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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 342: Wrapping Up Loose Ends

The good thing about being hit with a stun gun was the recovery. Yes, I felt like crap for about twelve hours, shaken and my muscles aching and sore, but unlike almost drowning and going through pneumonia or being hit on the head and waiting out a concussion, I was pretty much back to normal after a solid night's sleep.

I checked my email in bed, laptop on my knees, pug at my side, and was surprised to find one from Alice Moore. Thanks for letting me borrow your dad, she sent. Huh. Whatever that meant. Let's have coffee when I get home and I'll tell you all about it.

She had a date.

The hoped-for message from Pamela Shard was nowhere to be found, neither by phone or by text or email either. She was clearly avoiding me and until I figured out the Patterson thing, I guess this was going to be a habit. Not that I liked it, or the fact that when I tried to call Alicia she sent me to voicemail. Not this again?