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 was crying again by the time I joined them, Crew already at her, obviously. And looking like he was settling in for the long haul too, planting his butt in a chair and crossing one shiny dress shoe over his knee, pad and pen in his lap. If only he didn't look so fantastic I could muster some angst against him and feel more like a defender instead of a participant in her questioning. At least I had the satisfaction of accepting he hadn't learned from what Dad said. So be it.


   "I swear, I didn't kill him." I knew how Simone felt. I'd been in her place, though I hadn't done any crying. Probably because I'd secretly-and horribly-been relieved Pete Wilkins was dead in my koi pond. That the man who tried to steal Petunia's from me had kicked the proverbial bucket before he could do any more damage than he already had. And, a further note that separated my experience from Simone's was the fact I hadn't been dating the person who so abruptly died.


Chapter 50: Protecting Simone