One Spoonful of Trouble (Felicity Bell Book 1) Read Free

felt for the guy. Judging from his howls of agony it wasn’t a pleasant experience. And to make matters worse, he even dropped the gun he’d been holding, needing both hands to clutch at his face.
    It fell to the floor and skittered to where Felicity had taken cover.
    She stared at the thing, and blinked. She’d never handled a gun before.
    Tentatively, she picked it up and weighed it in her hand. It felt nice and heavy, and was a perfect fit. Then she pointed it at the stickup man, who was now dancing around like a hip-hop artist, clearly not in the best frame of mind.
    Felicity cleared her throat. She felt that now was a good time to let this fellow experience something of the Happy Bays spirit. Happy Baysians are not all that keen on strangers, especially when they come bearing arms and issuing threats.
    “Stick em up!” she yelled.
    Then, when the man didn’t stick em up but kept on rubbing his eyes, she aimed the gun at the ceiling, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER 3

    Rick Dawson was having a bad day. Not only had his editor just called to tell him he was fired, but he’d also just discovered that in spite of his determination to stop smoking, a pack of Newports had miraculously appeared in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t the heart to throw it out so he’d smoked first one, then another, and now knew he would have to smoke the whole pack before he could even think about quitting.
    He was a handsome young man and with his rugged good looks, crooked smile, shaggy blond hair and piercing blue eyes, he had talked many a person into divulging secrets they should have known better than to divulge. It was a trait that had helped him greatly in his career as a reporter for the New York Chronicle.
    He’d come to Happy Bays both for the happiness the small town’s name promised and to work on his piece on Chazz Falcone, that well-known real estate tycoon and, in his estimable opinion, first-rate crook. Staying at the Happy Bays Inn, coincidentally the only inn in town, he’d been feverishly burning the midnight oil when Suggs Potter, the New York Chronicle’s editor-in-chief, had called to tell him his services were no longer required, nor was the Chazz Falcone piece, which had been nixed.
    So here he was, trudging through Happy Bays in the pouring rain, grumbling strange oaths under his breath, and generally feeling sorry for himself and a world where editors-in-chief answering to unlikely names like Suggs could sabotage the careers of brilliant reporters such as himself.
    A rumbling sensation in his stomach told him that his body needed more than cigarettes to live on, and as it so happened that he was passing a deli, he decided to stock up on liquor. He might not be a reporter any longer but he was still an artist and as everyone knows, artists subsist on cigarettes and alcohol.
    Entering the store and shaking the rain off his person like a mangy mutt, he took one good look at the place and set a course for the liquor section he thought he could hear whispering to him in the back. And he was just musing on Jack Daniel’s perennial appeal, when a loud voice crashed into his meditations.
    Yes, there it was again. Some guy yelling. Then it seemed as if the world ended. Loud screams of agony were added to the chorus and then a loud bang assaulted his eardrums.
    “Christ!” he yelled, recognizing the sound of a firearm being discharged. Instantly, he hit the deck. As he studied the checkered tile floor, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his journalistic instincts kicked in. He’d been in Iraq, after all, and Afghanistan. He’d even survived more than one Black Friday shopping with his mother.
    Crawling across the floor the way he’d learned from a friendly marine, he slithered toward the source of the gunfire. Finally, he reached the end of the aisle and ducked his head out. There, pointing a large gun at some hapless bum, stood a robust woman, her face a mask of determination while she