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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
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492 Chs

Chapter 367: The Matter Of Fiona Doyle

Malcolm's next interruption came after a long silence from the three of us, a quiet punctuated by the soft sounds of the bully at the door adjusting his stance, the rustle of his suit louder than it should have been, carrying clearly in the utter empty.

"I came looking for my girl." The Irishman's tone was nothing like Dad's had been, full of a mixed bag of emotions that made it hard not to cry in sympathy for his depth of hurt and loss. "Siobhan and me, her mum flying in from Ireland to join me in the search when Fee fell silent."

Dad nodded. "I told you what I knew," he said.

"You promised me," Malcolm snarled, cutting off my father's words with blade-like precision, "you'd find out what happened to my daughter. Swore to Siobhan you'd bring Fiona home to us. You failed, John Fleming. Failed all of us."

Dad didn't say a word. He didn't have to. It was clear he knew that about as distinctly and perfectly as anyone in the room.