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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 · realistisch
Zu wenig Bewertungen
492 Chs

Chapter 432: Pursuing Every Avenue

As it happened, Andrew was in the middle of cleaning a wooden table when we arrived at his small shop. He'd converted part of their garage into his own space. Tidy but cluttered, stacked with old electronics, real wood furniture and a variety of tools, it reeked of the nasty concoction that had killed Thea.

"Katelyn told me you think it was murder." Whoops, I guess I'd failed to mention that to him though, in all fairness, I hadn't had absolute confirmation until after I spoke to him. He wiped aggressively at the surface of the small table he was refinishing, a bottle of rubbing alcohol beside him, pale blue latex gloves protecting his hands.

"We believe she was poisoned," I said, "with that." I gestured at the bottle beside him and he flinched, staring at me with wide eyes as he took in my meaning and the long pause after.

"I didn't kill my wife." Now he was angry, really angry. "I can't believe you'd even think it."