by Patti Larsen
Chocolate Hearts and Murder
Chapter One
Why was it fancy Valentine’s Day drinks were always tinted red? Reminded me more of gore and mayhem than anything to do with romance. Which said a lot, I suppose, for my state of mind when it came to relationships and dating.
No bitterness in Fiona Fleming toward the opposite sex or anything.
I sipped carefully at the mimosa the bartender smilingly handed me and shrugged off the sweetness. It had alcohol in it, so I guess it would do. A few of these and I might even find a way to enjoy myself tonight. Yeah, right.
Don’t get me wrong. It was kind of a big deal to be invited, from what I understood, to Mayor Olivia Walker’s extra special, don’t you dare miss it, White Valley Ski Lodge Resort Extravaganza and Fashion Show. Snort. I tipped my glass to a pair of young women I didn’t know and perused the bar where I hoped to spend the bulk of tonight before returning to my room and hiding out there until I could go home.
My free hand tugged at the short hemline of the dress Daisy picked out for me while I did my damnedest not to show how uncomfortable I was in the shining satin sheath. No one told my best friend that redheads look terrible in crimson. Though, as it turned out, this particular dress’s color actually complimented my thick, auburn hair, matched to the deep red lipstick she insisted I wear. The kind of “lasts all night and won’t kiss off” stuff she knew was my only hope for keeping color on my lips due to my utter lack of giving a crap about makeup.
Smart girl, that Daisy.
Maybe I could carve out a little corner by the bar here, in the dim light of the long, narrow space with the lovely music piping through in tasteful strains of reworked pop songs, (sarcasm, check) while water cascaded in enthusiastic downfall over the glass feature that was the back wall. The slick marble tiles were a bit treacherous underfoot, made worse by the heels Daisy forced on my feet. Come to think of it, I’d been worried they’d be hurting by now, laughed at her when she insisted on taping my toes together, only to discover she knew what she was doing and that my tender, sneaker-favoring tootsies actually felt all right.
I spotted Olivia across the room and ducked my head, my updo making it impossible to hide behind my hair like I usually did. Damn Daisy and her deft fingers, though I had to admit the final result—makeup, dress, shoes and hair—left me a little breathless. I turned toward the bar, the mirror behind it reflecting her artwork, and grinned for a second at just how hot I actually looked.
Now, if only I wasn’t the only woman here under thirty who was single… not fair. I was sure it only felt that way. And nice to have an excuse to do something on Valentine’s Day that had nothing to do with men or pretending they weren’t all jerks. Still. I watched Olivia in her pale cream gown making her rounds, all poised politician perfection, and my grin turned to a grimace. I’d let her bully me into this, just like I’d allowed it the last eight months since I took over my Grandmother Iris’s B&B, Petunia’s. From the moment she intervened with the sheriff over the death in my koi pond of that scumbag contractor Pete Wilkins and kept my business open, murder or no murder, the woman seemed to think she owned me. And the rest of the town.
Mind you, she was doing a stellar job of putting our sleepy little Reading, Vermont on the map of must visit places in the continental US. Savvy didn’t begin to describe her ability to wrangle press and attention and everyone thrived thanks to it. But there were times it rankled.
Like three weeks ago when she showed up in the foyer of Petunia’s, patted my pug of the same name on the head (a prerequisite for anyone wishing to spend even five seconds at the B&B) and then informed me in no uncertain terms I was attending tonight’s little soiree.
No luck hiding from her either, it turned out. With her carefully cultivated welcoming smile plastered on her olive skinned face, makeup professionally applied and hair glossy in the low light, Olivia took time out of her busy schmoozing schedule to spend a moment with me at the bar.
“A smile would be lovely,” she said through her own, tone not matching her expression. “For the good of Reading.” That elegant pause, weighted with guilt, was by now a classic. “You do want our town to continue seeing success, don’t you, darling Fiona?”
No use arguing. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Okay, so not very gracious.
“Listen,” she leaned in with that smile turning to a tight, feral snarl, dark eyes snapping, “I saved you when Pete Wilkins died and don’t you forget it. You owe me, Fiona.”
“You mean you let me be questioned for a murder I didn’t commit while keeping Petunia’s open,” I snapped back.
“Same thing.” Because, to Olivia Walker, it was.
I grit my teeth and bit the bullet. Of course I did. While Olivia strolled away, smiling and nodding like she hadn’t just handed me my self-esteem on a platter.
Turning away again seemed the best revenge. I glanced at the clock behind the bar, hating that I fretted. There was a time I couldn’t have cared less about time or anything outside my own little world. But thinking about Petunia’s made me think about the two elderly ladies who I’d left in charge back in town. While I was only a fifteen minute drive from the B&B, it felt like a million miles. Now, Mary and Betty Jones had taken excellent care of Petunia’s when my grandmother had her stroke, worked there for years before that, handled everything with their stolid determination and quiet grumpiness I knew now came from natural stoic natures and not from actual dissatisfaction. Still, it was one of the busiest nights of the year and they had been left in charge of dinner and the music and…
I really needed to call them. Check in. Not because I wanted a distraction from standing alone at the bar with a decidedly Valentine’s Day drink in my hand, a room in the brand new resort waiting for me upstairs, a free dinner pending and no one to share it with.
Right.
Just when I thought tonight couldn’t get any worse, well. It got worse. Right about the same instant Vivian French breezed her way into the bar, her slim, petite figure clad from bare shoulders to toes in pale yellow silk. I had zero doubt those were real diamonds around her skinny neck and in her ears. As for the tiara, honestly, did she look at herself in the mirror before she left her room? Her icy blonde hair wasn’t thick enough to carry off a crown, not even artfully piled in precision curls on the top of her head.
Bitter and jealous? Naw.
Personally, I thought Petunia looked better. At least, would shortly. Olivia saved me the agony of the fashion show, at least, opting for a canine version meant to pluck the heartstrings of every animal lover in attendance and hopefully create enough buzz and press to go viral on line. The fact my chubby pug enjoyed her bath, manipedi and general fussing over by the staff running the show more than I did Daisy’s attention said a lot about my own priorities.
And hers.
As I stood there glaring—yes, I admit, glaring was involved in my moment of weakness—Vivian’s lonely singular state was the only thing that kept me from utterly abandoning my post and downing the entire bar of booze to drown my sorrows. That was, until he walked in. And ruined everything.
I’d spent so much time thinking about asking Crew Turner on a date it sometimes felt like I’d done it already and had been horribly, miserably turned down by the handsome sheriff of Curtis County. Instead, of course, out of utter lack of luck and nervousness about our present relationship’s status, I hadn’t. If anything, he had to be thinking I was avoiding him, dodging out of shops when he appeared, smiling like a freak and stumbling into things so I didn’t have to say hello, hiding out at Petunia’s at every opportunity. All because, well, he was hot and I wasn’t ready to have dinner with the man who’d once thought I’d killed Pete Wilkins.
Let’s be fair here. I wasn’t ready to date period. Thanks to all the trust and good will built up by my five-year relationship with my ex, Ryan Richards, ending in cheating (him) and embezzlement (him) and an attempt to pin illegal activity on me (him, strike three), I’d come to the conclusio
n that men and me? Not the greatest choice right now.
Didn’t cut the resentment of seeing Crew pause next to Vivian looking like a movie star in his perfectly fitted tuxedo. I thought he was attractive in his uniform shirt and jeans. Yowza. Only then did I catch her blue eyes watching me, held still as she smiled and slipped one hand through his arm. And led him away.
So she’d landed him after all. Good for her. I turned to the bar for the last time, downed my drink and accepted another.
It was going to be a long, long night.
***
Author Notes
I never meant to be a mystery writer. I started out reading—and then creating my own—science fiction and fantasy novels as a small girl. But it was a Nancy Drew mystery at the tender age of twelve that sparked my need to write for real and woke the creator in me.
Years passed, time spent learning my craft in ways that I hadn’t intended—as a journalist, a screenwriter, an improv actor and a hair stylist—telling stories became commonplace and a part of my life even though the dream of being a writer hadn’t yet come to pass.
When I found YA through my niece and her love for Harry Potter, I realized I’d been writing the wrong things all along. That the Nancy Drew mystery about a young woman daring to take chances was the kind of heroine I was meant to write about. And, through that understanding, woke Sydlynn Hayle and the rest, as they say, is the Hayle Coven Universe (forty-two published books and growing).
But the mystery side of things took a little longer to explore. Though most books have a mystery to them of some kind, designing a whodunit hadn’t crossed my mind.
Until a pilot for a TV show I’d been working on popped up in my documents and I remembered how fun it was to write a police procedural based on a fictional city filled with paranormal creatures. The Nightshade Cases were born.
But something still didn’t feel right. They are dark and full of the kind of nasty things that people do to each other while embracing all things supernatural. Don’t get me wrong, I love them. I think, though, from reader reactions, they weren’t expecting that kind of cussing, stomping and hard-assed action compared to my YA works.
Fair enough! But I’ve hated to abandon the mystery writing idea all together.
When Fiona Fleming started talking not so long ago, I listened. Here was the kind of mystery I could not only sink my teeth into, the cozy mystery genre had the kind of lighthearted fun and strong female sleuth I was looking for while staying on the giggle inducing and enjoyable side of the characters I love to write while trying something totally new—no paranormal.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the first book in Fee’s series. There are twelve more to come and, as I explore this genre further, I have a feeling there will be more from other voices.
I’m just having too much fun killing people off not to keep going.
Happy reading!
Patti
***
About the Author
Everything you need to know about me is in this one statement: I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl, and now I’m doing it. How cool is that, being able to follow your dream and make it reality? I’ve tried everything from university to college, graduating the second with a journalism diploma (I sucked at telling real stories), was in an all-girl improv troupe for five glorious years (if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend making things up as you go along as often as possible). I’ve even been in a Celtic girl band (some of our stuff is on YouTube!) and was an independent film maker. My life has been one creative thing after another—all leading me here, to writing books for a living.
Now with multiple series in happy publication, I live on beautiful and magical Prince Edward Island (I know you’ve heard of Anne of Green Gables) with my very patient husband and six massive cats.
I love-love-love hearing from you! You can reach me (and I promise I’ll message back) at [email protected]. And if you’re eager for your next dose of Patti Larsen books (usually about one release a month) come join my mailing list! All the best up and coming, giveaways, contests and, of course, my observations on the world (aren’t you just dying to know what I think about everything?) all in one place: http://smarturl.it/PattiLarsenEmail.
Last—but not least!—I hope you enjoyed what you read! Your happiness is my happiness. And I’d love to hear just what you thought. A review where you found this book would mean the world to me—reviews feed writers more than you will ever know. So, loved it (or not so much), your honest review would make my day. Thank you!
