Praise for the National Bestselling Bookmobile Cat Mysteries
“With humor and panache, Cass delivers an intriguing mystery and interesting characters.”
—Bristol Herald Courier (VA)
“Almost impossible to put down . . . the story is filled with humor and warmth.”
—MyShelf.com
“[With] Eddie’s adorableness [and] penchant to try to get more snacks, and Minnie’s determination to solve the crime, this duo will win over even those that don’t like cats.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
“A pleasant read. . . . [Minnie is] a spunky investigator.”
—Gumshoe
“A fast-paced page-turner that had me guessing until the last dramatic scenes.”
—Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries & Meows
“Reading Laura Cass’s cozies feels like sharing a bottle of wine with an adventurous friend as she regales you with the story of her latest escapade.”
—The Cuddlywumps Cat Chronicles
Titles by Laurie Cass
Lending a Paw
Tailing a Tabby
Borrowed Crime
Pouncing on Murder
Cat with a Clue
Wrong Side of the Paw
Booking the Crook
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Janet Koch
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780440000990
First Edition: July 2019
Cover art by Mary Ann Lasher
Cover design by Emily Osborne
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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For all the restaurants everywhere that cheerfully allow writers to sit in their back corners for hours at a stretch. With a special nod to Touch of Class in Central Lake, Michigan. Thank you!
Contents
Praise for the National Bestselling Bookmobile Cat Mysteries
Titles by Laurie Cass
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
About the Author
Chapter 1
I stood at the kitchen window, staring out into the backyard as January’s chill seeped through the glass and into my bones. The cold was making my skin prickle and my teeth chatter, yet I didn’t move. If I stayed, maybe time would stand still. Maybe the morning wouldn’t happen. Maybe if I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head, it would all go away.
“Minnie?” my aunt Frances asked. “What, pray tell, do you see? It’s pitch dark out there.”
She was right. Even though I knew the backyard contained snow-covered maple and beech trees, the only thing I could see was my own self. Whoever had installed the double-hung windows had placed them at a height that forced any five-foot-tall human—in this case, me—to either stand on tiptoes or crouch slightly to see over the top of the lower window. This morning I was standing on my toes and seeing little more than the reflection of a pair of slightly bloodshot brown eyes and too-curly black hair.
“Mrr.”
I looked over at my cat. Eddie was sitting in the kitchen chair he’d claimed as his own and licking his right front paw.
Aunt Frances laughed. “Your fuzzy friend said to sit down and eat your oatmeal.” She put two bowls on the round oak table and slid into the chair across from Eddie.
“More likely he’s asking about his breakfast.” I gave the top of my head one last glance—still a curly mess and likely to stay that way—and sat. “You didn’t have to make me breakfast.”
“Don’t get used to it. However, I thought it only right to commemorate this day.” She dipped her spoon into the bowl and held it up in a toast. “To the new director of the Chilson District Library, whatever his name is. May his reign bring joy to all, but especially to the library’s assistant director, since she’s sitting across the table from me.”
“Graydon,” I said. “His name is Graydon Cain.”
“The poor man. What were his parents thinking? I wonder what his friends call him? Gray?” She raised one eyebrow. “Don?”
“Maybe it’s a family name and they call him Junior.”
Aunt Frances snorted. “Surely your nimble mind has a better suggestion than that. You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“If only,” I muttered, but not loud enough for her to hear. When Graydon had interviewed with the library board a few months back, I’d made the event memorable by walking backward into the then-president of the board, falling to the floor, and strewing the contents of my backpack all across the lobby.
Bad as that had been, it had been far worse to have Eddie hack up a hair ball on the Italian shoes of the woman the board chose as the library’s director. An early—and heavy—October snowfall had sent Jennifer scuttling back south and the board had gone to Graydon, metaphorical hat in hand, and asked him to consider making northwest lower Michigan his new home.
“Well,” my aunt said reasonably, “Graydon can’t be any worse than that frightful woman.”
I sighed. “You’d think so, but I wouldn’t have thought anyone could be worse than Stephen.” My former boss, who’d had the personality of a doorstop and a deep reluctance to agree to any change in anything whatsoever, hadn’t inspired deep loyalty in his staff.
“It’ll be fine,” Aunt Frances said comfortably. Of course, she could be comfortable about the whole thing; she hadn’t had a new boss in ages. Her fall-to-spring job was as a woodworking instructor at the local community college, and the college president was in fine fettle and likely to stay that way. In summer, she opened up the big house she’d inherited from her long-passed-away husband to eight hand-picked boarders. Or rather, that’s what she’d done for years and years. This summer it was all going to be different.
Most of me was thrilled about the upcoming events, but part of me had a kinship with Stephen and his dislike of change. I’d loved the boardinghouse since, starting at age twelve, my busy parents had sent me north from June to August. Every group of boarders was unique and every summer had brought new adventures. I didn’t want the evening tradition of cooking marshmallows in the living room’s fieldstone fireplace to end. I didn’t want the bookshelf full of board games and jigsaw puzzles to be moved. I didn’t want the screened porch off the dining room to sprout new furniture, and I certainly didn’t want anyone to decide the wide pine-paneled walls needed to be covered with drywall and papered over with some floral print.