I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Marc Jedel keeps asking me to write a character post for his blog tours. At least he’s entered the current century, which is more than I can claim Andy Shirley has done. He’s more at home, well, at home, than dealing with any kind of social media.
The man went viral on social media, but he still probably thinks that’s got something to do with getting sick. Someone posted Andy’s Quilt House Inn guest rules of conduct and they drew thousands of views, hundreds of comments, and made everyone laugh at what they believed was an obvious exaggerated joke. Except for those of us who have to listen to Andy complain whenever one of his guests don’t follow all the rules that he wrote down quite seriously.
I mean did he really need to put in a rule that guests can’t murder anyone in his inn? It seems like California law pretty much covered that situation without Andy needing to add yet another line to his voluminous list. That’s Andy for you. He’s a lovable guy once you get past the gruff, and sometimes grumpy, exterior. But he never should have signed up for a job that required customer service, let alone buying a bed and breakfast that meant he needed to interact with guests daily.
Getting back to this blog, I wanted to record a video, but Marc said that wasn’t allowed. Writing doesn’t come naturally to me—give me a wrench or a soldering iron and I’m fine, but a keyboard? That’s torture. Still, I owe him for writing me into existence—and also because Andy dared me. He said, “You couldn’t possibly write anything coherent without emojis.” Challenge accepted, old man.
Let’s start with the most interesting part of the books—me. I’m Charlie Blaylock—plumber, electrician, and occasional wrangler of chaos here in Monte Rio, California. I like fixing things that are broken, mostly because things don’t talk back to you. Some folks are surprised to see a woman show up to unclog their toilet, but that’s their problem. I easily win them over by fixing whatever disaster they caused. And if not, I at least enjoy the look on their face when they realize I know what I’m doing. I should add a surcharge on those jobs.
People say I’m blunt. That’s fine. Life’s too short for long explanations and fake smiles. My mother—Chief Joann Blaylock—calls it “attitude.” I call it “genetic inheritance.” She runs the Monte Rio Police Department with the same subtlety as a bullhorn. We’ve got a complicated relationship, which is just a polite way of saying we drive each other crazy but would also take a bullet for one another.
I try not to get dragged into Andy’s nonsense, unless it looks more interesting than fixing another toilet. Honestly, though, it’s kind of addictive. There’s something satisfying about watching Andy bumble around accusing everyone and their chickens until he finally manages to put the pieces together and nails the guilty person.
It is shocking that Andy has such an adorable dog. Clearly his late wife picked her out. Fifi makes hanging out with Andy worth it. That dog has more personality than most of the men I’ve dated. She gives everyone the side-eye like she’s judging their life choices, which, to be fair, she probably is.
If you’re wondering what I do for fun, it’s not writing blog posts, that’s for sure. Monte Rio is small, but it has its charms. I like going to local concerts with my friends, taking hikes through the redwoods, and rafting down the Russian River. Sleeping is also high on my list.
Marc Jedel, the guy behind all this, thinks he knows me pretty well. He doesn’t. He gets close sometimes—like when he gives me a good sarcastic line, but then he ruins it by putting dumb words in my mouth. I wish he wouldn’t write about murders in our tiny town. I keep telling him dead bodies are gross. But apparently, a “cozy mystery” still requires the mystery part.
If I could change one thing about my life, it’d be fewer corpses and higher fees for my work. But let’s be honest—without the chaos, Monte Rio wouldn’t feel like home. Besides, someone’s got to eat Nadia’s latest creations, keep Andy out of too much trouble, cause my mother’s blood pressure to rise, and prevent Fifi from declaring war on the vacuum cleaner.
So, there you have it. I’ve written another blog post. I’d say “never again,” but Marc keeps bribing me with promises of new scenes and threatens possible romance subplots (which—nope). Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, Andy just texted that he “found something suspicious.” That could be anything from a poorly worded comment in the town newspaper to a dead body, so I’ll go help the old guy out of whatever mess he’s found himself in this time. If I don’t survive (or get thrown in prison by my mom), give the snacks in my toolbox to Fifi.