Bite-Sized Bakery Cozy Mysteries Box Set

by Rosie A. Point

  I could think of nothing worse than being forced into hiding in a backward, small town in the middle of nowhere, Texas.

  “I don't like it,” I said, clasping my phone to my ear.

  “I don't care,” Commander Grant replied. “You'll be receiving your information package shortly. Your liaison has set up a fake email address, identity and will have the details of where you can collect your burner phone and other effects shortly. Stay out of trouble, Mission. I mean it this time.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, reluctantly.

  He'd already hung up.

  I grumbled under my breath, grabbed hold of my tiny carry-on case--glimmering blue and hard-shell--and started off down the Main Street where the bus had dropped me off. The town was cute. Brick buildings, paved sidewalks, trees in a center divider on the street, and signs slung high across the street.

  'Welcome to Gossip, Texas' best kept secret!”

  Gossip was quiet this late at night. Thankfully. The last thing I needed was to arrive to too much fanfare. As an active spy working for the National Security Investigative Bureau, the last thing I needed now was attention.

  Ugh, you're not technically a spy anymore.

  In fact, I had no idea who I was until my 'liaison' contacted me with the details.

  I kept on down Main Street, past stores, their windows lit up revealing their keepsakes or products, and stopped in front of a salon, grimacing at the reflected snazzy hairstyles. My hair was short, blonde, and kept out of the way. Always.

  The glittery blue phone I'd been given at NSIB headquarters back in New York buzzed against my palm.

  I answered. “This is Mission,” I said.

  “No,” the liaison replied, in a voice I recognized. “It's Smith. Your name is Charlotte Smith, now.”

  “Original,” I replied, then paused frowning at the familiarity. “Wait a second, is this...?”

  “It's Agent Smulder.”

  I held back another choice groan. The ever-handsome Agent Smulder had been my partner back in the agency about a year ago. Until he'd gotten injured due to some rash decision-making on my part.

  “Smulder,” I said.

  “Nice to hear from you too, Smith,” he replied. “You know your destination, I assume?'

  “The Gossip Inn.” It was my grandmother's place. Gamma Georgina Mission was the woman who I'd based my entire life off of. She was a retired spy, and why she'd decided to settle and start up her own inn was a question that needed answering.

  The last time I'd seen her, she'd been on a mission to take down a terrorist cell in a small city in the Middle East. Now, she baked cookies and waited on people.

  Whatever Gossip brought, it would be interesting, at least.

  And totally out of my comfort zone.

  Was it weird that my comfort zone was guns and espionage?

  “Smith, are you listening to me?'

  “Repeat your last, please.”

  “Repeat my last? Firstly, you're going to have to start talking like a civilian if you want to blend in,” Agent Smulder replied, “and secondly, you'll find your identity package and burner phone already located at the Gossip Inn. Check the bush that looks like a hunched over Santa Claus.”

  “A what?”

  “Don't mess this up, Smith. If you do... Well, I'm sure the Commander has already briefed you on what that will mean.”

  “Yeah. Is that all?”

  “We'll be having a weekly check-in call to manage your cover and update you on your status as a protected agent,” Smulder continued. “Oh, and, you're going to need to dye your hair.”

  “What?” My eyes widened, and I reached up and clasped a handful of my blonde locks. “No. No, no, no. Surely--”

  “Good luck, Charlotte,” Smulder said. “Don't draw any attention to yourself. Oh, and try not to murder anyone while you're there.” The click of him hanging up brought nothing but frustration.

  I growled under my breath and proceeded to wipe everything from the glittery blue phone. Not that there was much to wipe. I switched it off and dumped it in a wrought-iron trash can on my way down the street.

  The Gossip Inn was on the far end of town. It was a magnificent building, with fairy lights hidden in the trees out front, and two full wings of rooms. From what my grandmother had told me over the phone--encrypted messages, of course--it had once been a museum, and she'd bought it and its contents at a steal.

  The front gates were left open, and a gravel path led up to the stone steps and the massive wooden front doors.

  I didn't have a key. But that wouldn't hinder me. Shoot, I'd broken into a maximum security prison in the barren hills of Afghanistan to free a political prisoner. An old inn would be a piece of cake.

  First, though, I had to find my identity package. I searched through the grounds, stepping lightly and scanning the underbrush until I located a tree that... well, shoot, it had an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus, hunched over under the weight of a sack of gifts.

  I grabbed my identity package, slipped it into my tiny bag, then moved around to the back of the inn. A second story window was open above, a single light on giving a few of the cream colored walls.

  Quickly, I slung the straps of the back over either shoulder and made it into a sort-of backpack then rubbed my hands together.

  Come on. Channel your inner parkour.

  The physical stuff was easy. It was everything else that I struggled with. Emotions. People. Not getting into trouble.

  Go!

  I ran at the wall and launched myself up it, using the window sill of a first floor window for leverage. I leaped into the air. My fingers closed around the sill of the open window, and I hung there for a minute, sucking in measured breaths and listening for any sign of a movement above.

  Being caught by one of Gamma Georgina's guests would bring far too many questions.

  I hauled myself over the edge of the window, using my core and upper body strength, and rolled lightly into the hall above.

  I rose to my feet and came face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun.

  Shoot. Wait, no, don't shoot.

  My options were limited. I lifted my palms, feigning surrender, but really, I was about to--

  The shotgun lowered, and I shifted my focus from it to the person holding it.

  Gamma!

  “Charlie, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Gamma Georgina had been born in Sussex, England, and though she was a citizen of the USA, she still had an accent. “Good heavens. I thought you were Pablo Manilo Rodrigo Martel.”

  “The drug lord?”

  “The very same. He's always sworn he'd catch up with me.” Gamma paused, frowning at me. “What happened?”

  “I've come to stay for a while.”

  “And you don't know how long?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “Let's talk.” She beckoned, and I followed her into a bedroom decorated in eclectic bits and bobs. There were paintings on the wall that had seen better days, but the armchairs in the corner were beautifully upholstered in leather. The bed in the corner, next to a banker's lampshade and oak bedside table, was covered in comfy pillows and cushions.

  Gamma closed the bedroom door with a light click.

  “It's 2am,” I said. “Why are you up so late?”

  “I barely sleep, dear,” she replied. “And you are hardly in the position to ask me questions. What on earth are you doing here?” Sometimes, when she spoke, she reminded me of the Queen. Or Hellen Mirren playing the Queen.

  “Sheesh, G-Ma, I thought you'd be happy to see me.”

  She pursed her lips at me, brushing her silver-gray hair back from sharp blue eyes.

  “Fine,” I said. “You've probably already guessed why I'm here.”

  “Who are you hiding from? A cartel? Terrorist group? Weapon's dealer?”

  I exhaled, slowly, and rubbed my chest. It was, I hoped, my only emotional tell, and I snatched my hand back down to my side to hide it, again. “Kyle,” I repli
ed. “My ex-husband. He's gone rogue, and I was the one who found him out. Now, he wants revenge. We don't know who he's in contact with at NSIB, so I'm underground until further notice.”

  “Good heavens.” Gamma shook her head. “Good heavens. Well, fine. It will be good to have some company at the Inn. And I have been looking for someone to help me serve the guests their breakfasts and to clean the rooms. My usual maid has been a bit... flakey of late.”

  “Uh, I don't even know what my cover is yet,” I whispered, opening my bag and drawing out my identity package. I stripped it open and dropped the contents out onto the bed. I lifted up my new Social Security Card and grimaced. They’d already Photoshopped long curly black hair onto my head. “Charlotte Jean Smith,” I said, and paged through the documents. “It says here I'm supposed to be an aspiring actress who is taking a sabbatical and working at my aunt's best friend's inn for the next few months.”

  “Perfect,” Gamma said. “Perfect. Well, that's fine. We can get your hair dyed later in the week. Come on, dear, we'll set you up in the room across the hall.” Gamma was nothing if not efficient. And more welcoming than I remembered her. Small town living had clearly had its effect.

  This place was almost... cozy.

  I followed her into the room opposite. It had its own bookcase, a low slung coffee table and a set of armchairs. The bed was a four-poster and outfitted in pristine white sheets. Being underground could have been a lot worse.

  “There you are. All set.” Gamma paused, then swept me into a brief hug. “It's lovely to have you here, darling. Despite the circumstances. If you need to... well, you know.”

  “I'm fine.” I patted her on the back, a little awkwardly. Gamma was my hero, but we'd never been truly affectionate with each other. I loved her, but showing it, well, that was difficult.

  “Good,” she said. “Good. Because if that Kyle idiot does come here, well...” she paused, her eyes narrowing and the dangerous look that had once been her only look entered them. “He'll have two Missions to deal with.”

  And with that, she was out the door, and I was left alone in my new pseudo-home. I settled back on the bed to read the rest of my package and set up my burner phone. A maid.

  This would be interesting...

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  Thank You, Reader!

  Thank you so much for reading Ruby and Bee’s story. If you enjoyed their adventures, I would be honored if you left a review. They’re basically the caramel frosting of an author’s career. (I know, I should probably stop with the puns—ha!)