A Dreadful Meow-mentMeow for Murder 2
Addison Moore Bellamy Bloom
Contents
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
Books by Addison Moore and Bellamy Bloom
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Copyright © 2020 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom
Edited by Paige Maroney Smith
Cover by Stunning Book Covers
Hollis Thatcher Press, LTD.
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.
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Copyright © 2020 by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom
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Book Description
A highly inaccurate psychic. A grumpy writer. And a corpse. Welcome to Starry Falls. Running from the mob can be murder.
It’s turning out to be a long, hot summer. But when Shep takes me to his high school reunion as his date, things heat up more than ever. Suffice it to say, his old female classmates aren’t too thrilled to see he’s taken. And even though Shep is insistent on keeping up our couple’s ruse, one of his rusty, dusty, old girlfriends isn’t buying it. And when one of his good friends ends up biting the big one, all suspicion is cast upon the interloper among them. That would be me.
Confession: I’m no psychic. But I can sort of see the future—albeit not accurately. And you better believe I’ve never let that little detail stop me from prognosticating my way into a pickle. So when I ticked off the mob, the feds, and my wily ex, I decided to take my Uncle Vinnie’s advice and start over with a new name and new hair color while relying on my old shtick—getting my psychic wires crossed and putting myself in danger.
Chapter 1
“Shep’s back!” someone shouts from the entry of the Manor Café and the words send a chill up my spine, terrifying me far more than should ever be allowed.
My name is Stella Santini, or at least it was. I go by Bowie Binx now, and I’ve got long black hair, light brown eyes, stand at an average height of five-foot-five, and I can see the future.
Okay, fine.
Confession: I’m no psychic. Nor have I ever come close to predicting what the future might hold, not with any accuracy anyway.
You see, ever since I was a little girl, I had what my Nana Rose called the shakes. Technically, it’s more of a shiver, and when you get down to it, there’s a warm, fuzzy feeling involved that makes me want to forget about the world around me for a moment and retreat to the dark recesses of my mind where a thought plays out like a movie and I see things. And trust me when I say I have been wrong about interpreting the things I see on more than one occasion.
Take now for instance. No sooner did I arrive at the Manor Café this morning, where I’ve somehow stumbled into managing the place, than one of those otherworldly visions hits me. I see Shep himself—handsome, tall, built like a god, mind of Einstein, best-selling author, ex-homicide detective, and did I mention ridiculously handsome? He’s currently dominating the theater of my mind, talking to a man about his height and age—early thirties. The man peels back his suit jacket and exposes the butt of a gun and says, “This is what I’m going to kill you with.”
It was ominous, dark, and darn right foreboding.
“Table three needs more coffee,” Tilly Teasdale says as she whizzes by, leaving a scarf of thick sugary perfume in her wake. She’s shorter than me by three inches, older than me by three years, has brown hair with blonde chunky highlights, and loves to dress to impress the opposite sex.
Tilly has been my new best friend ever since I ended up here in Starry Falls, Vermont—at the Mortimer Manor to be exact.
The Mortimer Manor has the girth and appeal of a haunted mansion, sits crooked on a hill, and is crawling with a legion of cats, all adopted by the eccentric woman who owns this place.
My visit here last month was more or less supposed to be a pit stop. It was sort of an accidental pit stop once my beat-up Honda, Wanda, up and died on me.
I was actually on my way to Canada while on the run from both the feds and the mob. Let’s just say my lavish spending sprees may have accidentally tipped off the FBI to the money laundering scheme I was taking part in, and now both organizations want me—dead or alive. I’ve already turned in my louse of an ex, the originator of that siphoning disaster. I can safely pin most of the blame for the things that went wrong for me in the last year square on Johnny Rizzo’s shoulders. Hopefully, his incarceration will be enough to keep the feds and the mob off my back for a while.
The kicker? My Uncle Vinnie set up a new identity for me, complete with all the proper paperwork to make my incarnation as Bowie Binx both viable and believable. He’s the one who gifted me Wanda, too. And just a fun side note: Bowie Binx is a partial concoction of my Uncle Vinnie’s favorite singer coupled with a surname his three-year-old granddaughter came up with on the fly to
