Stormy Day Mysteries 5-Book Cozy Murder Mystery Series Bundle

by Angela Pepper

  “Of course Stormy likes jewelry,” Jinx was saying to her brother. “Just because she doesn't wear a ton of it doesn't mean she doesn't want a ring.”

  A ring? I couldn't have pried myself away from that hollow-core door if it had been crawling with black widow spiders.

  “I don't know,” Logan said. “She values her independence, and that's one of the things I love about her.”

  “All the more reason to get married,” Jinx said. “Two strong people can make a strong bond. That's what Grandma told me to tell you. Also, she says most people treat money like it's limited and time like it's not, and that's what wrong with the world.”

  “Huh? But time is money.”

  “Says the lawyer,” Jinx said with a giggle. “But seriously. Sorry I don't have a box for it, but here you go. It's official. We Sandersons don't have much in the way of family jewels, but what we do have, you're now in charge of. Grandma can't wear it anymore, and it would make her so happy to see Stormy wearing it when you go visit her.”

  “But we don't even have a date set for me to bring her out to see the family.”

  “You'd better get busy planning,” Jinx said. “Grandma's not going to be around forever. She says the angels have been visiting her bedside.”

  “Grandma's been saying that for years.”

  There were footfalls and then banging in the kitchen. Their voices got softer as they moved further away from the hall, but I could still hear them if I pressed my ear against the door.

  Logan asked his sister, “You don't think it's too soon? We haven't even been dating a year.”

  “What do you want? I mean deep down, sky's the limit, what do you want from Stormy?”

  “Everything,” he answered without hesitation.

  Everything. My heart felt like it was skipping jump rope.

  “Then give her the ring and propose, you big dummy.” There was a break in the conversation as they moved things around in the kitchen. “What's the hold up? Why are you making that face?”

  “I'm worried that I'm going to let her down.”

  “Then don't let her down.”

  “Jinx, she almost died. I should have been there. I'm such an idiot, making her go to a barn dance without me just because I don't dance.”

  “You couldn't have known,” she said soothingly. “You can't protect her from everything.”

  “Then what's the point in trying to be her husband?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She doesn't need me,” Logan said. “Not even half as much as I need her.”

  “So?”

  There was a long pause. The television came on, and I heard the ditzy local weather girl talking about the snowfall warning in effect for that night.

  Logan answered his sister's question, but I couldn't make out the words over the television. Maybe it was for the best. I already felt like a dirty private eye for listening in on their private conversation.

  It took considerable effort for me to walk back down the stairs, toss the mitten in the dryer, and turn it on. With the machine running, I definitely wouldn't be able to hear any more of the talk.

  I walked back upstairs and into our side of the house feeling like I was floating on a cloud.

  I couldn't stop smiling.

  Jessica thought my good mood was from a day of sledding and fresh air followed by hot cocoa. And that was definitely part of it.

  But I was also smiling because Jinx, who I barely knew, had all but welcomed me into the family. And now Logan had a ring with which to plan a proposal.

  And soon I would be able to tell him he was wrong.

  Smart as he was, he was wrong.

  I wanted to be with him every bit as much as he needed me. My last engagement hadn't ended well, but my life had changed a lot in the last year. This time it would be different.

  Author's Note for Stormy Day

  Dear reader with exquisite style and taste:

  You've just finished reading Stormy Day Book 5. As of the writing of this note, I've just finished writing Stormy Day Book 5. What a coincidence! Ha-ha.

  Now I'm enjoying my husband's reactions as he reads Death of a Double Dipper. The lucky guy gets to read all my books even before they go to the editor. For a few days, it's a secret shared by only the two of us. I love hearing his reactions and his laughter to the funny parts. This afternoon he cried out, “Hey, it's the first page and someone's already been murdered!” And then, an hour later, “Hey, it's Piper Chen! Neat!” These are exactly the kind of reactions I hope readers will have, so I'm glad to hear that my devious plans are working. (In case you didn't catch that little Easter egg, both Piper Chen and the House of Hallows books are connected to one of my other series, from the book Interview with a Ghost.)

  Soon, this book will be published and the secrets of its contents will be shared by more and more people. I won't be there to hear you laugh out loud or gasp in horror, but I like to imagine the sounds you'll make and perhaps the unpleasant chores you'll blow off to stay home snuggled up with Stormy and friends. Thank you, dear reader, for bringing the story to life in your imagination, for being the other person at the end of this connection we have through the written word.

  When I was a kid, my first friends were authors. Most people who love books will say the characters were their friends, or the books themselves, but I always felt a connection to that invisible person who dreamed up the story in the first place. From a very young age, I knew that all stories were made up. For example, I didn't ever believe that Santa Claus was real. (Perhaps my parents didn't try to hard enough to sell me on the idea.) Understanding that all stories were made up by authors only helped me enjoy them more. I knew that L. Frank Baum wasn't really the Royal Historian of Oz, but I loved how he would pretend he was, adding yet another layer of magic and whimsy to the series.

  I'm an author today because I can't imagine anything else I'd rather be. There are tough days, for sure. I'm an “indie” author, which means I have a ton of freedom, along with an equal amount of responsibilities. These are interesting times for authors. It's not easy, but I'm grateful that it's possible. As a kid, I didn't dare plan on becoming an author, because I didn't think it was practical. But now, technology and innovative companies have made it possible for story-dreamers like me to share our secrets with the world. How amazing is that?!

  The best part about being an author is that some days I'm not even myself at all. I get to be Stormy Day, private investigator and consumer of gas station hot dogs. There are times, when I'm deep into writing a novel, that I catch sight of my reflection in a mirror and I'm startled to find that I'm not actually Stormy Day, or Zara Riddle, or Piper Chen. Ah, but don't worry about my sanity too much. I've asked around, and I hear from other authors that it's not unusual for us to dream our character's dreams. That is, after all, the whole point of books. Through stories, we live more lives than our own. We enjoy our character's friendships, sit with them through tragedy, and then stand and share in their triumph. Reading is more than just an escape; reading makes our lives richer and deeper.

  A reader once asked me if I crack myself up when I'm writing. The truth is, not usually. Honestly, the look on my face! I feel sorry for anyone who has to look at me while I'm working. I'm usually intensely focused on having my characters act honestly. Dialog or actions might come out funny, but my intention is never to make something funny. However, there are some instances where I laugh out loud while writing. With this book, the part that made me chuckle the most was near the end, where Stormy describes all the funny places where Jeffrey's chewed-up bit of leather has been turning up, including her lap. My fellow pet lovers, we've all been there, am I right? My husband hasn't reached that part of the book yet, but I'll know when he gets there, because he'll probably have to put the e-reader down for a minute to regain control over himself. I hope it was the same for you, or that some other part spoke to you and helped release some emotions.

  Now I'm off to begin work on my
next book. I've got a name, Watchful Wisteria, and plenty of ideas. Chapter One, blank page, we meet again. I've no idea where these new daydreams will take me, but I hope you'll tag along.

  Thank you for your support and all the giggles.

  Love, Angela

  BONUS BOOK: Wisteria Witches by Angela Pepper

  "Best debut paranormal romance / witch cozy mystery series of the year!"

  "Witches and spells and shifters, oh my! I love the characters and the incredible urban fantasy setting in this book!"

  "A vivid tale of modern witches with a wicked-good mystery."

  "Characters you want as your new best friends and a magical house you want to move into."

  DESCRIPTION: Zara Riddle moves to the town of Wisteria for a dream job as a librarian. She hasn't even unpacked her moving boxes when she and her teen daughter, Zoey, are swept up in a murder mystery. With all the ghosts and supernatural creatures around (including a real hunk of a wolf shifter! meow!) it's a good thing the Riddle women are tougher than they look. Now, if only they could handle their new witch powers as well as they've mastered their sarcastic wit!

  WISTERIA WITCHES is a complete, full-length novel.

  File under: paranormal romance, witch mystery, cozy murder mystery, romantic comedy, female detective, amateur sleuth, mystery series.

  Turn the page to begin reading this book.

  Chapter 1

  The real estate agent didn't say anything about the house coming with a ghost. You really should get a discount for something like that. Some people would be willing to pay extra to get a genuine ghost, but I'm not one of those people. I already have enough going on with my supernatural powers.

  My name is Zara Riddle, and I am a witch. Shocker, right? Tell me about it! I only just found out myself.

  I spent the first thirty-two years of my life not knowing I was a witch. Everything changed the day I moved across the country to a quaint little town I'd never heard of before: Wisteria.

  It was a bright spring day, and my daughter and I had just arrived at our new home. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the property, grinning like a ding-dong. The home was a gorgeous three-story Victorian Gothic, painted red. The pale purple and pink blossoms of the wisteria vines twisting along the front porch accented the bright gingerbread detail on the adorable house that was now mine, mine, mine.

  Here I was, trading my big-city life for modest dreams, such as getting to know my neighbors. With the world tilting toward conflict and chaos and so much despair on the evening news, it felt natural to seek refuge somewhere smaller. Somewhere people got involved and looked out for each other. But not too small for a good bakery. I'm impulsive, not crazy.

  “Mom, close your mouth and stop staring,” my daughter said as she pinched my arm. “For the millionth time, you're not dreaming. Now move your butt and help me with the boxes before these moving truck pirates charge us for overtime.”

  “Where are the guys now?”

  “Using the washroom,” she said. “The one guy keeps gushing about the claw-foot tub. What's the big deal? It's an old tub with weird chicken feet.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “People pay extra for tubs with weird chicken feet.”

  She scowled. “He'd better not be taking a bath up there and charging us for his time.”

  “So much concern!” I ruffled her bright-red hair. My daughter was usually optimistic, yet she hadn't said anything positive about her new house. “Stop worrying about the movers and tell me which bedroom you picked.”

  She ducked away with annoyance and smoothed her hair. “Let's get the moving done first. We need to get everything inside the house before I go to school.”

  “Zoey, it's Saturday. Unless things are very unconventional here in Wisteria, you don't start at your new school until Monday.”

  She rolled her eyes the way only a teenager talking to her exasperating mother can. I'd been seeing the whites of her eyes so much I'd nearly forgotten the irises were hazel, the same as mine.

  “Mo-o-om,” she moaned, dragging it out to three syllables. “I told you. Since we don't have a car anymore, I need to walk to the school today and figure out the best route so I'm not late on Monday.”

  “Okay, gotcha,” I said, walking around to the back of the moving truck. “I should count my blessings that I'm the owner of the only sixteen-year-old who actually wants to go to school.”

  She jumped up into the truck and started handing me boxes. “I'm not sixteen until tomorrow, and you're not my owner.” Another eye roll, but at least she was smiling.

  “People who have pets are called owners, and you're like a very smart pet. You're certainly not a regular child. I swear, sixteen years ago you waltzed your way out of my womb, shook hands with the taxi driver who delivered you, and corrected my pronunciation of the name of the hospital we didn't make it to.”

  Zoey stopped grabbing boxes inside the moving truck, put her elbows on a stack, and rested her chin on her hands. Flatly, she said, “Gee, Mom, tell me the story about the night I was born. I'll start you off. It was eight o'clock, and the double-length prefinale episode of Wicked Wives had just started on TV.”

  “You've heard this story before?” I batted my eyelashes innocently.

  She smirked and continued the tale. “You were on the internet, live-blogging your reactions to the episode as it aired, and adding in color commentary about your labor pains. At first you were joking, but then you started having real contractions. Your fans were arguing about whether you should go to the hospital or fill a kiddie pool with water and go for it at home with your webcams running.”

  “Don't stop now,” I said. “This is where it gets fun. My webcam broadcast started going viral as the contractions got closer together.”

  Zoey's grin suddenly disappeared. She stared over my head, at something or someone behind me.

  A man with a rich, deep voice said, “You're Zara the Camgirl?”

  I turned around slowly. “I'm just Zara now. My camgirl days are over.”

  “Chet Twenty-one,” the man said. He had eyes. I assumed. And possibly a face. A body would have been holding everything up, probably. All I saw was eyes. The greenest of green, with glints of silver and gold.

  “You have the nicest green eyes,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “I'm Chet Moore. I live next door to you, in the blue house with the goat on the roof. Chet Twenty-one was my internet alias back in the day. I'm sure you don't remember me. You had hundreds of regulars who'd post on your blog.”

  I had a cardboard box in my arms, so I jabbed my chin over my shoulder in the direction of Zoey. “That charming redhead is not my sister,” I said. “She's my daughter. She says whenever I meet a cute guy, I always pass her off as my younger sister, but it's not true. I hardly ever do that. Besides, if you followed my blog, you saw me go into labor with her, so you'd never believe me anyway.”

  He grinned. He had teeth. Eyes and also teeth. Just like a human being! Wow. This guy's looks were making me stupid. What was this crushing sensation I felt in my chest? Was this why people called it a crush? My pulse was racing. My mouth went dry. I couldn't stop staring at the tall, dark-haired man.

  I'd never laid eyes on him before, and yet he was familiar. Underneath my rising temperature and tingling nerves, there was a sense of comfort. Of safety. We weren't just meeting today. We were reuniting. Together again after a painful absence.

  The man who'd ensnared me so easily said, “You're staring at me. Is there something on my face?”

  I forced myself to blink before my eyeballs seized up completely. There's nothing on your face, I joked in my head. Unless you'd like some of my face on your face? Like my lips, for example?

  I bit back my thoughts and struggled to compose myself. Chet Moore was just a regular person, not some long-lost lover, and I had to stop acting like a ding-dong.

  “Nope,” I said with a smile. “It's just that you're cuter than a ladybug picnic. I'd shake your hand like a normal neigh
bor, but I've got a box in my arms.”

  He smiled back. He found me charming, which made him twice as cute. He looked down at the label on the cardboard box I was gripping like a life preserver. “A box full of XL PMS sweatpants, if the label on the front is to be believed.”

  “Once a month, I balloon up to three times my size,” I told him solemnly.

  “At least you're prepared.”

  “That's a joke,” I said. “I put funny labels on all the boxes to make moving more fun.” I shook the box, which made a non-sweatpants-like clattering sound. “These are actually pots and pans.”

  “So, the box your daughter is holding is not full of Nun-Chuks and Nun Habits?”

  I glanced back at Zoey, who looked embarrassed, just as I'd expected. Even if I wasn't saying outrageous things to strangers, she usually got tense waiting for the interaction to inevitably turn mortifying. Teenagers were so easily mortified. That was what made having one so much fun.

  I turned back to Chet, still smiling. “No, but you could use the contents to make those things. It's craft supplies, mostly yarn and a selection of glues. Plus those googly eyes that turn any object into a Disney character.”

  He took the wackiness without any visible sign of surprise. “You should fit right in here on Beacon Street,” he said. “Welcome to the neighborhood. We should probably shake hands now.”

  I jiggled the box in my arms. “I'll be done moving in about an hour.”

  He took my box from me, shuffled it to one strong-looking arm, and shook my hand.

  “It's official,” he said. “I now pronounce us neighbors.”

  “Neighbors,” I repeated. As our hands touched, I got a flash of us together on a beach. My throat felt thick with emotion. For some strange reason, I added, “Til death do us part.”

  He abruptly jerked his hand away from mine.

  From behind me, in the back of the moving truck, Zoey groaned, “Oh, Mom.”