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BVC Announces 9 Nutcrackers Whistling by Irene Radford
Dec. 9th, 2025 07:00 am![[syndicated profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/feed.png){kind=small}
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9 Nutcrackers Whistling
Irene Radford
Whistling River Lodge Mysteries
Beauty and Grace can mask worlds of evil . . .
The Whistling River Lodge has rebounded from Covid 19 closures. Christmas is coming and Glenna McClain and her crew are hosting a ballet Master Class of adolescents and teens that will culminate in a performance of The Nutcracker Suite. Then the organizer of the event is brutally murdered and hidden in a snowbank. International conspiracies abound, the FBI is called in, the dogs poke their noses into everything, and decorative nutcrackers wander. Can the intrepid detectives solve the crime before the performance? Can Glenna watch the all-important performance before she goes into labor?
About the Author: Irene Radford, aka P.R. Frost, aka C.F. Bentley, has been writing stories ever since she figured out what a pencil was for. A member of an endangered species, a native Oregonian who lives in Oregon, she and her husband make their home in Welches, Oregon, where deer, bears, coyotes, hawks, owls, and woodpeckers feed regularly on their back deck.
A museum-trained historian, Phyllis Irene has spent many hours prowling pioneer cemeteries deepening her connections to the past. Raised in a military family, she grew up all over the US and learned early on that books are friends that don’t get left behind with a move. Her interests and reading range from ancient history, to spiritual meditations, to space stations, and a whole lot in between.
SUNDAY
“Yihaaaaaaaa!” a childish screech reverberated from the hotel dining room. The cheer was followed by a loud thud.
The noise drowned out the annoyingly repetitive “Jingle Bells” playing through the sound system. We’d hidden the state-of-the-art speakers behind the artful mound of holly and evergreen perched on the fireplace mantel.
Welcome to the Whistling River Lodge and Golf Resort.
I really wanted to rush from behind the registration desk—a massive piece of polished furniture more than one hundred years old—to soak up some of the joy created by the youngest of the dancer students filling my lodge this week. Not an option. The bulk of my seven-and-a-half months pregnancy made the procedure of moving my rolling desk chair back along the dais behind the desk, and then leveraging myself upward was beyond me.
I’d have to hope some of the wondrous jubilation was contagious.
Under normal considerations, I’d be encouraging—um monitoring—the activity in the dining room… well running the lodge was never normal. Being part-owner and manager of the Lodge meant that I, Glenna McClain, could never shirk my duties. I lifted my hand and beckoned forward a uniformed employee, any employee, I didn’t care which one.
A few of the fifteen- and sixteen-year-old dancers, male and female, lounged about the lobby petting my dogs. Salt and Pepper, the miniature poodles and hotel mascots, made the rounds, absorbing all of the attention they could get. Big Al, my rescue Newfoundland Retriever, one hundred fifty pounds of fur and loyalty, sat on my feet beneath the registration desk, shivering in fear.
That meant that the jump-the-creek crowd were the younger dancers, not the soloists too dignified to participate in childish games.
The rules of the dance Master Class prohibited participants younger than ten. I didn’t think we had anyone under twelve registered. Therefore, the tag game must be younger siblings not being controlled by dance moms who filled my lobby.
My newest college intern, Veronica, dashed from the rolling luggage racks near the door toward the exuberant cheers. “It’s okay, ma’am, the kids are practicing their leaps across the creek in the dining room,” she called.
As if we had more than one creek running through the interior of the lodge. The hotel had been built over and around the creek at the end of World War One by Aloysius Whistler. Providing a cement lined creek bed—with rocks stuck in to make it look more natural—was easier than diverting it, or letting it undermine foundations.
This time of year, the creek ran full, only an inch below the cement rim. The slushy rain outside filled to overflowing all of the drainage off nearby Mt. Hood. Our creek was part of the eco-system.
It remained one of our biggest attractions for a unique dining experience. It brought a bit of the wild outdoors inside.
I wished I could be out of doors right then. Breathing fresh cold air and running my dogs—the two poodles and Newfoundland retriever—along a secluded path. That was normal. That was right, and what I needed to give my hearing a break.
Um… did I mention that the bulk of my pregnancy made walking through the lobby… interesting?
Not to mention that the temperature outside hovered around thirty-four at the heat of the day, and the precipitation had turned from rain to slush. Going outside was not recommended.
The playlist shifted to “Jingle Bell Rock.” I breathed a sigh of relief at the change of pace.
A new version of 
A new version of 
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