A Dreadful Meow-ment by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom

A Dreadful Meow-ment

A Dreadful Meow-ment by Addison Moore, Bellamy Bloom (MEOW FOR MURDER Book 2)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 3.0 MB

A highly inaccurate psychic. A grumpy writer. And a corpse. Welcome to Starry Falls. Running from the mob can be murder.
Confession. I’m no psychic. But I can sort of see the future—albeit not accurately. And you better believe, I’ve never let that little detail stop me from prognosticating my way into a pickle. So when I ticked off the mob, the feds, and my wily ex, I decided to take my Uncle Vinny’s advice and start over with a new name and new hair color while relying on my old shtick—getting my psychic wires crossed and putting myself in danger.
It’s turning out to be a long, hot, summer. But when Shep takes me to his high school reunion, as his date, things heat up more than ever. Suffice it to say, his old female classmates aren’t too thrilled to see he’s taken. And even though Shep is insistent on keeping up our couples ruse, one of his rusty, dusty, old girlfriend’s isn’t buying it. And when one of his good friends ends up biting the big one, all suspicion is cast upon the interloper among them. That would be me
Living in Starry Falls is proving to be deadly.

But regarding those visions—I should probably highlight the fact I have a penchant to misconstrue those peepholes into the future more often than not. Just last month there was a body that I all but predicted with my hit-and-miss psychic abilities, and because of the tiny detail I was found holding the murder weapon, I landed myself the top spot in a homicide investigation as a suspect. Thankfully, I was able to plow through the real list of suspects and winnow out the killer. Suffice it to say, whether I understand what they’re trying to tell me or not, I take my visions quite seriously.

Opal Mortimer, the owner of the ritzy manor, strides into the café with an orange frilly dress and a thick black feathered boa strung over her shoulders. It looks more like something you might wear in October as opposed to May, but in the short time I’ve been here I’ve learned that nobody tells Opal a thing about anything. Opal is somewhere in her mid-eighties, gorgeous, and as my Nana Rose used to say, “the woman has got hutzpah.”

“Bowie.” She fans herself with her fingers. Her sliver hair is smooth and neatly coiled around her neck. Her makeup is a bit on the dramatic side each and every day, with lots of black kohl rimming her eyes, dark red lipstick, and a dot of blush on each cheek. “Do see about turning up the AC in this place. It’s a bit of a warm day and the cats don’t care for the heat.” She drawls out each word like only a true socialite can.

“Will do,” I say just as she bends over and picks up King, a tan striped and spotted Bengal cat who seems to be more or less in charge of the menagerie of felines that linger in and out of the manor itself. Opal is your quintessential crazy cat lady and both her passion for crazy and for cats is what I like best about her.

“Oh”—she lifts a well-polished fingernail my way—“and when you put in an order for more supplies for the café, do add cat food to the list. I’ll need kibble for the strays, and both wet and dry for the boys and girls right here at the manor.”

I wrinkle my nose at her. “Opal, the restaurant supply store only has people food.”

“Put in a request to change that, would you?” She gives a wink and takes off to greet the guests enjoying their lunches.

I’m pretty sure if rumor got around that the Manor Café is stocking up on cat food, it won’t exactly earn us a Michelin star. Not that we’re gunning for one either.

I’ve made a few small menu changes since I’ve been managing the café, but both the menu and the décor could use a major overhaul. The tables are chipping, the red Naugahyde booths and chairs are splitting despite the fact the stuffing is being held together with duct tape, and the black and white checkered wallpaper border looks as if it’s fainting off the walls.

Tilly bounces back my way.

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