Софи Келли - Hooked On A Feline

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

a case of cat and mouse

hooked on a feline

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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Copyright © 2021 by Penguin Random House LLC

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kelly, Sofie, 1958- author.

Title: Hooked on a feline: a magical cats mystery / Sofie Kelly.

Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2021. |

Series: Magical cats; 13

Identifiers: LCCN 2021019376 (print) | LCCN 2021019377 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593199985 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593200001 (ebook)

Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PR9199.4.K453 H66 2021 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.K453 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021019376

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021019377

First Edition: September 2021

Cover art by Tristan Elwell

Cover design by Rita Frangie

Book design by Kelly Lipovich, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero

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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contents

Cover

Titles by Sofie Kelly

Title Page

Copyright

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

Acknowledgments

About the Author

chapter 1

The stage set up at the end of the marina parking lot was in darkness, and there wasn’t enough light from the stars and the sliver of gleaming moon overhead to make out anything, even though we were sitting just a few rows back. The crowd spread out across the pavement on lawn chairs and coolers had gone silent, so silent it seemed as though we were all holding our breath. But underneath that silence I could feel a faint buzz of anticipation, like the current of energy in the air just before a thunderstorm hits.

And then a clap of wood on wood, one drumstick hitting another, counting off the beat— One! Two! Three! Four! —cracked the quiet. And all at once there was music: the sound of a raucous electric guitar; and the crowd went wild. Beside me my friend Roma was grinning, bouncing on her canvas lawn chair, her dark eyes shining. She leaned sideways, bumping me with her shoulder. “That’s Harry, Kathleen,” she said in my ear, “which has to mean—”

She didn’t get to finish the sentence because the smooth voice of the announcer boomed through the sound system, drowning out everything else. “Please welcome—after a very long absence—Johnny Rock . . .” He paused. I leaned forward, suddenly knowing what his next words had to be. And then they came: “. . . and the Outlaws!”

The stage lights came up and the crowd really went wild then, cheering, clapping, hooting and whistling. I couldn’t take my eyes off the stage because that amazing electric guitar was in the hands of Harry Taylor—Harry, who mowed my lawn and kept just about everything running at the library for me. He was in his fifties with just a little hair left, his face lined from years of working outside in the sun. Harry looked like someone’s dad, practical and dependable, which he was—not like some rock star guitar virtuoso—which it seemed he also was. I knew Harry played guitar. I knew he had been in a band, in this band, but I was dumbstruck that I had no idea he was so incredibly talented.

Roma was already moving to the music. “Close your mouth, Kath,” she said, grinning as if she’d guessed what I’d been thinking. “I’m pretty sure you just swallowed a bug.”

I didn’t get a chance to answer because Johnny Rock had started to sing John Mellencamp’s “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.,” striding onto the stage from the left side. His voice was full and strong with just a hint of a raspy edge to it.

Johnny Rock, aka John Stone, looked like he could have been actor Bradley Cooper’s older brother—blue eyes, brown hair shot with a bit of gray waved back from his face, long legs and muscular arms in a tight black T-shirt and faded jeans. He had that same naughty-boy grin as the actor as well.

Harry was just behind Johnny’s right shoulder, a few steps back. He, too, wore a black T-shirt and jeans, but not his ubiquitous Twins ball cap. I realized that he was playing the same solid-body Fender Stratocaster that he’d brought to Reading Buddies at the library, where he’d led the kids in an enthusiastic version of the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” The song had been stuck in my head for days afterward.

Beside me Roma was already up and dancing. It seemed like the whole crowd was on its feet, spilling across the parking lot onto the grassy riverbank. Roma grabbed my hand and pulled me off my chair. “I can’t believe they kept the whole band coming back together a secret.”

“Me neither,” I said, leaning sideways so she could hear me. Harry had been in the library just hours ago and there had been no hint from him that he’d be onstage tonight when I’d said I was looking forward to seeing Johnny in concert. I had no idea Harry was so good at keeping a secret. It seemed there were a lot of things I didn’t know about Harry Taylor.

“Well, Mike checked my cracked tooth on Thursday and he didn’t give anything away, either,” Roma said, raising her voice over the crowd noise.

Mike Bishop, who had expertly completed a root canal on my upper-left molar just recently, was also up onstage playing bass, standing behind and to the left of Johnny. Like Johnny and Harry, he was wearing jeans and a black shirt, along with a dark gray fedora over his gray curls. And he couldn’t seem to stop grinning. He raised one arm in the air. “C’mon, people, you should be dancin’!” he shouted.

The outdoor concert was part of the Last Bash, a revival, after twenty-five years, of a summer festival celebrating food, music and small-town life. Mayville Heights was trying to bring back the celebration as a way to entice more tourists to our Minnesota town. The highlight of the event for just about everyone was the return to the stage of Johnny Rock, who had been a local celebrity in his teens and twenties, first as the lead singer of Johnny and the Outlaws and then as a solo performer. Johnny had gone on to become a very successful businessman. He had just sold his real estate development company and was going back to his first love, music.

I closed my eyes for a moment and just focused on Johnny’s voice as the band segued into Boston’s “More Than a Feeling.” I draped my arm around Roma’s shoulders and we swayed back and forth to the music, heads together like we were teenagers. The 1976 rock ballad showcased Johnny’s vocal range. He was good—not just small-town-bar-band good—good enough to have had a career as a working musician, in my opinion. And I knew a little about the music business. My brother, Ethan, had his own band back in Boston, The Flaming Gerbils. I’d learned from watching his career develop how mercurial the music business could be, how it took more than talent, how sometimes it seemed that talent was the least important factor. I couldn’t help wondering what had derailed Johnny’s long-ago musical aspirations.