Sealed with a Hiss
Country Cottage Mysteries 13
Addison Moore
Bellamy Bloom
Contents
Connect with Addison Moore
Book Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Recipe
Books by Addison Moore
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom
Edited by Paige Maroney Smith
Cover by Lou Harper, Cover Affairs
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
All Rights Reserved.
This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom
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Book Description
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
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 February, Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, and a couple of popular podcasters have descended on the inn with their rabid listeners in tow. The Perfect Pairing hosts decide to throw a funeral for every bad relationship their loyal fans have had, and things take a turn for the deadly before the casket can close for the night. A double homicide seems to have played out on the grounds of the Country Cottage Inn, and it’s up to Bizzy to solve the case before the very next funeral belongs to her.
Bizzy Baker runs the Country Cottage Inn, has the ability to pry into the darkest recesses of both the human and animal mind, and has just stumbled upon a body. With the help of her kitten, Fish, a mutt named Sherlock Bones, and an ornery yet dangerously good-looking homicide detective, Bizzy is determined to find the killer.
Cider Cove, Maine is the premier destination for fun and relaxation. But when a body turns up, it’s the premier destination for murder.
Chapter 1
Two hours from now…
Chip
The moon hangs low overhead. It’s dark at this end of the street—icy cold, with snow in the forecast.
“You know, if my wife ever catches us, she’s going to kill me,” I tease as my hands run up and down her back. My eyes squeeze tight a moment because, as it happens, that was nothing but a little gallows humor to get me through the next few minutes.
As it turns out, my wife isn’t going to kill me.
I’m going to kill her.
A laugh gurgles from the woman in my arms. “That’s exactly why we’re taking her out first. We’ll finally be rid of her. We’re going to be free. You’re not chickening out on me, are you?”
“No.” A heavy sigh expels from my chest because maybe I am. “How is this supposed to work again?”
“She said she’ll be out in ten minutes for a breath of fresh air. You’ll shoot her, then I’ll hit you over the head with the gun and head back into the conference. You tell the cops you were attacked by an armed man who took off for the woods. It will all go off as planned, I promise.”
“It had better.”
The present…
Bizzy
“What better way to start a month that revolves around love than a funeral?” The toothy blonde tosses her head back and laughs like the madwoman I’m pinning her to be.
“Go on, Bizzy”—my sister, Macy, jabs me in the ribs—“it’s your turn to throw some hate mail into the coffin.”
I clutch my sweet little cat, Fish, as we stare down at the shimmering pink casket that lies open, right here in the ballroom of the Country Cottage Inn. The coffin in question is brimming with hot pink envelopes, all addressed to some former heartbreak these poor women have endured.
The ballroom is filled to capacity with women tonight, most of them clothed in little black dresses with matching veils covering their faces.
The people throwing the morbid event are selling the veils at the door for five bucks a piece, and the entire display feels like more of a circus than a funeral.
Fish yowls, Bizzy, these women are ridiculous. The next time one of them bows her head into that grisly box, I say we hit them over the head with the lid. Maybe that will knock some sense into them.
I give a covert nod to my little cat because I happen to think she’s onto something.
Great. The blonde in charge squints over at me suspiciously. It looks as if I’ve got a Negative Nelly on my hands. I’ll have to keep this one under control. It’s jerks like this that have the potential to kill my brand with one sour expression.
I openly scoff at the woman.
Did she just call me a jerk?
And good luck trying to control me. I can hardly control myself most days.
The look-alike blonde next to her nods as she pins her eyes to mine. She’s a contagion, all right, she adds as if she heard her friend’s internal musings. Sorry, sweetie, you have three seconds to convert or I’ll have security show you to the door.
My mouth falls open at the blatant, albeit silent, threat. Both women before me look to be around their late forties, on the pretty side, and a little on the snotty side, too.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but it happens, and believe me, it’s times like these I wish I had the power to shut down the internal show. I can read the minds of animals, too, and trust me when I say they typically have better things to say.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” I offer a tight smile to the two bleached blondes before me, each in her own strappy sequin gown, the first one in pink, the second in red. “My name is Bizzy. I’m the owner and manager of the Country Cottage Inn. If there’s anything at all that either of you need, please let me know, and I’ll be happy to accommodate it.”
That whole owner thing is still rather new to me. Up until this past December a wealthy earl from England owned this palatial estate. And well, when he met his untimely demise, he left this place to me in his will.
The inn has always been my baby, and so I’ve never been more thrilled to receive anything in my life. But I’ll admit, it’s been a daunting task taking care of this place
from a fiscal point of view now that the fate of the inn lies solely in my hands.
Macy grunts my way, “Bizzy is my younger, far too straitlaced sister,” she says, hitching a creamy blonde lock behind her ear.
Originally, Macy had black hair, much like my own, but she decided to bleach her locks about a decade ago and never looked back. She wears it in a bob that curls around her neck, and the way her tresses frame her face they make her blue eyes pop.
Macy is just a year older than me, but we’re light years apart in every capacity. She’s a feisty maneater who happens to run a soap and candle shop just down on Main Street. But believe me, she’s not all that in love with her current occupation. My mother sort of handed her the reins of that establishment years ago, but it keeps her in beer and pizza so she’s sticking with it.
However, it’s that whole maneater aspect that landed us in this casket predicament to begin with.
The blonde in the shimmering pink dress extends a hand in my direction, right over the casket, and I’m quick to shake it.
“Bobbie Buckingham”—she laughs as she says it—“so great to meet you. And we can’t thank you enough for allowing us to host the event here for free!”
Judging by that look of delight in her eyes, I guess I’m not such a jerk anymore.
But nevertheless, I take a moment to scowl over at my sister. The ballroom is a huge money generator for the inn, and it’s in high demand to rent at any time of the year, especially during February—a month made for ballrooms—but Macy took the liberty to not only give these two women one day’s worth of free run of the place, but two. The second of which is later in the month, Valentine’s Day to be exact.
Macy had better fork over enough bubble bath to last a lifetime in hopes to make up for this financial debacle.
The second blonde, the one in the red dress, gives a frenetic nod. “And I’m Lacey Lovelace.”
Her eyes are a shade darker than the first blonde’s, more of a navy, and she seems more soulful, more trusting than the first—even if she did threaten to haul me out of here by way of security. Little does she know, the so-called security guard is also the handyman around here, who also happens to be my ex-husband of one day, Jordy Crosby. In fact, my ex-husband and my current husband just so happen to be less than five feet away watching the whole funeral fiasco play out.
“Nice to meet you both,” I say. “If you have any questions about—”
Before I can finish, an older woman singing my name over the moody instrumental music bleating through the speakers interrupts us.
“Bizzy!” She stretches my name out for a mile before nearly landing in the casket herself.
“Georgie.” A genuine laugh gets caught in my throat. Georgie Conner is an eighty-something-year-old hippie artist who was once quasi-related to me. Her daughter, Juni, was married to my matrimony-loving father once upon a time. But they’ve since parted ways, and I like to say that I got Georgie in the divorce. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Georgie has shoulder-length, gray, wiry hair that loves to rise above her head like a storm cloud when she’s frazzled—much like the way it’s doing now. She’s donned one of her signature kaftans in pink with tiny red hearts printed all over it. Her eyes are a peculiar shade of lavender, and she sheds the smile of a deviant far too easily—just like she’s doing now.
“What’s going on indeed.” She narrows her eyes at the woman across from us. “Why, you’re only hosting the two biggest names in the relationship game, and you didn’t bother to tell me. Everyone knows Bobbie and Lacey are the besties with the best advice.”
My lips twist at the cheesy tagline—and yes, it’s the official tagline of their purported brand.
“I listen to your podcasts every week!” Georgie grows more animated by the second. “I just took the Perfect Pairing Personality Quiz, and I’m a nine—a natural peacemaker. I always knew I was a lover, not a fighter.” She looks my way. “You’d be a one, Bizzy. That’s a perfectionist who doesn’t know how to have any fun.”
Macy chuckles. “You know her well, Georgie.”
Before I can respond, an arm glides over my shoulders. “I know her well, too.” Emmie winks my way. “And I say my bestie is off the charts. She not only knows how to have a good time, but she’s genuinely a good person.” Emmie thrusts a platter of sweet treats their way. “Red velvet chocolate chip cookies?”
“Ooh”—Bobbie’s eyes grow in size—“with white chocolate chips, too. These look amazing. Don’t mind if I do.” She snatches one up, and Lacey is quick to follow just before the rest of us attack the platter like a bunch of cookie hungry vultures. “Mmm!” Bobbie moans as she takes a bite. “Oh, Bizzy, did you make these?”
“Not me,” I’m quick to correct. “My maiden name might be Baker, but I’m anything but. I’m more of a bad luck charm in the kitchen than anything else. This is all Emmie Crosby’s handiwork,” I say as I pull her in close. “And she happens to be my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were little. In fact, both of our first names are Elizabeth, and we’ve been using our nicknames ever since to avoid confusion.”
“Wow”—Lacey muses as she looks to the two of us—“you both have the same long dark hair and blue eyes. Bizzy, you look more like Emmie’s sister than you do Macy’s.”
Our little circle shares a warm laugh.
Emmie tips her ear their way. “So I hear you’re a rather famous set of best friends.” She holds the platter out once again, and the two of them each go for another cookie. “How long have the two of you known one another? Preschool? Utero?”
Bobbie shakes her head. “Nothing like that. We met a few years back at a self-help convention and we just hit it off.”
Lacey nods. “We just knew it was right. I mean, everything she says is funny.” She leans in and gives a hearty wink. “And I just so happen to make it funnier.”
Another laugh breaks out among us.
“I’d better get these cookies to the refreshment table.” Emmie shoots me a look as she takes off. I think they’re nuts, Bizzy. But don’t worry. I’ll be front and center for the funeral.
A private smile twitches on my lips. Just a few months back, I let Emmie in on the fact I have the ability of prying into people’s minds. I thought she’d hate me for holding out on her for so long, but she was nothing more than amused.
Bobbie reaches over and pats Fish on the forehead. “Oh, you’re just too precious. What’s your name, sweet stuff?” She claws at my poor cat with her blood-red two-inch long fingernails.
How she ever gets anything done with those, I will never know.
“This is Fish,” I say, giving Fish a quick kiss on her nose. “She’s been with me for about two years now, and she’s smart as a whip.”
Smart enough to know these women are certifiable, Fish mewls. I say you call Jordy and have the entire lot of them booted out of here. And make them take their little pink casket, too.
“And she has great instincts,” I add.
“Fish?” Bobbie laughs. “How clever! I’ve got my cat, Sugar, with me here today.” She cranes her neck past me. “Diane? Diane,” she calls out. “Come on over.” She gives an aggressive wave. “Sugar’s got a friend to meet.”
A woman about my mother’s age with short platinum hair and a warm smile steps up, holding a tiny gray ball of fuzz in her arms, and around her ankles bounces a red and white curly-haired pup.
“Here you go.” She hands the kitten over to Bobbie, and we all coo at the fuzzy gray cutie with the denim blue eyes.
“This is my sweet Sugar.” Bobbie nuzzles her nose to the tiny kitten’s face. “She’s a six-month old teacup Himalayan.”
“Oh?” I perk up. “I have a friend in Vermont who has a couple of Himalayan brothers, Pancake and Waffles. They’re such great cats.” I give the tiny furball a pat on the forehead, and it’s like touching a handful of cotton candy.
Bobbie nods. “I don’t call her Sugar for nothing. This little girl is the
only thing that keeps my sanity together some days.” Try every day. She shoots a dark glance into the crowd. And as hard as Sugar works to keep my sanity together, Keegan works twice as hard to tear it apart.
“Are you girls ready?” Diane looks from Bobbie to Lacey. “It’s time to get this show on the road.” She gives Bobbie a hard look. “And don’t forget, we’re here to promote the new book.” That’s how you make money, sweetie—in the event you forgot.
I make a note of her curt internal diatribe. I’m sensing bad blood.
Lacey nods my way. “This is Diane Regal, our manager. She likes to keep us on a tight schedule. And if she didn’t, we’d be playing with caskets well into the night.”
“Nice to meet you, Diane. I’m Bizzy, the owner of the inn. And who’s this?” I say, bending over to give the chipper little puppy a quick scratch on the back as he jumps and barks.
“That’s my baby, Gizmo,” Diane says, scooping him up.
“He’s a doll!” I coo.
He’s a nuisance. Fish is quick to swipe his way.
I shoot my ornery cat a look before smiling at the woman before me. “What breed is he?”
“He’s half Shih Tzu and half Bichon Frise. They call the breed the teddy bear dog.”
A laugh bubbles from me as I give him a quick scratch behind the ears. “He’s a teddy bear, all right. He’s super adorable.”
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