A Winter Tail of Woe
Country Cottage Mysteries 14
Addison Moore
Bellamy Bloom
Contents
Connect with Addison Moore
Book Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Recipe
Books by Addison Moore
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom
Edited by Paige Maroney Smith
Cover by Lou Harper, Cover Affairs
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
All Rights Reserved.
This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom
Table of Contents
Created with Vellum
Connect with Addison Moore
For up to the minute pre-order and new release alerts
*Be sure to subscribe to Addison’s mailing list for sneak peeks and updates on all upcoming releases!
Or click over to the WEBSITE
✦Follow Addison on Amazon for the latest updates!
✦Follow Addison on Bookbub!
✦Like on Facebook
*Want to chat about the books? Hop over to Addison’s Reader Corner on Facebook!
Book Description
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be 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.
It’s a snowy winter in Cider Cove and a show called Mayhem, Baking, and Murder is taping an episode at the inn with me as the guest host. But before we can dive into the deep end of all things homicide, the host drops dead and I have a feeling I’m watching a homicide play out in real time. I’m not wrong. But a shocking twist turns this case on its ear, and suddenly it becomes the most dangerous homicide I’ve investigated to date.
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.
Chapter 1
“Morgan Buttonwood.” The dark-haired beauty gives my hand a hearty shake. “And you must be Bizzy. Are you ready to get your murder on?” Wow, how I hate that tagline. And the fact that I had to say it with a straight face sets my teeth on edge. The fact that I need to do this with a straight face sets the rest of me on edge, too.
My mouth falls open as I try to wrap my mind around her odd thoughts.
I thought she loved doing this?
“That’s right. I’m Bizzy Baker Wilder.” I nod. “So glad to finally meet you in person. I’m a huge fan of your show. I know this is going to be fantastic.”
Okay, so I’ve only heard of her recently, but I’ve binge-watched just about every episode since. I can’t help it. Morgan Buttonwood is a homicidal force to be reckoned with. And if I love anything, it’s getting to the brass tacks of a good whodunit.
I take her in with her short black dress, comprised mostly of mesh, her combat boots with day-glow green laces, and her shocking pink lipstick. She has a Goth punk rocker vibe about her, and she seems more than friendly.
I’ve shoved myself into a paisley sundress I found in the back of my closet without giving it too much thought, and suddenly I wish I had given it at least a little thought. I look frumpy, and plain, and mildly out of my mind with this dazed look in my eyes that I can’t seem to shake.
The two of us are both whisked off to makeshift hair and makeup stations set up right here in the café off the Country Cottage Inn. It’s wall-to-wall people in this cozy little eatery as they set up cameras, lights, and large umbrellas. The café is closed to the guests of the inn for the day due to filming, but with the thick crowd of people in here, you would think it was our busiest day ever.
A few weeks ago, my sister Macy thought it would be a great idea for me to be a guest on one of her favorite internet shows, Murder, Mayhem, and Baking. She contacted the host, Morgan Buttonwood, and Morgan promptly agreed once Macy filled her in on my track record for hunting down killers.
It’s sort of an anomaly in my life. I can’t really help it, just like that little supernatural quirk of mine when it comes to reading minds.
My sweet cat named Fish jumps onto my lap just as a blonde comes at me with a makeup sponge, and someone yet unseen tugs at my head with a hairbrush from behind.
Macy says you’re going to be famous, Fish purrs.
A red and white freckled pooch runs up and barks. Fish wants to be famous, too. The red and white freckled pooch would be Sherlock Bones, who just so happens to be my sweet pooch. He’s a mixed breed handsome sweetheart that was a part of the package deal when I married the man of my dreams about six months ago.
Fish yowls and swipes his way. I do not want to be famous, and neither does Bizzy. She’s too humble for that. She has the inn to tend to. She’s the new owner around here. And the sales are slumping in the event you didn’t hear. She has far more important things to do than sit around all day being famous. She twitches her furry little face my way. What do famous people do, anyway?
“They sit around fanning themselves by the pool,” I whisper.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time—but it happens, and believe me, on occasion I wish I had the power to turn down the volume on my more than slightly nosy quirk. The last thing I need is to be distracted while I’m on the show. Of course, I can read the minds of animals, and they typically have better things to say than people.
Macy, my hot-to-trot sister, clip-clops over in her sky-high heels and tight little black dress. She’s more appropriately dressed for a nightclub than she is for an afternoon in the dead of winter. But then, she’s been looking to have her fifteen minutes of fame ever since she was a child, and I’ve tapped into her thoughts enough to know she’s secretly hoping she’ll have a spot on today’s show herself. Macy wears her blonde hair in a short bob and has a devilish gleam planted firmly in each of her cornflower blue eyes.
“Morgan said I could be the guest sous-chef!” she beams as she shakes her fists with the victory. Behind the scenes, of course, but you know what they say, you gotta work your way up from the bottom. Unless you’re my sister. Then you need to kill your way to the top—or front of the camera.
“That’s great. I think.” I shoot my sister a look. “Do you know the difference between a whisk and a spatula?”
“Do you?” She shoots me a look right back. If Macy is a pro at anything, she’s a pro at dishing it out.
“No, but I’m not the one who volunteered to help on a show that revolves around baking.”
It’s true. We might technically be the Baker sisters, but we are a far cry from anything useful when it comes to the kitchen. I burn everything I look at, and Macy doesn’t even know where the kitchen is located in her condo.
Fish mewls. Here comes trouble, she says with a lash of her tail, and I look up to see both Georgie Conner and my mother running this way.
“Did we miss it? Did we miss it?” Georgie screams as if she missed the last lifeboat leaving the Titanic.
Georgie Conner is an eighty-something-year-old hippie with a shock of gray hair—think Einstein but longer—adorable wrinkles, and devil-may-care blue eyes. She’s an artist who specializes in mosaics made out of sea glass, but lately she’s delved into what she refers to as wonky quilts, large triangular swaths of colorful fabrics stitched into quilts with raw edges. And they’re not just blankets. She’s made them into dresses, jackets, dog beds, and just about anything else she can market them as. A few months ago she and my mother went into business together and opened a shop right here on Main Street called Two Old Broads where they sell all things wonky. They can thank Macy for the wonky name of the place. And oddly, I think it’s a great name.
Mom leans in with her flaxen hair freshly curled and feathered circa nineteen eighty-something. Mom is petite, and pretty, and somehow forgot to age.
They both happen to be wearing one of Georgie’s wonky quilt dresses, primarily white with splashes of color in all sorts of patterns that abound. Georgie came into my life when my father married his umpteenth wife, Georgie’s daughter, Juniper Moonbeam.
Dad and Juni have long-since parted ways, but I like to say that I got George in the divorce. She lives right here on the grounds of the Country Cottage Inn and I’ve let her do so rent-free—mostly because she forgets to pay her rent.
“Bizzy”—Mom squeals with giddy delight—“I can’t believe this is happening for you. I just knew you’d be something special one day.” He expression flattens out. “I never thought it would be connected to murder, but you’ve always followed the beat of a different drummer.” A homicidal drummer.
“Of course, she does. She takes after me.” Georgie body checks my mother out of the way. “We’ve got news, Bizzy. Sales are nose-diving and the future isn’t looking so bright anymore. We’re going to have to chuck our shades if we don’t do something quickly or we’ll need a loan to pay our landlord. And something tells me he won’t be a pushover like some of the other landlords I know.”
“Would you stop?” Mom plucks Fish from my lap before shooting Georgie the stink eye. “Way to keep your word that we wouldn’t be burdening the girls with any of this. Bizzy is going on air in just a few minutes. She doesn’t need to worry about us.” Mom shakes her head my way. “Ignore her, Bizzy. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. It’s all a fabrication from her wild imagination,” she says as she navigates both Georgie and Macy away.
Georgie’s arms flail in my direction. “We’re on a sinking ship, Bizzy! We need a new shtick!”
A redhead makes her way over and plucks me from the clutches of the woman wielding the hairbrush and the woman wielding some lipstick as well.
“Hey there, I’m Fern Tuttle,” the redhead winks as she says it. She has clear green eyes and full pouty lips. There’s an overall easiness about her that exudes a sense of calm in this all-out melee that’s taken over the café. “I’m the production assistant and the only one who believes in sticking to a time table around here.” She leads me into the kitchen, which has been transformed into the grand hub of this production we’re about to dive into. “The show tapes in two half-hour increments with a short break in the middle. After that it will be up on the internet for everyone to view for all eternity. No pressure there.” A light laugh bubbles from her, but I’m not joining in on the effort.
I catch a glimpse of Morgan Buttonwood, the dark-haired woman who stars in this murder mystery spectacle, as she stands at the far end of the kitchen having what looks to be a heated discussion with a doe-eyed blonde. Actually, it’s the doe-eyed blonde that’s ranting and wildly gesticulating her limbs while Morgan looks a bit shell-shocked by the entire exchange.
“The blonde is Hollis Carrington,” Fern whispers. “She’s the executive producer. She’s the one that took Morgan from filming this all on her phone to the dog and pony show you see here. People hire her and her staff out all the time to up their production quality. If you ask me, it’s an expense Morgan didn’t need. Can the end user really tell the difference between a quality phone recording and a few extra lights they set up themselves compared to this? Probably not. Anyway, Morgan wants to go to the next level, so here we are.” Less money for all of us if you ask me. But then, Morgan never bothers to ask what I might think. Or what I might need. But she sure as hell knows what buttons to push. How dare she tell me she was going to keep me down for good. If I get my way, Morgan will be the one going down for good.
My eyes expand her way for a moment, and I give a loose smile.
“Stand here, and don’t move a muscle, Bizzy,” she says. “We’re going to start soon, and it’ll be over just as quickly as it began.” She positions me behind the kitchen island before pulling a teal water bottle from a tote bag on the floor. “This is Morgan’s. I’ll get you a glass of water, too.”
She takes off and I glance over to see the blonde woman, Hollis, telling the army of cameramen to prepare for action.
Morgan strides this way with what look to be tears glistening in her eyes and she quickly blinks them away.
That must have been one heck of a conversation.
I’m about to ask if everything is okay when a tall, stalky man with a pasty looking face, dark hair, and a dark goatee comes up and wraps his arms around her. He’s about her age, mid-twenties, decent looking, doughy body. He goes in for a kiss and she promptly turns her head to the side and he lands one on her cheek instead.
“Nothing like a little ice from the ice queen,” he says as he takes a step back. “Once you wrap this up, we’ll talk. I know you’re upset. You just need to hear me out. There’s a reasonable explanation, and it’s not what you think.”
Morgan opens her mouth and then closes it. Judging by her face, she looks mildly perplexed. “Okay, but I think we should wait until tonight. Trust me, I’ll be much more like myself then. I’m a little overwhelmed by all of this.”
“You? Overwhelmed?” He belts out a laugh. She’ll be overwhelmed, all right. Morgan might think she’s taking me down, but she’s the one that will be coming to an end. “I’ll be on the sidelines. Good luck, babe.” He takes off to the other side of the counter, and I can’t take my eyes off of him.
Did he just threaten to end her? And what about Fern’s cryptic words?
Why do I get the feeling something nefarious is about to go down? Most likely because I’ve got a white-hot spotlight already pointed at me. I’m probably misconstruing everything happening here today. I’m dizzy, slightly nauseated, and just want this to be over with already.
His ominous words send a chill down my spine, and yet Morgan doesn’t look affected in the least. Actually, she looks far more hurt with whatever Hollis was telling her.
Morgan steps up next to me and her sugary perfume lights up my senses.
Macy and Fern land a couple of mixing bowls a
nd ingredients before us onto the kitchen island as the frenetic energy in the room only seems to pick up speed.
Morgan takes a quick sip from her water bottle before giving a nervous smile my way.
“Are you ready to do this?” Her chest palpitates as if she were winded.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good.” She nods. I’m not ready. This was all a mistake. I never should have agreed to this. Goodness, I think I’m going to faint. And to think, this is what I thought I wanted. At least now I know my limits. It’s just like me to learn my lesson the hard way. She looks to the crowd of people gathered on the other side of the island. Who knew Hollis Carrington had such horrible things to say about my sister? I know one thing for certain—this production team won’t be here for the next taping of Murder, Mayhem, and Baking. Or at least Hollis Carrington won’t. When I tell my sister about what just transpired, Hollis Carrington might just be the next homicide victim spotlighted on this very travesty of a show. That is, unless, Hollis beats her to the killer punch first.
I take a quick breath at her dark thoughts just as the redhead, Fern, steps up along with my best friend, Emmie.
“Everything is ready,” Emmie says as she looks from Morgan to me. “I’ve got all the ingredients already measured out, and oh, the oven is preheated.” Emmie and I have known one another forever. We share the same black hair, denim blue eyes, and even the same first name, Elizabeth. But we eschewed our formal moniker long ago and have been going by our nicknames ever since. And not only is she engaged to Jasper’s best friend, but her wedding is coming up this June. “If you need anything at all, I’ll be right on the other side of this island. I can’t wait to taste these cookies, Morgan. They’re absolutely one of my favorites. Do you think I can use your recipe and feature the cookies with the guests at the inn this month?”
A Winter Tail of Woe Page 1