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Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries

I’m an international, multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in my head. As a singer, songwriter, independent filmmaker and improv teacher and performer, my life has always been about creating and sharing what I create with others. Now that my dream to write for a living is a reality, with over a hundred titles in happy publication and no end in sight, I live in beautiful Prince Edward Island, Canada, with my giant cats, pug overlord and overlady and my Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn. A Poo Poo Kind of Morning I tried not to look down the mouth of hell staring back at me from inside the glaringly pristine outer ceramic shell of the white throne, my throat catching, stomach doing half flips and a rather impressive rollover routine that would have gotten at least a 9.5 even from the Russian judges. Instead, I forced myself to smile and swallow and remind myself the elbow length yellow rubber gloves grasping the handle of the standard issue plunger were all that stood between me and Pooageddon. Suck it up, Fee. Big girl panties and adulting and all that. “At what point,” I waved the dripping plunger, wincing as droplets of yuck flew, “did I think owning a bed and breakfast was going to be glamorous and romantic?” Fiona Fleming is in so much trouble. Her recently inherited bed and breakfast might not actually be hers thanks to the underhanded misdealings of the local real estate bully. Despite her grandmother's last will and testament, Fee might me out of luck and on the street before she even gets settled. But when her new enemy floats belly up in her koi pond, she's the prime suspect in his murder! Can she uncover who the real killer is before the smoking hot new sheriff puts her behind bars instead of asking her out on a date? Dive into book one of the Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries, and don't miss the exciting sequels!

Patti Larsen · Realistic
Not enough ratings
492 Chs

Chapter 351: Fiona's Fate

The inside of Watters Antiques always had that faint smell I associated with a cross between a library and a funeral home, a mix of old chemicals, leather, ancient books whose pages had begun to decay and the passage of a multitude of souls through the life and times of the artifacts within. I suppressed a faint shudder, though it was a musty sort of humid inside, keeping Petunia tight on my heels as we navigated the narrow way left for customers amid the piles of antiques, display cases and cases filled with old tomes surely no one had even dusted in an age.

Oliver stood behind the counter, leaning forward over the glass with his gaze locked on a tiny woman in a large wheelchair that looked much too big for her slight frame. She turned to watch me approach as if she'd been expecting me, while he seemed irritated by my arrival. I chose to ignore his attitude-anyone who knew Oliver did their best to, frankly-and extended my hand to the woman instead.