Book Three in the Mystery Falls Cozy Mystery Series
Sometimes the past echoes through generations
When Drew Davenport finds an old plane ticket tucked inside a used book, he never expects it to uncover a century-old tragedy… Or a family secret that ties him to Mystery Falls. The faded notes on the ticket point to Colette Davenport, a young woman lost in a plane crash and parents who vanished into the mountains soon after.
As winter closes in, a modern-day couple disappears near the same ridge. Locals whisper about ghostly lanterns and voices that echo through the canyon. Together with Ava Fairchild, Drew follows a trail of letters, legends, and lies into the snowy wilderness to stop history from repeating itself.
Cozy, haunting, and full of heart, Ghosts of Echoes Past weaves small-town charm with a chilling mystery of love, loss, and the secrets we inherit.
Chapter One: Drew
A swell of pride and contentment filled me as I parked by my bookstore entrance. I glanced up at the partly cloudy sky as I carried the last box of books inside the store. The air had a bite that hinted of snow but not quite yet, just the sharp, clean chill that made my breath curl in front of me.
I nudged the door open with my hip and stepped into the stillness of Booksy Bar, where the scent of roasted coffee beans and old paper mingled with the invigorating, woodsy pine from the garland Ava had hung.
The place was dark and quiet on this Sunday morning before Thanksgiving, our usual day off. No soft laughter drifting between the stacks, no clinking mugs, no friends gathered near the fire.
Don’t get me wrong, I love that bustle too, seeing customers linger and talk, their voices blending with the low hum of the espresso machine, but I love being here and doing what I want. I can browse books, organize, sit by the fire to read without anyone around.
Well, seeing as I’m alone, I can be honest and say my very favorite time here is with my business partner Ava, sitting at the bar counter with her hair in a messy bun, debating what new cider to try or teasing me about organizing books by emotion instead of genre.
I dropped the boxes off in the back sorting room and went to make a hot chocolate at the café counter. The weather called for it. I would need something warm before the hike into Mystery Falls in a few hours. We were all going, partly because Ava, and our chef Tony, had yet to see the falls. I actually hadn’t been in a few years, either. It’d be fun to hike in, forage for mushrooms, and spend time with our team away from work. Well, as long as the skies played nice and didn’t rain on us.
Steam rose from the mug as I settled onto a stool by the sorting table. The boxes came from the attic at home, the one room I haven’t completely gone through since taking ownership of my late parents’ house. When I saw the boxes contained books, I stowed them in the car to bring them here.
The first box held old novels and comic books, odd finds, since these came from my parent’s stored things in the attic. I expected to find my father’s historical texts or my mother’s cookbooks, not pulp covers and superhero capes. I smiled, shaking my head. Dad had probably tucked them away to “keep them safe,” which usually meant forgotten.
I started a small keeper pile on the shelf I jokingly called my Vault: books too interesting to sell or too rare to part with. The comics looked promising due to their age and the pristine packaging.
The next box held paperbacks with faded beach covers. Mostly romances, book club fiction, dog-eared adventures. A few big hits like The Help by Kathryn Stockett. There were a few old westerns and even crime fiction. The Dan Brown titles had been huge.
Maybe these had been yard sale finds, or possibly a stash they started because I always talked about opening a bookstore. My mom had loved the idea of me starting one here.
I sorted them into stacks, mentally plotting a “Summer in December” sale with the beach reads. They were used so it’d be a nice deal for anyone wanting to stuff stockings.
One book, The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown, had something wedged inside the pages. I flipped it open to find an old plane ticket dated 2010. The name read Arthur Davenport, my grandfather.
Oh, wow. Maybe these boxes had been his.
I brushed dust from the edges, intrigued with this little piece of history. I found plenty of makeshift bookmarks inside used books: grocery lists, receipts, even a pressed flower, but never a plane ticket.
The flight was from Portland to Bend. He must have driven from there. My parents had lived here about eight years at that time. I wasn’t able to make it here to see him… I only remembered because it was the last time my grandfather came here before he died. If only I could pick up the phone and call Heaven, and tell him, “Guess what, Grandpa! I moved to Mystery Falls too!”
I’d have to search for photos from that visit. Acute regret and longing hit me.
Blinking tears away, I turned the ticket over to see if it had any other info. On the back, someone had scrawled notes in neat, purposeful handwriting:
Birth mother — Colette Davenport
Birth place — Mystery Falls, OR
1944 or 45?
Thomas Jones? William Gray?
“What in the world…?” I set the ticket on the table, heart ticking faster. “My grandfather was born here?”
Was this some forgotten piece of family lineage, that didn’t mean much, or was it hidden on purpose? I had no clue I had any ties to Mystery Falls, and I couldn’t fathom how or why my parents overlooked telling me.
I had never heard of Colette, but she had to be my great grandmother. My grandfather was born in 1945.
A flash of irony made me look at the book’s title again: The Lost Symbol. Interesting.
My parents retired here twenty years ago. My father died ten years ago, and then this last summer, my mother. But they were both alive when my grandfather visited with this ticket. They never mentioned any links to the town. In fact, I felt sure they led me to believe they had chosen this place for its quaint setting, friendly people, and close access to hiking and outdoor adventures. They’d never said anything about my grandparents being from here—or anyone named Colette.
That was the other thing. My grandfather was adopted? Or was I misunderstanding this?
What else could this mean, other than he was looking for his birth mother? The part that made me doubt my assumption was the two names that followed: Thomas Jones and William Gray.
Why would my grandfather have his mother’s name, Davenport, if he was adopted?
If I wanted to dig any further, I’d have to run home.
“Oh, shoot,” I muttered, checking the time on my phone. Eleven. I was supposed to meet Ava and the others here at noon for the hike. I came here planning to stay until it was time.
Still, curiosity tugged hard. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had stumbled onto something important. Plus, if I ran home, I could switch vehicles in case I ended up driving out to the falls.
I used the boxes to organize the books for the used book sale, the ones I wasn’t keeping anyway.
Taking the book and plane ticket with me, I made a trip to the café to reheat my cold cocoa. It was quiet on the bar side, but Ava was probably up… I thought about sharing this with her but something completely stopped me. It felt like a fresh wound.
I locked up and headed out to the car. The white Camry had belonged to my mother, and it made sense to keep it for the better gas mileage… and the memories.
The town’s decorations had morphed from creepy to full-on harvest time, including some decorative turkeys. A few leftover pumpkins sat on the street corners, some with holes pecked into them. Straw brooms with fake orange flowers marked the tail end of autumn. Some businesses had strung up orange lights, making our streets cozier.
Our claim to fame was, “Most Bigfoot sightings in the world!” But we also leaned into the small town charm, especially for Christmastime. Did that charm hide something? Something deeper and mysterious? Maybe there was a reason for the Bigfoot sightings. I mean, where else can a bitter wife frame a 100-year-old ghost for her husband’s murder?
That was a good point: it was always a person behind it, not some paranormal activity. Even the Bigfoot sightings. Nathan Harper had dressed up as Bigfoot this year for Spooky Fest and kept his identity hidden for the entire week, winning the yearly costume prize.
Back home, I went inside and jogged up the stairs to my father’s old office. I had sorted this room during this summer and fall, carefully boxing letters and sorting ledgers, so I wasn’t sure what I hoped to find now.
I rifled through drawers and checked the file cabinets but didn’t see anything helpful. Where would they keep that? I wasn’t sure Dad would have it in here…
The photo albums! I hurried downstairs and turned to take in the wall of family photographs. It reminded me of the night I had Ava over for dinner and she spent a good while taking them all in. At the foot of the wall, my mom had a short, long shelf full of photo albums. I kneeled down and began sliding them out one at a time, looking for her labels.
I pushed an album in and reached for the next, but stopped when I found a folder labeled Family Records. Bingo.
I laid it on the floor and opened the cover, hoping documents would be in some kind of chronological order. There were a few marriage certificates, copies of birth certificates, school related papers, and the older documents.
One thin, very old paper had family information typed out. The top of the page showed my mother’s family tree, going back four generations.
On the bottom half, it listed the four generations of the Davenports, but it oddly didn’t mention Colette or her parents. It started with someone else.
Harold & Elise Davenport (m. Portland, Ore)
→ Arthur Davenport (1945–2018)
→ Michael Davenport (1966–2015) m Elaine (b. 1973)
→ Drew Davenport (b. 1994)
Strange… Arthur was looking for his birth parents here in Mystery Falls, not Harold and Elise. They must have adopted him… So how were they related to Colette? She lived here but her baby was raised elsewhere. I had so many questions. There was only one thing I could draw from all of this. My family hadn’t just come to Mystery Falls. They’d come back.
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For people who like small town cozy mysteries with ghosts, Christmas, and slow burn romance!
