Софи Келли: A Night's Tail

TITLES BY SOFIE KELLY

curiosity thrilled the cat

sleight of paw

copycat killing

cat trick

final catcall

a midwinter’s tail

faux paw

paws and effect

a tale of two kitties

the cats came back

a night’s tail

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

Copyright © 2019 by Penguin Random House LLC

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kelly, Sofie, 1958– author.

Title: A night’s tail: a magical cats mystery / Sofie Kelly.

Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2019. | Series: Magical cats; 11

Identifiers: LCCN 2019012522 | ISBN 9780440001133 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780440001140 (ebook)

Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PR9199.4.K453 N54 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019012522

First Edition: September 2019

Cover art by Tristian Elwell

Cover design by Rita Frangie

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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acknowledgments

Once again, thanks go to my editor, Jessica Wade, and her assistant, Miranda Hill, who work very hard to make me look good. Thank you as well to my agent, Kim Lionetti, who I definitely want on my team if there’s a zombie apocalypse!

I am deeply grateful for the support and encouragement of my friends, both online and off, and for all my readers: Team Owen and Team Hercules.

And thanks always to Patrick and Lauren, who don’t complain (much) when I wander around the house talking to people no one can see. Love you.

contents

Titles by Sofie Kelly

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgments

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

About the Author

chapter 1

I turned my head when I caught sight of the bodies, but by then it was too late. I wasn’t going to be able to forget what I had just seen—even after a brief glimpse. I shielded my face with one hand. “Please tell me that’s not . . .”

“Sorry. It is,” my best friend, Maggie, said in my ear.

I sighed because the last thing I’d wanted to see that night—or any other night, for that matter—was those two bodies: Mary Lowe, who worked with me at the library, and Sandra Godfrey, who was my mail carrier, both dancing on the T-shaped stage of The Brick in black satin and possibly peacock feathers. I wasn’t taking a second look to find out for certain.

Mary was tiny and grandmotherly with fluffy gray hair and a collection of cardigans for every season and holiday. That morning she’d been wearing one decorated with an unexpected combination of snowflakes and leprechauns, which was oddly appropriate for early March in Minnesota. The temperature hadn’t gotten above freezing all day and there was a good five inches of new snow on the ground from a storm early in the week.

Mary may have looked like the stereotypical cookie-baking grandma—and she was—but she was also the state kickboxing champion in her age group, which was why every teenage boy who came into the library remembered to say “please” and “thank you” and never wore his baseball cap backward in her presence, at least never more than once.

Sandra Godfrey, on the other hand, was quiet and thoughtful, and almost half Mary’s age. She was tall with great legs from all the walking she did on her mail route. She and Mary had struck up a friendship when Sandra had helped us with a collection of photos that had been found behind a wall at the post office and had ended up in the library’s possession.

“You didn’t tell me that they moved amateur night,” I said to Maggie.

“I didn’t know,” she replied, somewhat absently. She was staring in the direction of the stage, a slight frown creasing her forehead, green eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea where Mary got those peacock feathers?”

“No,” I said. “She didn’t mention them.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d accidentally stumbled across Mary dancing. She had fabulous legs for a woman of any age and she didn’t lack self-confidence. But it was hard—at least for me—to nonchalantly discuss library usage figures with someone I’d seen the night before doing a bump and grind to Meghan Trainor’s “All About that Bass,” especially since I knew that someone was likely to offer to loan me a bustier and fishnets so I could try getting up on stage myself. Mary had teasingly offered more than once to teach me some moves. I just couldn’t picture myself dancing in front of what seemed like half of Mayville Heights in any kind of feathers—peacock or otherwise.

We were at The Brick, a club that featured exotic dancing, including a once-a-week amateur night, along with some surprisingly good local bands the rest of the time. It was dark and loud and smelled like beer and fries. My stomach growled.

I surveyed the crowded space and caught sight of my brother, Ethan, at a table on the other side of the room, gesturing with his hands as he talked, the way he’d been doing since he’d first learned to talk. Ethan was average height, four or five inches above my five foot six. We had the same dark hair but he wore his messy and spiky these days, while mine brushed my shoulders. He had hazel eyes where mine were brown, a rangy build and our mother’s charm. The two of us actually looked more alike than either of us did to our sister, Sara, who was also Ethan’s twin, but the two of them shared the same fiery intensity when they felt passionate about something, be it purple crayons, Vans shoes or food waste.

“Over there,” I said to Maggie, tugging on the sleeve of her red-plaid jacket and gesturing toward the back wall with my free hand. I had worked late at the library and Maggie had had a meeting at the artists’ co-op that she was part of, which was why we were late joining everyone.

“What? Oh, okay,” she said, giving her head a shake and turning her attention back to me. I had a feeling she was still thinking about those peacock feathers. As an artist, Maggie could be pretty intense herself sometimes.

We were almost at the table when a man tapped Maggie on the shoulder. She turned around to see who it was.

“Zach, hi,” she said, a smile lighting up her face.

“Hey, Mags, what are you doing here?” he asked. He had thick brown hair pulled back in a man bun and dark skin. He was wearing jeans and a snug-fitting black T-shirt from the Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge Tour. His most striking feature was his startlingly deep blue eyes.

“Meeting some friends,” she said. “Are you working tonight?”