spot for families that like to get away, and I overheard a few complaining about break-ins. Mr. Durham is quick to remind me that reading my novels (which are also ash by now) is no replacement for detective work, and I hate to admit it, but I’m at a loss. I only have this instinct that this was no accident: it was arson.

I’ll be honest, dear, you weren’t my first choice. You seem terribly new. But no one but Mr. Durham will even listen (and that’s only because I haven’t told him about my finicky stovetop). I can’t pay you, but this seems like good practice, yes? I’ll write a glowing review regardless, but please take a look at the materials I’ve sent you. I’ve spent days putting it all together (I even drew the floor plan myself!) and if there’s something amiss, I trust you’ll find it.

Please let me know as soon as you find something,

Beatrice Goodwin