Marianna Heusler's new novel, "Mrs. Peabody's Party Line: A Honeyspoon Murder Mystery" takes you back to a small town in 1957. Party lines were a popular means of telephone service back then, with several neighbors sharing a phone line. Nosy Mrs. Peabody just can't help herself from eavesdropping on calls, a habit that gets her into trouble. Below is an excerpt from the book, filled with nostalgic imagery!

Chapter 1

In the little town of Honeyspoon, overlooking the Taconic Mountains, sits a one hundred year old nunnery.

At seven thirty-seven (after the five-fifteen bell rings, after Mass and Holy Communion in the chapel, after breakfast of either oatmeal and fruit, toast and eggs, waffles and bacon) all eleven sisters cram into the mini bus and are driven into the town of Honeyspoon to teach at St. Hedwig’s School.

The school is located on Tulip Street, flanked by Betsy’s Bakery on one side (known to have the best Pineapple Crunch and Butter Cream Cake in the state) and Danny’s Diner on the other (no one can refuse the crispy French fries). 

Honeyspoon Library is across the street, not too far from Honeyspoon City Hall and the Honeyspoon Police Station. Young children flock to Casey’s Candy Store after school and beg their mothers for penny candy - red hots, Boston Baked Beans, jelly candies, jawbreakers, Neco wafers, Malo cups, candy cigarettes, Bubble Gum Cigars and fireballs. 

And then there is Nick’s Nest, where the hot dogs are steamed in butter, the root beers ice cold, the baked beans piping hot and the corn is freshly popped

The teenagers hang out at the corner drug store, Philpots, jockeying for a stool to drink egg creams, malted milk shakes, cherry lime rickies, vanilla cokes as Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis blast from the juke box.

The streets are dotted with small five and dime stores, like Neisers, where breaking a balloon might mean you can get a hot fudge sundae for a penny, where hurried office workers enjoy a cup of coffee and a tuna down, or a BLT, hold the mayo. There are two hat stores in town, so ladies can purchase a pillbox or a veiled Juliette Cap, displaying them at Sunday Mass.

In the very center of town lay the old Finster Mansion. Mr. Finster owned the largest paper mill in town and had built a twenty-seven room house for himself, his wife, and their seven cats. But Mr. Finster had long ago died and the mansion is now an art gallery, a music hall, a town museum and a lecture platform for would-be politicians. Unfortunately, the mansion has fallen into disrepair, the structure built on wet lands is coming undone. Last year two bricks fell off and hit Mr. Portela in the head as he was raking leaves. For two weeks Mr. Portela did not recognize his wife (for which Mrs. Portela was grateful) and, when he got his memory back, he stop caring for the mansion and became a short order cook for Neisers.

About a mile from the center of town the Morning Glory Projects had been built in the late 40s. Peppered with young couples and a few elderly women, the neighborhood is ripe with gossip, especially for the people, who share a party line.

For the most part though, Honeyspoon was a quiet town, where nothing much happened.

Of course, there are the usual worries, the cold war is waging and children practice crouching under their desks, their heads buried in their arms, as they prepare for missiles from the Russians to come raining down. 

Men argue about Joe McCarthy and women talk animatedly about the latest drama on The Guiding Light and Search for Tomorrow, while everyone is busy searching for flying saucers.

Yet within the borders of the small town of Honeyspoon in 1957, it’s always seventy and sunny, at least in the minds of most of its’ residents.

But all of that peace and quiet came to an abrupt and bloody end in late October.