I’m an international, multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in my head. As a singer, songwriter, independent filmmaker and improv teacher and performer, my life has always been about creating and sharing what I create with others. Now that my dream to write for a living is a reality, with over a hundred titles in happy publication and no end in sight, I live in beautiful Prince Edward Island, Canada, with my giant cats, pug overlord and overlady and my Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

A Poo Poo Kind of Morning

I tried not to look down the mouth of hell staring back at me from inside the glaringly pristine outer ceramic shell of the white throne, my throat catching, stomach doing half flips and a rather impressive rollover routine that would have gotten at least a 9.5 even from the Russian judges. Instead, I forced myself to smile and swallow and remind myself the elbow length yellow rubber gloves grasping the handle of the standard issue plunger were all that stood between me and Pooageddon. 

Suck it up, Fee. Big girl panties and adulting and all that. 

“At what point,” I waved the dripping plunger, wincing as droplets of yuck flew, “did I think owning a bed and breakfast was going to be glamorous and romantic?”


Fiona Fleming is in so much trouble. Her recently inherited bed and breakfast might not actually be hers thanks to the underhanded misdealings of the local real estate bully. Despite her grandmother's last will and testament, Fee might me out of luck and on the street before she even gets settled. But when her new enemy floats belly up in her koi pond, she's the prime suspect in his murder! Can she uncover who the real killer is before the smoking hot new sheriff puts her behind bars instead of asking her out on a date?

Dive into book one of the Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries, and don't miss the exciting sequels!

Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries

She didn't rise or try to pursue me and she didn't have to. Small town. I could run and maybe try to hide, but eventually I'd have to face her. With a small sigh I shuffled out from under Petunia's warm butt and entered the room, offering my hand.


"I'm not going to tell you anything," I said with a smile.


Pamela laughed while Petunia grunted her way onto the sofa next to her. The fact the well-dressed reporter took the time to scratch the pug under the chin and behind her ears was at least proof she had a heart buried under there. I sank into the chair opposite while my visitor leaned toward me, hands now clasped before her, dark blue suited elbows on her skirted knees.


"Why don't I talk then," she said, brown eyes on the amber side in the light from the tall windows. "About the fact you no longer own Petunia's."


I couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She went on while I struggled to survive.


Chapter 22: Pamela Shard