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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 · Realista
Classificações insuficientes
492 Chs

Chapter 294: Campsite

Despite her friendly offer, we had to wait until morning to check out Frieda's campsite. I tossed and turned, wishing I was at Crew's having spaghetti, Sunday coming and going as early Monday dawned clear and cold. With the bridge still under repair and enough flotsam clogging the water way from the continuing degradation of the dam, we were stuck on the mountain anyway, so I made the best of it.

I could have stayed at the retreat and let Jill take care of this, but it really was a make work project as far as I was concerned. She seemed to agree, though she did insist I wasn't to go alone. Which led to Bill trailing along behind me, Moose snuffling his way through the brush, while Frieda led the way, quiet on her feet. I felt like a bumbling gargantuan invader, snapping and crackling my way through the morning quiet woods as the massive man and dog and the bulky older woman drifted like smoke through the underbrush.