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

  I could tell Vivian was going to try to shut things down and kick me out of the house, but her mother was a force to be reckoned with, apparently. Even as the Queen of Wheat inhaled to either a) tell me to leave or b) deliver some kind of scathing comment about her mother (if her disdainful and angry expression that overwhelmed the typical tight control she held was an indicator) or c) explode/implode/lose her marbles, Rachelle French, her overgrown fingernails biting into my arm despite the thickness of my coat, grasped firmly onto my person and practically dragged me through the fancy foyer and into the faintly rose-scented sitting room, her mouth running the entire time.


  I shrugged an apology I didn't mean at Vivian on the way by, propelled by the chatty and, from the martini in her hand, alcohol fueled passion of the mayor's formerly estranged mother.


Chapter 426: A Force To Be Reckoned With