A Twist In The Tail

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I should have known by the unsettling tone of the cat’s meows that disaster was looming. Of course, at the time I was more worried about how the guests liked breakfast. It was only the fourth one I’d served since officially becoming owner of the Oyster Cove Guesthouse.

They seemed to be enjoying it. Now, don’t get me wrong, it was nothing fancy. Bacon, scrambled eggs, sausage, and lemon poppy seed muffins were the extent of my culinary expertise. Quite frankly, I might have misjudged whether my cooking skills were up to par when entering into this agreement. Maybe I should have read the fine print in the documents I’d received from Millie Sullivan, the elderly former owner.

Even though the breakfasts weren’t five-star cuisine, I hadn’t had any complaints from my first batch of guests. Well, all except one. Charles Prescott. He was the reason I was now hovering in the doorway holding an antique egg cup with a perfectly warm soft-boiled egg nestled inside.

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