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    Something Borrowed, Something Blue and Murder
    Something Borrowed, Something Blue and Murder
    Something Borrowed, Something Blue and Murder
    Ebook268 pages5 hours

    Something Borrowed, Something Blue and Murder

    By Patti Larsen

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    About this ebook

    An old kind of new

    Crew closed the distance between us, my head suddenly tucked under his chin, hands pressing me to him, rocking me gently, softly while he whispered my name in my ear. “Fee, I love you. I stayed for you, from the first time we met. I knew it was you.”

    Damn it, Crew Turner. Stop that right now.

    He turned me slightly, still holding me, and went on. “For better or worse, this place is home, now.” He nodded to Vivian who nodded back. “No matter what happens, I guess I’m about to become a Fleming.”

    I laughed at that through my tears, while Dad chuckled and Mom tsked. But, knowing Reading? That was exactly what everyone would think.

    Poor Crew.

    With a fresh death in none other than her beloved Petunia’s, and her wedding hanging in the balance, Fee must accept a role she never expected while doing her best to catch a murderer, all while realizing there’s a very good chance someone has it out for her...

    Don't miss a single volume in the Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries! Find books one through eleven 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
    Guns and Ammo and Murder
    High Heels and Runways and Murder
    Plaid and Fore! and Murder
    Whips and Spurs and Murder

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPatti Larsen
    Release dateFeb 14, 2019
    ISBN9781988700724
    Something Borrowed, Something Blue 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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      Something Borrowed, Something Blue and Murder - Patti Larsen

      Chapter One

      Vivian’s face was as icy cold as ever as she spoke, though I had to wonder if the Queen of Wheat turned mayor would be able to sustain that chilly exterior as the town fell apart around her. A big contrast to the cutesy Christmas decorations someone hung to attempt to make things look festive and not like the bleak wasteland of French formality and control hadn’t taken hold of the cutest town in America and turned it into a police state. She certainly didn’t have Olivia’s penchant for thriving on stress, as far as I was concerned, and would likely fall to pieces in short order.

      Speaking of stress. Hello there, pressure and anxiety tied to what was actually happening right now. When she focused that intense stare on me, I knew better than to think I was going to escape my share of the weight she was about to unload on my shoulders just because she was that kind of person and I was right in front of her for no good reason I could come up with.

      Yet again we find ourselves embroiled in a murder investigation, Vivian said while the other council members muttered and nodded like this was my fault. Argh. I wish they understood how disconcerting it was to stumble over dead bodies. Not one of them got it, though, did they? All safely protected from the gruesome knowledge and nightmare-inducing memories of being in the presence of victims over and over again. Twelve and counting, go me.

      Vivian wasn’t done and I snapped my attention back to her while she stared down at the surface of her desk like she was trying to maintain her temper and composure, prim pink Grace Fiore dress as much her uniform as that of Deputy Jill Wagner who stood beside me, her face tight, jaw jumping, hands grasping her gun belt for dear life.

      Sheriff. Vivian didn’t look up, her voice so low I saw more than one of the witnesses to this little unfolding performance strain forward to hear her. Her tone rose when she looked up, pale eyes snapping. I expect you to step up and take care of this problem ASAP. Right, because a dead body was a problem, not a terrible end to someone’s existence. Or I’ll be finding you a replacement. Are we clear?

      I swallowed hard, heart suddenly pounding, knowing this was it. The end of this particular road, and I was surprised how upset I felt about it. I glanced around, knowing any backup I might have access to was long gone as the Reading’s sheriff answered in a voice far steadier than I expected.

      Mayor French, I said. I’ll do my best.

      ***

      And whoopsie doodle. I think I’m a bit ahead of myself, aren’t I? You’re lost and wondering what the heck and I’m rambling. So sorry, back up the train, Fleming. I didn’t mean to leap ahead like that, to make this a bigger mess than, quite frankly, it already was.

      You’ll be patient, though, right? See, a lot happened in the twenty-four hours prior to me taking on the job my fiancé held the last four years. Since I’d known him, in fact. Confused? Yeah, you’re in good company.

      But I digress.

      Shall we start again so your brain doesn’t randomly implode like I think mine might have…?

      ***

      Chapter One (for real this time, I promise)

      A very short twenty-four hours ago in a cute and messed up town in Vermont…

      How weird to stand in the foyer at Petunia’s and not hear a peep. So quiet, so still, mid-December sunlight streaming in the windows, the peaceful emptiness of a place so rarely without occupants making me a bit nostalgic for my childhood.

      I’d spent so many summers helping my grandmother here, Iris Fleming’s particular way of doing things, her dry sense of humor, her careful and precise language, the way she taught me with the steady and powerful self-confidence of a woman who didn’t care one whit what others thought of her ingrained far more deeply in me than I’d ever imagined. At least, until she passed away and I’d come home to Reading.

      To Petunia’s, the place she loved so very much.

      I wanted to think Grandmother Iris would be excited by the prospect of my wedding here in this beautiful house. Mom’s attempt to get Crew and me hitched at a more impressive venue—the annex, for one—was really one of the only lines I drew in the sand (who was I kidding, winter in Vermont meant lines in the snow) and my gorgeous fiancé agreed when I insisted.

      The annex was lovely and amazing, and I adored it.

      But Petunia’s was home. And I wanted, more than anything in the world, to marry the love of my life here inside its amazing walls. Fitting, as far as I was concerned.

      I turned in a slow circle, my high heel slipping easily over the entry carpet, as I enjoyed these final moments of silence in my beloved home. Any second now I’d be overwhelmed (in a good way, I kept telling myself) by the people who cared about me the most, by the organist and the soloist and the minister and my parents, my bestie, my darling Crew… yes, it was only the rehearsal, not the wedding day, but there was something final feeling about this afternoon and the events about to unfold in the bed and breakfast that had claimed my heart and soul as much as the man I loved.

      I glanced down and spotted my pug following my revolving turn, huffing as she made sure she kept up despite the fact I wasn’t really going anywhere, just spinning in a circle. She’d been acting funny the last two days, since I checked out the last of the guests and got down to cleaning, Mom cracking the whip on Jill, Daisy and myself (bless them for their patience) as we scrubbed Petunia’s main floor within an inch of our lives.

      While I’d felt a bit like Cinderella with Mom firmly ensconced in the Evil Stepmother role despite the fact we looked enough alike we could have been sisters, I had to admit the final result left Petunia’s sparkling, smelling like spring was around the corner instead of months away and ready, picture-perfect, for my wedding day.

      It had taken some wrangling to get a week free, but I managed it, starting as soon as we’d chosen the date, funneling visitors toward the White Valley Lodge, or promising them discounts if they’d just let me tie the freaking knot already. We’d stayed hard-core busy, both here and at the annex, despite the turnover in mayors. I shouldn’t have been surprised, and wasn’t, when Vivian French, the Queen of Wheat herself, took over the helm of the cutest town in America, easily winning the November election and sweeping Olivia Walker aside. Despite the latter’s impressive record up to that point keeping Reading on the map, as far as I was concerned. But Vivian had asked me to back her, to trust her and though I was still wondering why I should, ultimately, it had been clear that Vivian’s landslide win wasn’t going to be changed just because Fiona Fleming decided one way or the other.

      Reading residents wanted a change and Vivian was their new darling.

      Petunia followed me, her triangle black ears perked, as I crossed the foyer and headed for the dining room. It had been emptied of the tables and chairs, the long sideboard that normally housed the buffet-style offerings Mom had made Petunia’s famous for, and the tall, wooden hutch that held Grandmother Iris’s prized china. Now relocated (temporarily) to the kitchen, that left this long, narrow room ready for the two rows of chairs flanking the central aisle of deep red carpet Mom managed to find somewhere, Christmas red bows gracing each of the seats, the setup lavish and, according to my mother, almost done.

      As far as I was concerned it looked perfect three layers of decorations ago, but I was just the bride, right? Mom had clearly lost her mind. Snort.

      Petunia sat on my foot as if she could pin me to the ground, looking up at me with a huge yawn that ended in a meowing pug protest.

      I know, I said. She’s gone overboard. But what was I supposed to do? She’s my mother. And this is the only wedding she’s going to get. At least, that was my plan.

      Petunia sighed and rubbed her nose with one paw, like she wasn’t buying my argument about my mother, and I shrugged it off before turning to leave the room, heading for the kitchen. The pug grunted before plodding along with me, her claws ticking on the tile floor as I held the door for her and let her precede me.

      I glanced out the window toward the annex, knowing it was still packed and as busy as ever, that the Christmas Lights Extravaganza Olivia had set up and was left in place was still in full swing. I’d strolled last night with Crew, arm in arm, and smiled at the excessively lit and gift wrapped houses and businesses of Reading as the whole town seemed to throw themselves into holiday frenzy. Was it guilt that this was Olivia’s venture, the third annual, and they wanted to make sure it was bigger and sparklier than ever to, what? Honor the woman they betrayed? Or prove to her they could manage just fine without her?

      From what I’d heard, Olivia herself had taken her loss in stride and was running a very successful online marketing company, but every time I tried to talk to her, she avoided me like the plague.

      Okay then. Though what I did to deserve it was lost on me.

      Looking at the annex made me pause and think about the way things used to be, back when I first moved home and took over Petunia’s. Was it that sense of nostalgia that triggered the flashback to Peggy Munroe and her creepily silent little dog, Cookie, leaning over my fence to gossip? Or was it the fact the old woman who hated my guts and broke out of prison with her grandniece’s assistance was still at large that gave me a faint shudder down my spine?

      Well, she’d been out and on the run since September and there hadn’t been a whisper about her, so I had forced myself to shelve my fears and chose to believe she’d run off to Florida or wherever old murderous ladies with vendettas went to hide from the law.

      I heard a car pull into the driveway, knew there would be more soon. Listened to the door slam, the sound of voices, thought about the honeymoon suite upstairs, my dress spread out on the comforter in the garment bag, the jewelry, my shoes, all carefully displayed and ready for the morning. For my makeup and hair and getting dressed and photos and…

      And. Endless everything until I got to say I do to the most amazing, handsome, charming, kind and loving man I’d ever met.

      Endless would be worth it.

      My pug huffed and I grinned down at her in response. Happily ever after, Petunia, I said. Doesn’t that sound amazing?

      She tilted her head and grinned, tongue lolling out and I took that as a huge yes.

      ***

      Chapter Two

      Fee, sweetheart! I knew Mom’s voice anywhere and hurried into the foyer to find her laden down with an armload of groceries. She beamed at me as I ran to assist, liberating her from two large, canvas bags brimming over with vegetables while Daisy slipped in behind her, her own giant smile as sunny as the day outside.

      Mom shook a bit of snow from her boots before slipping out of them, Daisy setting aside the box of fresh bread she held and taking Mom’s lovely cream wool coat before hanging her own tailored red one in the hall closet. I caught tears in my eyes and my breath as I looked at the two of them, wanting to weep suddenly even though I was happy, so happy. Mom rushed to me and embraced me, Daisy joining us with a low cry and the three of us broke into soft sobs and giggles while Dad, his own burdens filling his arms, tall, broad body blocking most of the doorway, shook his head at our antics.

      You’d think this was a funeral, he grumped in typical John Fleming fashion, though his beaming smile for me when I laughed and pulled out of the gorgeous women’s embrace and lunged for him, making his breath oof out of his lungs when I squeezed extra hard told a totally different story from his words. Love you, Fee, he whispered into my hair, unable to hug me back, the bags he balanced held out of the way so I could get some solid Dad contact.

      Love you, too. I sniffled and smiled up at him, though when I tried to lighten his load, he dodged me with a grin and a wink, his own eyes faintly moist and just as close to emotion as the three of us were, the old fraud.

      I got this, he said, skirting me and heading for the kitchen. I’m not useless yet, you know.

      I snorted. Like my tall, big-shouldered father who hadn’t gained an ounce of fat on his body since high school would ever be anything but my hero. No, don’t burst my bubble. I refused to believe even for a second this time in my life would slip away and I’d have to face my parents getting older, me, the farty pug at my feet who had a bit grayer in her muzzle these days, not quite as much spring in her step. Nope, not going there, not now, not ever, thank you very much.

      Choke.

      Mom was back into frenzy mode while I fought off the emotional rollercoaster that had been my existence the last few days, hurrying off to the kitchen after Dad with her load of goodies, Daisy following more slowly, hooking one arm through mine while she balanced the box of bread between us.

      You must be so excited, Fee. She’d only said that at least four times a day, every day, for the past three weeks and the answer was always the same. Yes. Yes, I freaking was. Daisy sighed that delightfully delicious sigh of hers, the one that was utterly devoid of any jealousy but brimming and fully stocked with all kinds of happy goodness one might attribute to her getting married, not me.

      Not that she was, at least not yet. She’d been spending a lot of time with the handsome investor, Emile Reis, who seemed to be, in turn, taking his time going home to Luxemburg or Belgium or wherever it was he was from, lingering in Reading like a lost puppy dog looking for someone (Daisy) to adopt (love) him. There was a time I’d thought him intensely attractive in his tall and icy blond, piercingly unnaturally blue-eyed, broad jawed European royalty kind of way. Until I recalled how he’d made Daisy feel like she wasn’t good enough by telling her she needed to leave Reading. The jerk. Only to discover she had, of course, misread what he’d said, thanks to her evil half-sister Rose who always made things worse whenever she was around (gifted like that, the witch with a capital B). Emile himself had told me not so long ago he’d encouraged Daisy to leave because he saw so much potential in her he hated to see her stay small.

      Imagine. He wanted that particular flower to blossom. Well, I was with him in that plan. But Daisy? Leave me? Double choke.

      He wasn’t the creep I’d thought him to be when he’d left that fateful Valentine’s party with Vivian French on his arm instead of my beautiful friend. Rather, she’d rejected him (thank you, Rose) and broken his heart (poor guy) while thinking he was the one at fault (how easily communication fell apart when we let ourselves think we weren’t good enough and yes, I was looking at you again, Daisy). The fact he’d come back to Reading over and over (I’d failed to realize how many times in the past three years, but it was a lot, apparently) just to see Daisy…? How had I missed it?

      Well, she’d been in her own whirlwind of doldrums and, as per Daisy’s way, hated dumping her silly stuff on me, so she’d kept it all bottled up until recently.

      I hugged her arm with mine as we passed together through the swinging door into the kitchen and caught my breath at the thought of her leaving. Because as she let me go, I noticed the gorgeous bracelet on her wrist, the string of expensively jeweled flowers of her namesake that skimmed her skin, a single diamond dangling from a thin chain at the clasp indication enough she’d decided to take steps with Emile that meant, more than likely, my days with my bestie at my side full time were numbered.

      I didn’t get to cry over that. Just didn’t. She deserved to be happy, too. But damn it. What was I going to do without her?

      Fee. I felt my jaw set at the tone in Mom’s voice, jerking me out of my sadness, at least, and back into the present rather than anticipation of a weepy future with no Daisy in it.

      Mom. I knew that my answering tone would trigger her own jaw jump but just couldn’t help myself. We’d been back and forthing like this since she’d taken over my wedding (yes, a bit resentful of that, suck it) and I was tired, hella tired, of being made to feel like this was her wedding and I was a bystander/slave/employee who had better step up or ship out.

      So, the whole what am I going to do without Daisy thing I was just mourning? Yup, case in point. With the practiced ease of a trained hostage negotiator and a politician paired with a justice of the peace all wrapped up in honey-blonde hair, gray eyes and a flowered dress that would never show a wrinkle no matter if she slept in it or not, my darling Day beamed at Mom and touched her arm, instantly diffusing my uptight mother and saving the (if you’ll excuse the pun) day.

      Lucy, let’s get these groceries sorted, then I’ll help you assemble the hors d'oeuvres. She winked at me. I know Fee will be so busy greeting our guests as they arrive.

      Mom grumbled faintly but was already distracted, diving into the shopping bags while Dad breathed a theatrical—if silent—sigh of relief before grinning evilly at me and escaping the kitchen. I joined him in a hurry, Petunia left behind to wait for scraps, the swinging door sighing for me so I didn’t have to as I returned to the foyer with only a hint of annoyance clinging.

      Okay, more than a hint. And I know Dad saw it because he engulfed me in his strong arms, the scent of his shirt as familiar as my childhood (Mom hadn’t changed her detergent or fabric softener ever).

      One more day, kid, he said. She’s been making herself crazy for this because she loves you. Give her one more day.

      I grumbled something unflattering into his buttons before sighing for real. I know, I said, pushing him away a fraction. But if this is a prequel to kids? Dad, one of us won’t survive and it’s probably going to be me.

      Dad chuckled and kissed my forehead before stepping away with a little frown. You two will be fine, he said. I’m the one who’s suffering, after all. He took on an air of horrified angst and made me laugh while I swatted his arm to make him stop.

      Whatever. I glanced at the sideboard, the newspaper there making me pause, heart hurting suddenly. I’d missed out on Alicia and Jared’s wedding, though I’d managed to sneak a peek at a few of the pictures, thanks to the occasional over-the-shoulder snooping I wrangled down at Sammy’s Coffee. At least a few of the local residents were up for letting me peruse their phones for snippets of the joyous occasion that I’d spent stumbling over and then investigating the murder of the local equestrian riding coach. Not much of a trade-off, if you asked me, but my life, in a nutshell.

      The fact that I’d missed their wedding was the past. I was (mostly) over it (yeah, right, Fee, keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better). But the disappearance and lack of any kind of contact from Reading Reader Gazette newspaperwoman Pamela Shard troubled me deeply. I’d spent about two weeks after she vanished into thin air, abandoning the

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