A Day in the Life of Granny Rose
Hey there. My name is Rosemarie Wells, but you can just call me Granny Rose like everyone else does. Unless I don’t like you. Then you can call me Mrs. Wells. Or even better, don’t talk to me at all. But no worries, because I pretty much like everyone—except for that nasty Aldridge boy, not the old man, because my granddaughter, Emma, found him dead in a storage container on the day he was supposed to move into Mini-Meadows, the other one, the son, Phillip, the one who grabbed me and escorted me from his house. Hmff. The nerve. But that’s neither here nor there.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. After Emma gave up living in our mansion and moved to a tiny home community to live in a couple of shipping containers stacked atop one another, I got lonely. So, I decided to move in with Emma. Of course, I didn’t want to cramp her newfound bachelorette lifestyle, so I got myself some fancy new duds, let my hair free to spill down my back, and bought a shiny red corvette. Let me tell you; after living most my life doing what was expected of me, the taste of freedom was liberating.
Problem was, instead of the exciting life I’d envisioned (you know, like using a secret code, like hanging a bra on the doorknob to let each other know if we had a gentleman caller) life with Emma turned out to be downright boring. It was then that I realized she didn’t move out and refuse to marry Bartholomew Prendergast because she had another man. She just didn’t want to marry the man her father had betrothed her to. Understandable, but still. So, I made it my mission in life to find Emma a husband and recruited her two best friends, Chloe and Jade, to help me. It was unfortunate we couldn’t find a suitable hottie quick enough to save her, though. If she’d have been tucked up nice and safe in her husband’s bed, she wouldn’t have been working at six in the morning and found her client sitting in a rocking chair in the back of his storage container, neatly wrapped and labeled.
Of course, then her friends might not have ended up on the suspect list and she never would have felt the need to investigate. And, while there were a few downright scary moments in our investigation, I haven’t had so much fun in years. I even got my own gun!
Anyway, if you want to learn more, you’ll have to read our story, because Butch, the Great Dane I adopted and moved into Emma’s tiny home with me and her cat, Ginger, (who had a bit of an attitude about the whole situation) is dancing around in circles by the door, so I’m pretty sure he needs to go out. I’d better get to that, because a dog weighing in at well over a hundred pounds, quite a bit more than me, I might add, sure can make one big puddle.
About No Small Murder
Mini Meadows, a Tiny Home community in rural Central Florida, is home to Emma Wells, a downsize specialist who left her daddy’s mansion and her inheritance behind in favor of a simpler, more peaceful life in a tiny home that was once two shipping containers. But when she opens a shipping container and discovers her dead client sitting in a rocking chair, neatly wrapped and labeled, and two of her friends end up on the suspect list, Emma pitches in to help find the killer. With plenty of clues to unpack, Emma narrows down the suspect list, but as she begins to close in on the culprit, she realizes if she’s not careful she could end up in a box of her own.
About Lena Gregory
Lena Gregory grew up in a small town on the south shore of eastern Long Island, but she recently traded in cold, damp, gray winters for the warmth and sunshine of Central Florida, where she now lives with her husband, three kids, son-in-law, and four dogs. Her hobbies include spending time with family, reading, and walking. Her love for writing developed when her youngest son was born and didn’t sleep through the night. She works full-time as a writer and a freelance editor and is a member of Sisters in Crime.
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