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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 · Real
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492 Chs

Chapter 140: Oliver Watters

I made it across the street without getting hit by a car, so bonus points for actually flinging myself into the roadway and having luck on my side. Petunia panted next to me, her anxiety clear as I dragged her into the antique store, the darkness of the interior and musty smell washing me over with a rather gloomy mix that triggered my bad mood all over again.

I almost turned around and walked away. This was dumb. I'd just agreed to stop digging into things that had nothing to do with me. In fact, I had already begun to pivot, sneaker squeaking on the old tile, when Oliver appeared out of the dimness of the interior of his shop, coat still on, hair standing up at odd angles like a brush was the least of his possessions.

"Miss Fleming," he said. "Can I help you?" Not that he sounded like he really had any interest in being helpful, but he asked and that was enough for my brain to seize my mouth and open it and speak before I could shut myself up and just leave already.