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."