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    Inn Too Deep: A Wildflower Inn Mystery, #2
    Inn Too Deep: A Wildflower Inn Mystery, #2
    Inn Too Deep: A Wildflower Inn Mystery, #2
    Ebook116 pages1 hourA Wildflower Inn Mystery

    Inn Too Deep: A Wildflower Inn Mystery, #2

    By Harper Lin

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    About this ebook

    Welcome back to the Wildflower Inn, where the secrets are as tangled as the vines in the vineyard.

     

    When famous romance author Geneva Panchella checks into the Wildflower Inn, her visit is anything but ordinary. Flamboyant, glamorous, and trailed by a dangerous stalker, Geneva's hometown book signing stirs up more than just small-town gossip. As unsettling incidents escalate, inn reservation manager Sophie Grant finds herself caught in a mystery straight out of one of Geneva's novels.

    With help from the charming chef Jesse and the ever-practical Max, Sophie must uncover the truth behind Geneva's shadowy pursuer. But as secrets unravel, Sophie realizes the Wildflower Inn holds more surprises than anyone could have imagined.

    Will Sophie solve the mystery before fiction turns into fatal reality?

     

    In the starter book to 3x USA Today Bestselling Author Harper Lin, Inn Too Deep is a cozy mystery filled with intrigue, humor, and the charm of a small-town vineyard retreat.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarper Lin Books
    Release dateDec 31, 2024
    ISBN9798230756354
    Inn Too Deep: A Wildflower Inn Mystery, #2
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      Book preview

      Inn Too Deep - Harper Lin

      CHAPTER 1

      The lobby of the Wildflower Inn had just settled into its usual midday quiet when the double doors swung open, letting in a gust of cool autumn air. I had checked in two guests earlier with a polite smile and a cheerful, Enjoy your stay, and was about to take my afternoon break out by the vineyard, but the lobby came to life with the arrival of two guests.

      One of them was a striking older woman. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished wood floor. She had an undeniable presence, like a living, breathing homage to Betty Boop. She was in her fifties, with impossibly large brown eyes framed by heavy liner and lashes that could probably create a breeze if she blinked hard enough. Her bright red dress clung to her figure, and white gloves—yes, gloves—peeked out as she waved a lace fan in front of her face. Her hair was piled high in a beehive that could’ve been a structural marvel, and the jangling of her half-dozen bracelets filled the room with cheerful clinks as she strolled toward the front desk.

      I’m telling you, it was him! Tinted windows can’t fool me. Tinted windows on that rust bucket of a jalopy he was driving. Of course, it was him, she was saying to the tall, broad-shouldered man behind her, who was carrying a couple of vintage suitcases.

      You don’t know it was him for sure. His voice was calm, but there was a note of weariness to it, like he’d had this exact conversation before.

      The woman waved him off with an impatient flick of her hand. Who else would try and run us off the road right in the middle of town? she demanded. Then, as if the thought of it had exhausted her, she fanned herself more vigorously and closed the gap to the counter. Her bracelets jingled merrily, a sharp contrast to the storm cloud on her face.

      I straightened and smiled, stepping into my role. Welcome to the Wildflower Inn.

      The woman’s expression softened immediately, her dramatic presence shifting into something almost warm. Hi, honey. You should have a reservation for Geneva Panchella, she said, her voice dropping into a smooth purr. Then she winked.

      I blinked, surprised but quick to recover. Geneva Panchella. The name had come up during one of our recent staff meetings—a famous romance novelist staying at the inn for a book tour stop. I pulled up her reservation on the computer and found her name instantly.

      Yes, Ms. Panchella, I said. You’re in the Vineyard Suite. It’s one of our nicest rooms—French doors, a small balcony overlooking the vineyard, and a clawfoot bathtub.

      She beamed. Perfect. Then she leaned closer, her bracelets clinking as she placed her elbows delicately on the counter. And you should also have a room nearby for my trusty sidekick, Mr. Kean Bellow.

      I glanced at the screen and nodded. Yes, ma’am. His room is just across the hallway.

      Kean had set the suitcases down by now, his expression unreadable but his presence steady, like a rock in the middle of a stormy sea. I noticed the gold nugget ring on his pinky—a touch that added to the air of mystery about him.

      Geneva fanned herself with her lace fan, the motion almost hypnotic as she leaned an elbow on the counter. That’ll work. Do you have a security guard on duty here? she asked, her tone somewhere between curiosity and concern.

      Well, not an official security guard, I admitted, glancing at Kean, who stood stoically beside her. But the owners live on the premises. There’s always someone around in case of an emergency. Plus, St. Joseph’s Hospital is less than ten minutes away if anyone needs medical attention. I paused, trying to gauge her mood. Is there something I can help you with right away?

      She didn’t seem distressed, nor did her bodyguard—or sidekick, or whoever he was. But the question had felt loaded. I must have looked as puzzled as I felt because Geneva sighed dramatically, waving the fan a little faster.

      No, that’s not what I mean, she said. Before I could press further, Kean chimed in.

      I’m telling you, it wasn’t him, he said, the sigh in his voice mirroring hers but with less patience.

      Maybe I should speak with the manager, Geneva said, directing the comment toward Kean rather than me. For a moment, I thought she’d actually ask to see Max. Instead, Kean’s eyes rolled upward in exaggerated exasperation.

      Not now, he said, his voice low but firm. Let’s get you unpacked and settled first. You’ll see… it’s all in your head.

      Geneva’s eyebrows shot up as she gave him a withering look. Oh, yeah? And here I was wondering why I keep you around. She rolled her eyes right back at him, the two of them exchanging what could only be described as a practiced routine. Their banter left me more confused about their relationship than ever. Separate rooms, no rings on their fingers—whatever they were, it wasn’t something easily labeled.

      Clearing my throat, I slid their keys across the counter. Is there a problem? I asked cautiously.

      Geneva picked up her key and tilted her head toward me, her bracelets jangling. Honey, can you do me a favor? she asked. If a short fellow with graying curly hair, bad teeth, stupid blue-framed glasses, and a belly that makes him look about eight months pregnant walks in the door looking for me, can you call the police right away?

      I froze, blinking at her. The casual delivery made it sound like she was asking for a wake-up call, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. My gaze darted to Kean, whose impassive face gave nothing away, then back to her.

      Are you serious? I asked, hoping I’d misheard.

      Unfortunately, I am, Geneva said, her fan slowing as she met my eyes. For the first time since her arrival, there was a flicker of something real in her expression—embarrassment, maybe. Some ex-husbands can’t seem to grasp the fact that they’re an ex. Do you catch my meaning?

      I did. Far more than I wanted to admit. Memories I’d spent months trying to box away threatened to creep back into my mind. I shoved them down quickly, nodding. I do, I said softly.

      Her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, as though we’d just exchanged the secret handshake to some exclusive club neither of us wanted to join.

      Not to involve you in too much of my gross personal life, she said, but we were nearly run off the road just now. I think it might have been him. He’s been stalking me since the divorce. Leaving dead birds on my ’58 Plymouth Fury. Breaking windows on my garage. Driving past my house a dozen times a day. She clicked her tongue, shaking her head as though trying to shake off the weight of it all. Funny how, when we were married, he had a dozen better places to be. Now that I’ve put him out with the trash, he can’t leave me alone.

      Her words landed heavy, and I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry, I managed, though it felt inadequate.

      She waved it off, her bracelets jingling again. I shouldn’t be unloading this on you. You don’t mind, do you?

      Not at all, I said. That’s why I’m in Sierra Hills. The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I quickly shrugged to deflect the truth of it.

      What’s your name, honey? Geneva asked, tilting her head just enough to give me a good look at those impossibly big, expressive eyes.

      Sophie. Sophie Grant.

      Sophie, you already know I’m Geneva Panchella. Call me Ginny. I’m on my book tour, and I insisted it be part of the deal that I do a reading and Q&A in my hometown. Some people think I’m doing it to be nice. Truth is, I’m doing it for spite. A lot of people in this town thought they had me pegged when I was growing up. You might say I hold a grudge. But I’ve done signings in smaller towns than this.

      How exciting, I said.

      Even though I’d never read her books, from what I’d heard in the staff meeting, Ginny wrote novels so steamy her readers were left with flushed cheeks and, apparently, a need to fan themselves. Her personal life, though, was just as dramatic as her books. She’d already mentioned an ex-husband, but which one? There had been four. I couldn’t help it. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

      It’s not a big deal, Ginny said, waving her fan dismissively. "I’ll be surprised if anyone shows up. The story of a local girl making it big is kind of cliché.

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