Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery Bundle (Books 1-5)

Death in the Park (Book 1):
With her social life and writing career in tatters at the ripe old age of thirty-five, Sunni Taylor decides to pack up her things and join her sisters, Lana and Emily, in the small town of Firefly Junction. Hoping to open a bed and breakfast, Sunni sets herself the task of refurbishing the rundown Cider Ridge Inn, a two-hundred-year-old house with a sordid past. In the meantime, she's stuck writing dull human interest stories for the Junction Times. But when Sunni decides to bend the rules on her first newspaper assignment, she soon finds herself in her favorite place—right in the center of a murder investigation. Now if she can just steer clear of the cocky, irritating and far too appealing local detective, Brady "Jax" Jackson.

It isn't long before Sunni discovers that avoiding Jax is a piece of cake compared to staying clear of the equally cocky, irritating and far too appealing two-hundred-year-old ghost haunting the halls of the Cider Ridge Inn.

Killer Bridal Party (Book 2):
When a bridal shower in the woods turns deadly, Sunni sets her sights on solving the tragic case. Journalist, and occasional sleuth, Sunni Taylor is working hard on restoring the Cider Ridge Inn to its former glory so that she can open a bed and breakfast, but Edward Beckett, the resident ghost, is not exactly helpful. Still, Sunni has grown used to having the arrogant gentleman spirit hanging around.

Despite her busy life, Sunni offers to help her sister Lana set up a bridal shower camping party in the mountains behind the inn. The festivities end in disaster when the maid of honor ends up dead. Now Sunni finds herself back in the center of a murder investigation and face to face with the absurdly charismatic Detective Brady Jackson. Sunni is determined to beat the detective to the clues and solve the murder mystery herself.

Murder at the Inn (Book 3):
When the Applegate Paranormal Preservation Society visits Firefly Junction, Sunni Taylor finds herself tasked with writing an article about the group as well as hosting them for an evening at the Cider Ridge Inn. When the society moves on to their next destination, the famously haunted Dandelion Inn in the neighboring town, one member dies in a tragic fall. But things don't seem quite right at the accident scene and soon Sunni finds herself wrapped up in a possible murder investigation with her favorite detective, Brady Jackson.

A Humbug Holiday (Book 4):
It's holiday time in Firefly Junction but not everything is sweet sugarplums and glittery tinsel.

Sunni Taylor has been too busy to get into the holiday spirit, even with her mom coming to town for a visit. Her festive spirit gets a spark when Detective Brady Jackson asks her to attend the town's production of A Christmas Carol. But when the holiday classic takes a grim turn, Sunni's date night turns into a murder investigation. And in the middle of a winter festival, Sunni and Jackson must figure out who killed Ebenezer Scrooge.

Calamity at the Carnival (Book 5):
Spring is in the air. Flowers are blooming, birds are singing, Jackson's kisses keep coming, and despite the occasional moodiness of her ghostly housemate, Sunni is looking forward to the season.

It's spring break in Firefly Junction and the Stockton Traveling Carnival has come to town. Sunni finds herself saddled with an uninspiring story assignment. But in between the mix of sugary carnival treats, scream-inducing rides and timeless arcade games, someone murders Madame Cherise, the fortune teller, and Sunni's assignment takes a wild turn.

Death in the Park:
Newman nudged my calf with his cold, wet nose and dropped a tennis ball on my foot. I looked down into his eyes, one blue and one brown, just like his partner in crime, Redford. Only Redford's left eye was blue and his right was brown. The two border collies were like a mirror image of each other, if you overlooked the fact that Newman was black and white and Redford was tricolored. And the fact that Newman was rarely seen without a tennis ball jammed between his teeth. Redford preferred the leisure life of watching Newman chase flying objects from the comfort of the couch or porch steps.

I put down my pen next to the scribbled notes that had started as an organized, succinct to-do list. But the list had slowly morphed into several wild, chaotic pages that resembled the ramblings of a madwoman. There was just too much to do to turn the crumbling, weary Georgian manor into an inviting bed and breakfast. Whenever I felt overwhelmed by the prospect, I reminded myself that it was better than the life I'd left behind.

I picked up the tennis ball, and the dogs trotted after me to the front porch. It was late spring and the air was a gentle blanket of warmth. A few puffy clouds had settled over the mountain tops, but the remaining sky was an endless canopy of blue.

I pitched the ball across the front lawn, a skill left over from my days of high school softball. I'd always been the family tomboy and athlete. Newman raced after it. Redford lumbered half-heartedly behind him, but his attention was quickly diverted by a squirrel.

I walked lightly down the rickety front steps and breathed in the scent of my new surroundings. The pungent fragrance of fresh, late May grass tickled my nose while the woodsy smell of the chestnut, sugar maple and hemlock trees drifted down from the heavily forested slopes that provided the property with nature's finest back wall, the Great Smoky Mountains.

The sights, sounds and smells were a far cry from my last home. Of course, so much from that piece of my past had left a bitter taste in my mouth, it was hard to work up any nostalgia about it. After spending ten years in a relationship working my bottom off to help my boyfriend, Brett, get through many grueling years of medical school, I was broadsided when Brett decided to marry Violet, a surgeon he'd met during his residency. We were sitting at, of all places, our favorite frozen yogurt shop when he broke the news and my heart. The fake pitying expression he wore as he explained to me that it only made sense he marry someone who could talk to him on “the same lofty level” earned him a double scoop of black cherry yogurt in his lap. The way I figured it, he was lucky I didn't stab him in the throat with the plastic spoon.

Weeks later, I was unexpectedly let go from my position at the local newspaper. I'd been working diligently on what I considered to be a major story on corruption in the city government, a sordid tale leading right up to the ruddy-faced mayor, when the editor of the paper pushed a pink slip across my desk. Apparently, the owner of the paper was the mayor's cousin, and he didn't want the family name besmirched with something as inconvenient as a corruption scandal. My entire life had come crashing down. Fortunately, my family was there, waiting with a metaphorical broom to pick up the pieces, hugs to remind me I was loved and my mom's famous butterscotch cupcakes to bring back my smile.

I had to admit, as broken as I was feeling at the time, when my sister, Lana, suggested I move to Firefly Junction, I laughed it off as a crazy idea. I was a journalist and I was hardly going to fire up my career in a small town that was only slightly more well known than the fifth Beatle. (I'll pause while you look up his name, thereby making my point.)
Lana had always been a gifted salesperson, and after some very persuasive emails and phone calls, I decided to pack up my stuff and my pups and move. Our mom, Maggie, or Margaret as she preferred now that she had reached the venerable old age of 62, had, through no attempt or fault of her own, inherited a fifty-acre property at the base of the Smoky Mountains. The dilapidated estate, which consisted of a two-hundred-year-old manor (my new home) and two century-old farmhouses, had been part of a family trust for fifty years. But when the last member of the trust, my grandfather, Billy, died, the property fell to my mom. She hadn't been to Firefly Junction since she was a little girl when her family would spend two weeks there to watch the yearly Synchronous Firefly display. Lana and Mom traveled out to the property to have a realtor look at it, but Lana fell instantly in love with the scenic stretch of fields and historic buildings sandwiched between Smoky Mountain National Park and the charming town of Firefly Junction. Lana packed up her life and moved there the next year. Emily, my younger sister, followed soon after that. And now, four years later, I'd joined my two sisters for a new chapter of my life.

Newman dropped the ball at my feet and hunkered down to wait for the next throw. I heaved it in the direction of Emi and Nick's farm. Just then, a breeze ruffled the wide waxy leaves of the tulip tree at the corner of the house. The warm wind carried the earthy odor of chickens mixed with the sweet fragrance of strawberries. Emily had texted me that she was using up the last fruit from the strawberry patch for berry tarts. I would have to make a point of walking over later for a taste test.

The hammer that had been echoing intermittently through the house all morning stopped, signaling that Ursula and Henry Rice, the contractors I'd hired to help with the remodel, were stopping for lunch. I had a few things to talk to them about before I headed over to Lana's place. I turned back to the house and took a moment to admire it. When I was ten, we relocated our childhood home to the next city over. I could remember my mom saying that when she saw the new house it “just felt like home.” Many thoughts ran through my head when I first laid eyes upon the Cider Ridge Inn, but “feels like home” wasn't one of them. The brick facade had held up through the centuries, although most of it was either stained black from mold and dirt or bleached white from weather and wind. The black shingled roof had been replaced several times in the last century, but it looked tattered and overdue for a face lift. Several of the multi-paned windows stretching across the top story had been boarded up to keep out the elements and unwanted birds. Pigeons were always the first squatters in a vacant home with broken windows. The half circle portico, supported by classic columns and jutting out over the front steps, had preserved the paneled front door, which, along with the rectangular windows running along the transom, looked original to the house. Lana had been thoughtful enough to have a new front lawn of supple, tall fescue planted a month before my arrival. The neglected house couldn't help but look more inviting when surrounded by frilly green grass.

The entryway was trimmed with splintery wainscoting and the last strips of a dated wallpaper. The ceiling was high enough for a grand chandelier or show-stopping light feature, but those kinds of fun details were still far in the future. Lana and Emily, overjoyed to have me live nearby, had gone through no small amount of effort and money to make my new living arrangements comfy. Most of the four-thousand-square-foot manor was dusty, dark and one step above living in a cold, colorless dungeon. But my sisters had had the kitchen, connecting servant's room and bathroom transformed into my own cozy personal living space.

Ursula's shrill tone jolted down the hallway from the kitchen. She was in the middle of lecturing Henry about forgetting to bring his lunch. It was her tenth lecture of the morning. Ursula and Henry were a brother and sister handyman team. Henry, a forty-something man who wore a long ponytail and khaki cargo pants, was a few years older than Ursula, but Ursula, who wore her hair so short it stood up in spikes on her head, was the boss of the pair. Or at least she thought she was.

Ursula's scolding grew harsher and Henry snorted in response. I walked in the direction of the kitchen, hoping to head off a sibling food fight.

The kitchen was a vast room designed to accommodate more than one cook and servant. My favorite feature was the giant brick hearth that contained a spit and rod for roasting meats. An old black kettle that looked heartier than any of the fancy new cookware being used today sat in the corner of the fireplace just waiting to be filled with a hearty stew or rich soup and put back to good use. Lana, who was forever the people pleaser, had the kitchen cabinets cleaned and painted with my favorite teal color. A big white porcelain farm sink and large pine table rounded out the charmingly rustic decor. I was so crazy about the inviting kitchen, I could have just as easily dragged a nice air mattress and blanket in front of the hearth and slept in there.

Ursula, who carried only a hundred pounds on her tall frame, was nibbling a sandwich in between scolding her brother. "You can't just go into people's fridges and take their leftovers. Were you raised in a barn or something?"

"Yeah, I was, and you were the ornery old sheep that never stopped bleating." Henry twisted the piece of fried chicken, the drumstick I'd saved for my lunch, in his greasy fingers. "Hey there, boss," he said over a bite of chicken. "Hope you don't mind." He lifted the piece of chicken as he motioned his head toward his sister. "This one was so busy screeching and whining at me this morning, I forgot my lunchpail."

Ursula sighed dramatically. "Don't blame me for you being a scatterbrain."

"It's not a problem, Henry," I said. The pair could be annoying at times, but they did beautiful work. And, they were affordable, which was at the top of my list of qualifications for a contractor. I would be starting my new job at the Junction Times in the morning, but the salary was hardly enough for me to live on, let alone set aside the gobs of cash I needed to restore the inn.

"I hate to interrupt your lunch, but I'm leaving in a few minutes. Lana needs some help with table runners. I was hoping to talk about the finishing details in the sitting room."
Ursula placed her sandwich back into her lunchbox and swept her palms past each other. Her faded work overalls hung loosely on her thin frame as she pushed up from the chair. "Sure thing."

Henry took a gulp of his cola, the soda I'd set in the fridge to cool for myself, and wiped the chicken grease on his pants as he followed us out of the kitchen.

We reached the small room that I was sure had once been used as a sitting room or parlor for guests. It was the first room I decided to tackle because it was out of the way and it was small. The bigger rooms were going to need a lot more money and time. A carved, white stone mantel framed a brick hearth that had been blackened by use. The wood floors throughout the manor were in decent shape, a testament to the craftsmanship and pride of work in those early days. Ursula and Henry had replaced some of the original dentil crown molding that had been too damaged to save. They'd already patched the walls and fixed the painted-shut windows.

"You've done a great job in here. I don't want to rush you, but I was hoping to paint it next weekend."

"Yep, it'll be ready for paint. You sure you want to paint it yourself?" Henry pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and started prying chicken out from between two teeth.

"Yes, I actually worked part-time as a house painter when I was in college." One of many side jobs I held down to help support my traitorous boyfriend on his quest for a marvelous future. . . without me.

"You did mention something about that," Ursula said. "What color did you decide on?"

I glanced around at the heavily patched and sanded walls. Layers and layers of paint and wallpaper had been removed, and the walls were just begging for a fresh color.

"It took me forever to decide, but I'm going with Cupid Pink."

A derisive snort echoed off the empty walls.

Ursula swung around with her small but mighty fist and hit Henry square on the shoulder. He practically swallowed his toothpick.

He pulled it free from his mouth before reaching around to rub his shoulder. "What'd you do that for?"

"You've been snorting like an angry bull all day. If Sunni wants to paint her parlor pink, then that's her business."

"I didn't say a word. I think pink's a fine color for this room," Henry protested.

"Then why'd you snort like you thought it was ridiculous?" Ursula asked.

Henry shrugged. "I didn't snort." He held up his toothpick. "What person in his right mind would snort with a toothpick stuck between his teeth?"

Ursula turned her dark brown, incredulous gaze my direction. "I distinctively heard him snort. Did you hear it or am I going daft from working around this goober all day?"

I tripped over my response, not sure if I should step into the fight. But I'd definitely heard a snort. I smiled at Henry. "That's all right, Henry. You wouldn't be the first man to show disapproval for pink paint."

Henry looked truly hurt. "I'm telling you both that I didn't snort. I heard the noise, but I'm a hundred percent sure it didn't come from this nose." He glanced back behind him. "I'll bet it was Newman or Redford."

Ursula pointed to the window. "I can see both of the dogs outside in the yard, so stop blaming them."

I held up my hands. "It's fine. Let's just forget the snort. I'll let you two get back to your lunch. I'm heading over to Lana's house. Just text if you need me."

Ursula, who was a bit like Newman and his ball, still hadn't dropped the snort subject as she followed Henry with angry footsteps back to the kitchen.

As I stepped out of the sitting room, a fleeting cold rush of air swept past me. I swung back to see if the window had been left open. It was shut tight. I brushed the cold breeze and the unexplained snort off as a creaky, drafty old house being slowly roused from its fifty-year nap.