Fame and Fortune and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  Maybe I could call her and see if she was free…? The only other person I’d considered for the job, the girl I’d first known as Paisley—then Jenny—turned out to be a multiple murderer and insane to boot, so Daisy was definitely at the top of my hiring chart.

  As I blinked into the dimness of the front entry, a familiar face—speak of the angel and she shall appear—beamed at me from behind the podium we used as a front desk. Daisy waved before circling toward me, Petunia heaving herself up for a hug. My best friend lifted the pug into her arms, cradling her on one hip like a toddler, Petunia’s favorite position, and kissed her wrinkled brow. But any thought I might have had Daisy was here to rescue me faded at the sight of her blue jeans and plaid shirt tied over her pink tank top, thick hair in two low pigtails over her shoulders, ends curled in perfect coils. Even in casual attire Daisy was the bomb.

  The squawk of the walkie talkie hooked to her belt told me she wasn’t here for me.

  “Isn’t it exciting, Fee?” Daisy gushed while scooting sideways to let a tall young man in a dark suit carry a big, black case into the kitchen. I gaped after him but didn’t say anything, wondering how the Jones sisters were coping with the intrusion. The two elderly ladies who’d worked first for my grandmother and now for me didn’t like change and this was liable to give them both a stroke. “Willow Pink here at Petunia’s!”

  “Awesome,” I muttered, only now noticing the footprints of dirt in my entry carpet, the trailing cables and piles of luggage, the way the banister to the second and third floor had turned into a coat rack and that my front sitting room had somehow converted into a disaster of miscellaneous junk I couldn’t identify.

  I’m not a neat freak. Or I wasn’t until I inherited Petunia’s. Mind you, I’ve never been messy, not really, but a bit of dirt didn’t bother me all that much. I have no idea why, as my brain absorbed affront after insult after injury to my place, the temperature inside the foyer seemed suddenly about that of the surface of the sun or why I couldn’t breathe except through my open mouth. And that if I didn’t get out of there right freaking now I was going to punch someone.

  Anyone.

  Daisy must have seen the warning signs, because Olivia was long gone and couldn’t care less, from all the caution she took making sure my business wasn’t treated like a trash heap. My best friend set Petunia down very slowly before grasping my upper arms in her hands and shaking me ever so slightly, gray eyes locked on mine. All I could see while spots danced and I fought for air were the giant pupils, the perfectly made up lashes, the intensity of her worry.

  “Fee,” she said. “Inhale.”

  Right. Breathing was important.

  “Exhale.” She demonstrated and I followed suit. “Again.” I nodded, breathed. “Out.” And let go of all the stress of this horrifically wretched happenstance. We must have looked like we were practicing Lamaze or something, but I didn’t care. Though, when she released me, while my panicked overdrive descent into losing my ever loving mind was over, my temper hadn’t faded.

  Not even a little bit.

  “I’ll take care of all this,” Daisy said when I opened my mouth to fire off orders to clean up my B&B or so help me GOD. Reading my mind again, that Daisy. “I promise. It’s my job.” She beamed then, curtsied a little. “I’m a P.A., Fee! That’s production assistant.” She winked then, tipped her hip so her noisy radio was more visible. “Olivia got me the job. Isn’t it great?”

  She didn’t want to know what I thought right at this moment. She really, really didn’t. But as she turned and started barking orders to the crew of people lugging things into my place, I stepped past her with Petunia in tow and watched a moment while she quickly and efficiently snapped her whip and sorted out the entry.

  I’m pretty sure Daisy’s job was entry level. And that a P.A. didn’t have the authority to push around some of the people she was bossing in her charismatic and adorable way. But from their startled looks and instant obedience, they knew she didn’t know that. Or they thought she was someone they needed to listen to. I didn’t care, sagged against the sideboard where the reservation computer hummed softly, and wished I hadn’t gotten out of bed this morning.

  It would be okay, I knew that. And my reaction to the whole mess startled me. I had no idea I’d become so hidebound and shortsighted, so, well. Old. Crankypants. This was a cool thing, honestly. I was a big Willow Pink fan. Her husband, Skip Anderson not so much, but only because I didn’t like football. But I was well aware the two most famous people to come out of Reading had more than enough fans they didn’t need me or my approval to be successful.

  This was going to be good for our town. I could suck it up, maybe take advantage of the fact they stayed here and call it a win. And stop acting like I was turning into one of the Jones sisters. Shudder.

  Daisy smiled and waved to me, making a “ta-da!” gesture of the magician’s most lovely assistant while she directed her symphony of equipment. It looked like she had truly found something she loved to do at last. While she’d spent a month waiting tables at the Harp and Thorn, our local Irish imitation tourist trap pub, and another as a barista at Sammy’s Coffee, she’d left both with a hangdog expression and come back to me for a bit before trying again. It was nice to see her happy.

  Grumble, how could she leave me, mumble, growl, grump.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  I busied myself with non-existent paperwork and had to admit, a short ten minutes later, the foyer looked about as good as it was getting without a solid vacuuming. The crew disappeared out the front door, slamming it shut and I grit my teeth against the sound instead of yelling because I was a good little host. Tempting to start a list and send repairs off to Olivia, but instead I sighed and looked down at Petunia. Still on her leash and in her harness, she lay at my feet, chin on my toes, looking like a fawn sausage tied up to keep her liquid skin from running off.

  I wasn’t about to admit I’d forgotten her in my huffiness. Besides, she didn’t ever seem to care as long as she was with me. Just made the guilt worse, really, not better.

  “Snack?” She perked immediately, heaved to her feet. No, I was not above bribing her to assuage my own regrets. I slipped into the kitchen, feeling a bit sick to my stomach in reaction to all the massive emotion I’d gone through the past little while. My expectations and my reality had collided in a massive explosion that I realized I just needed a few minutes and a giant slice of chocolate something to get over.

  Betty and Mary, the aforementioned Jones sisters, were nowhere in sight. Since the kitchen was Betty’s domain, I was surprised to find her missing, especially at midday. Typically she’d be prepping for afternoon tea, though I suppose she must have assumed that special offering to the townsfolk had to be cancelled considering the pending influx of our special guests. Everything seemed in order, though, so it didn’t look like either of them imploded over this turn of events.

  I’d take wins wherever I could find them.

  I headed for the fridge and the bowl of fresh cut strawberries I kept for Petunia, pausing and staring with my head tilted as someone slipped past the kitchen windows and peeked in before the handle to the back door turned in slow motion. It eased open, the intruder obviously aware they weren’t welcome, and I set the bowl down and crossed my arms over my chest, toe tapping the floor in irritation, while Pamela Shard’s blonde head popped in. She scanned the room, missing me and my pug entirely, likely thanks to the huge light difference between glaring sunshine and gloomy interior. With a faintly deceptive grin like a kid sneaking out after dark, she slipped inside and softly closed the door behind her. I swear she tiptoed. Seriously.

  “Pamela.” She jumped when I said her name, squealing in an uncharacteristic show of nerves, grasping at the air before her with both hands, held in front of her to ward off some imagined attack.

  “Fee.” The one and only newspaper reporter in Reading panted as she laughed out her dose of fear, like my scowl and temper weren’t s
omething to be afraid of. Hey, I was a force to be reckoned with, better believe it. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Breaking and entering is a felony,” I said like that mattered to her, turning my back on her to fetch the strawberries, feeling like I’d lost my edge or something. Wow, I really was grumpy. Petunia didn’t even say hello to Pamela, the word “snack” holding her captive for as long as it took me to utter that suggestion and then get around to feeding her. One track mind, my pug.

  I knew how she felt. I really had to shake my inner curmudgeon before it did permanent damage.

  “Now, Fee,” Pamela said, coming to join me where I sank to a stool with a bowl the one hand, the pug eagerly licking her chops at my feet. The chill of the ceramic felt good on my hand, soothing all of me in a strange way. Familiarity? Okay, now I really did need to shake this off because I refused to fall into routine and mediocrity. “We’re friends, right? You won’t tell Olivia I’m here?”

  That request surprised me. So she wasn’t sneaking around to get past me? “She’s chased you off?” Weird. “I’d think she’d want local press to have first go.”

  Pamela shrugged, her bob shining in the low light, gaze flickering to the door to the foyer. “I’m not sure she has that much say in the matter. And besides, she’s a bit out of sorts.” She laughed like Olivia’s discomfort gave her pleasure. “With the gas leak and her plans in a kerfuffle, she’s keeping everyone at arm’s length.” Pamela helped herself to some strawberry before offering a piece to the groaning pug. Petunia licked her fingers, whites of her eyes showing as her fat little rump scooted sideways on the tiles in her excitement.

  “Where’s the rest of the press?” Yes, that came out snappy. Hmmm. Maybe I needed to just embrace my inner cranky old lady instead of fighting her off.

  Pamela’s eyes sparkled, lips twisting in delight. “Still at the lodge,” she giggled before snorting to a stop. “Such a shame no one told them Olivia snuck Willow and Skip out the back while the crew met us here.”

  “Us?” My bad mood faded at her obvious cleverness.

  “Well, Olivia finally agreed to let me come so I wouldn’t shout out our location to the whole lobby,” she said. “But when we got here the turncoat sent me off with a warning.”

  “Which you clearly listened to.” I sighed and had a strawberry slice too. Petunia looked up at me like I’d killed her best friend, not sampled her snack. “You do realize I have to live with this situation for as long as it lasts?”

  Pamela shrugged. “Just two days,” she said, perking my world a bit. “The fabulous duo have to be out by Monday.”

  “I can’t let you in,” I said, real regret waking but not enough to cut her slack. Petunia’s came first, and that meant keeping Olivia happy. To a point.

  Pamela’s smile told me she understood. “Just keep me posted if anything juicy comes up.” Like her anonymous source during their stay would be construed as anyone but me. Which suddenly made me nervous while she turned and headed for the door, waving on her way out.

  Damn it, anything she published meant trouble. The whole town would assume I was guilty of spying or sharing secrets or… crap. Just craptastic nastyass grossness on a stick.

  Grumpy old lady sounded perfect right about now.

  ***

  Chapter Five

  The kitchen door swung inward and I tensed, expecting the depressing and judging pair of elderly ladies who ran my place to come galumphing into my presence and demand I do something. Well, Mary, anyway. Betty never, ever talked to me. I wondered sometimes if she even spoke a word to her sister or what reason she might have to hold her silence the way she did.

  Who knew? Maybe it was just me.

  Instead, a tall and handsome drink of water paused uncertainly just inside the kitchen threshold, his dark hair over his brow, eyes scanning the room, all broad shouldered and narrow hipped and hiding muscles inside that custom suit of his.

  Down girl. But it had been almost a year since I slapped my ex-boyfriend, Ryan Richards, for cheating and stormed out of our apartment, leaving New York and my sex life behind. The delectable and frustrating Sheriff Crew Turner and his yummy factor aside, this was the first encounter I’d had with anyone I’d even consider having a drink with who wasn’t on a TV show I obsessed over.

  The pickings were slim in these here parts.

  “Hello?” His voice had that warm, mellow tone of someone who’d had some kind of vocal training. When he spotted me his face lit up, a delicious smile the likes I’d not seen in an age washing over that strong jawline, lifting those full lips, making those high cheekbones stand out under the darkness of his eyes.

  “Can I help you?” Wow, impressive. I could speak and didn’t sound like I’d just had a stroke from his awesome gorgeousness turning me to jelly. Which I think was a definite possibility if Mr. Yummypants came any closer.

  That didn’t stop him from moving, did it? Not that I did anything to stop him. He glided his definitely a ten star rating worthy body a few steps toward me, one big hand extended in greeting, eyes never leaving mine in that way that told me I was the center of his particularly fantastic attention.

  Ahem.

  “You must be Fiona?” He made it a question, still smiling as Petunia, her treat devoured, realized pats were likely in the offering and turned toward his voice. She huffed herself to her feet, trotting to greet him, sinking to her butt next to his shiny black shoes.

  There are two kinds of people in this world as far as I’m concerned. The good kind who love animals and small children and treat other people with respect and kindness. Nice folk with souls who actually have the potential for acts of generosity that inspire awe and genuine adoration.

  The other kind? I don’t have time for them.

  His test, like everyone else I encountered while pug encumbered, was Petunia. The way he instantly sank to his haunches from that more than six foot height, how he grinned and made cutesy noises while he gently rubbed her ears until she groaned did a lot more for his image and attractiveness than that expensive haircut and suit.

  When he looked up at me again his whole being smiled. “She’s adorable,” he said. “My mom had pugs. Best dogs ever.”

  I didn’t care if he was married—not from the empty ring finger on his right hand—or dating—move over, sister—that man was mine. Okay, no, I wasn’t that girl and would never be that girl, not after being on the other end of what that girl was capable of. But seriously? The Universe had to give me this one. It owed me after the jackass who was Ryan Richards.

  “Did you need something?” It was that monotone, standard question or beg him to marry me, so stuffy formal it was.

  He didn’t seem to mind, standing up and nodding. “I’m part of the security team,” he said. “Just checking in. Showing my face. Carter Melnick.” He held out one hand again and I stood there, frozen a moment, realizing I still hadn’t done him the courtesy of shaking it, because that was the polite thing to do. But wait. He wanted me to touch him and not tear his clothes off? Because I knew he smelled delicious. No I couldn’t actually smell him yet, but he had that look about him. He had to. Like chocolate probably, mixed with really good coffee and the deep muskiness that made men so tasty you wanted a big, hearty bite.

  The second I made contact with his skin and caught his scent I’d be embarrassing the hell out of myself and there’d be no explaining away my patheticness.

  Somehow I found myself floating across the tile and taking his hand anyway, as if I wasn’t in control of my body. Exactly what I was afraid of, really. But instead of transforming into a lust monkey and hooting my passionate mating cry, I simply shook his hand like a normal person. Go me.

  Just as I thought, warm and strong, and his cologne? Oh. My. God. Dear Lord, take me now.

  My salvation from my devolution into panting patheticness came in the form of another man, this one still handsome but older, and with that kind of jaded and overdone look that told me he’d been in Hollywood
too long. His gaze, judging if ever I’d seen it behind dark hazel eyes, swept over me and Carter and then back to me while Petunia marched to his side, sat and growled up at him like he’d offended her by leaving her out of his perusal.

  “Mr. Parker.” Carter’s entire attitude shifted instantly, from kind greeting to professional on the job. “This is Miss Fleming, our host.”

  “Charming.” Disdain had a scent to it, one that curdled my blood. Whoever this jerk face thought he was, no one talked to me like that in my place.

  “Fiona Fleming.” I shoved my hand in the newcomer’s direction and, after observing it a moment, he took it, shook it with the kind of limp disinterest that got my back up all over again. I should have been grateful he rescued me from my hormones. Instead, I just wanted to kick his ass out of Petunia’s.

  “Julian Parker,” he said in his droll and slightly tenor tone, wrinkling his nose—was that makeup? He was wearing makeup?—as he perused the kitchen like it offended his precious baby sensibilities, the darling little flower. Snarl. “Willow Pink’s manager. I’m here to inspect the premises to ensure things are up to the level of comfort to which she’s accustomed.”

  I smiled, forcing it onto my face. “And I’m here to make sure you’re up to my level of guest,” I said. “Trust me, you piss me off, Jules? Your asses are out of my B&B and you can all sleep on the sidewalk.” Because grumpy had its uses and Olivia could suck it.

  “I don’t have to take that kind of attitude from someone like you,” he said without even the good grace to look angry.

  Oh, no he did not. “I’m not sure if you’re aware,” I said, “but you have the following alternatives.” I ticked them off on my fingers while Carter stood silently next to me, not caring even a little what he thought at the moment. “Let’s see. There’s the corporate chain motel on the highway. Oh, but they have a bedbug problem, forgot about that.” That made him flinch. “There’s the shifty little inn a town over.” Cantwell. Yucksville. “Except no one will stay there twice because the owners recycle food and go through guest’s belongings when they aren’t there.” Julian stared at me in utter horror. “Finally, there’s always slow death by gas inhalation at the lodge. Or Petunia’s. Thing is, I just might be full after all. Depends entirely on you, Mr. Parker.”