Two Tall Tails
Sofie Kelly & Sofie Ryan
INTERMIX
NEW YORK
INTERMIX
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Sofie Kelly
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.
INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
ISBN: 9781101989425
First Edition: September 2016
Cover design by Sandra Chiu
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
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
The Cat Burglar
No More Pussyfooting Around
About the Author
The Cat Burglar
A Magical Cats Story
Sofie Kelly
In the uncanny sort of timing I’ve discovered Minnesota rain sometimes has, the sky seemed to open just as I started across Rebecca’s backyard toward my own. I pulled up the hood of my yellow slicker, folded both arms over the front of the raincoat and ran for my back door, my happy face–covered rubber boots clomping across the wet grass and sending water spraying up onto my jeans. It seemed as though all the rain we hadn’t gotten in April we were now going to get in May.
Inside the porch I shook myself a bit like a damp dog, then eased down the zipper of my jacket. Hercules poked his black and white face out from underneath and looked at me, green eyes narrowed, a sour expression on his face.
I set him down on the porch floor and the little tuxedo cat held up one white-tipped front paw and shook it, followed by the other.
I slipped off my jacket and hung it to drip on a hook by the back door. “There’s no way your feet are wet,” I said, stepping out of my boots. “In case you didn’t notice, your feet didn’t actually touch the grass.”
Hercules turned his back on me and started for the kitchen, making disgruntled grumbling noises in the back of his throat. The fact that the door was closed made no difference to him. He simply walked through it. The bottom panel almost seemed to shimmer for a moment and then the cat was on the other side with no more than the same soft sound a soap bubble makes when it pops.
The first time I’d seen Hercules walk through a completely solid door, I’d thought I was losing my mind. Now it was just part of his personality, like his intense aversion to wet feet, his indifference to catnip and his love for both sardine cat crackers and Barry Manilow’s music.
I had no idea where this unbelievable ability had come from—Herc’s gray tabby brother, Owen, couldn’t walk through walls. Owen’s superpower was the ability to disappear at will, and since he was a cat, it was almost always at the most inconvenient time for me. From the beginning I’d realized that if I told anyone about the cats’ “skills,” at best it would be my head getting examined and, at worst, theirs, so I kept their secret. A few times I’d had to come up with an explanation of how Hercules had gotten into a room or Owen onto the front seat of my truck, but since cats have a reputation for slightly sneaky behavior, it was pretty easy to cover.
I followed Hercules into the kitchen. He was sitting on the floor, staring at the cupboard where I kept the sardine crackers.
“Nice, try,” I said, bending down to scratch the top of his head. “But A, I know you already had bacon with Everett, and B, you didn’t get wet.” I leaned my face close to his as I said the last part and he licked my chin. “You’re welcome,” I said.
Rebecca Nixon, now Rebecca Henderson, had been my backyard neighbor as long as I’d lived in this house, one of the perks that came with taking the job as head librarian here in Mayville Heights. After she and Everett had gotten married, they decided to live in Rebecca’s little house and soon Hercules was having breakfast with Everett a couple of times a week. Everett insisted Hercules was interested in what happened on the town council, and for all I knew, maybe the little cat was.
My cell phone rang then. I straightened up and grabbed it from the kitchen table. It was Maggie. “Hey Mags,” I said.
Maggie Adams was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights. We’d met when Rebecca invited me to try her tai chi class. Maggie was the instructor. We’d bonded over our love for the cheesy reality show Gotta Dance.
“Hi,” Maggie said. “I was wondering what your day’s like. Do you have time for lunch? I made pizza last night.”
I loved Maggie’s homemade pizza with its chewy crust and thick, spicy tomato sauce.
“I always have time for your pizza.” I leaned back against the counter. At my feet Hercules was making a show of washing his left front paw. “What time?”
“How about twelve thirty?” Maggie gave a little grunt of exertion that told me she was probably stretching at the end of her morning workout. “I’ll be over at the studio.”
“I’ll see you then,” I said. Owen had appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He gave a loud meow. Owen adored Maggie. “Owen sends his love,” I added.
“Back at him,” Maggie said. I could hear her smile in her voice. “I’ll see you later.”
I ended the call, set the phone back on the table and walked over to Owen. The little gray tabby looked up at me with his odd, golden eyes. I reached down to stroke his fur. “Love from Maggie,” I said. His eyes narrowed to slits and he began to purr.
Owen followed me around while I finished getting ready for work. He made a face when I got my blue sweater from the closet.
“The red one?’ I asked.
“Mrrr,” he said approvingly.
When I was ready to leave, I gave each cat a stack of five sardine crackers and some fresh water. Owen eyed his pile with suspicion the way he always did, then nudged the top cracker to the floor and sniffed it carefully.
Hercules was already eating his treat, crunching happily. He looked at me, almost seeming to smile. I crouched down beside him. “You’re spoiled,” I said. “Your character has been weakened.”
He tipped his head and blinked his green eyes at me, almost as if he were saying, And whose fault is that?
I rubbed the top of his nose, where white fur gave way to the black on the top of his head. “Have a good day,” I said.
I stood up, grabbed my bag and my umbrella and headed for the porch. “Have a good day, Owen,” I said over my shoulder.
He gave a muffled murp around a mouthful of cracker which may have been “You too,” or might have been “Whatever.”
It was barely raining at lunchtime when I got to the Riverarts building, where Maggie had her art studio, but the sky was still dark out over the water. For me, one of the best parts of living in Mayville Heights was the riverfront with the elm and black walnut trees that lined the shore, and the trail that wound its way past the downtown businesses, all the way out to the marina. You could walk along the shoreline and see the boats and barges go by on the water the way they had more than a hundred years ago.