Episode 3:

Myrtle Revealed (or, The Boney Truth)

Everyone on Rosewood Lane thought Myrtle McKlusky was a cardigan-wearing, prune-juice-drinking, HOA-terrorizing widow with three jittery Chinese Crested dogs. They were only 25% right.

What no one—not even the mayor, not even Capote—knew was that Myrtle was also…

Tempest Fablestein.

Yes. The Tempest Fablestein. The mysterious, scandalously successful author of the internationally adored, historically inaccurate, and erotically charged adventure-romance series featuring Boney LaFleur, the one-armed French nobleman turned treasure hunter.

She had written 43 novels, 5 novellas, and a cookbook (“Feast Like a Fabulist: 18th Century Seduction Stews”) from the converted sunroom behind her kitchen. Her books had sold over 47 million copies. She was, by all definitions, secretly loaded.

Her fans included conspiracy theorists, failed Broadway understudies, and a suspicious number of junior senators.

And to maintain her anonymity, Myrtle had hired a professional actor—a classically trained Scotsman named Malcolm Finnegan Duff-Whitely III—to play the role of Tempest in public.

Enter Malcolm

At book signings, literary galas, and erotic parchment conventions, Malcolm wore a velvet smoking jacket, quoted Shakespeare deep cuts. He wielded a Scottish accent so buttery it made podcast hosts weep. He was charming. Mysterious. Allegedly celibate.

And he had been in love with Myrtle for six years.

The Confession

During a livestream at the National Erotic Adventure Awards Gala, Malcolm—accepting the award for “Best Use of the Word Ravish in a Scene Involving Lava”—snapped.

“I—I can’t do this anymore,” he said, eyes glassy. “I’ve lived a lie.”

The crowd hushed. A woman in the third row fainted into a fondue fountain.

“I’m not Tempest Fablestein. I’m just Malcolm. But she—”
He stared into the camera.
“She is the greatest mind of our time. And Myrtle… if you’re watching—I love you. I’ve loved you since Boney rode that bull through the Vatican archives.”

Before the audience could react, two large men in matching black suits and medieval-looking boots appeared. They flanked him.

Malcolm’s voice rose over the chaos. “Tell her I meant it!”

He was dragged offstage, still clinging to his crystal pegasus trophy.

The livestream abruptly cut to a pre-recorded interview where “Tempest” explained how she researched 18th-century brothels using only Google Earth and intuition.

The Fallout

A 14-second clip surfaced on YouTube hours later. It showed Malcolm being pushed into a black Escalade while yelling, “Tell Myrtle I know her rhubarb pie uses vodka!”

The clip was quickly removed by Tempest Enterprises LLC under “copyright and culinary infringement.”

Still, the legend of the confession spread. Reddit threads multiplied. Fans demanded answers.

Back in Rosewood Lane…

In her sunroom, Myrtle sat staring at her laptop. Capote snored on a pile of manuscript pages. Pont and Pint had rolled themselves into an anxious spiral.

She didn’t cry. Myrtle McKlusky hadn’t cried since Boney LaFleur and the Lusty Siege of Strasbourg made Oprah’s underground erotica list.

Instead, she opened a new document.

Title: “Boney LaFleur and the Man Who Dared to Love.”

—

That night, in the dim warmth of his paneled study, Mayor Gerald swirled cold chamomile tea and reached for the false back of his bookshelf.

Click.

Behind it: Every single Boney LaFleur first edition, wrapped in archival sleeves and arranged by emotional damage level.

He pulled out “Boney LaFleur and the Underdressed Pharaoh” and gently opened the jacket. Inside:

“To G—
May you never lose your own treasure map.
—T.F.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“She’s been right next door this whole time,” he whispered.

Then, from a drawer, he pulled a laminated keepsake:
“Boney LaFleur’s Ten Principles of Gentlemanly Adventure.”

He read aloud, voice cracking:

“Rule #1: Never underestimate the swordplay of a woman with nothing left to prove.”

Capote, who had somehow snuck into the study again, thumped his tail once in quiet agreement.

Gerald leaned back in his chair.
“You got me, Myrtle.”