A Midwinter's Tail

Book 6: Magical Cats

by Sofie Kelly

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Punny book titles

Synopsis

Kathleen Paulson is snowed under running her library and caring for her extraordinary felines, Owen and Hercules. But when a fund-raiser turns deadly, she'll have to add sleuthing to her already full schedule....

Winter in Mayville Heights is busy and not just because of the holidays. Kathleen is hard at work organizing a benefit to raise money for the library's popular Reading Buddies program. She has her hands full hosting the event. And when a guest at the gala drops dead, her magical cats, Owen and Hercules, will have their paws full helping her solve a murder.

The victim is the ex of town rascal Burtis Chapman, but she hasn't lived in the area in years. And though everybody is denying knowledge of why she was back in town, as Kathleen and her detective boyfriend, Marcus, begin nosing around, they discover more people are connected to the deceased than claimed to be. Now Marcus, Kathleen, and her uncanny cats have to unravel this midwinter tale before the case gets cold.

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

Praise for the New York Times Bestselling

Also Available from Sofie Kelly

OBSIDIAN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

1

“I look like Fred the Funky Chicken’s mother,” Rebecca said. And because she was so kind, she immediately added, “And it’s not that I don’t like bright yellow chickens . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You just don’t want to look like a giant version of Owen’s favorite catnip treat on your wedding day,” I finished. Owen was one of my two cats. Rebecca, whose house backed on mine, kept him supplied with catnip chickens, which he loved, much to the annoyance of his brother, Hercules, who didn’t get the attraction of catnip or neon yellow chickens.

I held the phone out to Roma so she could see the photo of Rebecca in the potential wedding dress, a buttercup yellow ball gown with a huge skirt of chiffon feathers. Rebecca was dwarfed by the dress. I was several inches taller, and I could see that it would have engulfed me, too.

“It’s not you,” Roma agreed. “But don’t worry. We’ll find you something.” Roma was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights and a very positive person.

“This wedding is turning into shredded wheat,” Rebecca said, fingering the soft blue scarf around her neck.

I smiled in sympathy across the small table at Eric’s Place, our favorite restaurant. I knew Rebecca would have been happy to elope.

Roma frowned and looked from Rebecca to me. “Excuse me?”

“Shredded wheat,” I repeated. “The more you chew on it, the bigger it seems to get.”

Roma laughed and reached for her coffee. “Rebecca, I promise we’ll find you a dress that has nothing to do with breakfast cereal or giant yellow birds.”

Rebecca smiled across the table at us. “I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you.” She smoothed a hand over her silver-gray hair. She’d cut it herself—Rebecca had been a hairdresser for more than forty years—into a little gamin pixie that showed off her beautiful cheekbones and her blue eyes.

Rebecca Nixon wasn’t just my backyard neighbor, she was also the first friend I’d made when I’d come to Mayville Heights to supervise the renovation of the town’s library. In a couple of weeks she was going to marry her childhood sweetheart, Everett Henderson. And she still didn’t have a wedding dress.

I handed the phone back across the table to her. She looked at the photo again and gave a soft sigh. “Ami means well,” she said. “It’s just that she seems to have caught wedding fever from Everett.”

Ami was Everett Henderson’s only grandchild. She’d been close to Rebecca, whom she lovingly called Rebbie, for most of her life and she was overjoyed about the wedding. Rebecca and Everett had waited close to fifty years to be married, and Everett was determined to give her an elaborate celebration—whether or not she wanted it. And she didn’t.

I reached over and laid my hand on Rebecca’s arm. “My offer still stands,” I said, raising one eyebrow at her. Several months ago when Everett had been talking about having the wedding in The Basilica of St. Mary in downtown Minneapolis—which technically wasn’t possible since neither he nor Rebecca was Catholic—I’d jokingly told Rebecca I’d be happy to help her “kidnap” Everett and elope. “I have a full tank of gas in the truck and I’m betting Roma has a roll of duct tape in her bag.”

“I do,” Roma said. “But if you’re planning on making a wedding dress, you should know there’s only about half the roll left.”

“You know, I bet Maggie could make you a wedding dress out of duct tape,” I said, reaching for my coffee.

Maggie Adams was my closest friend in Mayville Heights, along with Roma. She was a mixed-media collage artist and potter; plus she taught tai chi. Mayville Heights had a thriving artists’ community. Maggie was the current president of the artists’ co-op and the most creative person I’d ever met. She’d made an incredibly realistic, life-size replica of Minnesota Wild hockey player Eddie Sweeney as part of a display for last year’s Winterfest celebration, and it had indirectly led to Roma’s current relationship with the real Eddie Sweeney. I had no doubt that Maggie could make Rebecca a wedding dress out of duct tape, or recycled newspaper, for that matter.

“If I don’t find a dress soon, I may have to get her to do that,” Rebecca said. She glanced down at the image of the funky chicken ball gown one more time and then tucked her phone in her purse. “Although I don’t think it would go with Everett’s plans.”

“If the wedding is still too elaborate, tell him,” I said.

Roma nodded in agreement. “Everett would marry you on an iceberg in the middle of the Bering Sea. He loves you. He just wants you to be happy.”

Rebecca had told me once that while she’d dreamed of being married to Everett, she’d never thought about the actual wedding. She didn’t care about flowers or food. Everett, on the other hand, wanted a celebration. He wanted the whole world to know how he felt about his bride, although you only had to spend a minute or two with both of them to see it. They made me believe in happily ever after.

“I know he would,” Rebecca said, tracing the rim of her coffee cup with one finger. “But all this . . . hoopla is important to him. He already agreed to scale his original plans back for me. I know he wants me to be happy, but I want him to be happy, too.”

“I know what you mean,” Roma said softly. She got the starry-eyed, slightly goofy look on her face that told me she was thinking about Eddie.

Over at the counter, waiter Nic Sutton looked our way and gestured at the coffeepot. I nodded. He reached for the glass carafe and headed in our direction.

“Thanks, Nic,” I said after he’d refilled our mugs.

“Could I get you anything else?” he asked. We’d made short work of three of Eric’s pecan sticky buns. I was tempted to have another, but in a couple of hours I was going to have to squeeze into a very formfitting dress, so I shook my head.

The library was hosting an evening fundraiser at the Stratton Theatre for our Reading Buddies program, which paired kindergartners with fourth and fifth graders to help foster a love of reading and improve their actual reading skills. The stage had been dressed to resemble a French bistro, with several local businesses providing elegant desserts. In a wonderful twist of coincidence, Eddie Sweeney’s college roommate was the leader and saxophone player in a jazz quartet, Jazzology. They were providing the “atmosphere.” Eddie was very generously—and quietly—covering their expenses.

“Roma, do you have plans for tomorrow night?” I asked as I added cream and sugar to my cup. I’d taken Friday night off to relax after the fundraising gala, but I was happy to give that up to help Rebecca find a dress.

“Paperwork and pizza,” she said, tucking her sleek dark brown hair behind one ear. “But I’m open to a better idea. Or any other idea.”

I smiled at Rebecca. “Let Roma and me take you shopping tomorrow night. Here in town or maybe over in Red Wing.”

“Please,” Roma added. “I don’t want to do paperwork all night.”

A smile stretched across Rebecca’s face. “Thank you. Yes. I don’t think I can do this without help.”

“I’ll drive,” Roma offered. She looked at Rebecca. “I’ll pick you up about quarter to seven.” She glanced at me. “And then we’ll come get you.”

I nodded. Roma’s SUV was a better choice than the three of us squashed onto the front seat of my old truck.

The front door of Eric’s Place swung open then and Lita Clarke stepped inside, pushing back the hood of her jacket. The red wool reminded me of the autumn leaves on the maple tree in Rebecca’s backyard. I felt a little twinge of sadness. I was going to miss Rebecca when she moved into Everett’s downtown apartment.

Lita smiled when she caught sight of us, stamped her feet on the mat by the door to shake the snow off her boots and then headed over.

“Kathleen, I’m glad I caught you,” she said. She pulled off her black woolen gloves, took an envelope from her purse and handed it to me. My name was written on the front in her tight, angular script. “Everett wanted you to have this.”

I lifted the flap of the envelope. There was a check inside made out to me. I looked uncertainly at Lita. “What’s this for?” I asked.

“For tomorrow,” she said. “Everett said he knows you’ll take Vincent Starr out to lunch after his presentation and he didn’t want you to use your own money.”

Everett knew me well. I was planning on taking the rare-book dealer to lunch after his presentation at the library Friday morning.

Vincent Starr was an expert on American literature and children’s books. We’d met when Abigail Pierce, one of my staff at the library, found a rare and valuable early edition of Alice in Wonderland in a box of books donated for the library’s fundraising yard sale my first summer in town.

Vincent and Abigail had stayed in touch. For the past month he’d been working at the Walker Art Center, in Minneapolis, curating a collection of late-nineteenth-century children’s literature that was going on display at the art museum. He’d agreed to come and give a talk about rare books. Abigail, who had been to one of Vincent’s lectures, promised he was an entertaining speaker. He was also a big supporter of projects for children’s literacy and he’d offered to come to the Reading Buddies fundraiser to mingle and talk about books.

I reached for my purse and tucked the envelope inside. “Please thank Everett for me,” I said to Lita. “And thank you for delivering it.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” she said, peeling off her other glove and stuffing them both into one of the pockets of her duffle coat. “I was coming out anyway. Our coffeemaker died and Everett doesn’t work well uncaffeinated.”

“Neither do I,” I said with a grin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rebecca roll hers. She thought I drank a bit too much coffee. I thought there was no such thing as too much coffee.

“Is everything set for tonight?” Lita asked.

I nodded. “Everything’s ready,” I said. “Wait until you see the stage. You’ll think Maggie and Ruby somehow transported a Parisian street to Minnesota.”

I had my fingers crossed that the gala would raise enough money to expand Reading Buddies. The program had turned out to have benefits I had never anticipated. I’d seen the little ones blossom under the attention of the older kids, and many of the older ones had developed a strong sense of maturity and responsibility toward their little students.

“Everyone’s looking forward to this,” she said, loosening the red-and-black scarf at her neck. She smiled. “I better get back to the office. If you need anything, call me there or on my cell.”

“I will,” I said, returning the smile.

“See you tonight,” Lita said to all three of us before heading for the counter, where Nic had just started a new pot of coffee.

I watched her weave her way around the tables and wondered if Lita would show up alone, or with Burtis Chapman. Lita and the burly “entrepreneur” had been quietly seeing each other for several months. I’d only figured it out because I’d seen them in a close moment in the library parking lot. Lita and Burtis were very different. She’d worked for Everett for years. Burtis had a number of small businesses. Rumor had it that some of them danced on the edge of being legal.

I was surprised that they had managed to keep their relationship quiet. It wasn’t easy to keep a secret in Mayville Heights; the town was so small. And in Lita’s case she seemed to be related, one way or another, to pretty much everyone in town.

“Rebecca, how long has Lita been Everett’s assistant?” I asked.

“Ever since he came back to Mayville Heights for good,” she said. “Lita was very young when she was married—and divorced. She wanted to stay here and raise her girls, and Everett needed an assistant who knew the town as much as he needed someone who was organized and efficient. That was Lita to a tee.”

“Is it just my imagination or is Lita pretty much related to everyone in Mayville Heights?”

Roma laughed as she set down her mug. “It’s not your imagination.”

Rebecca leaned back in her chair, nodding in agreement. “Her mother’s family and her father’s family were the first non–Native American settlers here. Only the Blackthornes have been here longer. Half the town is cousin to Lita on her father’s side and the other half is related through her mother. I think the only people she’s not related to are the Chapmans, and that’s just because Chapman men tend to marry women from somewhere else and bring them back here.” She laughed. “Which is a good thing or we’d all be our own grandparents.”

“What about you?” I said. Across the room Eric had just come out of the kitchen carrying a large stainless steel thermos.

“We’re cousins about half a dozen times removed through our mothers,” Rebecca said. “On the Hale side of the family.”

Roma glanced at her watch. “You know that Oren and I are second cousins.”

I nodded.

“Well, we’re cousins with Lita somehow on the Villier side of the family, her father’s ancestors.” She reached for her scarf on the back of her chair. “As much as I’d like to sit here, I should get back to the clinic.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the café swing open and a well-dressed woman step inside. I knew immediately that she was, as my friend Harry Taylor would put it, from away. She was wearing beautiful high-heeled, black leather boots. They seemed molded to her long legs—no room for a pile lining for warmth—and the very high heels weren’t practical for navigating snowbanks. I’d learned that the hard way my first winter in town.

I looked down at my warm, lace-up footwear. My boots might not have been trendsetters, but my feet were warm and dry.

I glanced at the woman again. She had the collar of her elegant coat turned up against the side of her face, and her shoulders were hunched as though she was cold.

Rebecca turned her head, probably to see what I was looking at. She put one hand, palm down, on the table and some of the color seemed to drain from her face.

“Oh my word,” she said softly. “It can’t be.”

I put my hand on the older woman’s arm. “Is something wrong?”

She let out a breath. “I’m not sure.”

Roma shot me a worried glance. “Rebecca, do you know that woman?” she asked.

Rebecca nodded. “I do,” she said. “That’s Dayna Chapman, Burtis Chapman’s wife.”

2

“Dayna Chapman?” I repeated. “Burtis Chapman’s wife?”

“Yes,” Rebecca said, her gaze locked on the woman making her way toward the counter and Lita. “Ex-wife.”

Two frown lines appeared between Roma’s eyes. “Rebecca, are you all right?” she asked.

Rebecca shook her head and turned back toward us. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching up to give Roma’s hand a squeeze. “Seeing Dayna was a little like seeing a ghost for a moment. She hasn’t been back here in more than twenty years.”

“I wonder what brought her back now,” Roma said as she shrugged on her jacket.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Rebecca’s eyes darted over to the counter again where Lita, still holding the thermos Eric had brought from the kitchen, was now talking to Burtis’s ex-wife.

The normally unflappable Lita was uncomfortable with the conversation, I realized. I could tell from the rigid way she held herself, shoulders stiff under her heavy jacket, back as straight as a metal signpost.

“I’d better get going,” Roma said, pulling on her gloves. “I’ll see you tonight. I think it’ll be fun.”

“I hope so,” I said. “If you talk to Eddie please thank him again for me.”

“I will.” She smiled at Rebecca. “Thank you for the coffee break,” she said, and then she headed for the door.

I reached for my own coat, noticing that Rebecca had darted another glance in Dayna and Lita’s direction. “You know, don’t you?” I said.

Rebecca focused all her attention on me. Her blue eyes searched my face. I waited for her to ask, “Know what?” After a moment she smiled and said, “How long have you known?”

“Since the fall.”

“Lita is a good person,” Rebecca said, pulling on her hat, a soft rose cloche. “This last year is the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time.”

Burtis and Lita had been a couple for the last year? How had they managed to keep that quiet?

“I like Lita,” I said, patting my pockets for my gloves. “And I like Burtis.”

It was true. The library renovations, which had originally brought me to town, would have been a lot more frustrating without Lita to answer all of my questions. And I considered Burtis a friend. We’d gotten to know each other after I discovered the body of Roma’s biological father, Tom Karlsson, out at Wisteria Hill, the old Henderson family homestead.

“I can’t help wondering what she’s doing here now,” Rebecca said, reaching for her purse and the check.

“Maybe she’s here for the fundraiser or Vincent Starr’s lecture tomorrow,” I said.

“It’s possible,” she said, but the tone of her voice said she didn’t really think so.

I leaned over and gave her a hug. “Thank you for this.”

“You are so welcome,” she said with a smile. “Thank you for offering to help me find a wedding dress.”

“When is Ami coming?” I asked, putting the strap of my own bag over my shoulder.

“The day before the wedding, as soon as her exams are finished.”

Everett’s granddaughter was studying music at the Chicago College of Performing Arts. She was Rebecca’s maid of honor.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your brother,” I said. Rebecca’s older brother, Stephen, was going to walk her down the aisle. Their other brother had died several years ago. “What’s he like?”

Rebecca laughed. “Our mother always said that Stephen and I were as different as chalk and cheese, but I think you’ll like him. He used to spend a lot of time at the library. He loves books.”

“Now I have two reasons to like him.”

“What’s the other reason?” she asked, cocking her head to one side, the gleam in her eye telling me she already knew the answer to her own question.

“He has excellent taste in sisters,” I said.

She nodded. “I’ve been telling him that for years.”

I grinned at her.

“I’m glad Stephen is coming to the wedding,” Rebecca said, “but I really don’t need to be ‘given away.’ For heaven’s sake, it’s not like I’m an old chest of drawers that someone found in the attic.” She sighed. “But the tradition is important to Everett.”

“When my mother and father got married—the second time—I walked her down the aisle,” I said.

My parents had been married, divorced and then remarried after figuring out that living without each other was worse than living with each other.

“The minister asked, ‘Who brings this woman to be married?’ and I said I did.”

“I like the sound of that,” Rebecca said.

I didn’t add that at one point a couple of my parents’ friends had floated the idea that I put my hand on my mother’s hugely pregnant abdomen at the front of the church and answer the minister’s question with “her children do,” since the twins, my brother, Ethan, and sister, Sara, couldn’t speak for themselves.

Mom and Dad knew that I was already cringing with embarrassment over the incontrovertible evidence that they’d been “seeing” each other, unbeknownst to everyone including me, and let the suggestion sink without comment.

“I know you wish Matthew could be here,” I said.

Matthew Nixon was Rebecca’s only child, but he was a geologist looking for oil deposits in northern Canada. Rebecca nodded, brushing a strand of hair off her face. “I do,” she said. “But it’s just too far and getting out of Izok Lake isn’t easy this time of year.”

She leaned over and patted my cheek. “But I have Ami and you and Roma and all of my friends. And did I tell you that darling Ruby is going to make a video of the ceremony so I can send it to Matthew?”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. Ruby Blackthorne was a good friend and a talented artist. I glanced at my watch as I pulled the sleeve of my jacket down over my heavy woolen gloves.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Rebecca said, her grin giving me a glimpse of the young girl she once was. “Roma’s right. It’s going to be fun.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I’ll see you later.” I raised a hand in good-bye to Eric, who was still at the counter, and headed out.

It was cold outside. The air was sharp and dry, but it wasn’t snowing and there wasn’t a cloud in the deep blue sky arcing overhead. I walked quickly back to the library, my breath making me look like a train engine chugging along the sidewalk.

Mary Lowe was at the front desk when I walked in. Since it was December she was wearing one of her many Christmas sweaters. This one was white and a deep forest green with a couple of reindeer heads grinning at me, one on either side of the quarter-size green buttons. There was a little bulb at the end of each reindeer’s nose that glowed red thanks to a battery pack in one of the sweater’s pockets. The sweater made me smile every time Mary wore it. She smiled now and handed me a stack of messages. I sorted through them. Nothing was urgent.

“How was your coffee break?” she asked.

“Delicious,” I said. “I think Eric has perfected his sticky buns.”

“That sounds good,” she said, reaching back to set four picture books on one of the book carts. “Abigail is shelving and Susan is setting up for tomorrow in the conference room.”

“If you can handle things here for a little longer, I’ll put my coat in my office and give her a hand.”

“Go ahead,” Mary said. “It won’t get busy until school lets out and all the kids in Anne Stinson’s history class show up because they finally figured out that she wasn’t joking when she said they have to use ‘real’ books to write their term paper.” She laughed. “The same thing happened last year.”

“Mia will be here to help,” I said. “She was in that class last year.” Mia was our co-op student from the high school.

Mary held up a hand. “I almost forgot. Burtis brought over one of his big coffeemakers and four dozen coffee cups for tomorrow. He said if you need more cups to give him a call.”

One of Burtis Chapman’s businesses was large tent rentals. He could also supply booths if you were having some kind of trade show, or dishes for a wedding reception. He was loaning us the coffeepot and cups Mary had mentioned. I wondered if he knew his ex-wife was in town.

Mary narrowed her gaze at me. “What is it?” she asked.

I gave my head a shake. “Nothing.”

“That’s not your ‘nothing’ face,” she said. “Don’t worry about tonight, Kathleen, or tomorrow, for that matter. You’ve thought of everything.”

“It’s not that,” I said, loosening the scarf at my throat. “I was actually thinking about Burtis. When we were at Eric’s, his ex-wife came in.”

“Dayna Chapman just walked into Eric’s?”

I nodded.

Her eyebrows rose and her mouth pulled to one side. “Well, that’s a surprise.”

“Rebecca said she hasn’t been back in twenty years.”

Mary nodded. “It’s been all of that.” She gave me a wry smile. “You know, there was a lot of loose talk when Dayna left.”

I pulled off my scarf and stuffed it in my jacket pocket. “What do you mean?” I asked.

She patted her gray curls, fixed firmly in place with the heavy-duty hair spray she favored. “One day she was here. The next she was just gone. You know how people are.”

“People actually though Burtis might have done something to his wife?”

“He does have a reputation.”

The phone rang then. I gestured in the direction of the conference room with the message slips Mary had given me. “I’m just going to take a quick look.”

Mary nodded and reached for the receiver.

The coffeemaker was set up on a long table in front of the windows. Burtis had arranged the cups and saucers in neat rows. He’d also brought spoons and a large, insulated stainless steel carafe that we could use for hot water for tea.

Burtis Chapman was built like an oversize hockey goalie. I’d heard all the stories and rumors about his being the area bootlegger and running some high-stakes and very illegal poker games. And I’d found him intimidating before I got to know the man. But now that I did know Burtis, I also knew he was an ethical man. It was just that those ethics were part of his own personal code, which sometimes put him at odds with the rest of the world. I was surprised that anyone who really knew the man would ever have thought he’d have done anything to his ex-wife.

I walked back over to the desk. Mary had started checking in a stack of picture books.

“Mary, did you know Dayna Chapman?” I asked.

“Not well,” she said, turning to put another book on the half-full cart behind her. “Nobody really did. She wasn’t in town that long.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “I only got a quick look at the woman, but—”

“She didn’t look like Burtis’s type,” Mary finished. She didn’t miss much.

“I shouldn’t make assumptions,” I said.

“You’re not. Burtis and Dayna were a classic case of opposites attracting.” She straightened her sweater so the reindeers were nose to bright red nose. “I wonder why she’s back here now, after all this time.”

“Maybe she missed her kids, or Mayville Heights.” I held up both hands. “Maybe after so many years she missed Burtis.”

Mary gave a snort of laughter. Then her expression grew serious. “You know, no one really knows why that marriage ended. Burtis wasn’t talking and no one was ever foolhardy enough to ask him.”

She took a small, square picture book from the pile at her elbow. A handful of Cheerios bounced onto the counter from between the pages.

“At least it’s not peanut butter and marshmallow fluff,” I said with a smile, and headed for the stairs.

I returned all the phone calls and sent a couple of texts. Everything was running smoothly. Vincent Starr was checked into a beautiful bed-and-breakfast within walking distance of the library and the Stratton Theatre. Abigail, who had found the edition of Alice in Wonderland that had originally brought us into