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

   My gag reflex had obviously grown accustomed to the stink of her poo, because fetching the little garden shovel didn't make me want to throw up like it used to, nor did scooping it with rather practiced efficiency in one quick motion. I was getting good at this. Not that dog poop scooping was going to be an Olympic sport any time soon, but if it ever came up, I'd be a contender.


   Petunia, meanwhile, watched with the kind of glassy eyed happiness that was her regular expression, as if having me for a slave was par for her particular puggy course. She followed me when I deposited her offering to the gods of stink in the compost pile and carefully set aside the shovel, her bulging brown eyes seeming to gleam with glee.


   "You really need to lay off the sweets," I said, pausing at the door. She farted softly in response before licking her chops, clearly expecting to be fed now that she'd made room in her chubby pug body for more flatulence creating delectables.


Chapter 90: Laying Blame