Crazy me. I participated in the 7 Deadly Sins Writing Challenge last week, hosted by yours truly and fellow authors TL Brown and Jennifer Brasington-Crowley. Pride, Greed, Envy, Lust, Wrath, Sloth, and Gluttony took center stage, as we wove tales for each. Imagine writing a story using only 15,400 characters, not words. Why? Because that’s all the space Instagram allows. And that’s where the challenge comes in for me. The competitions I have joined over the years have forced me to write tighter and leaner. While that’s good, it’s murder for a thriller writer who loves descriptions.
The good news is, the exercise led to a mini mystery featuring the Marnie Reilly Mysteries crew. It’s not a conventional MRM story, but I did my best. Here’s the end result.
Day One, Pride
Detective Danny Gregg smacked his hand on the trestle table in the kitchen at Wild Creek Ranch farmhouse. “You need to stay out of it, Marnie. I understand the spirits are feeding you information, but until we can get evidence, there is nothing we can do. We’re looking. And no, Madam Séance, you are not going off on your own.”
Rolling her eyes, psychic psychologist Marnie Reilly pivoted to her best friend, Detective Tom Keller. “Tell him,” she said, crooking her thumb at her boyfriend. “I can help. If I can get into the building, I can get your dang proof.”
Head shaking, Tom said, “Not on your life. The mill is derelict. We don’t need another corpse, especially not you.”
“Okay, smarty pants, what are you going to do? Are you two going to open your third eyes so Mr. Hodge can lead you to the smoking gun?”
The men stared at her, both unwilling to yield. While Marnie had assisted in investigations before, there was no way they could tie the location to the crime based on the testimony of a ghost. Getting a warrant to enter would be impossible.
Keller dragged a hand down his face and snapped back. ”Give it a rest, Marn. Judge Lawrence is the only one who might help, but she’s lying on a beach in Hawaii.”
The psychic’s left eyebrow shot up, and before she could open her mouth, Danny jumped in. “Conversation closed. Let. It. Go. We appreciate your spookiness, but the court won’t. We need to do this by the book.”
“I’m a private citizen. I don’t need a warrant. Everyone in town knows I snoop.”
“That’s trespassing!” growled Tom.
Hands on her hips, she stretched her frame, raising up on her tiptoes. “Are you gonna arrest me?”
“Geez, Marn, that smart mouth is going to be your downfall some day,” said her friend.
“And your pride is going to be yours. Just let me help.”
Danny chuckled. “Look who’s talking about pride.”
Day 2, Greed
Marnie unlocked the back door and entered her kitchen. Something felt off. Glancing left, then right, she shivered. She wasn’t alone.
“Mr. Hodge? Is that you?” she asked, a tingle creeping up her spine as she dropped an old leather backpack onto the table with a thunk.
Her Border Collies, Tater and Dickens, pranced into the room, bumping her outstretched hands with cold, wet noses.
“Hey, fellas. It feels like we have company,” she said, daring a peek over her shoulder.
Dickens twitched his lopsided ears and made a beeline for his cozy cocoon under the trestle table. Tater dropped his fluffy butt to the floor, his nose pointing to the pantry.
With stealthy steps, the psychic crept across the timber floor, pressed her ear to the door, and heard munching on the other side. Flinging open the cupboard, where she expected to find a spirit, she found Detective Tom Keller helping himself to a bag of corn chips.
“What the hell are you doing?” she screeched.
Unfazed at getting caught pilfering his friend’s cabinet, he strolled out of the larder, held out a hand and offered the snacks to her.
“Want some?”
“No. I was saving those for Friday night. Geez, Tom! Don’t you have food at your house?”
“Yeah, but not good food. C’mon, Marn. You feed me. That’s our thing,” he said, noticing a flush in her cheeks that gave her away. “You went to the mill,” he accused, dropping the treats on the table, brushing salty crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand.
“What makes you say that?”
“What’s in the backpack?” he asked, an eyebrow arched.
“Stuff,” she said.
“Breaking and entering stuff?” he asked, hands on his hips.
“There was no breaking, but I entered, and I found the gun. Mr. Hodge led me right to it. And I followed the rules. I took heaps of pictures, and videos, and I wore gloves,” she said, unzipping the pack, producing a pistol and shell casings nestled inside an evidence bag.
With a shake of his head and an upturned mouth, he said, “Okay. That should get us a warrant, glory hound.”
“You’re welcome, greedy guts! Now, put those corn chips back in the pantry. And use a clip to seal the bag,” she said.
Day Three, Envy
Marnie Reilly entered her study to find her friend and employee, Teddy Jones, tapping on a keyboard, with a storm cloud hovering over her head. The psychic psychologist’s six senses were developing, and she could see her chum’s mood hanging in the air.
“Why the long face?” she asked.
Teddy looked up, her sideways glance and scowl telling Marnie it would be one of those days.
Pushing aside her laptop, Teddy slouched into the back of her chair. “Why is everything so easy for you? You’ve got the perfect guy. A beautiful home. A brilliant career. And…”
“And random people try to kill me. C’mon, Teddy. You have a great job, an understanding boss, wonderful friends, a cozy cottage, and you’re cute.”
“Pfft! Cute? Gee, thanks for making me sound like a bug.”
“Well, you’re better off than a lot of other folks around here,” said Marnie, sitting at the corner of the desk.
“Easy to say when you have everything, Reilly,” spat her friend.
“Envy doesn’t suit you. Besides, it will give you wrinkles.”
Rolling her eyes, Teddy threw back her head. “Gawd! One more thing to worry about!”
“How about an adventure?” asked the psychic.
With pursed lips, Miss Jones considered the offer. “You mean snooping, right?”
“Yeah. I want to go to the library and dig into Mr. Hodge, that spirit who’s been haunting me. Are you in?”
“Let’s go! But won’t Danny get mad?”
“Nah. It’s just research. And by the way, he isn’t perfect. He farts in his sleep.”
“Well, I can’t say I envy that. Ha-ha!”
Day Four, Lust
“This Creekwood archive is great,” said Marnie, her nose inches from a computer screen at the Creekwood Library. “And I love how the newspaper has supported them with paid interns to enter the historical data and images.”
Teddy sat opposite on a long table filled with PCs, scrolling through an index, searching for Mr. Hodge. “I’ve got a George, born in 1881. He was a doctor. And there’s a picture.”
The psychic pushed out her chair, skipped around the table, and peered over her friend’s shoulder. “Nah. That’s not him. My Mr. Hodge is dressed more 1930s, and in spirit, he looks about thirty-five.”
“So he died young?”
“Hmm … If he’s not tricking me, I guess.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Call it a hunch,” said Marnie, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Click that one. Eugene Hodge.”
Teddy moved the cursor to the entry and tapped the mouse, and a new screen opened.
“Oh! That’s him! What’s it say?” said the psychic, clapping her hands.
“Uh. Umm. Well, this doesn’t sound good.”
Marnie dropped into a chair, and her friend scooted over so they could both read the details.
“Holy blood lust, Bat Girl, listen to this,” said the psychic, reading aloud.
“Fake “G-Man” Caught. Trail of Bootleg Blood in Adirondacks.. State troopers yesterday fingered one Eugene Hodge, a self-styled federal agent, as the hijacker stalking Adirondack back roads with a badge of tin. Posing as a revenue man, Hodge waylaid rye-runners bound south from the Canadian border, relieving them of the illicit goods and, in dozens of grim encounters, their lives. The tally, investigators whisper, runs into the scores. The blood-soaked trail cuts through territory long fought over by North Country gangs and big-city mobs alike…”
“So … your Mr. Hodge wasn’t just a bad guy. He was a murderer.” “Apparently,” said the psychic, glancing over her shoulder at the ethereal conman.
Day Five, Wrath
The kitchen lights flickered three times, and with a pop, the house plunged into darkness.
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop it!” barked Marnie, getting up from the table to fill her teacup.
“Why does he keep doing that?” asked Teddy, clinging to her mug of cocoa.
“He’s pissed off because he’s hiding something. The dumbass led me to the weapon, but I think there are secrets buried in the mill,” she said, before adding, “Nice try, Eugene. Your wrath is noted, but the generator will foil your plan.”
The room lit up a moment later, and the gals went back to work, reading through the printouts from the library.
“Hey, Marn. How is Otis Flegenheimer’s murder a week ago connected to a guy from the nineteen-thirties?”
“I think it’s a family connection, and I am hoping the guys find it,” the psychic said, going to the back door on hearing the crunch of tires in the driveway. “It’s Danny and Tom.”
❄️❄️❄️
The detectives kicked off their boots, dropped their coats on pegs, and patted the dogs who emerged from their nest beneath the table.
“Okay, Madam Séance, did you read my text? What have you got?” asked Danny, leaning down to kiss Marnie.
Frowning, she shook her head. “I didn’t get one. When did you send it?”
“Couple hours ago,” he replied, handing her his phone.
Opening the screen, she said, “Dutch Schultz? Oh my gosh! Of course! An alias. He was that mobster from New York City, and he was here during Prohibition. His real name was Arthur Flegenheimer. My grandfather told me about him.”
Teddy’s eyebrows shot up. “So Otis was his relation? Interesting.”
Tom snagged a cookie from the jar on the counter, and between bites, added, “Yeah. Dutch’s treasure was never discovered. Rumor has it, it’s here in the Adirondacks or in the Catskills.”
“Do you suppose it’s in the mill?” Marnie offered.
“Could be,” said Danny.
“We’ve got the search warrant, and can go in tomorrow morning,” said Tom.
Eyes gleaming a spooky aquamarine, Marnie snapped her fingers, pointing at the air before her. “I reckon Mr. Hodge and Mr. Schultz were acquainted.”
And with a whoosh and thunderous pop, the house went dark.
Day Six, Sloth
Randolph Stuyvesant, an unlikeable detective, trudged at a snail’s pace through the snow, following Danny and Tom through a broken door at the mill.
“Get a move on, Randy. We haven’t got all day,” sniped Danny.
“I don’t want to ruin my shoes,” he said, kicking snow off his Italian leather loafers.
With a lip curl, Tom turned on his flashlight and said, “Should’ve worn boots. We told you we were coming here.”
“Let’s just get on with it. We’ve all studied the old plans, so I’ll go upstairs. Tom, you stay on the ground floor and step lightly. These floorboards could give. Randy, you head for the cellar,” said Danny.
Randolph grimaced before making his way to a rickety staircase at the back of the building.
“Why did we have to bring him? He’s a pain in the ass,” said Tom.
“He’s all we’ve got,” replied his partner as he climbed the stairs to the mezzanine level.
Forty-five minutes into their search, Tom called out, “I’ve got a dead guy!”
Danny raced downstairs to find his colleague standing over a skeleton, its skull wearing a black fedora with a wide gray ribbon.
“Wow! That looks like the hat Eugene Hodge was wearing in that photo Marnie and Teddy showed us,” said Danny, punching in a text to forensic scientist Rick Price.
“My thoughts exactly,” said his partner, taking a picture with his phone.
Randolph lumbered up, brushing dust from his wool coat, before pulling on a pair of calfskin gloves. “Who’s that?”
Tom scowled. “What took you so long?”
Ignoring the question, the man bent and wiped a speck of dirt from his shoe. “I’m going back to the station. There is nothing in the basement. This search is pointless, and I’m freezing. I did not sign up for frostbite.”
“Is that right?” said Danny, narrowing his eyes. “Rick will be here soon, and I have to call Dr. Markson. Once they’re done, we’re done.”
“You two can deal with forensics and the medical examiner. I am leaving,” said Randolph, strolling to the exit.
As the detectives watched him walk out, Tom said, “He is so freaking lazy.” Danny’s piercing blue eyes burned into the man’s back. “It’ll get him in the end. After all, sloth is one of the seven deadly sins.”
Day Seven, Gluttony
It was late when the detectives returned to the warmth of Marnie’s kitchen, where they found her and Teddy drinking wine.
“What did you find?” the psychic asked.
“Fingerprints and a deed,” said Danny. “We’re waiting on forensics, but we are 99% sure Otis’ killer is Frankie Germain. His grandfather was a gangster here in the ‘30s, just like Dutch. We found his brand of cigarette butts in the alley. We’ll know tomorrow when the prints come back.”
“And a dead guy,” said Tom, pulling out his phone. “It’s Eugene, or what’s left of him.”
Staring at the screen, Marnie said, “That looks like his fedora.”
“Did you find Dutch’s treasure?” asked Teddy, averting her eyes from the corpse.
The men shared a glance, jaws taut.
“We gotta go,” said Danny.
“We’re coming too,” said Teddy, with no arguments from the men.
❄️❄️❄️
Back at the mill, they tiptoed inside, navigating by the full moon shining through a hole in the roof. They crept down the cellar stairs, startling their prey, who spun around when he heard the old timber risers creak.
Switching on his flashlight, Tom shone it into the culprit’s eyes. “Whatcha got there, Randy?”
The man held out his arms, shielding a hole in a chimney where bricks had been removed.
“None of your business! This isn’t your property,” said the sloth.
“Correct! It’s Ms. Reilly’s. We found the deed. It belonged to her ex, and she got everything when he croaked. So whatever is in that hidey-hole is hers,” said Danny.
“Shut your mouth, Marn,” said Tom, lifting her jaw with his thumb.
Teddy pushed Randy aside and peered inside the opening, pulling out a dusty old bottle of Canadian Club, and stacks of currency, piling them on the floor.
Marnie joined her, handing stacks of bills to Danny, Tom and Teddy. “It’s good to share,” she said, opening the liquor. She took a sip and passed it to her boyfriend before turning to Randy and shaking a finger. “None for you, you gluttonous pig. You were going to keep this all to yourself, weren’t you?”
“Finders keepers,” he replied.
“Losers weepers,” said Tom, snatching a bundle of bills from his sticky fingers.
Fun fact: Dutch Schultz, a.k.a. Arther Flegenheimer really was a gangster back in the 1930’s, and he was active in the Adirondacks and Catskills. Check out the links in the story.
Rock Stars
The Rock Stars of the challenge were the writers who dug in and participated in all seven days of the challenge.
They showed up. Their characters got messy, and they did it with gumption (BTW, I love that word).
Whether polished prose, raw drafts, or wild abandonment, it was a reminder of why the writing community ✍🏻 is such a powerful space. They didn’t just answer prompts. They built tension, revealed flaws, deepened arcs, and introduced their characters to new readers and writers. That takes courage. Well done!⭐️
We loved seeing different interpretations, new voices, and the risks writers are willing to take to get the job done. Keep going. Keep pushing your characters into uncomfortable corners because that’s where the good stuff lives.
Grateful for everyone you who tagged, shared, cheered others on, and made this challenge a success.
Author Anathea Krrill
Author Alessandra Cocoa
Author Jennifer Brasington-Crowley
Author TL Brown
And me, Author Shari T. Mitchell.
Thanks for spending time with me, and for reading my silly mystery. Go check out my co-competitors’ posts and give them a follow. You might discover your new favorite author.
See you soon!👋
And if you haven’t been to Creekwood, I quadruple dog dare you!
What a great idea for a post, Shari! And I’m bookmarking this one…When people ask for a thriller book rec, I’ll share your series (as always) and send them a link to this post to get a “flavor” of your work! 😀
Thank you! Although, it’s not my best work to date. 😂 I hope you don’t mind the tags.