Mint Murder (A Mission Inn-possible Cozy Mystery Book 5) by Rosie A. Point

Author:Rosie A. Point
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Published: 2021-02-15T07:00:00+00:00

18

That night…

The stakes were higher than ever. So high we couldn’t afford to go to bed and pretend everything was all right in the Gossip Inn. I crouched in my hiding spot on the second floor of the inn—a narrow hidden passage Gamma and I had discovered the last time there’d been a murder at the inn.

The entrance to the secret hiding spot was slightly ajar, just a crack for me to see through. I waited patiently, though at least an hour had passed since I’d first positioned myself here.

Most of the guests were on this floor—Callie, the tantrum thrower, Sherise, the old lady with a serious attitude problem, and Gerry, who had a cupcake problem.

Gamma had hidden herself in the dining area downstairs, and we wore button mics and earpieces for communication. The mics were so sensitive, I could breathe a couple words to be heard. The best tech an agency could get their hands on, all at my grandmother’s fingertips.

I checked the time on my watch—synchronized with Gamma’s, of course—and fought back exhaustion.

A day spent cleaning the inn and helping Lauren serve the guests had drained my energy, but this was important. We had no idea when the guests planned on leaving. My grandmother’s chat with Sherise hadn’t gone to plan, and she hadn’t found out any information about the memorial service.

Gerry had ghosted her. Ironic, since he was terrified of hauntings.

“No movement,” I whispered to Gamma.

“All’s clear,” she replied.

And we settled in to wait again. Every hour on the hour we’d check in unless something happened before then, of course.

“Movement on the ground floor,” Gamma breathed. “Heading out of the inn. Front doors.”

“I’m on the move.”

“Roger.”

I slipped out of my hiding space, shut the trapdoor behind me, then stole down the steps. Gamma waited for me in the foyer, nodding to the now-open front doors.

“Who?” I asked.

“Brixton,” she replied. “That uppity handsome boy. He’s carrying a basket.”

We set off without further ado, this time, both wearing PJs again to avoid suspicion, though we’d chosen dark shades of burgundy flannel for Gamma, navy for me. On the porch, we spotted Brixton hurrying across the grounds.

Gamma was right. He carried a basket over one arm, illuminated by the moonlight overhead. He carried a flashlight, as well, the beam of light strobing over the grounds.

“He’s heading for the woods.” I nodded to the trees growing along the side of the inn.

“The creek,” Gamma agreed. She signaled for us to separate and flank our mark, and I followed the order with practiced ease.

Through the trees, over roots, my footsteps silent and my ears perked up for noises. Brixton clearly thought he was being sneaky, but his flashlight gave away his position, and he walked like a lumbering bear with a thorn stuck in its paw.

Following him was easy.

The trickling noise of the creek grew closer until the rush of water overpowered the sound of Brixton’s passage.

I hid behind a tree trunk, a shiver running down my spine—the cold, not fear. I peeked out at the creek.

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