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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 · Politique et sciences sociales
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492 Chs

Chapter 272: Issue With Your Column

Guns and Ammo and Murder: Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries #8

I did my best to ignore the stare of the woman standing uncomfortably close to me while I, in turn, locked eyes on the chalkboard updates behind the barista waiting for my order. Couldn't the nosy neighbor just leave me in peace while I got my caffeine fix? Instead, Brenda Cohen, the elderly lady who lived three doors down from Petunia's, shuffled a bit closer, prodding me in the ribs with one sharp fingernail hard enough to make me yip like the pug my B&B was named for.

"Fiona Fleming," she said in her little-girl deceptively sweet voice, her faded blue eyes moist and flashing while she poked me again. "I take issue with your latest column, young woman. Issue."