Jasper comes up. “Here you are. I was getting worried.” He bears those lightning gray eyes to mine. “Is everything okay?”
I’m about to answer when Grady pokes his head back into the room and heads this way.
“I was about to take off when I spotted this on the desk. It must have come in with yesterday’s mail. Sorry, things were a bit frantic. Happy Thanksgiving,” he says as hands me a white envelope with the word urgent written on the back and the return address is a quite a familiar one.
“It’s from Quinn Bennet, the owner of the inn,” I say as I open it up, and both Jasper and I quickly read it.
Dear Bizzy,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m headed stateside on business, and while I’m in town, I’ll be entertaining a few of my closest friends. They are an interesting group, I’m sure you’ll adore them. Have the inn ready for a grand holiday party on the first Saturday of December. This is going to be a holiday season to remember.
Warmly,
Earl Quinn Bennet
I close my eyes for a moment before looking up at my handsome husband. “So much for a peaceful holiday season.”
He wraps his arms around me. “I have a feeling this will be a Christmas to remember, indeed.”
I nod up at him. “It will be.”
I can feel it in my creaky bones.
The inn is about to host the party of the year, and I have less than a week to put it all together.
Two proposals and one very potent party are coming right up.
Here’s hoping I survive them all.
And if the murderous track record this town holds is any indication, someone may not survive at all.
Need more Cider Cove? Click here to pick up A Christmas to Dismember (Country Cottage Mysteries 12)! It’s Christmas in Cider Cove!
An innkeeper who reads minds. An ornery detective. And a trail of bodies. Cider Cove is the premiere destination for murder.
***Includes RECIPE
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.
The holidays have arrived in Cider Cove and so has the owner of the Country Cottage Inn. Bizzy is instructed to throw a holiday gala to remember to wow the owner’s fancy friends but the festivities come to an abrupt end when a killer joins the party. Christmas is afoot and so is murder.
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
Need more Cider Cove? Click here to pick up A Christmas to Dismember (Country Cottage Mysteries 12)! It’s Christmas in Cider Cove!
Ready for some more Thanksgiving fun? Click here—> Pecan Pie Predicament (Murder in the Mix 27) and read today! It’s Thanksgiving and someone is carving up murder. Warning, lots of fun up ahead!
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so I rarely see dead people, mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety, who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom.
It's Thanksgiving in Honey Hollow and there will be cooking, lots and lots of baking, and of course plenty of murder to go around. Not only do I stumble upon a new body but I have so much aftermath to deal with after the biggest Halloween fiasco the town has ever seen. Autumn has descended full force, and all I want to do is curl up by the fire with fuzzy socks, a good book, and my sweet cats—but there's a killer on the loose who has far more nefarious plans for me.
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***Love Janet Evanovich? You’ll have a blast with Meow for Murder. Enjoy the sneak peek!
Pick it up NOW! —> An Awful Cat-titude
A highly inaccurate psychic. A grumpy writer. And a corpse. Welcome to Starry Falls. Running from the mob can be murder.
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 Vinny’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
“I don’t want to die!” The words rip from my throat as if they were being pulled out with barbed wire.
My name is Stella Santini. 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 liked to call 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. This morning when a scene from the West End Woods flashed through my mind and I saw myself running for my life—I thought maybe I might be running from a serial
