Chocolate Hearts and Murder Read online

  Chocolate Hearts and Murder

  Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries #2

  Patti Larsen

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2017 by Patti Larsen

  Find out more about me at

  http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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  http://smarturl.it/PattiLarsenEmail

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  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed 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 book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Cover art (copyright) by Christina G. Gaudet. All rights reserved.

  http://castlekeepcreations.com/

  Edited by Jessica Bufkin

  With my deepest thanks to:

  Jessica Bufkin

  Christina G. Gaudet

  Scott Larsen

  Kirstin Lund

  Lisa Gilson Noe

  Caron Prins

  Thank you for reading and loving Fee.

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  Chapter One

  Why was it fancy Valentine’s Day drinks were always tinted red? Reminded me more of gore and mayhem than anything to do with romance. Which said a lot, I suppose, for my state of mind when it came to relationships and dating.

  No bitterness in Fiona Fleming toward the opposite sex or anything.

  I sipped carefully at the wildly inappropriate mimosa the bartender smilingly handed me and shrugged off the sweetness. It had alcohol in it, so I guess it would do. A few of these and I might even find a way to enjoy myself tonight. Yeah, right.

  Don’t get me wrong. It was kind of a big deal to be invited, from what I understood, to Mayor Olivia Walker’s extra special, don’t you dare miss it, White Valley Ski Lodge Resort Extravaganza and fashion show. Snort. I tipped my glass to a pair of young women I didn’t know out of the need to at least appear friendly and perused the bar where I hoped to spend the bulk of tonight before returning to my room and hiding out there until I could go home.

  My free hand tugged at the short hemline of the dress Daisy picked out for me while I did my damnedest not to show how uncomfortable I was in the shining satin sheath. No one told my best friend that redheads look terrible in crimson. Though, as it turned out, this particular dress’s color actually complimented my thick, auburn hair, matched to the deep red lipstick she insisted I wear. The kind of “lasts all night and won’t kiss off” stuff she knew was my only hope for keeping color on my lips due to my utter lack of giving a crap about makeup.

  Smart girl, that Daisy. Not that I was going to be kissing anyone. But a girl could hope.

  Maybe I could carve out a little corner by the bar here, in the dim light of the long, narrow space with the lovely music piping through in tasteful strains of reworked pop songs, (sarcasm, check) while water cascaded in enthusiastic downfall over the glass feature that was the back wall. The slick marble tiles were a bit treacherous underfoot, made worse by the heels Daisy forced on my feet. Come to think of it, I’d been worried they’d be hurting by now, laughed at her when she insisted on taping my toes together, only to discover she knew what she was doing and that my tender, sneaker favoring tootsies actually felt all right.

  I spotted Olivia across the room and ducked my head, the updo making it impossible to hide behind my hair like I usually did. Damn Daisy and her deft fingers, though I had to admit the final result—makeup, dress, shoes and hair—left me a little breathless and willing to at least date myself. I turned toward the bar, the mirror behind it reflecting her artwork, and grinned for a second at just how hot I actually looked.

  Now, if only I wasn’t the only woman here under thirty who was single… not fair. I was sure it only felt that way. And nice to have an excuse to do something on Valentine’s Day that had nothing to do with men or pretending they weren’t all jerks. Still. I watched Olivia in her pale cream gown making her rounds, all poised politician perfection, and my grin turned to a grimace. I’d let her bully me into this, just like I’d allowed it the last eight months since I took over my Grandmother Iris’s B&B, Petunia’s. From the moment she intervened with the sheriff over the death of Pete Wilkins and kept my business open, murder or no murder, the woman seemed to think she owned me. And the rest of the town.

  Mind you, she was doing a stellar job of putting our sleepy little Reading, Vermont on the map of must visit places in the continental United States. Savvy didn’t begin to describe her ability to wrangle press and attention and everyone thrived thanks to it. But there were times it rankled.

  Like three weeks ago when she showed up in the foyer of Petunia’s, patted my pug of the same name on the head (a prerequisite for anyone wishing to spend even five seconds at the B&B) and then informed me in no uncertain terms with the faintest lines of tension and tiredness for her relentless campaigning finally showing around the edges that I was attending tonight’s little soiree.

  No luck hiding from her either now that I was here, it turned out. With her carefully cultivated welcoming smile plastered on her olive skinned face, makeup professionally applied and hair glossy in the low light, Olivia took time out of her busy schmoozing schedule to swoop across the bar and pounce. That is, spend a moment with me.

  “A smile would be lovely,” she said through her own beaming expression, tone not matching her lips or joy reaching those dark eyes. The hints of exhaustion hadn’t left her. She really needed to take a break from all her hard work at some point. “For the good of Reading.” That elegant pause, weighted with guilt, was by now classic Olivia Walker, boss of everyone. “You do want our town to continue seeing success, don’t you, darling Fiona?”

  No use arguing. I did agree with her, just wasn’t all that keen on being a show pony in her particular three ring circus. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Okay, so not very gracious, but no one ever accused me of being over enthusiastic when I was pinned to the wall.

  “Listen,” she leaned in with that smile turning to a tight, feral snarl, dark eyes snapping, weariness gone in favor of intensity, “I saved you when Pete Wilkins died and don’t you forget it. You owe me, Fiona.”

  “You kept Petunia’s open,” I snapped back. “Which, technically is a place, Olivia. I’m a person.”

  “Not to me.” Because, to Olivia Walker I was nothing to her without Petunia’s.

  While I was aware of that fact, she’d never come out and said it in so many words. At least I knew where I stood. I grit my teeth and bit the bullet. Of course I did. While Olivia strolled off, smiling and nodding like she hadn’t just handed me my self-esteem on a platter.

  Turning away again seemed the best, if miniscule, revenge. I glanced at the clock behind the bar, hating that I fretted. There was a time I could have cared less about time or anything outside my own little world. But pondering Petunia’s made me think about the two elderly ladies who I’d left in charge back in town. While I was only a fifteen minute drive from the B&B, it felt like a million miles. Now, Mary and Betty Jones had taken excellent care of Petunia’s when my grandmother had her stroke, worked there for years before that, handled everything with their stolid determination and quiet grumpiness I knew now came from natural stoic natures and not from actual dissatisfaction. Still, it was one of the busiest nights of the year. The news channel’s perky weather girl had been warning all day about the possibility of snow tonight, too. Could they deal with snow? Fee, seriously. The pair had spent their entire lives in a moun
tain town. Snow was nothing to them. But they had been left in charge of dinner and the music and…

  I really needed to call them. Check in. Not because I wanted a distraction from standing alone at the bar with a decidedly Valentine’s Day drink in my hand, a room in the brand new resort waiting for me upstairs, a free dinner pending and no one to share it with.

  Right.

  Just when I thought tonight couldn’t get any worse, well. It got worse. Right about the same instant Vivian French breezed her way into the bar, her slim, petite figure clad from bare shoulders to toes in pale yellow silk. I had zero doubt those were real diamonds around her skinny neck and dangling from her precious little ears. As for the tiara, honestly, did she look at herself in the mirror before she left her room? Her icy blonde hair wasn’t thick enough to carry off a crown, not even artfully piled in precision curls on the top of her head.

  Bitter and jealous? Naw.

  Personally, I thought Petunia looked better. At least, my pug would shortly. Olivia saved me the agony of the fashion show, opting for a canine version meant to pluck the heartstrings of every animal lover in attendance and hopefully create enough buzz and press to go viral online. The fact my chubby pug enjoyed her bath, manipedi and general fussing over by the staff running the show more than I did Daisy’s similar attention said a lot about my own priorities.

  And my pug’s.

  As I stood there glaring—yes, I admit, glaring was involved in my moment of weakness—Vivian’s lonely singular state was the only thing that kept me from utterly abandoning my post and downing the entire bar of booze to drown my sorrows. That was, until he walked in. And ruined everything.

  I’d spent so much time thinking about asking Crew Turner on a date it sometimes felt like I’d done it already and had been horribly, miserably turned down by the handsome sheriff of Curtis County. Instead, of course, out of utter lack of luck and nervousness about our present relationship’s status, I hadn’t. If anything, he had to be thinking I was avoiding him, dodging out of shops when he appeared, smiling like a freak and stumbling into things so I didn’t have to say hello, hiding out at Petunia’s at every opportunity. All because, well, he was hot and I wasn’t ready to have dinner with the man who’d once thought I’d killed Pete Wilkins.

  Let’s be fair here. I wasn’t ready to date period. Thanks to all the trust and goodwill built up by my five-year relationship with my ex, Ryan Richards, ending in cheating (him) and embezzlement (him) and an attempt to pin illegal activity on me (him, strike three), I’d come to the conclusion that men and me? Not the greatest combination right now.

  Didn’t cut the resentment of seeing Crew pause next to Vivian looking like a movie star in his perfectly fitted tuxedo. I thought he was attractive in his uniform shirt and jeans. Yowza. Only then did I catch her blue eyes watching me, held still as she smiled and slipped one hand through his arm. And led him away.

  So she’d landed him after all. Good for her. I turned to the bar for the last time, downed my drink and accepted another.

  It was going to be a long, long night.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Rather than drown my sorrows in another mimosa—surely a terrible, terrible life choice that would lead to embarrassing myself and the need to vomit in public—I ordered a virgin version of tonight’s ridiculously brunch-centric drink of choice and turned from the smiling bartender. Leave it to Olivia to pick something tacky.

  I needed to get out of here before I “slipped” and spilled my bright red concoction down the front of Vivian’s dress. Time to call Petunia’s and check in.

  I’d left my phone in my room by “accident.” There were far too many pending air quotes in the hours that were the rest of my night, I could tell. A girl had to have her amusements. As for my phone induced forgetfulness, mostly it gave me an excuse to go upstairs and escape everyone. But after that little run in with Olivia, I second guessed my exit despite my need to be a rebel and my own woman and all that. Not because I was scared of her but because, honestly, I really did have a bad attitude about this whole thing. It was one night and I was being treated very well. If I sucked up my whining I might just manage to have a good time.

  Well, there were other ways to check in that didn’t require me to leave the main level. I turned and swished toward the exit of the bar and into the more brightly lit foyer, clicked from tile to pale blue gray carpet, the giant, sparkling chandelier above my head throwing rainbow light over everything, streamers and balloons shaped like hearts dangling from the huge, arching ceiling. Instead of going for rustic cabin in the woods chic, the designers of the White Valley Resort aimed for all out contemporary ice castle glamor. I personally found it a bit pretentious, far too New York for Vermont, but it wasn’t my business to run.

  The long, gray ash wood and glass front desk spanned the far wall, with two stations manned. I crossed toward it through the mingling crowd. A group of teens in matching snow suits giggled their way to the elevator, the lodge logo stitched on the back of their white jackets, skis and a rifle crossing beneath it. I’d heard Olivia managed to bully the owners into sponsoring a new biathlon team, among all the other things she was working on. How our mayor kept the multitude of spinning plates moving I had no idea, nor did I want to, but kudos where they were due. Though, honestly, there was something a bit desperate about chasing the new shiny too often.

  Someone’s elbow made solid contact with my ribs and I hissed out a warning, turning to find a young man with dark hair and that kind of handsomeness that hid arrogance and entitlement behind shark like eyes sweeping his pale amber gaze over me before winking.

  “Watch where you’re walking,” he said. And laughed like he’d cracked the best joke ever.

  He’d see how funny it was with a lap full of virgin mimosa.

  “Fee?” Lucky boy, his companion distracted me, stepping around him and the small group of hangers on I hadn’t noticed on my way to the desk. She hugged me around the neck with great enthusiasm while I pondered the need for the still staring young man to take up the center of the room—and attention—with his posse.

  “Simone?” Recognition clicked in while Simone Alexander released me, her dark skin faintly glowing with what looked like a dusting of mica, black eyes as huge and deep as her older sister’s. The youngest sibling of one of my closest friends from college, Simone had been far less put together the last time I saw her. Was that only a year ago?

  “Fee!” She beamed at me, big, full lips luscious with gloss, high cheekbones accented by the stunning updo she wore, making her even taller than her normally statuesque height. She was almost as tall as her date thanks to her hair, slender body stunning inside her shimmering black gown. She clutched my free hand, her excitement in seeing me clearly genuine even if her companion came across as irritated with her distracted attention.

  I kissed her cheek gently, smiling up at her. I might have been a solid 5’7”—add two inches with the heels—but Simone’s six feet always made me feel tiny. Same as her sister, Jasmine, who I now missed with a painful jab of guilt. I hadn’t seen Jazz since I left New York. A social worker with a gigantic heart and more caring for others than they usually deserved, she’d been one of my only friends who applauded my departure, how I dumped Ryan. She couldn’t stand lawyers, though, so I never knew if she picked me for me or just to burn him. Still, I really had to call her.

  “Jazz knew I was coming and made sure I found you to say hello.” Simone’s teeth shone against her dark skin, precise. Helped having an orthodontist mother with a thing for perfection. “It’s so great to see you!”

  “You, too, Simone.” I glanced at her date who now pointedly ignored me, speaking to his group in a loud voice that sounded a lot like blah blah blah to me. “What are you doing in Reading?”

  “Mason invited me.” She tugged on his arm, hers winding through his. He turned back to me like it was no big deal while she smiled at him as if he meant something to her. So, I’d give him th
e benefit of the doubt for the next five seconds. “Mason Patterson, this is Fiona Fleming.”

  Patterson. One of Reading’s founding family of Pattersons? That name registered while he spoke, making no attempt to shake my offered hand. A reflex to even extend that courtesy, but telling.

  “Ah yes,” he said. “You have that little motel in town, right?” Well, that was uncalled for. And clearly aimed to get a reaction. His friends laughed right on cue, low and nasty, all young, like Simone, all judging. Assholes with drinks in their hands, looking for someone to torment in their eternal boredom. Or some such idiocy. “What’s it called? Pathetic’s?”

  More laughter while I grinned back, knowing what this was and why it was happening. Big boy here liked to show off and make himself seem more important than everyone else. I knew his type. Thing was, if he was trying to get a rise out of me, he’d just failed miserably. All the anger drained out of me, replaced by pity and I let him see it.

  “Nice resort you have here,” I said. “What’s it feel like to be the king of small town Vermont?” I didn’t wait for his response, instead patting Simone’s hand while her face, now ashen and furious as she stared at Mason, turned to me with an apology behind her eyes. Forget the fury that flared in him, the way his friends looked away like they wanted to laugh at him this time.

  “Pop by Petunia’s before you go back to the city,” I said to her as sweetly as I could. “We’ll have lunch.”

  I walked away then, oddly recovered in the self-esteem department. Something about pegging down a pompous young wannabe made me feel so much better.

  Jazz did, however, pass on her terrible taste in men to her sister. And since I wasn’t much better, I couldn’t judge, could I? Now my frown came back and I blamed Mason Patterson for my shift in mood. Last I’d heard, Ryan had somehow weaseled his way out of charges for the embezzling he did from his law firm, but at least the jerk was disbarred. So that was something.