Deadly Thanksgiving

"I had a number of laugh-out-loud moments and once actually, truly, spit out some tea.""Loved your scenic descriptions, I felt I was at the lodge, the places you described were familiar."
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."Lots of great twists and turns, the identity of the murderer wasn't obvious at all.""So funny I almost had an accident. Laughed and laughed hysterically! Loved it! Absolutely fabulous!"
EXCERPT

By then, the purple mini-coach was hurtling toward us at warp speed. Off-key singing and screeches of laughter floated out into the crisp, bright October air.

"What's that driver doing? I hope he doesn't take out our hydro post-whoa!" Sudden fear laced Abby's voice. "He's heading straight for us. Watch out!" She pushed me behind a concrete pillar supporting the loading area portico.

I closed my eyes and waited for sudden death. Would I see a white light or what?

The squeal of brakes and the acrid stench of burning rubber signaled the vehicle had screeched to a halt in front of our entrance.

With great caution, I opened my eyes and blinked. Swimming into my field of vision was a picture adorning the mini-coach's purple side panel. It showed a white-haired couple, matured to perfec...