Софи Келли: A Tale Оf Two Kitties

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

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

Copyright © 2017 by Penguin Random House LLC

“The Cat Burglar” copyright © 2016 by Sofie Kelly

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BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

“The Cat Burglar” was previously published in the eBook Two Tall Tails .

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kelly, Sofie, 1958– author.

Title: A tale of two kitties / Sofie Kelly.

Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2017. | Series: Magical cats ; 9

Identifiers: LCCN 2017010909 (print) | LCCN 2017010934 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399584572 (hardback) | ISBN 9780399584589 (eBook)

Subjects: LCSH: Cat owners—Fiction. | Women librarians—Fiction. | Cats—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Mystery fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths.

Classification: LCC PR9199.4.K453 T35 2017 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.K453

(ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017010909

First Edition: September 2017

Cover art by Tristan 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.

Version_1

For Patrick

contents

Titles by Sofie Kelly

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

chapter 18

epilogue

Bonus Story: The Cat Burglar

acknowledgments

There are so many people working behind the scenes at Berkley Prime Crime that I never talk to directly, who helped put together this book. Thanks to each one of you. A special thank-you goes to my editor, Jessica Wade; her assistant, Miranda Hill; and PR whiz, Roxanne Jones. I’m so glad we’re on the same team.

Thanks as well are due to my agent, Kim Lionetti, and the entire staff at Bookends Literary Agency. I don’t tell you nearly enough how much I appreciate your hard work and unfailing good humor.

To all the readers, bloggers, reviewers and booksellers who have embraced Kathleen, Owen and Hercules, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And, as always, thanks to Patrick and Lauren. Love you both!

chapter 1

You’d think by now it wouldn’t bother me to step on a body in the middle of the kitchen floor, but I was in my sock feet and the body—missing its head, no surprise—was damp.

With cat slobber.

“Owen!” I yelled, hopping on one foot while I rubbed the other against my pant leg.

The cat stuck his gray tabby head around the living room doorway and looked at me, face tipped quizzically to one side.

“Come and get this,” I said, pointing at the headless yellow catnip chicken, aka Fred the Funky Chicken, I’d just stepped on.

He craned his neck to see what I was referring to, then gave a murp of recognition almost as though he were saying, “So that’s where I left it.” He came across the floor, picked up the chicken body in his mouth and deposited it next to his food dish beside the refrigerator, nudging it out of the way with one paw. Then he turned to look at me.

“Thank you,” I said. I leaned down to pick up the few bits of catnip that had fallen out of the mangled cat toy. Owen had a thing for catnip in general, and neon-yellow chickens stuffed with it in particular, and I had friends who bought them for him just about as fast as he could chew them apart.

I dumped the bits of dried catnip in the garbage and reached for my shoes on the mat near the back door.

“Mrr?” Owen said.

“I have a meeting at the library.”

He immediately raised his paw and took a couple of passes at his face with it. Then he crossed to sit in front of the kitchen door.

I knew what that meant. “No, you can’t come with me,” I said.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Mrr,” he said again.

I shook my head. “You can’t come. Cats don’t belong at the library.” They didn’t belong at the library, but both of mine had ended up there more than once. “Just because I’m the head librarian doesn’t mean that you and your brother get special privileges.”

Owen narrowed his golden eyes. His whiskers twitched, and then he disappeared.

Literally. It was his superpower, so to speak, the way the Flash could run faster than anyone else on the planet, although I was pretty sure Owen hadn’t gotten his ability due to the explosion of a particle accelerator during a thunderstorm.

I’d gotten very blasé about Owen’s ability to just vanish whenever he wanted to. I remembered how it had made me think I was losing my mind the first few times I’d seen it happen, and then the stomach-churning fear I’d felt when I realized what could happen to him and his brother, Hercules, if anyone found out about my cats’ unbelievable abilities. Hercules couldn’t become invisible at will; he could walk through walls. Both cats also had a seemingly uncanny ability to understand what was said to them. And now, to make things ten times more complicated, I was almost positive that Marcus’s little ginger tabby, Micah, had the same vanishing skill as Owen.

My Marcus. Detective Marcus Gordon, who only believed in the facts, in things he could see and touch. If I was right about Micah there was a lot I’d need to explain. Not that I had any explanation. All three cats came from the old Henderson estate, Wisteria Hill. That had to have something to do with their abilities. I just had no idea what.

I’d sold my car when I’d moved to Mayville Heights from Boston two and a half years ago to supervise the renovations at the library. I spent my first few weeks in town exploring, walking for miles, which is how I’d stumbled on Wisteria Hill. At the time the property was abandoned. Now my friend Roma owned it, and the old farmhouse was full of life again. Back then it had seemed lonely and forgotten.

Owen and Hercules had peeked at me from a tangle of raspberry canes, two tiny balls of fur, and then trailed me while I explored the overgrown English country garden behind the old house. When I left, they’d followed me down the rutted gravel driveway. Twice I’d picked them up and carried them back to the empty house, but they were undeterred. They were so tiny and so determined to come with me that in the end I’d given up and brought them home. They were affectionate with me, but I’d quickly learned that because they had been feral they didn’t tolerate anyone else touching them.