Lock, Stock, and Feral by Addison Moore (free e novels .txt) 📕

to be pent up there. Perhaps instead of hunting down the killer on our own, we can try to find her a new fur-ever home?

I shoot a look down at my wily but sweet cat. “Nice try, but I’m going to talk to that woman. I have to know if I’m right.”

What about Jasper? Sherlock all but pulls me backward by way of the leash.

My phone bleats, and it’s a text from Jasper himself. “I won’t have to text him.”

I wave the phone at Sherlock. “He says he’s on his way.”

Without further ado, I spot my mark as she steps out onto the patio and I’m right on her tail.

It’s dark out, the air is crisp, and my ears clot up with the silence as the chatter behind me begins to dissipate. There’s nary a soul around as I make my way over to the far end of the patio and step right next to the suspected killer as we take in the glittering view of our cozy town.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” I say, taking in a lungful of fresh spring air perfumed with honeysuckle.

“Oh, Bizzy”—she jumps back as her hair glows like a white flame in the night—“you about gave me a heart attack.” She clutches at her chest and laughs before giving Sherlock a quick pat, but he backs up a notch and gives a light growl in response. “Easy, boy,” she teases. “That’s okay. I’m not offended. I suppose everyone looks a bit menacing out in the dark. We should get back inside.”

“Yes,” I say, stopping in front of her. “But we have a few minutes. Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Anything. I’ve worked here for thirty years. I know every nook and cranny of this place. But if it’s not library related, I probably don’t know diddly.”

“I’m guessing you do,” I say as my breathing picks up the pace.

Liv Womack’s eyes glow right along with her hair under the light of the third quarter moon.

“You know a lot about books, I don’t doubt that,” I tell her. “And I think you know a little about how they’re written, too. Isn’t that right?”

Sherlock whispers, And here we go again.

Fish hisses, Keep it down. Bizzy knows what she’s doing. But in case things get out of hand, be ready to attack.

“I’m sorry?” Liv leans in as if she couldn’t have heard me right.

“Patterson Higgins ran a publishing house. Higgins House,” I say. “James called the authors poor shmucks. Would you agree with that?”

Boy, would I ever. She chuckles to herself. “I suppose if James said so. He would know.” He was probably ripping us off himself.

“You know because you were one of those authors, weren’t you?”

She inches back a notch. So she’s pegged me as an author. So what?

“I—I guess the cat’s out of the bag.” She goes to pet Fish and Clyde, and both cats sink a little lower in the carrier they’re sitting in. “I was part of the Writing Wenches—along with Hadley.” Maybe if I remind her of the woman who was trying to steal her man she’ll leave me alone. I’m afraid once the book club begins, I’ll have to leave Cider Cove. I don’t have the blood pressure to deal with this kind of questioning. I should have left town ages ago. “Isn’t that Hadley in there now with the low-cut dress?” She clucks her tongue as she looks into the library. “And that handsome detective is with her, I think.” I don’t see either of them, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I heard that wine was never served at one of these events before—not until the night Patterson died.” I give a short-lived smile.

Oh good. She’s changed the subject. For a moment I thought I was caught red-handed.

Liv’s chest fills with her next breath. “Yes, well, we like to mix things up, I suppose.”

I shake my head. “I heard the author requested it.” I take a breath. “The day after the murder you visited the inn. When I asked where I could find Hadley, you said she was a writer, that you’ve talked shop with her before. That’s because you’re a writer, too, aren’t you? S.L. Teller. That’s you, isn’t it, Liv?”

She gasps as she takes a step back and her face dissolves into the night shadows.

“No,” she whispers.

“Yes,” I counter. “You mentioned you were divorced and wished you had changed your name that same day you visited me at the inn. Your maiden name was Teller, wasn’t it? And the day of the murder, Patterson called you Shelly. Shelly is the S in your nom de plume and L must stand for Liv.”

A horrible groaning noise comes from her before she takes a breath. “And so you’ve pegged me. You’ve uncovered my alias. What now? I suppose you’d like an autograph? If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get a book to give you.” She tries to step around me, but I’m right there blocking her path once again.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m not here for an autograph. I’d much prefer a confession.”

“A what?” Her voice is sharp and echoes into the expanse behind me.

“You heard me,” I growl. “The day after Patterson was killed you came to the inn and told me that you went out west a few weeks back to visit family. And I bet you brought back a little toxic souvenir, didn’t you? You said you went to So Cal—Southern California. That’s where you went, isn’t it?”

“A vacation? That’s what has you up in arms?” I’m truly paranoid because everything she says has me jumping. I have to get away from this woman—from this state.

“Death caps grow rampant in California,” I say, trying to temper my breathing. “And that’s exactly how you killed Patterson Higgins. You boiled those mushrooms down and created a toxin so powerful it stopped his heart after a few sips of that wine. You needed the wine to mask the taste. Which I’m guessing you gleefully handed him a glass of.