A Night's Tail

by Sofie Kelly

  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

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Penguin Random House LLC

  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 is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Kelly, Sofie, 1958– author.

  Title: A night’s tail: 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.

  Version_1

  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 inten
se herself sometimes.

  We were almost at the table when a man tapped Maggie on the shoulder. She turned around to see who it was.

  “Zach, hi,” she said, a smile lighting up her face.

  “Hey, Mags, what are you doing here?” he asked. He had thick brown hair pulled back in a man bun and dark skin. He was wearing jeans and a snug-fitting black T-shirt from the Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge Tour. His most striking feature was his startlingly deep blue eyes.

  “Meeting some friends,” she said. “Are you working tonight?”

  Zach nodded but he’d already turned his attention to me. “Hi, Maggie’s friend,” he said with a smile. “I’m Zach Redmond.”

  “Hi, Zach,” I said. “I’m Kathleen.” He was cute in a naughty-little-boy sort of way.

  My stomach growled then. Loudly.

  “Aww, didn’t anyone feed you today?” he asked.

  “I kind of missed supper.” It had been a busy Friday night at the library. It had been a busy Friday period.

  “Spicy fries,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Come up to the bar. I’ll take care of you.” He winked and gave me his naughty-boy smile again.

  I smiled back at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He lifted a hand in good-bye to Maggie and headed for the bar, weaving through the crowd.

  Maggie had been watching our conversation with an amused expression on her face. “Zach is in my yoga class,” she said. As well as being an artist Mags taught yoga and tai chi. Her tai chi class was where we’d first met. “He’s also a big flirt.”

  I nodded. “It was hard not to notice that.”

  “He’s like a big untrained puppy. Sometimes you have to smack him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.”

  I laughed at the mental picture of Maggie at the front of her yoga class with a rolled-up copy of the Mayville Heights Chronicle at her side.

  Marcus got to his feet as we reached the table, giving me a smile that still made my stomach flutter. Detective Marcus Gordon was tall with wavy dark hair and blue eyes. What mattered was that he was a good man; ethical, hardworking, kind. I smiled, remembering how Mary had once described him: “He is a good man inside, but that candy shell outside looks pretty dang delicious!” I had to admit she was right.

  Marcus looked around, spotted an empty chair and gestured to me to take his seat while he went to get the chair.

  I sat down next to Brady Chapman as Maggie took the empty seat on the other side of him that he’d somehow managed to save for her. Brady was . . . I wasn’t exactly sure what he was when it came to Maggie. They were more than friends but they weren’t exactly a couple, either. I noted the way they smiled at each other and how their eyes stayed linked a little longer than just friends’ would.

  Brady had pale blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair he wore clipped short. He liked science fiction—novels and movies—pinball and a good argument. He’d practiced law in Chicago but Mayville Heights had eventually called him back home, although he still took cases in Minneapolis, an hour away, from time to time. He was deep in conversation with Ethan at the moment, elbows propped on the table, which was cluttered with glasses and empty plates.

  Ethan, along with the members of his band, The Flaming Gerbils, was going to be in Mayville Heights for the next two weeks with a three-night gig in Milwaukee scheduled for the middle of the visit. It would be the most time we’d spent together since I’d moved to Minnesota just over three years ago. The band had just finished a successful string of club dates in the Midwest—Chicago, Springfield, Des Moines, Kansas City and Minneapolis.

  Ethan was spending time with me, his first visit since I’d moved to Minnesota or, as he liked to teasingly call it, the Land of Bigfoot and Lumberjacks. The rest of the band, Milo and Devon—Jake had left the group to go to art school—were taking a break and, in Milo’s case, planning a visit to a woman in Red Wing who made guitars and restored vintage instruments. Devon had met a girl in an online chat room and gone to see her.

  “He thinks she might be the one,” Ethan had said when I’d asked where their bandmate was.

  “Not again,” I’d said, rolling my eyes. Devon fell in love more frequently than most people got their teeth cleaned.

  Milo had shrugged. “The guy is a romantic. What else would you expect from a dude whose favorite movie is The Princess Bride?”

  Milo was across the table from me now, leaning back in his chair, one hand tented over the beer in front of him and an amused smile on his face as Ethan continued his conversation with Brady, hands darting through the air. Milo, who was the Gerbils’s bass player, looked like a young Timothy B. Schmit from the Eagles, dark hair halfway down his back, dark eyes, long fingers. He was hoping the luthier in Red Wing could restore a battered vintage Martin acoustic bass he’d bought for a few dollars in a yard sale at an old farmhouse in Maine.

  Marcus had come back with the chair, which he squeezed in next to me. He sat down and I felt the warmth of his arm against mine. Derek Hanson was on his other side. He was The Flaming Gerbils’s opening act and he’d been sitting in with the band on some of their songs, playing lead guitar on several of them since Jake was gone.

  Ethan and the guys were in their early twenties while Derek, I was guessing, was in his late thirties. I knew he had one son, Liam, from a relationship he’d had when he was twenty. He’d told me in a voice edged with pride that his son was graduating in a couple of months and was headed for college in the fall. Derek had fair hair streaked with gray that looked like he’d missed a haircut, and a day or so of scruff on his face most of the time. He was a big man, solid and an inch or two taller than Marcus’s six feet.

  He touched my arm. “Kathleen, I’m going for a beer,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

  My stomach gurgled again. It was hard not to be enticed by the smell of French fries. “A plate of spicy fries and a small ginger ale,” I said, fishing in my pocket for my wallet.

  Derek shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You’ve fed me three times in the last day. I can spring for a few fries.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I said. Ethan was staying with me while the guys were at a bed-and-breakfast downtown. I’d volunteered to feed everyone.

  This was the first time Derek had offered to pay for anything since the guys had gotten to town. Ethan had arrived with a box of chocolate mice from L.A. Burdick in Back Bay—one of my favorite treats. Milo had shown up with a couple of gallons of milk at breakfast—“I’ve seen Ethan eat cereal,” he’d said with a grin as he stashed the containers in my refrigerator.

  Derek gestured at the glass on the table in front of Marcus. “You want another one?”

  “I’m driving,” I added.

  Marcus nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

  Derek waved away his money. “I’ve got this,” he said. “You got the last round.” He headed for the crowded bar.

  I was finding it a bit of a challenge to warm up to Derek. He shared very little about himself so it was hard to get to know him. Or maybe it was just that I missed Jake, who’d been hanging around my parents’ house since he and Ethan had met in sixth grade. Jake, who filled every scrap of paper he got his hands on with sketches of whatever happened to catch his eye, was an open book, quick to smile, quick to step up and help out. Derek was more like a book with uncut pages, a reference I realized only another librarian would understand.

  Marcus leaned in close to my ear. “How was your day?” he asked.

  “I think the printer is truly ready for last rites this time,” I said. “Susan tried to fix it but she didn’t have any luck.”

  “I didn’t know Susan knew how to do that,” Marcus said. “I would have gotten her to look at my printer instead buying a new one.”

  I held up a finger. “Number one, your printer was so old the company no longer had any customer service manuals for it, and n
umber two”—I added another finger—“Susan’s way of fixing the printer is to give it a couple of whacks on one side and use one of her made-up swear words.” Before he could say anything I raised an eyebrow. “Although to be fair that has always worked with the library’s coffeemaker.”

  Marcus laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. You know how often someone breaks a coffeemaker at the station.” He shifted in his seat. We had more chairs at the table than it was designed for. “So what exactly is a made-up swear word?”

  “Apparently the twins had picked up a couple of not-so-polite words. She told them to be more creative.” Susan’s identical twin boys were definitely creative. They were also scary smart.

  “And they came up with?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

  “Glass bowl,” I said. “According to Susan, useful when you’re stuck in traffic.”

  He nodded. “I like it.”

  “Son of a horse.”

  Marcus shook his head and smiled. “I think I know how they came up with that one. I helped Eric get his car out of a snowbank last month.”

  I smiled back at him. “According to Susan he’s behind all of the boys’ questionable vocabulary.” Eric Cullen was the twins’ father and Susan’s husband. He also owned Eric’s Place, my favorite place to eat in town.

  Off to the side I suddenly heard the sound of a dog whimpering followed by raised voices. Marcus and I both turned in the direction of the noise. Two tables away, closer to the busy bar, was a man who looked to be in his early thirties with a service dog, a beautiful German shepherd with dark-chocolate-and-black coloring. The man had two prosthetic legs. A veteran, maybe? One arm was wrapped protectively around the dog. He was exchanging words with another man, who loomed over them.

  The second man was just under six feet or so I was guessing—with a thick midsection, more fleshy than muscle. His brown hair was cut in a style that had taken a lot more than twenty minutes in a barber’s chair. I was pretty sure his sweater was cashmere. His jeans were worn at both knees, but it was the kind of worn that he’d paid a lot of money for, not the result of a lot of hard days’ labor. And he was drunk. I could see that his face was flushed and he swayed just a little. He wasn’t standing up straight, I was guessing, because he wasn’t capable of it.