Sneak Peek!
The Trouble with Thanksgiving
Book Description:
A laugh out loud standalone cozy mystery by New York Times, USA TODAY,&Wall Street Journalbestseller Addison Moore and her partner in cozy crime, USA TODAY bestselling author Bellamy Bloom. *Includes RECIPES!
My name is Bizzy Baker, and I can read minds—not every mind, not every time but most of the time and believe me when I say it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
My mother has decided to host her old friends from school at the inn for an early friendsgiving celebration. But before the last slice of pie can be served, the gathering goes from friendly to deadly. Now, it’s up to me to track down the killer. Okay, so that hot homicide detective I married might protest that last part, but I can’t help it. While the whole town might be craving a Thanksgiving meal, I have a hankering for justice.
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
Chapter 1
One hour from now…
The Victim
Friendsgiving.
Whose big idea was this, anyway?
Oh, that’s right, Claudia and Vera—the devious dynamic duo.
A silent laugh rumbles through me.
Claudia and Vera are my two favorite people in the world. We’ve known one another since we were seniors in high school, and now that we’re senior citizens, we’re closer than sisters. Those two women could talk me into just about anything, including this somewhat disastrous shindig.
Oh, I’m just being a Negative Nelly.
There is not one disastrous thing about a little early Thanksgiving holiday shared among friends—especially old friends. Just about every woman in this café went to high school with us. It’s been ages, and we’ve been through more than a few stages with and without one another.
It’s nice to see a room full of familiar faces—even if they have aged just a smidge, myself included.
I’ll admit, it’s cozy in here. I haven’t been to the Country Cottage Inn since it changed hands, but the new owner, Ree’s daughter, Bizzy, has done a number on this place.
It’s far more inviting in just about every capacity, but most importantly with the inclusion of pets.
Now that the four-footed among us are welcome at the inn, my sweet Chestnut and Acorn are more than happy to be here.
Chestnut and Acorn are a couple of Pomeranian pups, who just so happen to own every inch of real estate in my heart.
I watch as they dance and yip with the other cute pooches that some of my friends have brought along for the evening, and I’d venture to say that the dog party looks equally, if not more, riveting than the party for the people.
The Country Cottage Café is a cute little diner that sits in the back of the inn. Usually it’s reserved for the guests, but because Ree’s daughter owns the inn, we have the run of the entire place for the night. It has a retro black and white theme with simple bistro tables that have been lined up to create one long expanse, and the aroma of a perfect Thanksgiving meal has been making everyone moan with approval from the moment we stepped inside.
The thick scent of turkey fills the air, along with the sweet tang of stuffing, and just beneath that I’m picking up notes of cinnamon, most likely from a pie or two. As much as the rest of these ladies can’t wait to dive in, I can’t imagine having a single bite.
The truth is, I’ve lost my appetite. And nothing seems to get it going anymore. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in weeks. In fact, the last few weeks have felt like a bad dream altogether.
I can’t believe this.
I can’t believe this is happening to me.
I’ve got thoughts on the matter.
I’ve got miles of mixed emotions running wild, too.
Of course, I’d never want to share my feelings, not with my best friends, not with any of the women in this room.
I’m pretty good at wearing a mask. I’m wearing my best smile here tonight for all of my friends to see.
Some of these gals, I haven’t seen in decades. I’ll admit, we all look the same to me. Sure, we’re older. But deep down inside, we’re all those same little girls trying to make it in this big world.
It’s been one million years since we’ve graduated from high school. We’ve had marriages, divorces, illnesses, glamorous vacations, triumphs, and failures. So many things have happened to us in the interim, and yet here we are, gabbing away as if not a single day has passed.
We have our secrets, too—some dating as far back as decades.
Lord knows I have them. And some of them I plan on taking with me to the grave. But there are a few women here who know everything about me.
The darkest secret of them all looms over my soul like a sickle, and try as I might to push it out of my mind, it comes crashing to the forefront once again. Inescapable. That’s exactly what it’s been.
It does make me wonder if that’s why all of these horrible things have been happening to me as of late.
Those nasty notes? The shadows that always seem to trail me? And those suspicious thumps in the night? Whoever is behind this has clearly succeeded in instilling fear in me.
I’m afraid when I’m with people.
I’m afraid when I’m all alone.
I’m afraid in my own mind. There is no safe place for me to hide.
And it’s my own fault. Because deep down inside, I know I’ve caused this.
I’ve done this. I deserve to be afraid. I deserve everything that’s happening to me.
Oh, I know what they’re thinking. They want me to make it right, but I can’t do it. There’s not a thing on the planet that will ever make right what I’ve done.
Vera dances her way in my direction as happy as can be with a mocktail in her hand, or a bona fide cocktail knowing her. Vera has never been one to abstain from anything. Two words describe Vera best: liquid sunshine. I’ve yet to see her have a bad day. Vera has been waltzing through life for as long as I’ve known her.
Sure, her marriage didn’t work out. Her husband was a cheating drunk who left her with far too many young kids and far too many old bills, but she somehow managed to put on a happy face and smile through that, too. That’s one of Vera’s most prized talents, slapping on a happy face and convincing everyone else her life is rainbows and unicorns. Heck, she can even convince me, her very best friend. But as her very best friend, I do tend to know better.
The world thinks that Vera is about as happy as you can get inside and out. It all circles right back to that sunny personality of hers. And the good Lord knows she’s tried to pour her sunshine out on me, too. Boy, has she ever. And, of course, I let her think it’s working, but nothing will ever work. Not even Vera could come up with a panacea for what ails me.
And then there’s Claudia, ever the practical one, the neatnik among the three of us. Claudia rounds out Vera and me perfectly.
I shake my head at my two best friends. Each one of us has gone through heck and back and somehow managed to survive husbands, ex-husbands, rebellious teenagers, catty PTA moms—and the gossipmongers who have had it out for us for as long as we can remember. Sickness, health, vacations—far too many cruises, and far too many sleepless nights wondering how we can fix things for one another.
Yes, if there was ever a glue between the three of us, it would be Claudia with her no-nonsense personality. One might think she’s the opposite of Vera, but in reality, she’s a close second, seeing that they both share an optimistic outlook on life. Although admittedly, Claudia is a bit more rooted in reality. And sadly, far more grounded in my reality.
Claudia knows all of my secrets. She sees right through me, right to the rotten bone.
An explosion of laughter goes off to my right and I look to see Ree Baker and her good friend Georgie cackling away while holding the attention of just about everyone in this room.
Ree has always had that special sparkle in her. She’s always been the it girl.
Oh, how we all love Ree. She’s just one of those girls that fell away and we lost touch with, but I’m so glad she’s called us back. Well, at least she offered up the room when Vera called us back.
Vera is the one who wrangled the circus together. This is her circus. These are her monkeys. And yes, I’m counting myself in that primate number.
A bell goes off and we all look to the left as a procession of waiters and waitresses comes in. Each one is dressed in their black-and-white finery with little bowties on, and every one of them carries one scrumptious dish after the other. And the strongest of the bunch, a six-foot-tall wall of muscles, carries a perfectly bronzed turkey.
The entire lot of us offers up a spontaneous applause as we take our seats.
Ree says a quick blessing, and once she’s through, Vera jumps to her feet and clinks a knife to her glass.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” Vera calls out. “I’d like to make a toast to the fine women we used to be, and to the even better women we’ve become. May we reunite more often. May our worst days be behind us, and our sunniest days lie up ahead. We may be approaching winter, as well as the winter of our lives, but that doesn’t mean we can’t remain youthful on the inside. And that doesn’t mean we can’t make our way to the finish line with our arms linked to one another. In fact, I say as we inch our way to the finish line of life, we do so with a big ol’ smile on our faces as we use up everything the good Lord gave us. Hope springs eternal,” she calls out and the room breaks out into whoops and hollers. “And don’t forget! We’ll be dancing our way down Main Street come Thanksgiving morning on the best float that Cider Cove has seen! Just like we said in high school, seniors do it better! And I’m glad to report that old saying still stands true.” Riotous laughter ensues. “Now let’s dig in!”
Vera sits down and we all start in on our wonderful, scrumptious meal—and a part of me wonders if it will be my last.
Chapter 2
Present
Bizzy
Bizzy Baker Wilder, my sweet cat Fish yowls at me from the marble reception counter right here in the foyer of the Country Cottage Inn, my inn to be exact. Are you hosting a Flea-giving gathering, or are you hosting a Friendsgiving gathering? Do you know how many dogs are in that room? Those dogs just about outnumber the people! And by the way, what is wrong with your mother’s friends that they only care for the canines among us? I didn’t see a single feline in the café.
Sherlock Bones gives a sharp bark and it sounds an awful lot like a chortling laugh. It looks to me as if Grandma’s friends have gotten smarter with age. Everyone knows dogs are better than cats. If the café was filled with cats, they’d be clawing each other to death. Dogs simply like to sit underneath the table and—
Beg, Fish finishes for him.
I can’t help but laugh.
Sweet little Fish has been in my life for so long she’s practically a sister to me. I found her when she was just a kitten. She’s a black and white long-haired tabby with enough sass and wisdom to fill ten college campuses, and I couldn’t live without her for a single second.
And Sherlock we acquired a few years back when I happened to acquire a tall, handsome detective who is now my husband. Sherlock is a medium-size mutt with red and white freckles. He’s as adorable as can be and has the biggest brown eyes you ever did see.
“We’d better head to the café ourselves,” I say as I leave the registration desk in the hands of my two trusty coworkers who graciously offered to stay late into the evening for me.
Tonight is my mother’s big Friendsgiving shindig. It’s just my mother and fifty of her closest girlfriends from high school rabblerousing away in the café. I would have offered them the main dining room, but I need to keep that open for the guests of the inn. So instead, I offered to give them exclusive access to the café that sits attached to the back of the inn. The café also has an expansive outdoor patio and happens to butt up against the sandy cove and affords a stunning view of the Atlantic.
Of course, my mother asked at the last minute if she could have the room. In fact, the whole thing seems to be thrown together at the last minute. But I suppose when you get to a certain age, sometimes the last minute is the only way to go. Most likely every age. I’m certainly feeling it.
I thought the café might be too tight for them all to squeeze into, but my mother said it would be more than enough for her and her friends. I think it’s absolutely wonderful that they’ve managed to stay connected through all these years.
Fish, Sherlock, and I walk through the hall at a brisk pace to the café, and on the way, I can’t help but admire the fall décor.
I made sure the entire inn was decorated head to foot with miles of fall leaf garland, a smattering of scarecrows set out here and there, a few bales of hay lining the front of the facility, and an entire pumpkin patch worth of those happy orange globes both inside and out. And don’t think for a minute that I left out dozens, if not hundreds, of potted mums in red, gold, and a lovely shade of burnt orange. Every last inch of the inn looks like a cozy autumn dream.
And as much as I love the inn decorated this way, in just a couple of short weeks, I’ll be taking it all down and putting up an entire forest of Christmas trees.
As my mother and her friends have learned, time moves far too quickly.
The three of us enter the café just in time to see Georgie jumping up onto a chair and cupping her hands around her mouth.
“How about we take off our underwear and throw them at the hot waiters?” she shouts.
“And here we go,” I mutter under my breath.
Let’s hope this is about as exciting as this night gets, but I’ve got a creaky feeling deep in my bones that we haven’t hit the pinnacle of excitement just yet.
Chapter 3
Bizzy
“Let’s not and say we didn’t,” Mom howls back as she plucks Georgie right back to the floor as the Country Cottage Café explodes with laughter. My mother isn’t so keen on throwing her underwear at anyone, and typically all of Georgie’s exploits count on just that.
Mom and Georgie Conner have been friends for years. They rarely see eye-to-eye on matters—case in point—but nonetheless, they’re besties. They do just about everything together. In fact, they even own a boutique together.
Mom is a stylish redhead whose hairdo and wardrobe seem to be stuck in the eighties—think feathered locks and shoulder pads—and Georgie is a gray-headed granny who has a penchant for wearing breezy kaftans no matter what time of year it is—think maximum comfort.
“I’m with Georgie,” another woman calls out over the chaos of fifty women chattering and laughing all at once.
“I’m with Ree,” another shouts. “Besides, I stopped wearing panties about six years ago.”
More hoots and hollers break out.
“Who spiked the apple cider?” someone shouts from the back of the café, and I’m starting to wonder the same thing myself.
I expected a bit of merriment, but this room is darn right boisterous, Fish mewls just as a terrier, with a Thanksgiving-themed bandana wrapped around its neck, charges at her.
Fish yowls and darts under the dessert table and Sherlock barks after her.
Hey! The dessert table is my station, he barks once again. Save some crumbs for me, he says, darting right after her.
“Please,” Mom calls out. “Georgie doesn’t need liquor to get her to take off any of her clothes. This is Georgie at baseline, one hundred percent of the time!”
More laughter ensues and half the women ask Georgie if she’s in the market for a new best friend.
A chuckle strums from me as I take in the sight of my mother’s friends. They all look great for their age and are so fun and lively. But it’s the hypnotic thick scent of turkey that casts a temporary spell over me. And I could practically taste the mashed potatoes and gravy, the stuffing, and all the other savory dishes that go along with a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.
It’s safe to say I’ve been downright craving a Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings for the entire last month. I can’t help it. I’ve always been a foodie.
But for the most part, the meal has been all gobbled up, the dishes have been cleared, and an entire array of holiday pies has been set out.
The women are on their feet and mingling away while noshing on apple, pumpkin, and pecan pie. There’s even a salted caramel apple pie offering, and there looks to be a cheesecake of some sort as well.
My best friend, Emmie, is in charge of the café and all of the yummy goodness it produces. We’ve been best friends since preschool. And Emmie just happens to be one of the few people who knows about my little supernatural secret.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but I can also read the minds of animals. And believe me, I always prefer what they have to say to their human counterparts.
Speaking of my adorable bestie, she heads this way looking as cute as can be in a cranberry-colored dress that dips down to her ankles.
Emmie and I share the same medium-length dark hair, the same denim blue eyes, and the same proper moniker—Elizabeth—but we’ve been going by the nicknames our families have given us ever since we were two in an effort to avoid confusion.
Emmie just so happens to be married to my husband’s best friend, Leo, and the two of them are expecting their first baby come spring. I can hardly wait for that little bundle of adorable joy to get here. Sometimes I think I’m more excited than Emmie herself.
“Can you believe these women?” She gives me a partial embrace while patting her belly. Emmie is just four months along, but that hasn’t stopped her from holding her belly as if she had a beach ball tucked in her dress. And I can’t blame her. She loves that little peanut, no matter how tiny it might be. She’s hardly showing, but each day the two of us pat her belly in hopes it will pooch out at any minute. We can’t wait until she’s nice and round and looking like a Thanksgiving turkey herself. “I hope we’ll be just as immaculately hermetically sealed when we’re their age. These women don’t look a day over forty.”
“Tell me about it,” I say. “And to think my mother was worried sick about how she was going to look compared to her friends—and they all look amazing, my mother included. And look at the way they’re getting along. It’s been nonstop chatter and giggles from the second I walked into the room. They’re laughing and hugging and sharing stories of days gone by. Do you think we’ll do that with our graduating class?”
She snorts at the thought. “With the witches that we went to school with? Not a chance.”
“Agree,” I tell her. “You can bet your bottom dollar I won’t be hosting any sort of reunion with them at the inn any time soon.”
“Not if we want to keep our sanity.”
We watch as a couple of adorable Pomeranians with bushy auburn coats waddle toward the dessert table and I can see Fish peeking out from under the tablecloth as she eyes them with suspicion.
“Red alert under the dessert table,” I say to Emmie. “Fish is really outnumbered in this crowd. Ironic that she’s technically the only catty one here.”
“Oh, come on.” Emmie laughs. “With a room this full of women, there has to be a catty one in the bunch.”
“Haha,” I say, not laughing.
“Speaking of desserts…” She nudges me with her elbow. “All of that pie is almost gone and the cheesecake is just a memory. I’d better go replenish the supply.”
“What kind of cheesecake is that, anyway?” I ask.
It has an orange tinge to it and looks scrumptious with a generous dollop of whipped cream on every slice.
“It’s something new I’m doing through Thanksgiving. It’s a pumpkin cheesecake with a gingersnap crust. It tastes like fall personified—or at least baked into a cheesecake.”
“Ooh, that does sound good,” I say as she scoots right back to the kitchen.
Not only does Emmie run the kitchen, but she manages the Country Cottage Café for me as well. We’ve always been a good fit in friendship, so it doesn’t surprise me one bit that we’re a good fit in business, too. And you can bet once that baby arrives, I’m going to give Emmie all the time off she needs and wants.
Family comes first in my book, and Emmie is most certainly family to me.
My excitement is off the charts for Emmie and her husband Leo. There’s just so much to do and so little time. I have to throw her baby shower, and I want to help her paint the nursery, pick out the crib, the bedding, and get my hands on every other little detail that the arrival of a baby requires—which apparently are innumerous. But I just can’t wait.
We don’t know if the baby is a boy or a girl, but we don’t care much either as long as it arrives as healthy and happy as can be. And we also don’t know if that baby will be transmundane like me—or like its father, I should say.
It turns out, Leo is transmundane as well, further classified as supersensual, which means we have the ability to pry into other people’s minds. I’m not sure I would have picked that as my supernatural talent if given a choice, but as far as supernatural talents go, it sure beats seeing the dead.
Look at her thinking she’s hot stuff, a disembodied voice pipes up, and with all these women in the room, I can’t tell who it’s coming from. And I can only guess the thought came from a woman because unless I’m standing right in front of someone, their voices can sound a bit androgynous to me. Go on, honey, lap it up, they continue. I think we both know this will be your very last night on the planet.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****