Mission Inn-possible 01 - Vanilla Vendetta Read online

  VANILLA VENDETTA

  A Mission Inn-possible Cozy Mystery Book 1

  ROSIE A. POINT

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  More for you…

  Thank You, Reader!

  Also by Rosie A. Point

  Copyright Rosie A. Point 2020.

  Join my no-spam newsletter and receive an exclusive offer. Details can be found at the back of this book.

  Created with Vellum

  1

  “This is the only chance you have, Agent Mission. If you mess this up, you're going away for a long time. Underground. No contact with the outside world. No talking to friends or family. Do you understand me?” My boss was gruff at the best of times. But now... dire times called for dire consequences.

  I could think of nothing worse than being forced into hiding in a backward, small town in the middle of nowhere, Texas.

  “I don't like it,” I said, clasping my phone to my ear.

  “I don't care,” Special Agent in Charge Grant replied. “You'll be receiving your information package shortly. Your liaison has set up a fake email address, identity and will have the details of where you can collect your burner phone and other effects shortly. Stay out of trouble, Mission. I mean it this time.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, reluctantly.

  He'd already hung up.

  I grumbled under my breath, grabbed hold of my tiny carry-on case—glimmering blue and hard-shell—and started off down the Main Street where the bus had dropped me off. The town was cute. Brick buildings, paved sidewalks, trees in a center divider on the street, and a signs slung high over the tarmac.

  “Welcome to Gossip, Texas' Best Kept Secret!”

  Gossip was quiet this late at night. Thankfully. The last thing I needed was to arrive to fanfare. As an active spy working for the National Security Investigative Bureau, attention was my enemy.

  Ugh, you're not technically a spy anymore.

  I had no idea who I was until my 'liaison' contacted me with the details.

  I kept on down Main Street, past stores, their windows lit up revealing keepsakes or products, and stopped in front of a salon, grimacing at the reflected snazzy hairstyles. My hair was short, blonde, and kept out of the way. Always.

  The glittery blue phone I'd been given at NSIB headquarters back in New York buzzed against my palm.

  I answered. “This is Mission.”

  “No,” the liaison replied, in a voice I recognized. “It's Smith. Your name is Charlotte Smith, now.”

  “Original,” I replied, then paused frowning at the familiarity. “Wait a second, is this—?”

  “It's Agent Smulder.”

  I held back another choice groan. The ever-handsome Agent Smulder had been my partner in the agency about a year ago. Until he'd gotten injured due to some rash decision-making on my part.

  “Smulder,” I said.

  “Nice to hear from you too, Smith,” he replied. “You know your destination, I assume?'

  “The Gossip Inn.” It was my grandmother's place. Gamma Georgina Mission was the woman I'd based my entire life off of. She was a retired spy, and why she'd decided to settle and start an inn here was a question that needed answering.

  The last time I'd seen her, she'd been on a mission to take down a terrorist cell in a city in the Middle East. Now, she baked cookies and waited on people.

  Whatever Gossip brought, it would be interesting, at least.

  And totally out of my comfort zone.

  Was it weird that my comfort zone was guns and espionage?

  “Smith, are you listening to me?'

  “Repeat your last, please.”

  “Repeat my last? Firstly, you're going to have to start talking like a civilian if you want to blend in,” Agent Smulder replied, “and secondly, you'll find your identity package and burner phone at the Gossip Inn. Check the bush that looks like a hunched over Santa Claus.”

  “A what?”

  “Don't mess this up, Smith. If you do... Well, I'm sure the Special Agent in Charge has already briefed you on what that will mean.”

  “Yeah. Is that all?”

  “We'll be having a weekly check-in call to manage your cover and update you on your status as a protected agent,” Smulder continued. “Oh, and, you're going to need to dye your hair.”

  “What?” My eyes widened. I clasped a handful of my blonde locks. “No. No, no, no. Surely—”

  “Good luck, Charlotte,” Smulder said. “Don't draw any attention to yourself. Oh, and try not to murder anyone while you're there.” The click of him hanging up brought nothing but frustration.

  I growled under my breath and proceeded to wipe down the glittery blue phone. I switched it off and dumped it in a wrought-iron trash can on my way down the street.

  The Gossip Inn was located at the far end of town. It was a magnificent building with fairy lights hidden in the trees out front and two full sections of rooms. From what my grandmother had told me over the phone—encrypted messages, of course, and before I’d been compromised—it had once been a museum, and she'd bought it and its contents at a steal.

  The front gates were open, and a gravel path led up to the stone steps and the massive wooden front doors.

  I didn't have a key. But that wouldn't hinder me. Shoot, I'd broken into a maximum-security prison in the barren hills of Afghanistan to free a political prisoner. An old inn would be a piece of cake.

  First, though, I had to find my identity package. I searched through the grounds, stepping lightly and scanning the underbrush until I located a tree that... well, shoot, it had an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus, hunched over under the weight of a sack of gifts.

  I grabbed my identity package, slipped it into my suitcase, then moved around to the back of the inn. A second-story window was open above, a lampshade giving a view of the cream-colored walls.

  Quickly, I undid the straps of my case, and slung them over either shoulder, making it into a sort-of backpack. I rubbed my hands together.

  Come on. Channel your inner parkour.

  The physical stuff was easy. It was everything else that I struggled with. Emotions. People. Not getting into trouble.

  Go!

  I ran at the wall and launched myself up it, using the sill of a first-floor window for leverage. I leaped into the air. My fingers closed around the ledge of the open window, and I hung there for a minute, sucking in measured breaths and listening for any sign of a movement above.

  Being caught by one of Gamma Georgina's guests would bring too many questions. And screams.

  I hauled myself up, using my core and upper body strength, and rolled lightly into the hall.

  I rose and came face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun.

  Shoot.

  Wait, no, don't s
hoot.

  My options were limited. I lifted my palms, feigning surrender, but really, I was about to—

  The shotgun lowered, and I shifted my focus from the barrel to the person holding it.

  Gamma!

  “Charlie, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Gamma Georgina had been born in Sussex, England, and though she was a citizen of the USA, she still had an accent. She wore her nightgown, her soft white-gray hair in curls, and a mean glare. “Good heavens. I thought you were Pablo Manilo Rodrigo Martel.”

  “The drug lord?”

  “The very same. He's always sworn he'd catch up with me.” Gamma frowned at me. “What happened?”

  “I've come to stay for a while.”

  “And you don't know how long?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “Let's talk.” She beckoned, and I followed her into a bedroom decorated in eclectic bits and bobs. There were paintings on the wall that had seen better days, but the armchairs in the corner were beautifully upholstered in leather. The bed in the corner, next to a banker's lampshade and oak bedside table, was covered in comfy pillows and cushions.

  Gamma closed the bedroom door with a light click.

  “It's 2 am,” I said. “Why are you up so late?”

  “I barely sleep, dear,” she replied. “And you are hardly in the position to ask me questions. What on earth are you doing here?” Sometimes, when she spoke, she reminded me of the Queen. Or Helen Mirren playing the Queen.

  “Sheesh, G-Ma, I thought you'd be happy to see me.”

  She pursed her lips at me, brushing her air back from sharp blue eyes.

  “Fine,” I said. “You've probably already guessed why I'm here.”

  “Who are you hiding from? A cartel? Terrorist group? Weapon's dealer?”

  I exhaled, slowly, and rubbed my chest. It was, I hoped, my only emotional tell, and I snatched my hand back down to my side to hide it, again. “Kyle Turner,” I replied. “My ex-husband. He's gone rogue, and I was the one who found him out. Now, he wants revenge. We don't know who he's in contact with at NSIB, so I'm undercover until further notice.”

  “Good heavens.” Gamma shook her head. “Good heavens. Well, fine. It will be good to have some company at the inn. And I have been looking for someone to help me serve the guests their breakfasts and to clean the rooms. My usual maid has been a bit... flakey of late.”

  “Uh, I don't even know what my cover is yet,” I whispered, opening my bag and drawing out my identity package. I stripped it open and dropped the contents onto the bed. I lifted up my new Social Security Card and grimaced. They’d already Photoshopped long curly brown hair onto my head. “Charlotte Jean Smith,” I said, and paged through the documents. “It says here I'm supposed to be an aspiring actress who is taking a sabbatical and working at my aunt's best friend's inn for the next few months.”

  “Perfect,” Gamma said. “Perfect. Well, that's fine. We can get your hair dyed later in the week. Come on, dear, we'll set you up in the room across the hall.” Gamma was nothing if not efficient. And more welcoming than I remembered her. Small town living had clearly had its effect.

  This place was cozy.

  I followed her into the room opposite. It had its own bookcase, a low slung coffee table and a set of armchairs. The bed was a four-poster and outfitted in pristine white sheets. Being undercover could have been a lot worse.

  “There you are. All set.” Gamma paused, then swept me into a brief hug. “It's lovely to have you here, darling. Despite the circumstances. If you need to... well, you know.”

  “I'm fine.” I patted her on the back, awkwardly. Gamma was my hero, but we'd never been truly affectionate with each other. I loved her, but showing was difficult.

  “Good,” she said. “Good. Because if that Kyle idiot does come here—” She narrowed her eyes and the dangerous look that had once been her only look entered them. “He'll have two Missions to deal with.”

  And with that, she was out the door, and I was left alone in my new pseudo-home. I settled back on the bed to read the rest of my package and set up my burner phone. A maid.

  This would be interesting...

  2

  I opened my eyes to darkness and a strange growling noise. It came from my chest. I tried moving, but a weight had me pinned down, and fear coursed through my veins.

  Was it Kyle?

  Had the man I had trusted the most, and who had ultimately betrayed me, finally found me? What about Gamma was she—?

  The growling grew louder, vibrating from the weight on my chest and down into my body, and I strained to make out shapes in the darkness. There was the outline of the window with its curtains drawn, and the end of the coffee table.

  Two yellow orbs glowed from somewhere above my chest, and I stiffened. What on earth?

  I lifted one hand and brought it down on fur. Fur. Yellow eyes? Growling? Not growling, it was purring! There was a cat on my chest.

  Relief and irritation rose in me.

  “All right, kitty cat,” I said. “That's enough.” I lifted it and set it on the bed next to me. “I'm trying to get some sleep.”

  It was hard enough drifting off after years of missions and focus, and now with Kyle after me. Throw a cute cat into the mix and it was abject chaos. I closed my eyes again, trying to force myself back into a state of relaxation.

  The bedroom door creaked open, and I shot out of bed right away, grabbing for the lampshade. Any weapon was a good weapon.

  The bedroom light clicked on, and Gamma stood in the doorway, clothed in a polka dot dress and cardigan, her hair done up in curls, and a broad smile on her lips. “Wakey, wakey!”

  “Wakey, wakey?” I glared at her. “It's been two hours.”

  “Exactly. It's 4 am. It's time for you to get up and go on your Gossip Inn tour. If you want to fit in, you're going to need to know the ins and outs of the place. Isn't that right, Cocoa Puff?” Her gaze shifted to the fat, black cat licking itself at the end of my bed. It meowed at her.

  “Cocoa Puff?” I asked.

  “My favorite breakfast cereal,” she replied.

  “You have a favorite breakfast cereal?”

  “Things move slower in Gossip,” Gamma said, shrugging. “You'll see.”

  No statement had ever filled me with as much dread as that one. Not even knowing I had a rogue agent on my tail equated to the horror of a 'slow, action-free life' in Gossip. I had no idea how my grandmother managed so well.

  “I'll give you five minutes to get dressed in something pretty, and then we'll start the tour. Come on Cocoa, come darling.” Gamma clicked her fingers, and the cat leaped off the bed and chased after her, meowing enthusiastically.

  The door shut, and I was left blinking in the bright lights. I stifled a yawn, frowning at my identity package on the dresser table. I packed it away neatly then got ready.

  Another groan came when I realized that the agents who had packed my bags had gotten all my sizes right, but had decided that I was no longer a t-shirt and sweats kind of gal, but a dress-lover.

  I slipped into a dress that was cinched at the waist and covered in images of gamboling cats. I splashed on some makeup and grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. My short, blonde hair was sticking up at the back, but I didn't have the will to force it into submission.

  Ten minutes later, I met Gamma downstairs in the lobby of the inn. The walls were painted a duck's egg blue here, and the carpet on the wooden boards was Persian and classy. A bronze chandelier hung in the center of the room, next to the staircase that led to the second floor.

  “Welcome to the Gossip Inn,” Gamma said, smiling at me. “I can't wait for you to meet everyone, Charlie.”

  “Thanks, uh, Mrs. Mission.”

  “I changed my name to Franklin,” she whispered. “You know, in case of Pablo?”

  “Right. Thanks, Mrs. Franklin.”

  Cocoa Puff the cat wound around my grandmother's ankles, purring. “So, a few things here,” she said, leadin
g me from the front hall into an open plan dining area. “This is where the guests eat. Breakfast is served at 9 am every morning. Our amazing chef, Lauren, you'll meet her later, cooks in the kitchen, over here.” We entered that next, and I was stunned by the sheer size of it.

  Clearly, my grandmother had spared no expense fixing this place up. The counters were glistening steel, there were two gas-burners, and an industrial-grade baking oven in one corner, along with a walk-in freezer. Pictures of cats decorated the walls in here, and the tiles were a timid green.

  Gamma swept through to the hall again, and we traveled all over the Gossip Inn. I was shown the main bathroom—in case of a guest emergency—the doors to the occupied and unoccupied rooms, the attic, and then a locked door that led into the dilapidated section of the inn.

  “This,” Gamma said, “is my next big project. But I'll tell you more about that later. For now, all you need to know is which places to clean and dust, who to serve what and when. Let's head back to the kitchen and I'll give you a breakdown.”

  I yawned again.

  Shoot, I'd hoped that staying at my grandmother's inn would be less about work and more about relaxation. But she had the right idea, even if I didn't want to admit it. We had to pretend that everything was OK. If we didn't, it would catch up with me. And me being here without a purpose would look mighty suspicious.

  Hiding as a maid or waiter in plain sight would be easier than assimilating as one of the guests. It would mean talking to the others who lived here, whereas they'd more than likely ignore a maid or helper. I could blend in this way.

  Gamma led us back to the front hall but stopped abruptly. I nearly ran into her back.

  The inn doors were open, and a young woman with broad lips, dark eyes, and wavy blonde hair stood on the threshold. She wore a fitted sweater vest and a short skirt. Harmless? Maybe. Could she be a spy sent by Kyle? She hadn't noticed us yet.

  I reached back for the knife I'd tucked between my shoulder blades, under my dress.

  “Harley,” Gamma said, softly. “What on earth are you doing up at this hour?”

  The woman jumped and turned toward us. “Oh! Hello,” she said, in flowery, sweet tones. “I didn't see you there. Sorry, did I wake you?”