Bed and Breakfast and Murder (Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Patti Larsen

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing but was in no position to fight her. Not while a mix of shock and still threatening hysterical laughter bubbled in my stomach and threatened to spin me to the big sink where I could noisily throw up everything I’d ever eaten. Ever.

  “You don’t get to dictate—”

  Olivia’s smile slipped as she leaned in to the still protesting Crew.

  “You clean this up,” she hissed, all pretense gone, “and get that body out of here before the whole town sees it. And Petunia’s stays open. I mean it, Crew. You think I’ve been a hard ass since you took over? Think that parking dispute was any indication of how far I’ll go?” Um, what? “You haven’t seen anything yet.” She jerked on my arm slightly before seeming to realize what she’d done. Olivia’s dark brown eyes caught mine, not a trace of caring there. But she did care, at least for this town, and if her being a pit bull about tourism meant I stayed open…

  Crew knew he’d lost from the look of utter fury on his face. Again his eyes flickered to me. Did he blame me for this? Instead of commenting, he pushed past both of us, bellowing orders I barely caught as I sagged into the stool again while Olivia brushed at the front of her jacket.

  “You have an instant of trouble from that young man,” she said, “and you call my office immediately.”

  ***

  Chapter Seven

  She left me there, her previously unseen assistant hurrying after her, the petite young man in the precision suit that could have been from New York waving to me on the way by. I’d never even met him, but I waved back anyway.

  Did she control the media, too, our mayor? I could only believe that was the case because as the next hour unfurled with lengths of yellow police tape and a firm and unhappy speech from Crew to my guests about staying behind the line while the whispering gathering snapped photos of Pete Wilkins’s sheet covered body being wheeled out of my garden, not one reporter made an appearance.

  Well, Reading only had one reporter. But still.

  I stood off to one side as the bulk of the deputies left. By bulk, I mean two, leaving Robert Carlisle behind. My first cousin wasn’t my favorite person in the whole world—we’d spent enough rivalry energy as kids trying to make each other kiss dirt to really get along—and the fact he’d decided to pursue the career I’d always longed for didn’t endear him to me any.

  Especially because he told me at high school graduation the only reason he was going to the academy was because I couldn’t. Jerk.

  Rather than engage him in any kind of attempt to pretend I was civil right now, I stayed out of the way, unable to stop myself, however, from lingering near the police tape, staring into the pond where the three fat koi swam, a mix of horror and relief so at odds I was sure I was going to explode. So wrong to be grateful the hideous man was dead. And yet he was dead. On my property. What was he doing here? And when did he die? I’d poked around enough in forensics out of curiosity over the years it was pretty obvious he hadn’t been there long. A few hours? And what was that odd, round impression in the dirt next to the rock border of the pond? Not very big—about the circumference of the top of an old fashioned glass ketchup bottle and maybe an inch deep—but pretty obvious. Looked ridged, a near perfect mirror image to whatever left it there. Impossible to miss, really. Did the deputies photograph it? I had to clench my hands on my biceps to keep from moving closer to look.

  Okay, I might end up a suspect, but I didn’t kill him, so it was all good. And while the immediate issue was out of the way, he had to have heirs. Did that mean whoever inherited from him owned Petunia’s? Was it even a valid claim now? Who did I track down and shake really hard to find out?

  Hey, was that blood on that rock? I’d seen a faint trail of it in the water coming from the back of Pete’s head. Did it mean he’d slipped and fallen, that his death was an accident? Hang on, there was more blood. No, wait. Something red, though, dangling from Fat Benny’s gross fishy lips.

  “Robert.” I really didn’t want to talk to him but someone needed to know. “I think they missed something.”

  I pointed at the scrap of what looked like cloth, grimaced when my cousin leaned in around me, thumbs tucked in his belt and grinned past his ridiculous black mustache that made him look like a refugee from the 70’s disco scene.

  “You cracked the case, Fanny,” he said. “Guess we’ll have to take the fish in for questioning.”

  His guffawing laughter echoed back and forth between the main and carriage house as if to prove to me he was funny. The hated nickname he’d used against me like a weapon since we were five years old reverberated in my brain, setting off firework explosions of rage that likely did permanent damage. His attempt to rile me up as a kid with the obvious reference to my butt had turned into a sly maliciousness he’d never grown out of. I really needed to get out of there. I couldn’t keep my mind on one track for long. Punching Robert in the nose was probably not a great choice at this point. And looking back at the crime scene did me no favors. Not when it seemed like the long, smooth scuff at the base of the pond could have been the mark of an expensive boot sliding on the mud.

  “Miss Fleming.” I spun with a bit of a shriek, hands flying to cover my mouth, hating that I’d been caught not only snooping—I hadn’t realized I’d come to the edge of the police tape and was leaning in to look at the crime scene—but sounded guilty about it. About a lot of things. The sheriff didn’t look very understanding, either.

  “Sorry.” I backed up and leaped to one side when Petunia yelped, bent to massage her paw in apology for her, too. This morning needed to be over.

  “I don’t appreciate being told how to run my crime scene, Miss Fleming.” Crew crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw. So much for calling me Fee. “While I realize it’s not your fault,”—why did he sound like that was questionable?—“I’ll be leaving a deputy here to enforce the security of the scene. Just in case.”

  I nodded quickly. “Anything I can do, Sheriff.”

  His scowl didn’t lighten. “I think you’ve done enough.” That stink eye look. What the hell did that mean exactly? He just admitted the whole Olivia thing wasn’t on me. Tell me handsome and jerk didn’t go hand in hand in this case. Though, I had to admit, I was grateful for his attitude because it snapped me out of the fugue of weirdness and shock that had held me all morning.

  “Was it an accident?” I gestured behind me. “Looks like blood on the rock. There was more in the water. Slip marks in the mud could be from a man’s shoe.” Or smooth bottomed cowboy boot.

  When I turned back, Crew’s eyes had narrowed so far I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

  “Don’t mind my cousin,” Robert laughed. “She’s daddy’s girl. But she’s no detective, are you, Fanny?”

  If I could have committed murder, it would have been Robert’s right then.

  “If you want to be a police officer,” Crew said, “go to school. But being a sheriff’s daughter doesn’t qualify you to consult on my cases.”

  Double dose of jerk. Fine then, they could be that way. Except he was right, of course, and I was out of line. Except this was my life we were talking about. And I knew enough to be able to read evidence. Guess I had to keep that to myself from now on.

  From now on? Like a trail of murders was going to haunt me the rest of my life and make this a common problem or something. Seriously.

  “Any idea what Mr. Wilkins was doing on your property?”

  And there it was. The elephant in the room question I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me. Not like I got a chance to answer it, anyway. Not with the most helpful and thoughtful of best friends in the world who, with a beaming smile and a breathless, wide eyed grasp at Crew’s sleeve, stabbed me in the heart and the back with one bright, cheerful statement.

  “He said he was Petunia’s new owner,” Daisy said. “Showed up yesterday with papers and everything.” I almost groaned. “Isn’t that right, Fee?”

  Crew’s arched eyebrows told me
everything I needed to know. I’d just graduated from pain in his ass to Fiona Fleming, suspect numero uno.

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  The hard, wooden seat across from the big, wooden table in the small, wooden room hurt my butt. About as much as knowing Daisy, as sweet as she was and as hard as she tried, had not only tossed me to the wolf that Crew had turned into, but had done so with a smile on her face and not a trace of awareness she’d thrown my carcass under the bus.

  My suffering cheeks sighed as I shifted and tried to get more comfortable while the blah blah blah of the sheriff’s voice washed over me. Because the questions he asked me? Yeah, I’d heard them three times already and stammered through answers all three times, thanks.

  I wasn’t an idiot. My dad was sheriff for years of this small town and I’d watched enough bad TV to know this kind of pushy, bossy and endlessly wearying tactic was meant to make me break down and cry or confess or something equally stupid. Except I had a secret weapon. See, the five years I’d lived with my lawyer boyfriend, I’d learned how to block him out when he went off on his arrogant spiels about people and things that I didn’t give a crap about. Just tuned his ass out completely and thought about things that mattered to me. Even learned to nod and grunt at appropriate moments, so honestly? Being questioned by Crew Turner wasn’t that big a deal.

  From the increasing redness of his face and the way his shoulders had bunched, he knew he wasn’t getting through to me the way he would have liked, though. I wasn’t intentionally trying to piss him off. I just didn’t know how else to tell him I hadn’t drowned that jerk Wilkins in my koi pond regardless of the means, motive and opportunity Crew seemed to think made me his main and only suspect.

  “Let’s get this straight, for the record.” I tuned back in because it sounded for a moment like he might finally be wrapping up. But nope, not really. Just reiterating what I said in prep for another round of Fiona Fleming, heartless murderer. “You were presented with paperwork that cedes ownership of your B&B by the victim less than twenty-four hours before finding him dead in your back yard—”

  “Garden,” I muttered for the fourth time because he didn’t get the terminology the first three and why, oh why was it men didn’t know how to listen?

  “—and have no idea how it happened, who killed him or why he died in your pond. Nor do you have an alibi aside from sleeping because no one saw you doing it.” He sounded like he believed me. Not. I opened my mouth to protest and his index finger shot into the air, a hissing intake of breath silencing me. “Correction. Aside from your pug, Petunia.”

  Well, maybe he was listening and was being purposely obtuse. That was worse.

  I shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I couldn’t just produce an alibi I didn’t have. “I got up this morning, went upstairs, Petunia went out. She barked, I went to check on her. Someone screamed. And boom.”

  “Boom.” Crew sounded less than pleased with my choice of terminology but I was honestly at the end of my own patience by now.

  “Splash?” It’s not that I wasn’t taking this seriously, but I was frankly tired and honestly this was insane.

  Crew’s left eye twitched.

  “I hadn’t even seen a lawyer about the papers,” I said, sitting forward, trying to diffuse this if I could. “Why would I kill a total stranger who made such a wild claim when I hadn’t even confirmed the man wasn’t a raving lunatic?”

  That made Crew pause at least. You know the worst part of all this? Even being a jerk to me, he was still hot with those deep blue eyes and that wavy black hair and the way he filled out his jeans like there was a lot more to him than a pretty face.

  Leave it to me to lust over the very person who thought I was a deranged murderer. But it had been over a month since I slapped Ryan across the face for cheating on me and stormed out of our apartment in New York City. A girl had needs.

  Someone slammed a door in the main room of the sheriff’s office, just outside Crew’s personal space. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist—or the booming command that clearly reached my wincing ears—to figure out who had come storming in just then.

  Crew’s door hit the wall about two seconds later, a small framed photo shaking free from its nail to crash to the floor, glass shattering outward in glittering protest to such treatment. I knew exactly how it felt. I turned, returning circulation in one butt cheek making me flinch as I glanced up and into Dad’s furious face.

  “Fiona,” he said, not looking at me, staring Crew down. “We’re leaving. Now.”

  I stood, old habit. I was my own girl, don’t get me wrong. But an early lifetime of doing as my father said wasn’t something I forgot. And besides, I was so ready to go.

  “I’m not done questioning the suspect.” Crew wasn’t as loud as Dad, but he was just as firm.

  “The suspect,” Dad snarled, “is lawyering up.” He shot me a look that could have set fire to a soggy woodpile. “If she hasn’t already.”

  Whoops. Hadn’t I just tried to convince myself I wasn’t an idiot? That tuning him out was my best defense? I clearly needed a careful head examination, because I freaking knew better. What was I thinking? That Crew’s cuteness meant he wouldn’t charge me with murder? That my innocence would protect me? Jeeze, what was wrong with me?

  I moved toward Dad in a jerking motion of utter shock, the chair squealing on the wooden floor as I pushed it out of the way with one thigh. Glass crunched under my sneakers, but I was the only one who seemed disturbed by that fact. The two men didn’t even glance my way, testosterone flaring between them while the ex-sheriff and his replacement did battle with a pair of steely gazes that actually shook me out of my shock at my own foolishness and instead made me want to smack both of them.

  And made my heart stop for the briefest of moments as I realized I hadn’t killed Pete Wilkins. But my dad…?

  Where was Dad last night?

  No, no way. Absolutely not. I rushed to his side, grasped one hand, tugged while my traitor brain gasped at the thought that tracked from start to horrifying finish. He’d been pissed, furious, over the top angry. Rushed out of the house after reading and then crumpling the paperwork. And Mom wouldn’t talk about their history, his and Pete’s, but it was obvious they had a story that left a lot of bad blood between them. But my father was a police officer for the majority of his life. He would never kill anyone. Not in a way that would get him caught.

  Or do so in a way that set up his own daughter for murder.

  Fiona Fleming. You stop that right now.

  “Dad.” He looked down at me at last. “You’re right. I want a lawyer.” I fixed Crew with my best Fleming stare, no match for the real thing standing next to me but at least we were a united front. “I’m done answering your questions.”

  Crew grunted but backed off. Looked like it hurt. “Don’t leave town, Miss Fleming.”

  “Where exactly do you think I’m going?” Okay, now I was jacked and you know what? So done thinking this jerk was even remotely attractive. “And can you tell me what single scrap of evidence you have beside the fact the victim was trying to steal my place of business and happened to have the very bad taste to die in my koi pond,” Dad snarled at me to shut up but screw that, “and probably poisoned them in the process? You got nada, and we both know it. Because I didn’t kill him. And, from what I saw at the scene? Dude slipped in the mud, hit his damned head and drowned his fool self. So you’d better have some excellent evidence the next time you come after me.”

  So there.

  “I’ll bear your expert crime scene forensics evaluation in mind,” Crew said.

  Why did I get the impression he was being sarcastic?

  I led the way out, totally done with this entire train wreck that my day had turned into. I caught the sorrowful expression on Toby Miller’s face, Dad’s former secretary—now Crew’s—clearly miserable about the whole thing. But the middle-aged woman who’d been like a second mom when I was
small refused to meet my eyes and scrambled for her desk the instant we appeared so I let her have her retreat. Besides, I was a bit distracted when the main door opened and two people stormed in.

  The elegantly dressed, dark haired woman wore sunglasses, the young man a scowl, neither looking in Toby’s direction but both staring down Dad like he was public enemy number one. The woman seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her but cut myself some slack. It had been a heck of a morning and I hadn’t lived here in ten years, after all. Still, something in me said I should know who she was.

  Dad stepped aside, pulling me toward him as the pair strode past us and directly into Crew’s office, stopping his exit and slamming the door behind them. So no goodbye from the sheriff then?

  Toby turned her back on us and I heard a distinctive sniffle from her direction. Dad paused, hurt and worry on his face an instant, a crack forming in the ever present Fleming façade of stone and stern. And then he moved on, stomping past me and out into the late morning sunshine.

  Free, if only for the time being, I sighed at the weight that settled over me, the weariness that I still had work to do and questions to answer—and a father’s whereabouts to worry about—and followed him outside.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  It was so bright outside and the interior of the station so dark I had to blink into the sunlight for a second and, in that moment, ran right into the immovable object that was my dad. He’d come to a halt on the top step and caught me as I squeaked, keeping me upright while I rubbed my nose, sore from the impact with his chest.

  “Seriously, warn a girl,” I said.

  Dad’s hand settled around mine and he led me down the steps, longer legs hard to keep up with. I hated that I felt like a little kid running beside her father but that was basically what it amounted to as he dragged me down the street. Dad had stayed fit over the years, not gone to a pot belly like a lot of older men in his generation, so he still felt like the person I was a bit afraid of when I was young. I was imagining the stares and whispers of people we passed, wasn’t I?