Meow for Murder Mysteries Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  “Would you stop?” I say, trying my best to contain her. “Shep knows everything. He’s a genius. He figured it all out on his own. I didn’t tell him anything.”

  Shep’s eyes enlarge before he takes a breath and looks as if he has no choice but to acquiesce to the disaster at hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Stephanie. I’m assuming Lola is your cover. I’ll be sure not to out you. Can I ask how long you plan on staying?” There is not one ounce of curtness in his voice.

  Hey? Why does she get nice Shep and I get the grumpy version?

  Stephanie shrugs. “A day, a week, a year. As long as it takes to get over this broken heart.”

  “Eat,” I say as I point hard to the banana bounty. “You—come with me,” I say as I pull Shep out into the night, closing the door behind us.

  We head out past the cabin and into the woods to the left where the moon shines its magic through the navy branches. And if you look straight up, you can see a sprinkling of stars sparkling in a rainbow of pastel.

  “Your sister seems nice.” Shep frowns as he says it. “Does she magnetize to danger in the same way you do?”

  I frown right back. “A second ago you were a prince. It’s nice to know you save your sour mood for me, Honey Bunch.”

  “You’re welcome, Sweet Cheeks.” A growl works its way up his throat. “You almost got killed tonight, Bowie. If I wasn’t there, if Sophia didn’t fire that first shot, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” His tone is tense and angry. “And the part that frustrates me the most is that I can’t figure out how to keep you from crossing the line. I can’t figure out how to keep you safe.” His voice jackknifes into the night with a hostile edge to it.

  “You’re not my keeper, Shep,” I riot back. “Nobody is asking you to lose any sleep over my safety. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been doing a fine job of that on my own!” My voice echoes through the woods before it spirals up to the sky with a shrill.

  Shep bears those steely eyes to mine.

  “This is where it ends with you and me. It’s over. It’s done.”

  “What?”

  A breath hitches in my throat as I realize that final and horrible vision I had the night I tried to sleep off my wine-induced hangover has finally come true.

  “Shep?” I shake my head, wholly confused by his harsh words.

  “That’s right.” His voice remains tight. “I’m through with all of the charades. I’m through pretending that I don’t care. It’s over. It’s done.” His chest expands an impossible width. “Because I do care.”

  Shep steps in and crashes his lips to mine. Before I can make heads or tails of it, my arms are wrapped around him as our kisses continue to grow with a fury all of their own.

  Shepherd Wexler is kissing me—kissing me—and it feels as if the world is shifting below my feet, the landscape is changing, and I doubt I’ll recognize it when I open my eyes.

  Shep pours out all of his pent-up emotions directly into my mouth, and I am here for it in the very best way. He moans into my mouth as every moment we’ve shared plays out like a montage in my mind as my heart riots out against his own. And there is not a single kiss prior to this one that can even hold a candle to the dizzying display of magic Shep is doling out by the delicious mile.

  It feels as if the universe, the stars up above, all of human history has lined up to bring Shep and me to this very moment. For the first time in a long while, I feel safe, I feel as if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I feel as if I finally made my way home.

  I don’t know what the future holds for Shep and me, but I know what this moment, what these kisses promise. They promise something good, something amazing that I have never experienced before. They promise a bittersweet happily ever after—if only for this single moment.

  But most importantly, they promise me that something good is waiting for us on the horizon.

  I can’t wait to turn the page and see what the next chapter holds for us.

  It feels as if I’ve waited a lifetime for Shepherd Wexler and his magical Starry Falls kisses.

  And the best is yet to come.

  I hope.

  *Thank you so much for reading! We hope you enjoyed the ride! Need more Starry Falls? Hop on over and pick up the next book in the series! Click here—> A Haunted Hallow-whiskers

  Something wicked this way comes. Opal volunteers to turn the manor into a haunted mansion for the entire month of October in hopes to turn a dollar, but the spooky festivities soon take on a haunted life of their own when a real corpse shows up at the scene.

  Shep and I take on a life of our own as well, and a special guest from my past conjures up before me. Something tells me making it through this month of horrors will be murder.

  Living in Starry Falls is proving to be deadly. Click here—> A Haunted Hallow-whiskers

  ***Love your books with humor, sass and murder? You’ll devour the Murder in the Mix Series!

  Start at the beginning! Cutie Pies and Deadly Lies (Murder in the Mix 1)

  Enjoy this preview. Happy reading!

  I see dead people.

  Okay, so I don’t see dead people—at least not on the regular—I see dead pets. Yes, pets. At first, I had no idea what these hologram-like beasts were up to until after an unfortunate run of something akin to trial and error that I concluded each dead pet was some sort of a harbinger for its previous owner, a very, very bad omen if you will. Sometimes I see them floating around willy-nilly in a crowd and it’s hard to decipher exactly who the bad luck is coming for. But on occasion, I see them attached firmly to the side of whomever the incoming disaster is set to strike. I’m not sure why this is my lot in life. In fact, my lot in life hasn’t been so stellar in general. My birth mother thought it was a brilliant idea to leave me on the floor of a firehouse, and that’s where a brave and thankfully curious firefighter spotted me, swaddled up and squirming. It just so happens that I was adopted by that sweet man, Joseph Lemon, and his wife, Miranda, and gifted a book-loving big sister, Lainey, currently Honey Hollow’s lead librarian, as well as a feisty and shenanigan-prone younger sister, Meg, who is also known as Madge the Badge on the Las Vegas female wrestling circuit. And being that Las Vegas and all of its glittery wrestling venues are a good distance from Honey Hollow, Vermont, we don’t see her very often.

  But back to that strange gift of mine, or curse as it more often than not feels—I have zero clue where it came from or why, or even the major significance of it. A part of me has always believed that something alarmingly supernatural occurred around the time of my birth, and that’s exactly why my birth mama decided she so desperately needed to offload a seven-pound chunk of bad luck.

  The very first time I put the furry-dearly-departed and outright chaos together was when I was seven and I saw the flicker of a barely-there turtle swimming next to Otis Fisher’s ear. Later that day, Otis fell from a tree and broke his arm. At the time, I wasn’t too sorry about it either. That boy had a mad hankering for pulling on my pigtails. And as fate would have it, the boy who lived to tease me, one day admitted to having a mad crush on yours truly. And post that amorous admission we dated on and off for about three years. If I thought that boy was annoying in elementary school, he outdid himself in high school. In fact, Otis—or Bear as he’s affectionately known around these parts for having once chased off a black bear before it could invade and devour an entire herd of innocent tourists who were on a leaf peeping tour—is one of the reasons I left Honey Hollow to begin with. No sooner did my high school diploma cool off than I hightailed it to New York—Columbia University to be exact—where I’ve had the displeasure to ogle other people’s dead pets.

  I’m quick to push what I’ve affectionately dubbed the New York Disaster out of my mind as I take a step outside of my apartment. It’s a duplex, actually, and my landlords, the Simonson sisters, live upstairs. They’re the primary reason I’m headed out on this unforgivably crisp September morning wearing my Sunday best, even thoug
h it’s smack in the middle of the week, Wednesday. Usually, I’d be happily snug in my favorite jeans, sporting my comfiest sweatshirt with my hair in a ponytail, and on my way to the Honey Pot Diner where I’m currently employed as the chief baker, not that there’s anyone baking underneath me but, hey, I like the title. Instead, I’m stuffed in a pencil skirt, two sizes too small, and a blouse that looks as if I swiped it off a mannequin at Goodwill, partially because I did. Okay, so I don’t own many Sunday clothes per se, but only because the local church is all about casual attire. They’re far more concerned with keeping your soul free from the flames than they are about your accruements, but I digress. I’m not headed to work or any holy house in the great state of Vermont. I’m headed to court—small claims court to be exact—all the way over in Ashford County.

  Just as I’m about to head to my beat-up old hatchback, I spot both the aforementioned Simonson sisters at the foot of the driveway squabbling amongst themselves about who knows what—most likely me. It is me they’re hauling to court after all, and over something completely ridiculous.

  It just so happens that last summer at the county fair my blueberry buckle pie won the coveted blue ribbon in its division, and it seemed as if all of Ashford County were thrilled for me, at least all of the townsfolk here in Honey Hollow. But the Simonson sisters were decidedly not enthused in the least. Sometime between the taste test and the judging, someone edited my entry to read Simple Simonson Pie and crossed out the all-important part about the blueberry buckle. Regretfully, a riot of laughter ensued, mostly from the fine, and, might I add, intuitive folk here in Honey Hollow, but I swear on all that is holy that good time only lasted about three thrilling minutes before I made the correction. Although, to hear Mora Anne and Merilee tell it, the aftermath not only bruised their egos and reputation but managed to cause a retail apocalypse down at the shop they own and run. It turns out, The Busy Bee Craft Shop was short on patrons and dollar bills alike and had a difficult time paying its rent last month, so the only logical solution they could come up with was to sue me for every last red cent.

  Both sisters are dressed head to toe in long velvet coats with ruffled shirts peeking out from underneath like a couple of throwbacks from some long-forgotten steampunk era. It’s eerie the way they choose to dress alike each and every day despite the fact they’ve been on the planet for twenty-six long years—and twenty-seven respectively. I know this because I happen to be the exact same age as Merilee. We’ve all grown up together, but the way they treat me you’d think they were my bitter and scorned elders.

  Merilee snarls as if she were rabid. “Well, look who’s here? If it isn’t Honey Hollow’s favorite jester who will soon be performing live in court.” Those narrow slits she calls eyes light up like cauldrons. The sisters have always held a witchy appeal to me, what with their long, dark, stringy hair and bony, long fingers. The fact they look as if they suck on lemons day and night doesn’t exactly help their plight. “Are you ready to have your bank account turned inside out?”

  I scoff at the thought. If they think this is the day they hit a financial jackpot, they’d better think again. Working shifts at the Honey Pot Diner doesn’t afford me much of a bank account. The only thing in my savings at the moment is enough to cover my rent and Pancake’s Fancy Beast cat food. I’ve had Pancake now for over a year, and he officially qualifies as the greatest love of my life.

  I glance over to the living room window where he’s currently monitoring the situation while licking his paw. Pancake is a butter yellow Himalayan with a rusty-tipped tail and dart of a line running between his eyes. He is a precious little angel now that he’s no longer using my leather ottoman as a scratching post and chewing down all the cables and cords he could get his hungry little paws on. The entire apartment has been cat-proofed, and Pancake hasn’t forgiven me yet.

  An icy breeze picks up and the row of liquid ambers and maples that lines the street shed the first smattering of red and gold fall leaves. I steal a moment to take in the glory of nature on full display around the two wicked witches determined to make my life a living hell. Our little corner of Vermont has a habit of turning into a golden and ruby wonderland this time of year, so much so that the leaf peeping keeps the tourists coming in strong right up until winter.

  Speaking of tourist traps, the Honey Hollow Apple Festival is coming up later this month, and I’ve been asked to supply the pies for the occasion. After my shift was over at the Honey Pot last night, I baked two dozen personal-sized caramel apple pies—cutie pies as I like to call them—and I need to deliver them straight to the orchard this afternoon because the owners requested a sample for their employees. My guess is they want to be sure my baking skills are up to snuff before they live to regret the decision come the day of the festival. But I guarantee they’ll far from regret it. In fact, the only thing they might regret is not ordering enough to keep up with demand. It took me weeks to perfect the right combination of caramel and spices, and I even threw in a handful of crushed walnuts into each tiny pie to give it a little crunch. But it’s that buttery caramel that steals the limelight from those golden delicious apples. It’s so smooth and creamy, my best friend Keelie and I spent an hour last night licking the bowls clean ourselves.

  I can’t help but sigh over at the two beady-eyed siblings who relish my financial undoing. “I won’t be having my bank account turned in any direction this morning because there isn’t a judge on this planet who would side with—” I’m about to lay into the Simonson sisters with every colorful word in my lexicon when something akin to a flame flickers around Merilee’s ankle. For a brief and fleeting moment, I think it’s simply a stray leaf, but suddenly that flicker materializes into the clear outline of a long-lost, dearly departed orange tabby that I’m guessing once belonged to one of the shrews before me.

  “Ha!” Mora Anne scoffs as she takes a step in close. “She can’t finish the sentence because she knows she’s guilty. Just admit it and whip out your checkbook. Save us all the trouble of driving to Ashford. We’re meeting with Darlene Grand this afternoon to secure a booth for the festival. We don’t have a lot of time to dilly-dally with you over a handful of change. Hand it over right now and we can all get on with our day.”

  I take a moment to scowl at the surly sisters. Since when is three thousand eight hundred dollars a handful of change? And if it’s so darn piddly, why bother to sue me to begin with?

  The ghostly cat twirls around Merilee’s left foot before pausing to look up at me, and I would bet my life that feisty feline just smiled. The pets I see are never skeletal or gruesomely decomposing but clear as vellum versions of themselves in their plush and fluffy prime. On the rare occasion, I do see a once-upon-a-person, but neither the pets nor the people breathe a single word to me. I’m guessing the lack of vocal cords has something to do with it. And, believe you me, I am more than grateful.

  I’ve only confided my strange gift to one person, and she wasn’t family at that. Nell Sawyer is my best friend’s grandmother, and she might as well be mine. She’s been that kind to me. If my mother knew about my morbid third eye, she would tie me to a stake and light the flames just trying to usher the dark side out of me. And, well, considering the fact my mother has a way of spreading an errant word around town—you would think she were aspiring to be the biggest gossip Honey Hollow has ever seen—I’m not too sorry I’ve never broached the subject with her. But Nell seemed as understanding as she was intrigued, not one ounce of judgment spilled over from that woman. I’m not sure why I told Nell and not my sisters, or Keelie, Nell’s granddaughter and my BFF, but something about Nell’s sweet round face has the power to pull even the darkest secret from my soul.

  “What’s the matter?” Merilee chides with a bony hand set over an equally bony hip. “Cat got your tongue?”

  I glance down at the curious cute little kitty. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it does. I’m guessing luck is on my side today.” And not yours, I want to say. “I’ll see you ladies
in court.” I bite down a smile as I give one last look to the tiny poltergeist licking its ghostly paws.

  Who knows? Maybe Merilee will trip on the courthouse stairs—and if she does, I hope to see it.

  Aw heck, maybe she’ll skin a knee.

  Read more now! Cutie Pies and Deadly Lies (Murder in the Mix 1) With over 25 books in the series, start your reading addiction TODAY! Happy binge reading!

  **Need talking pets? Check out the series below!

  Kittyzen’s Arrest (Country Cottage Mysteries 1)

  An inn keeper who reads minds. An ornery detective. And a trail of bodies. Cider Cove is the premiere destination for murder.

  My name is Bizzy Baker, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but most of the time, and believe me when I say it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

  Bizzy Baker runs the Country Cottage Inn, has the ability to pry into the darkest recesses of both the human and animal mind, and has just stumbled upon a body. With the help of her kitten, Fish, a mutt named Sherlock Bones, and an ornery yet dangerously good-looking homicide detective, Bizzy is determined to find the killer.

  Cider Cove, Maine is the premier destination for fun and relaxation. But when a body turns up, it’s the premier destination for murder.

  **Head over to Cider Cove TODAY —>

  Kittyzen’s Arrest (Country Cottage Mysteries 1)

  Books by Addison Moore and Bellamy Bloom

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