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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 96: Russell

Fortunately for Russell, he was more agile than I was at the moment and managed to evade me, though he did nothing to try to escape, snapping pictures of me as I lunged for him, clicking more of the kitchen past the door.

"Get the hell off my property." That sounded about right, growled in Dad's low and threatening cop voice.

But Russell was made of sterner stuff than the average human. I should have known that a mere command would grant me a grin and more photographing. "Make me, sweetheart."

As was extremely apparent, the last eight hours or so of my life hadn't been stellar and having an arrogant jerkwad of a photographer stick a camera in my face and call me sweetheart while basically ignoring my right to privacy was pretty much the perfect culmination of events.

The redhead in me snapped, a shriek building in my chest to the point I am positive, given opportunity, means and motive wouldn't have been remotely in question.