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    Guns and Ammo and Murder
    Guns and Ammo and Murder
    Guns and Ammo and Murder
    Ebook233 pages5 hours

    Guns and Ammo and Murder

    By Patti Larsen

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    An anxious kind of month

    “Any new threats against you?” Pamela seemed eager for my answer while I tsked at her.

    “Are you actually asking me if I’ve had any further nasty messages left in my mailbox?” There’d been more than a few since she’d gleefully published my first column. I figured there’d be pushback, but threatening to hurt my dog, my business and my koi? Unacceptable. And while Crew seemed to think none of the threats were real, he was still worried, though he never once asked me to stop writing because he was a smart, smart boy.

    Tensions are high as a pending election pits incumbent mayor Olivia Walker against Patterson lackey Geoffrey Jenkins, threatening Crew’s job as sheriff and his place in Reading. Fee and her mother, meanwhile, agree to assist the owner of a new hunting retreat with the first batch of guests. To their horror, not only are they cut off from the rest of Reading by an accidental beaver dam demolition, they are forced to investigate a murder while Fee wrestles with her past and the fact she’s still not over her ex.

    Don't miss a single volume in the Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries! Find books one through five available now:
    Bed and Breakfast and Murder
    Chocolate Hearts and Murder
    Fame and Fortune and Murder
    Ghosts and Goblins and Murder
    Ganache and Fondant and Murder
    Ropes and Trees and Murder
    Anchors Away and Murder

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPatti Larsen
    Release dateApr 6, 2018
    ISBN9781988700588
    Guns and Ammo and Murder
    Author

    Patti Larsen

    About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

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      Book preview

      Guns and Ammo and Murder - Patti Larsen

      Chapter One

      I did my best to ignore the stare of the woman standing uncomfortably close to me while I, in turn, locked eyes on the chalkboard updates behind the barista waiting for my order. Couldn’t the nosy neighbor just leave me in peace while I got my caffeine fix? Instead, Brenda Cohen, the elderly lady who lived three doors down from Petunia’s, shuffled a bit closer, prodding me in the ribs with one sharp fingernail hard enough to make me yip like the pug my B&B was named for.

      Fiona Fleming, she said in her little girl, deceptively sweet voice, her faded blue eyes moist and flashing while she poked me again. "I take issue with your latest column, young woman. Issue."

      Sigh. I sidestepped her next jab, smiling my best attempt at calm serenity toward the girl behind the counter and pretended I didn’t want to turn and shove the old bat and her extremely sharp claw into the street. Temper, temper, Fee. She was elderly, needed a cane to walk. She’d be needing more than that in about a second if she didn’t stop poking me with her fingernail.

      I’ll just take a latte. I turned then and widened my smile, knowing it likely appeared less friendly and more threatening and not caring even a little bit I might terrify the grandmotherly figure half a head shorter than me.

      She wasn’t the least bit rattled, Brenda instead shaking that offending digit in my face. Where do you get off complaining about those of us who like peace and quiet around here? Her voice rose in pitch and volume, the irritating cadence of it spiking my anger. That Olivia Walker has you in her back pocket, you and Pamela Shard and her sham of a newspaper that used to serve the good of this town. Ack. I was getting a bit sick of being told I sucked as a columnist and that I was evil, opinionated, too snarky for my own good and a variety of even less pleasant things sometimes yelled at me out open car windows on cruise bys by various unhappy residents of my hometown. Thing was, they all benefited from Olivia’s particular brand of mayorship, though, didn’t they? Ungrateful bunch of so and sos.

      Not to mention the fact Pamela always gave our mayor a hard time in her front-page spreads. So there. Back pocket, my patootie.

      I nabbed my coffee before I could say something truly regretful to the nasty little woman trying to put herself between me and the exit. Thing was, despite my last few months at the helm of the newly minted Reading Reflections and steady fed diet of Olivia supporting, the town’s attitude had been slowly but surely turning away from her and toward my least favorite councilor. I guess if you browbeat small-minded people with a certain line over and over again, they’d fall for it eventually.

      Leave Fiona alone. I wasn’t expecting anyone to stand up for me, though when I realized it was Lily Myers, it was hardly surprising. Her long, dark ponytail tossing across the shoulder of her puffy vest embroidered with her company paw print logo, her equally dark eyes flashing, my dog trainer friend seemed intent on giving Brenda what for. Since she loved Petunia and, being closer to my age, maybe had more of an open mind about tourism and the direction Olivia had been leading Reading, I let her step in and take over. Did it really come down to that, I wondered as a few other watchers murmured their support—to age and being hidebound and hating change thanks to the advancement of years and nostalgia about the good old days that were nothing of the kind?

      But no, not if the reaction of some of the other visitors to Sammy’s Coffee were honest. There was enough of a mix of ages, faces and attitudes I knew Olivia was in trouble. Reading was a town torn in half, if the literal taking sides happening out of the blue and totally unexpectedly was the truth of things.

      I stepped out of Brenda’s way and headed for the door, not wanting to take part as Lily’s Team Fiona/Olivia started rattling off their reasons for wanting progress and Brenda’s Pro Geoffrey Jenkins/Patterson status quo harrumphed over the high cost of tourism and the loss of their way of life.

      I hit the street with a sigh of relief as the altercation inside rose to deafening proportions. I would have loved to stay and chat, but honestly? Yelling at each other over something that was going to be decided—if it hadn’t been already—in a couple of days was really rather ridiculous.

      Steam rose from the hole I tore in the plastic lid on my coffee, my heart racing a bit from the almost confrontation, head down as I nearly ran into, speak of the devil, Pamela Shard. The editor/writer/everything for the Reading Reader Gazette took one listen to the hubbub coming from inside Sammy’s audible on the street despite the closed glass door thanks to the cool November morning and grinned at me like she found the entire situation incredibly amusing.

      At least one of us is enjoying herself. I groused on purpose. After all, this was Pamela’s fault, her idea in the first place. And while I was actually enjoying writing the column? Yeah, this whole us against them business was getting tired. I almost wished the stupid special election was over so we could just know where we stood already and move on from there.

      Though, I had to admit it was likely from the way things sounded inside that Olivia was going to lose this time around. At least, it seemed like there were more supporters of the old guard than the new these days.

      Immensely. Pamela slapped me on the shoulder with a hearty gesture, rocking me forward on my sneakered toes. I scowled at her, scorching my lower lip on my coffee, but she didn’t seem to notice, eyes bright with excitement, still grinning. Okay, she was having way too much fun at Olivia’s expense.

      You want Geoffrey Jenkins to become mayor? She couldn’t be serious.

      Pamela eye-rolled at me, poking me in exactly the same place Brenda had. She had no idea just how close she came to being smacked for that. I’m an old newswoman, Fee, she said. Change is my bread and butter, as is strife, discord and unhappiness. Lovely. What did that make me? Things have been far too quiet as of late. I guess I could see how that was a bad thing. They’d even caught the two teen boys who’d been systematically avoiding the video surveillance of the statue of Captain Reading, using creative spray-painting skills to augment the front of his bronze trousers on a regular basis. Though, I doubted they’d seen the last of the vandalism. Our handsome local sheriff hadn’t taken the boy’s activity all that seriously.

      As for Pamela, it had to be frustrating for a previous award-winning employee of the Boston Globe to have nothing of interest to report for long stretches.

      Poor you, I said, not feeling it. Personally, I like it when things are quiet. Or did I? Well, not that my life was particularly quiet, though things had calmed down as they often did this time of year. The week or so after Halloween had customarily felt rather like a letdown, though with Thanksgiving looming and my bed and breakfast fully booked, it wasn’t like I had a whole lot of breathing room to complain about.

      Any new threats against you? Pamela seemed eager for my answer while I tsked at her.

      Are you actually asking me if I’ve had any further nasty messages left in my mailbox? There’d been more than a few over the two months since she’d gleefully published my first column. I figured there’d be pushback, but threatening to hurt my dog, my business and my koi? Unacceptable. And while Crew seemed to think none of the threats were real, he was still worried, though he never once asked me to stop writing because he was a smart, smart boy.

      Pamela shrugged, breath puffing faintly in the cool air, cheeks pink from the drop in temperature. Not exactly icy yet, but cool enough I wished I’d brought gloves. Instead, I tucked my free hand into the pocket of my cropped leather jacket, using my coffee mug to warm the inside of the other, at least.

      Par for this particular course, my dear, Pamela said. How about Robert? Still lurking?

      That had been creepy, I admit, finding my jerk cousin lingering around Petunia’s at odd hours like he was watching me or something. Mind you, he’d been pretty pissed when I’d solved his murder under his nose, shortly before Crew’s return from a short stint assisting the FBI kicked Robert back to the unhappy curb of deputy. And from what I’d heard from Crew, Robert’s most recent job assessment hadn’t exactly been glowing, so related to a previous Fleming sheriff or not, I figured his untalented and uninspired days as a police officer in Reading were almost over.

      Whatever. That I could handle, right? Except, it was hard not to remember the darkness in him, the utter hatred and what could only be described as despicable intent I’d seen in August. Even Dad witnessed it and was nervous about it. But Robert’s lurking skills weren’t on the top of his best practices list, so every time I spotted him, I just called Dad. The sight of my father’s pickup truck still must have sent chills through Robert because he’d hightail himself out of my sight the second Dad appeared. But I wondered how long that would last. He had his own agenda, that much was apparent, and part of it had to do with taking Crew’s job.

      What, I wondered, was the rest? I had a feeling only Geoffrey Jenkins knew for sure. And maybe Robert’s revolting little girlfriend, Rose Norton. Not that any of it mattered. If Olivia lost her position, Crew would be out of the sheriff’s office, and I’d have Robert to deal with.

      If. Got to run, I said. Good luck in there.

      Pamela laughed, shrugged, eyes bright. Can’t wait to report this story, she said before jerking the door open and marching inside like a soldier heading into battle.

      She could report on the division in our town all she wanted. I, however, was on my way to hopefully do something more productive. Like maybe save us all from Geoffrey Jenkins.

      ***

      Chapter Two

      As I crossed the street at the crosswalk—no way was I giving Robert reason to write me a ticket for jaywalking—my mind turned toward the last two months, the encounter with internal Reading strife stirring up the past. Though it wasn’t so much the fact our town was under threat, as far as I was concerned, that had me rewinding a few months. It was, instead, the happy memory of my connection to Crew that had me smiling over the lip of my cup rather than frustrated by what might be coming with the pending election.

      Ever since his return from his mystery undercover work with the FBI in August, Crew seemed more determined than ever to make our relationship a priority. In fact, while before we’d only been casually dating, a few nights here and there, the odd dinner that neither of us came out and said were dates, now he openly talked about our future together and made plans for our continuing contact before I could even suggest anything. And his interest didn’t seem forced, either, but rather sweetly delightful. I found myself blushing over our parting the night before when he dropped me off at Petunia’s, the lingering kiss in the cab of his truck, the way his big hands cradled my face, how his breath in my ear seemed to send sensations to the very depths of me. I was always surprised when Crew was done kissing me, I wasn’t in a melted puddle but actually in one piece and able to walk and talk and act like I hadn’t just been to heaven and back on the delicious ride that was Crew’s soft lips.

      Sigh. It helped, his attention, especially when his ex-partner called. And Special Agent Elizabeth Michaud seemed to call a lot lately, far more than she ever did before. Though, to be honest, I wasn’t exactly this close to Crew previously, so for all I knew they’d been in close contact from day one and I just hadn’t been aware. There was something about the way he reacted when she called, though, that made me doubt the latter and assume she had an agenda too.

      Didn’t everyone? Even me? I loved Crew, I wasn’t going to lie to myself about it anymore, or pretend he didn’t make my heart go pitter-pat on a regular basis. Whether he loved me back or not was for him to say, but I’d chosen to commit to him like he seemed to have chosen me. So far, so good. As long as he wasn’t overcompensating for the possibility he might run off and rejoin the FBI if he found himself suddenly ousted from the job of sheriff of Reading.

      I paused to glare at one of the election signs jammed into the dying grass next to the sidewalk, the smarmy smile on Geoffrey’s face just begging for a fake pair of spectacles and a mustache. Something some budding artist had obviously thought was also an excellent idea if the hideous job they’d done to mess up his not-so-good looks was any indication. Maybe the two boys accused of phallic assault on the Captain Reading statue had graduated to election signs. Funny, though. They’d left our current mayor’s alone. Olivia’s serious and, if I was going to be honest, rather smug smile on the sign next to Geoffrey’s wasn’t doing her any favors, but her P.R. management wasn’t my department.

      A big, black car cruised past, making me shiver, though the windows weren’t tinted, the older couple in the back looking nothing like the only person I expected to find in such a luxury sedan. Not that there’d been sign of Malcolm Murray the last few weeks. I shuddered inside my jacket, realizing it was too thin for the chill weather, and partially from the realization Malcolm’s disappearance coincided with the conversation I’d had with Siobhan Doyle. I hadn’t exactly pursued Malcolm to find out why he left, instead only getting a blank stare and a rote response from his bullies at The Orange when I stopped in to ask. And there was no answer from Siobhan when I tried to call her in Ireland to follow up in the hope she might answer some of my questions anyway. Instead, I only got a full mailbox message and a whole lot of growing worry for someone I’d never met before and yet felt a keen attachment to despite knowing nothing about why I should care.

      I slipped into the alley behind French’s Handmade Bakery, mind whirling, coffee cooling far too fast for my liking, letting myself into the back hallway and climbing the stairs to the second floor. The sound of jovial banter in the kitchen below paired with the delicious scent of baked goods brightened my mood, though I was hardly in a happy place when I knocked on the door at the end of the hall. Just not quite so dark.

      Footsteps answered my soft knock, the familiar cool, flat expression on Vivian French’s face doing nothing to improve my outlook. She stepped aside in silence, gesturing for me to join her and, with a sigh that made my chest ache, I followed her guidance, entering her office with my shoulders aching in an itchy twitch between them that felt like I should be careful not to get stabbed in the back.

      Mom sat on the lushly upholstered sofa under the window, Vivian’s office more lavish than my apartment, sunny and bright in soft yellows and creams, the woven gold and tan carpet catching against my sneakers as I collapsed next to my mother, stopping my coffee from spilling on the light-colored fabric beneath me at the last second.

      Mom patted my knee with a huge, conspiratorial wink and grin. Was she really enjoying herself? Apparently. And I was supposed to play along with this ridiculous farce of a meeting? Wow, Fee, grumpy much? My mood swings might have been worrisome if I didn’t live in Reading, Vermont, the cutest town in America and if my last name wasn’t Fleming.

      I didn’t get to comment on my mother’s attitude, because before Vivian could join us, her perfect peach pencil skirt and white silk shell making her look about as fashion magazine cover as possible, someone else knocked on the door. She moved without pause, turning with her heels tapping on the wood floor outside the perimeter of the decorative rug, making me feel, as she always did, like a total country bumpkin with my red hair in a pony that might or might not have been fresh this morning and jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt. At least my cropped jacket was a bit modern, thanks to my (not so much these days) bestie, Daisy Bruce. She’d given it to me for Christmas last year and I loved it, even if it reminded me of the fact she and I weren’t on the closest of terms anymore, all because of her meddling step-sister, Rose, and Daisy’s blow-up of the recent past.

      Without her? My sense of style lacked.

      Vivian stepped aside as one of her staff slunk into her office, the small woman with her head down, dark hair tucked into a ball cap, stocky body slumped inside her golf shirt and hideously practical tan pants. Vivian’s style apparently didn’t reach as far as the women who worked for her. I almost turned to Mom, waiting for Vivian to finish up her business before asking why I was here and what exactly this was all about when the small woman swept off her baseball hat and the grim but determined face of the mayor of Reading was revealed.

      Thank you for coming, Olivia Walker said, looking about as unremarkable as I’d ever seen her without her polished pantsuits to make her stand out. "We’re waiting on one

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