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
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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 taiclass="underline" 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.