Not a Creature Was Purring

by Krista Davis

  Praise for the New York Times bestselling Paws & Claws Mysteries

  “Davis has penned a doggone great new mystery series featuring witty, spirited Holly Miller and her endearing canine sidekick, Trixie . . . The intriguing plot twists will keep you guessing to the very last page.”

  —Kate Carlisle, New York Times bestselling author of the Bibliophile Mysteries

  “Davis has created a town that any pet would love—as much as their owners do. And they won’t let a little thing like murder spoil their enjoyment.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the County Cork, Museum, and Orchard Mysteries

  “Davis has created another charming series with a unique setting, an engaging heroine in Holly Miller and her furry sidekick, Trixie, and a wonderfully quirky supporting cast of characters—two- and four-legged.”

  —Sofie Kelly, New York Times bestselling author of the Magical Cats Mysteries

  “Well-written dialogue, fun characters, and romantic complications that never go as the characters—or the readers—expect . . . Readers will enjoy this skillfully plotted mystery and its biting humor.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “A charming blend of small-town eccentrics and big-city greed, Murder, She Barked touches all the bases of the cozy mystery—including a bit of romance—and does so with style.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Krista Davis

  Domestic Diva Mysteries

  THE DIVA RUNS OUT OF THYME

  THE DIVA TAKES THE CAKE

  THE DIVA PAINTS THE TOWN

  THE DIVA COOKS A GOOSE

  THE DIVA HAUNTS THE HOUSE

  THE DIVA DIGS UP THE DIRT

  THE DIVA FROSTS A CUPCAKE

  THE DIVA WRAPS IT UP

  THE DIVA STEALS A CHOCOLATE KISS

  THE DIVA SERVES HIGH TEA

  Paws & Claws Mysteries

  MURDER, SHE BARKED

  THE GHOST AND MRS. MEWER

  MURDER MOST HOWL

  MISSION IMPAWSIBLE

  NOT A CREATURE WAS PURRING

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Cristina Ryplansky

  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.

  ISBN: 9781101988589

  First Edition: November 2017

  Cover art by Mary Ann Lasher

  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.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  To Bill and Karen, who love animals as much as I do

  Contents

  Praise for the New York Times bestselling Paws & Claws Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Krista Davis

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  The Thackleberry Family Tree

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Recipes

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Each Wagtail book inspires readers to send me wonderful stories about their dogs and cats. Reader Bob Giddings suggested the scene on the porch where Mr. Huckle talks with Maggie. Thank you so much, Bob! I hope I did it justice.

  In this book, I have included two dogs with ailments. Fear not dear readers, read on. Both of these things happened to my dog Buttercup, on whom the character of Trixie is based. I am not a veterinarian, so any mistakes in describing the medical aspects are my own.

  I have included a Christmas recipe that is a family favorite. Readers with a German heritage will recognize the traditional Christmas stollen. But my version is a modern, updated stollen, which we actually like better. It’s always the first thing I bake for Christmas.

  Thanks as always to my mom, and to my good friends Betsy Strickland, Amy Wheeler, and Susan Erba for being so wonderfully supportive. And thanks also to my dear writing friends, you know who you are, who understand this crazy business.

  My lovely agent, Jessica Faust, has been my champion, and for that I am eternally grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without her.

  So many editors had a hand in this book: Michelle Vega, Tom Colgan, Jennifer Monroe, and Julie Mianecki. My thanks to you all for making it happen.

  One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives.

  —Mark Twain

  THE THACKLEBERRY FAMILY TREE

  Doris Kabilichec Thackleberry—Dale’s mother

  Muffy, her Pomeranian

  Dale Thackleberry

  EmmyLou Thackleberry Blume—Dale’s daughter

  Maggie, her German shepherd

  Barry Blume—EmmyLou’s husband

  Norma Jeanne Blume—EmmyLou and Barry’s daughter, Holmes’s fiancée

  Vivienne Thackleberry—Dale’s third wife

  Tim Kedrowski—Vivienne’s son

  Linda Kedrowski—Tim’s wife

  Tiffany and Blake Kedrowski—Tim and Linda’s children

  Austin Conroy—Tiffany’s boyfriend

  THE RICHARDSONS

  Rose Richardson—Oma’s best friend

  Holmes Richardson—engaged to Norma Jeanne Blume

  MEMBERS OF THE SUGAR MAPLE INN FAMILY

  Liesel Miller (Oma)—co-owner of the inn

  Gingersnap, golden retriever, the canine ambassador of the inn

  Holly Miller—Liesel�
�s granddaughter and co-owner of the inn

  Twinkletoes, calico, the feline ambassador of the inn

  Trixie, Jack Russell terrier

  Shelley Dixon—waitress at the inn

  Zelda York—front desk

  Mr. Huckle

  WAGTAIL RESIDENTS

  Rupert Grimpley

  Aunt Birdie Dupuy—Holly’s aunt

  Marie Carr—foster mother to Ethan and Ava Schroeder

  Buck Bradon

  One

  “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” Zelda whispered.

  “I told you to wear gloves,” muttered Shelley.

  I could barely make them out on the dark porch. It was one in the morning, and Wagtail was slumbering. If it hadn’t been for the moon, I wouldn’t have been able to see them at all.

  “Gloves are too cumbersome,” Zelda groused. “I don’t know how you can place the lights precisely with woolly fabric on your fingers.”

  I shivered as a cold wind swept through. My elf tights with one red leg and one green leg weren’t thick enough to keep out the chill. We stood on Marie Carr’s front porch, hastily wrapping colorful lights on the Christmas tree we were delivering. Shelley passed me the cord of lights. I wrapped them around my section of the tree and handed them to Zelda. “Hush, you guys,” I hissed. “Two kids live here. You’ll wake them!”

  Wagtail, a small town in the mountains of Virginia, had experienced a boom year by catering to visitors who brought their dogs and cats for a vacation where they could be part of the fun. This year, instead of exchanging gifts with our neighbors or having secret Santas, the town had decided to make the holidays merry for our less-fortunate residents. My grandmother, whom I called Oma, German for grandma, had installed a suggestion box in the lobby of the Sugar Maple Inn, which we ran together. Anyone could stop by and drop off a suggestion for a deserving neighbor or a resident in need. And then the semisecret Elf Squad was dispatched.

  An observant person might have noticed that Shelley Dixon, a waitress at the inn, and Zelda York, who worked at the registration desk, had altered their schedules and could have suspected them of being elves. But we were also taking turns at the Sugar Maple Inn booth at the Christkindl Market, so our schedules were all twisted around. As far as I could tell, no one had identified us yet. We weren’t worried about the adults but were trying to keep a low profile so we wouldn’t spoil Christmas magic for the children of Wagtail.

  Shadow Hobbs, the Sugar Maple Inn handyman, had cut the perfectly shaped balsam fir earlier in the day, and we elves had transported it to the Carr house on a golf cart that we had decorated as Santa’s sleigh. Our previous forays had caused rumors that Santa’s elves had been spotted in Wagtail to spread through the elementary school like wildfire. We had been careful to dress in cute elf attire in case we were seen. Even Trixie, my Jack Russell terrier, wore a red and green dog dress with a hat that curled at the top, just like ours. At the moment, she was sniffing boxes of ornaments we had stacked by the front door.

  The Schroeder children were local favorites and had received many notes in the suggestion box. At ages eight and four, Ethan and Ava Schroeder had been orphaned when their parents and only living grandparents were lost in a plane crash. Marie Carr had taken them in as foster children until someone adopted them. Everyone was determined to brighten their holiday.

  “I still say we should just leave the lights with the ornaments,” said Zelda in a low voice.

  “Where’s your Christmas spirit? The lights are the worst part of decorating,” Shelley hissed back. “This way they can plug it right in, make hot chocolate, and hang ornaments.”

  Heaven only knew what the tree would look like when the lights were plugged in. Another frigid breeze blew in the night, and I was fairly sure my nose had gone numb.

  “I read that the best way to put on the lights is in three triangular sections,” whispered Zelda. “Maybe we should try that.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Shelley. “You have to zigzag them along the branches so you’ll get depth in the lights.”

  They bickered like sisters, but Shelley and Zelda were part of the Sugar Maple Inn family. When I moved to Wagtail, I hadn’t expected to find a family among the employees, but I was delighted that it had worked out that way.

  My parents had divorced when I was young, and for the first time in decades, I was where I wanted to be for Christmas—in Wagtail. No planes, no trains, no hasty visits, and best of all, no arguments about where I should be and when. My parents had both started new families, and while I loved them dearly, the truth was that I always felt like an outsider at their new homes.

  I had such happy childhood memories of Christmas in Wagtail, and while I knew things would be different seen through my adult eyes, I couldn’t help being excited about spending the holiday in Wagtail. I looked forward to the ringing of the church bells and the possibility of Fluffy Cake, which I remembered fondly. Not to mention that my childhood friend and heartthrob, Holmes Richardson, would be home for the holidays.

  “There. We’re done,” whispered Shelley.

  At that moment, I spied a flutter in the curtain on the window that overlooked the porch.

  “Dash away now!” I whispered, jumping off the porch.

  Thank goodness our rush to the sleigh–golf cart caught Trixie’s interest and she leaped on board with us. The electric golf cart couldn’t go too terribly fast, but I gunned it as Zelda shook sleigh bells attached to a leather horse harness. The merry tinkle made me grin every time. What could be more fun?

  “Did you really say dash away?” Shelley laughed.

  “It just came out. I guess I’m in the spirit of the season.”

  At that moment, a light blazed upon us, so bright that it briefly blinded me, and I slammed the brakes.

  Trixie yelped in surprise.

  “It’s a sign from heaven,” breathed Zelda with wonder in her tone.

  I blinked and gazed around.

  “Not unless the Grinch has a heavenly connection,” muttered Shelley.

  She pointed to our right. I squinted against the glare. A gigantic Grinch with huge devious eyes loomed over the roofs of the houses. He must have just been turned on because we would surely have noticed him before. There were no high-rises, billboards, or garish lighting in Wagtail. The moon was usually the only light in the night sky. The Grinch’s head had a green cast and glowed as though a strong light must be inside. I guessed it was a blow-up figure.

  Even though we were a couple of blocks away, we could hear the notes of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” coming from the ghastly fellow.

  “I’m all for holiday fun,” said Zelda, “but if I thought that guy was going to come down my chimney, I would brick it up. Not to mention that I don’t think anyone in the neighborhood, including me, will get much sleep tonight.”

  I dropped off Zelda first. The repeating song was growing annoying, and lights were flicking on inside houses all over the neighborhood.

  Shelley lived on the other side of town, where it was blissfully quiet and only twinkling Christmas lights on trees and rooflines glowed in the night. I drove the electric golf cart back in the direction of the giant Grinch to Rose Richardson’s detached garage, where I parked and closed the door. Holmes’s grandmother, Rose, was like a grandmother to me too, and happened to be my Oma’s best friend. We were hiding the sleigh–golf cart in her garage so children wouldn’t see it around town during the day.

  Trixie and I walked back to the inn on the path that meandered through the green, the park in the center of Wagtail, which wasn’t so green now that snow lay on it. We passed the giant Christmas tree that remained lighted all through the night. Dark Christkindl market stalls lined the perimeter of the green. Bright lights twinkled in the trees that lined the path, and a few snowflakes floated in the air. It was like our own private wonderland, except for the tinkling notes
of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

  The Sugar Maple Inn loomed at the end of the green, nothing short of splendid. White lights on pine swags graced the railings of the front porch, wound up the columns, and followed the arch of the ceiling between them. By day, white and red ornaments added a touch of color to the greenery. Battery-operated lanterns lined the stairs. Bold black and red buffalo plaid pillows adorned the white rocking chairs, adding a hint of country style. Lights glowed on the lush wreaths that hung in the windows. And on the third floor, on the balcony outside of my bedroom, stood a tree with sparkling lights that seemed to be suspended high in the air.

  The windows of the inn were largely dark, save for those on the first floor in the common areas, but at this hour, even those were somewhat muted.

  On the second floor, in a guest room window, I thought I spied a face looking out at us. But in the dark, and with the large wreath that hung in the window, I wasn’t quite sure.

  As I approached, a group of people gathered on the porch. Most of them wore pajamas with winter coats over them.

  Trixie and I trotted up the stairs.

  Casey Collins, our young night manager, stood in the doorway, looking terrified. “Holly! Holly’s here. She can help you.” He grabbed me by the arm and tugged me toward him like a shield.

  I stumbled inside. “Won’t you all come in?”

  When everyone had piled into the lobby and the door was closed, Aunt Birdie demanded, “Wake up your grandmother this instant!”

  Two

  I did my best to stay calm as I faced the surly crowd. Oma was the mayor of Wagtail, but I hated to disturb her sleep for something like this. After all, I was dressed and awake. “I’m guessing you’re here about the Grinch?”

  “It’s forty-five feet tall,” said a man whose red plaid pajama pants jutted from under his coat. “No one can sleep.”

  “Where is it exactly?” I asked.

  “At that awful Rupert Grimpley’s house,” declared Aunt Birdie.

  That was enough to make them all start grumbling again. We had a few guests staying at the inn, and I didn’t want them awakened by angry townspeople. I didn’t know Rupert well. He was a slightly gruff sort.