BED and BREAKFAST and MURDER - Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries #1 - E-BOOK

Doing battle with a clogged toilet was not how I expected my Thursday morning to start. In fact, I had a whole lot of not much in my sights, a veritable plethora of nada, zippo, blessed and delicious time to myself. Hot coffee fresh from the pot, the latest edition of the Reading Reader Gazette spread out on my kitchen island, pajamas still gracing my weary self as I slowly and with great relish devoured a mushroom omelet without a hint of interruption.

I really, really should have known better. It had only been two weeks, but honestly. Owning a B&B was like wrangling a house full of two-year-olds who alternated between cranky demands and petulant whining topped with the biggest messes I’d ever seen in my entire life.

Case in freaking point. 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.

A few jabs and weak efforted prods did little to clear the clog. Time to get a bit more vigorous, put my back into it. The soft groaning yawn behind me made me spin with a scowl on my audience of one.

“Do you mind?” I flipped back my auburn bangs, blowing at them to keep them out of my eyes while the portly fawn and black creature staring up at me with bulging eyes huffed in response. “I’m working here.”

Petunia snorted violently, spraying little flecks of moisture on the white tile floor before perking her black ears at me, her squish pug face an equal mix of utter innocence and complete disdain for my present predicament. It wasn’t that it was her fault by any stretch, but she was here and enough of a reminder I’d said yes to this place on purpose I almost tossed the plunger at her.

Suck it up, Fee. Big girl panties and adulting and all that. I glared at the pug and then myself in the mirror as I turned back, catching the wrinkles forming between my eyes despite my twenty-eight (okay, soon to be twenty-nine, but who’s keeping score) years, the tightness of the skin around my bright green gaze. At least I’d had the foresight to put my heavy hair in a pony. The very thought even a scrap of myself could touch that mess unprotected made me want to shave my head.

“At what point,” I waved the dripping plunger at myself, wincing as droplets of yuck flew, “did I think owning a bed and breakfast was going to be glamorous and romantic?”

Petunia yawned, whining in her pug way for me to get on with it then. Jaw clenched and determination in my heart, I went to war.

I found a rhythmic rocking motion seemed to gain me ground, grunting added for good measure. And swearing, lots of swearing. Blaming, too. The damned tourist who decided to use half a roll of toilet paper to clean his precious butt. Mary Jones, my always glass so empty she was dehydrated elderly cleaning lady for telling me in no uncertain terms this was my job. To quote: “I don’t plunge toilets.” And my Grandmother Iris for having the temerity to think that I, Fiona Fleming, city girl who hired a cleaner twice a month so she wouldn’t have to touch dirt would be good at the domestic disgustingness of taking over her prized B&B after she died.

Yes, swearing helped a lot. And actually created energy, oddly enough, as did the horribly phallic feeling action of my labors. As long as no one was videotaping this, I’d pretend it never happened.

Ten minutes later, panting and sweating and, I’m sure, wearing some of the contents of the toilet and unwilling to admit it, I stood triumphant over the offensive wasteland and saluted the empty bowl with my weapon of choice. The satisfying gurgling sound of sludge disappearing down the pipes made my heart sing. Sad, really, that such a horrible affair could bring me so much satisfaction.

But when I spun to receive congratulations from my watcher, the adulation of my biggest fan, I found Petunia had rolled over on her side and went to sleep, her snoring lost until now in the slosh-slosh-slorp of my plunger.

“Typical.” The orange top of my now beloved weapon settled into the white cup at the base of the toilet, squidging as it went. I’d have to make sure Mary cleaned it, at least. As for the throne itself, I sighed at the stench and the excess drips over the edge of the bowl and rather than fight with a seventy-year-old woman about boundaries, dug under the sink for cleaning supplies.

I knew which battles to pick. Fourteen long and educational days in and I’d learned more than I’d ever wanted to about the ins and outs of this new life of mine. Including just how very little the old lady was willing to do to make my life easier.

The bright yellow sponge didn’t stay that color for long while I slopped cleaner into the now working throne and gave it a swipe with about as much enthusiasm as I’d approached this job from the beginning. If anyone had told me six months ago I’d be leaving New York City and my boyfriend of five years to come home to Reading, Vermont of all places, I’d have snorted my half-fat, 1/3 espresso, 2/3 regular, two pumps vanilla, one pump caramel whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles at them. Me and Curtis County at the foothills of the Green Mountains had said sayonara a decade ago as I scrambled my way out of small-town blah and into the bright and shiny life of college and real life.

“And exactly how well did that work out for you, Fee Fleming?” I really needed my bangs cut, blowing them out of my way again with an impatient puff out of the corner of my mouth. But I’d paid two hundred bucks for my last trim and I doubted anyone in Reading could deliver.

Come to think of it, maybe there were perks.

Toilet bowl successfully cleaned, I leaned back on my haunches, sneakers squeaking on the tile, rubbing at my forehead with one arm and doing my best not to touch myself with unspeakable grossness. And found, to my surprise as I often did the last two weeks, despite the horrendousness of my existence at times, I actually felt good about being home. Happy, despite my cranky, melancholy staff, my fat pug adoptee, dirty toilets and fussy guests. Home had felt like the last place on Earth I’d ever find myself again and yet home was the best thing that had happened to me in a while.

“Just don’t tell anyone I said so,” I told Petunia who grunted and twitched in her sleep before starting to snore again.

A sniff of the air told me the cleaner had erased most of the stink of the regretful incident. A quick wipe with a towel and I was all set. Unsanitary? Yes, of course, and I’d be sure to bleach the crap out of that same towel when I washed it. But I’d had enough of this entire mess and was ready to reemerge the victorious heroine of my own little story.

At least the guests would be happy.

Petunia farted so loudly she woke herself, sitting abruptly upright while the stench of her pug bowels surpassed anything I’d just managed to banish. And that moment that should have been mine, glory gained and earned, turned into a sorry state of affairs when Mary—bless her heart—poked her gray and judging head into the room, nose wrinkled as she took a sniff.

“You’re wanted at the front desk,” she said in her five packs a day though she didn’t smoke voice before disappearing again.

I looked down at my brown bespeckled self and sighed. Of course, I was.