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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 · 现实
分數不夠
492 Chs

Chapter 255: Talk With Malcolm

Chris and Wanda left a short time later, after I saved copies of the footage they took. I sat at Dad's desk and perused the video files, disappointed that the pair hadn't caught the killer on tape. Heather's appearance was damning, I'd give them that, though, and her apparent distress with Lester and whoever it was she'd been talking to this morning at Petunia's made her seem pretty guilty to me.

If she'd accidentally caused the yacht club president's death, why was she lingering in Reading? Right, something to do with recovering lost money. But where did it go and how did she lose it?

I was about to call Dad again when the phone rang. I recognized his number and answered, knew from the sounds in the background he was on the move, the hum of his truck's motor discernable as was the faint country song his radio played.

"I had to leave town for the rest of the day," he said. "Unrelated case."