Sampler: Deadly Thanksgiving by Maureen Fisher


Action bounces from a perilous nature walk to an unfortunate goat yoga incident, a mechanical bull mishap, a savage cat, an electrical malfunction, an abandoned silver mine calamity.

Hi, I’m Clara Foster, co-owner and events manager of Alberta’s Grizzly Gulch Guest Ranch. My two sisters and I inherited the place at an age when most sensible women contemplate retirement. No one ever called us sensible.

I cannot lie. It has been an uphill struggle. Due to extensive damage from a rogue summer tornado, the only way we can avoid foreclosure is to win a lucrative hospitality contest, and that requires multiple five-star reviews.

Too bad the arrival of a mini-coach full of geriatric guests, one of them a corpse, threatens to derail our gala Thanksgiving event. Worse, the retired Mountie I dumped four months ago shows up seeking closure.

It soon is apparent (though not provable) that the deceased was murdered, and everyone on board the mini-coach has a motive. To compound matters, this is our second murder of the year. Our slogan might as well be, “Try Grizzly Gulch getaways; they’re to die for.

Our guests must never learn of another murder or we might as well kiss the contest goodbye and file for bankruptcy.

The only sensible solution is for me to join forces—and possibly a whole lot more—with my former flame to smoke out a killer while hiding the murder from our guests.

Tensions mount when several near-fatal “accidents” occur.

Action bounces from a perilous nature walk to an unfortunate goat yoga incident, a mechanical bull mishap, a savage cat, an electrical malfunction, an abandoned silver mine calamity, and a full-staff medical crisis, all culminating in a Thanksgiving feast our guests will never forget.

Warning: This book may contain nuggets of naughty boomer humor.

Maureen Fisher

Sampler: Deadly Thanksgiving

I popped my eyes open and saw orange. A sea of orange so vivid and so vast, I sprang from my chair. “Pluck a duck, Dodie. What are you wearing?”

“You like?”

“Wow. Your dress is certainly, um, festive.”

“I know. I’m all set for Thanksgiving.” She pirouetted, all the better to display the full extent of her jaw-dropping glory.

Dodie’s elasticized dress was stretched to the max, ending a scant inch below crotch-level. The main event, however, was her boobage. Those puppies bulged and undulated as if alive, straining their way to freedom and creating a cleavage abyss deep enough to stash a phone, lipstick, keys, and wallet.

I said the first thing to pop into my mind. “I had no idea your boobs could point upward.”

“I know, right?” Dodie grinned at me. “It was quite a construction job. Abby spent the past hour helping with supports to hold everything in place. She cupped her boobs. “Who knew the girls could be perky again? One minute, they’re resting on my tummy, all forlorn and deflated, the next minute, they’re winched into place by a miracle garment called The Ultimate Shaper.”

“Are you sure everything will stay put?” I asked. “Our older guests might freak out if the girls make their escape during dessert.”

“There will be no escaping,” Abby stated. “Trust me. Those girls are firmly anchored by double-sided tape.”

I stared at them doubtfully. “If you say so.”


Sampler 2


Behind me, Abby sang out, “You-hoo. Clara. Word is, you’ve inherited a cute little kitty cat.”

“I don’t know about cute or little, but it’s definitely a cat,” I replied.

A low-pitched growl prompted me to ask, “Aren’t orange cats supposed to be friendly?”

My sister materialized at my side. “They are.”

“Too bad this one didn’t get the memo.”

She stooped to pick up the pet carrier. “You’ll fall in love with him in no time. Check out that sweet little face. Why don’t I take this cutie-pie up to your quarters? I’ll be back in no time to help with registration.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I have a way with cats. I love them, and they love me back.” She crouched in front of the carrier and cooed, “Who’s a good boy?” Ignoring the ferocious growl, she answered her own question. “You are, yes you are.”

Hefting the cat carrier, Abby marched the animal toward the main entrance. She’d barely reached the door when she stopped to tickle Snuggles.

“Don’t stick your fingers in the cage!” I hollered.

Ranchers in the next county must have heard her screech followed by an inventive string of unladylike swearwords.

I must explain to my sister once again why cursing in public is a no-no.

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