[Millard Grubb]

This is an example of AI writing based on several prompts I gave it...

Emily Grant stood in the middle of the Memories of Melody Museum, her expression a curious blend of despair and the determined resolve of someone who’d just decided to wrestle a bear while wearing mittens. The centerpiece of her modest collection—the sapphire crown worn by Melody Harlow in her final, glittering performance—was gone, stolen right out of its case. Emily stared at the now-empty display, her reflection warped in the glass like a funhouse mirror.

It was, she thought, a perfect metaphor for her life: elegant plans shattered by unforeseen chaos.

The museum, a love letter to Branson’s golden age of entertainment, had been her lifeline and her burden. While other people spent their weekends binge-watching reality TV or crafting bespoke charcuterie boards, Emily had been meticulously cataloging Melody Harlow’s career, brushing lint off vintage costumes, and explaining to baffled tourists why the mannequin wearing Melody’s infamous feathered gown was missing an arm (“Budget cuts,” she’d muttered darkly). And now the crown—the crown—had vanished, plunging the museum into a crisis more dire than the time a raccoon broke in and tried to eat a sequined vest.

“This is fine,” Emily told herself, her voice shaking only slightly. “Totally manageable. All I need is a brilliant plan, a healthy dose of luck, and maybe a tranquilizer dart for whoever thought it was a good idea to rob me.”
Her pep talk was interrupted by a cheerful chime. The front door swung open, revealing Debbie Houston. Tall, elegant, and armed with a smile that could melt butter (though it generally preferred to unearth the truth), Debbie carried her transcription equipment in one hand and a casserole dish in the other.
“Emily, dear, I heard about the crown,” Debbie said, her tone brimming with both sympathy and the faintest glimmer of excitement. “Thought you might need this.” She handed over the casserole, which Emily accepted gratefully.
“Thank you, Debbie,” Emily said. “You didn’t have to—”

“It’s tuna noodle,” Debbie interrupted, as though revealing a state secret. “Comfort food. Also, Stephen suggested we bring it because he insists mystery-solving is hungry work.”

Emily blinked. “Mystery-solving?”

Debbie tilted her head, brown eyes gleaming. “A missing crown, whispers of Melody Harlow’s murder—don’t you feel the electricity in the air? It’s practically crackling.”

Emily’s first thought was that the crackling might be the ancient wiring in the museum, but she bit her tongue.
Before she could respond, another voice cut through the room, this one gruff and tinged with mild exasperation.

“You must be kidding me. Who steals a crown from a museum that doesn’t even charge admission?”

Ben Carter strolled in, his leather jacket creaking faintly as he moved. He had the sort of face that seemed permanently set to skeptical reporter, though his sharp blue eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. Ben, who had once been the darling of investigative journalism, now found himself in the curious position of investigating a tuna casserole. He sniffed the air suspiciously.

“What is that smell? Nostalgia? Desperation?”

“It’s tuna noodle, and you’ll be lucky if I share,” Debbie said, smiling serenely.

“Why are you even here, Ben?” Emily asked, folding her arms.

“Freelancing,” Ben replied with a shrug. “Saw a headline about the theft and thought, ‘Why not write a piece about small-town intrigue?’ People love that sort of thing. Makes them feel superior while they scroll through their phones at Starbucks.”

“Charming,” Emily muttered.

Debbie, sensing tension, took control with the finesse of a conductor calming a restless orchestra. “Now, now,” she said. “We’re all here because we care about Branson, Melody’s legacy, and justice for that poor, pilfered crown.” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And I suppose because Stephen insisted I couldn’t let a mystery like this pass me by.”

The mention of Stephen brought a faint smile to Emily’s lips. Debbie’s husband, a retired entertainer whose flair for storytelling often outshone the stories themselves, was a fixture of the Branson community. He was, as Debbie put it, “a walking encyclopedia of theatrical gossip and questionable fashion choices.”

“Fine,” Emily said finally. “If you two want to help, I won’t stop you. But this isn’t just some puff piece or intellectual exercise. The museum is everything to me. If we don’t get that crown back—”

“We will,” Debbie interjected firmly. “Trust me, Emily. Between your knowledge of Melody, Ben’s nose for scandal, and my knack for unraveling puzzles, we’ll figure this out. Now, where do we start?”

Emily took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “The crown case was smashed late last night. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were after. No other artifacts were touched. They left a note on an old ticket stub, but it’s cryptic.”

“A cryptic ticket stub,” Ben repeated dryly. “This just keeps getting better.”

Debbie leaned in, her brown eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Well, then,” she said with a smile. “Let’s see where this mystery takes us, shall we?”
And so began their unlikely partnership—a historian, a journalist, and a transcriptionist with a casserole dish—bound by a missing crown, an unsolved murder, and the faint but undeniable thrill of adventure.

I will get to Glenn's copy next.