A Purr-fect Storm

by Addison Moore

  Stephanie is hand-feeding Dom a cannoli.

  Enzo is brushing some whipped cream off Tilly’s face with his thumb.

  And Regina?

  Well, she seems to have lucked out, too. She’s pawing all over Noah Fox’s look-alike. I’m guessing that’s the single brother she was promised.

  We stuff our faces for the next couple of hours while hanging out with Lottie, her friends, and those nefarious members of the mob who are determined to put the squeeze on me.

  And oddly, it feels a lot like hanging out with family.

  The next day life is back to normal for the most part.

  Wendy Manning was booked for the murder of Frisk Foster. And Justin Delforio has a lot of explaining to do regarding that illegal betting operation he was in charge of.

  Shep says they both lawyered up.

  The lunch rush at the Manor Café just died down, my hair is mused from the madness, I’ve got sauce on my clothes but I’m thankful for the breather as I pour Shep and me another cup of coffee—strong with extra cream and sugar because we’ve already seen enough bitter days.

  Shep is seated at the counter penning his next bestseller, and every now and again he pauses to flirt with me. It’s clear he knows what side his garlic toast is buttered on.

  Opal is parading around with an armful of cats. Stephanie is noshing on a slice of pizza, while Hazel fills my ear on all the latest ghostly gossip. Apparently, she’s still on the hunt for the right sexy specter to come along, but she’s keeping her options open with the date she had on V-Day.

  “I’ve got all the time in the world,” she’s quick to point out. She opens her mouth to say something else when her attention is diverted to something at the door. She lifts a ghostly finger. “I sense a dark presence.”

  “Ooh”—I wiggle my shoulders—“maybe it’s another gorgeous ghoul ready to knock your socks off?”

  She shakes her head. “This dark force is still very much living.”

  “Must be Dom and Enzo,” I say. “They called this morning and told me to get a lasagna going. I’d better throw a couple of pizzas together for them, too.”

  “No.” Her crimson hair floats around her head like tendrils. “Something sinister is happening.”

  Before I can prod any further, a customer walks through the door and stalks my way.

  I recognize that dark hair, those stone-cold eyes, and the well-chiseled face of the devil, and I all but stop breathing.

  “Johnny?” His name comes out in less than a whisper, and in an instant both Stephanie and Shep are in our presence.

  “Johnny Rizzo!” Stephanie squeals as if she were seeing a rock star, and then the gravity of the situation hits her and she stiffens. “Johnny Rizzo?”

  Shep’s chest expands as he looks to my dangerous ex.

  “So this is Johnny.” He glowers his way, letting him know what’s what.

  But Johnny’s not looking at my sister, and for sure he’s not looking at Shep.

  He’s looking right at me as his lips twitch with a malevolent smile.

  “Hello, Stella. Long time no see.”

  *Thank you for reading!

  Need more Starry Falls? Click here to pick up —>

  A Fur-miliar Fatality (Meow for Murder 7)

  When an old ex springs back into my life, it feels more like a new hex. The mob is closing in on me from every angle, and now I’ve got a moron on my hands to deal with. To make things worse, a body arrives on the scene. As if that wasn’t enough, Shep is feeling homicidal himself. He’s looking to do a little target practice, and that ex of mine is proving to be a moving target.

  Living in Starry Falls is proving to be deadly.

  Click here to pick up —>

  A Fur-miliar Fatality (Meow for Murder 7) TODAY!

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  ***Need some talking pets in your life? Head over to Cider Cove! Click here to pick up —>

  Sealed with a Hiss (Country Cottage Mysteries 13)

  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 Valentine’s Day in Cider Cove. Love is in the air and so is murder.

  The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.

  *Ready for a brand new series? Welcome to Glimmerspell! Grab a copy NOW—> Midlife in Glimmerspell (Hot Flash Homicides 1)

  An impending divorce. A hot homicide detective. And spontaneous time travel.

  Midlife in Glimmerspell is proving to be magical.

  If I thought the first half of my life was a bumpy ride, I’d better buckle up because I’m about to go over the hill and off the rails.

  After catching my husband in bed with another woman, I gave him the heave-ho, put our house on the market, and moved away to an enchanting little town for a brand new start. What I didn’t count on was the fact that enchanting little town might just be—enchanted.

  Glimmerspell is rumored to be home to vampires, werewolves, and fae, but those are just simply gimmicks to lure tourists to their snowy little town—aren’t they?

  Nevertheless, I’ve got a job at the Haunted Book Barn where my niece films her infamous video blog—Murder, Mayhem, and Baking. She’s somehow wrangled me into helping out with whipping up the sweet treats, and in the middle of filming an episode a hot flash strikes and I’m transported to another time, place, and another day entirely.

  If I thought the first half of my life was a bumpy ride, I’d better buckle up because I’m about to go over the hill and off the rails.

  Midlife in Glimmerspell can be a real killer.

  Grab a copy NOW—> Midlife in Glimmerspell (Hot Flash Homicides 1)

  ***Would you like to read more about Lottie Lemon and Honey Hollow?

  *Need more of Honey Hollow? Click here and pick up—> Cutie Pies and Deadly Lies NOW!

  Or keep reading for a preview! Enjoy!

  Murder in the Mix

  Chapter 1

  My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety, who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom.

  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 som
ething 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 though 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 accouterments, 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 between 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.