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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 · Hiện thực
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492 Chs

Chapter 398: Looking For Something Incriminating

It wasn't often I got to be on the opposing end of discovering someone snooping, so it was equal parts fascinatingly satisfying and alternately sheepishly embarrassing to walk in on Alphonse Brunbaugh with his hand in the cookie jar. If said receptacle of sweetness was Melina Canty's desk in her cordoned off office.

Did I look that abjectly pathetic while stammering and stuttering over the reasons why I actually wasn't invading someone else's privacy? Surely not. I couldn't recall ever actually saying I was sorry or even attempting to hide my clandestine behavior. In fact, if anything, I typically had a slew of questions to ask whoever it was appeared to interrupt my nose poking, so we were nothing alike. Because Alphonse, for his part, did a terrible job of attempting to cover up his sneaky behavior with clear guilt and only his own agenda written on his face.