Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery
Book 1: Murder, Mystery & Mothers
“You’d better leave town or else”.
After a devastating betrayal mystery writer Tammy Rumbelow flees LA for a charming blue cottage in Willowcroft, Michigan. But when a yellowed letter in the attic reveals an unsolved 70-year-old locked room murder in her living room, her peace is shattered.
Determined to start fresh, Tammy enlists the help of a ragtag group of locals:
Bookstore owner Olivia Huddlestone offers a sanctuary for clandestine conversations and genealogical sleuthing among her shelves.
Eccentric Mrs. Hazel Temperance mines her knitting circle for gossip.
Retired detective “Wally” has contacts at the sheriff’s department.
Tech whiz kid Xander Simmons hasn’t met a computer he didn’t like—or a website he can’t hack.
And a stray cat with a nose for clues…
As threatening letters appear and break-ins escalate around town, Tammy must prove to herself—and her inner critic—that she’s capable of solving a murder, or will that be two?
Perfect for fans of multi-generational mysteries filled with quirky characters like Only Murders in the Building and crime-solving writers like Castle.
Excerpt
Her sandals clicked against the sidewalk as she ambled toward the square. The morning sun caught the store’s striped awnings—crisp white paired with cherry red, ocean blue, and tangerine orange—creating a carnival-like canopy.
It was like walking into a Hallmark Christmas movie, minus the snow. Unlike LA’s steel and glass, the century-old brick buildings wore their age like a badge of honor, their weathered cornices telling stories of decades past. A shopkeeper chatted with a mailman, both seemingly content to let time flow at its own pace.
Remnants of streamers and deflated balloons hung around the lampposts. Had she just missed a town event like a pie contest or a harvest festival? The kind of small-town events that filled cozy mysteries—the genre she was considering for revitalizing her writing career. Thriller mysteries were too stressful right now.
The town hall clock chimed the quarter hour. Two women paused their conversation to check the time—not by pulling out their smartphones, but by glancing up at the tower itself, just as generations before them must have done. In LA, she moved fast, always ready for a meeting or deadline. Here even the pigeons’ struts were slower across the cobblestones, unworried about being shooed away.
Spices and buttery pastry curled through the air, drawing a growl from her stomach. She followed the scent to the Sweet Crumbs bakery, its sunny yellow-and-white awning glowing beside the cool green-and-white stripes of the bookstore next door.
Inside, a round, jolly woman greeted Tammy.
“Good morning, lovely!” the woman said as her rosy cheeks dimpled. “I’m Mrs. Applewood. Welcome to our blissful bakery!”
Tammy returned the infectious energy with a cheesy grin.
“How are you settling in at the little blue cottage?” the woman asked.
“How did you know?”
“We’ve been expecting you. I helped make the sign on your door. I do hope it was still there when you arrived.”
“Yes, it was, and such a thoughtful touch. Thank you.” Tammy extended her hand across the counter. “I’m Tammy Rumbelow.”
Mrs. Applewood waved it off and came around. “That won’t do, my lovely. You’re one of us now.”
Before Tammy could react, two arms encircled her. Her body tensed, old defenses snapping into place. But as the seconds ticked by, something in the hug felt different—no hidden agenda, no expectations. Like the damaged plants in her garden, Tammy’s barriers needed tending. Did healing start by accepting help? She leaned in, her rigid posture softening despite the alarms blaring in her mind.
Tammy blinked back tears.
“There now. You’ve been officially welcomed to town.” Mrs. Applewood released Tammy and returned behind the counter as if the experience was an everyday occurrence. “That cottage has been empty for too long.”
Tammy took a deep breath.
“Now, what can I get for you this fine morning? The cinnamon rolls are straight out of the oven.”
Was this how people treated each other here? In LA, people rushed by, eyes glued to their phones. Trust and real relationships were rare commodities. But Mrs. Applewood seemed genuine. An unfamiliar emotion, yes, but that was the point of her second chance—learning to recognize authenticity when it appeared.
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