Kathleen Paulson is snowed under running her library and caring for her extraordinary felines, Owen and Hercules. But when a holiday 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. Praise for the New York Times Bestselling Magical Cat Mysteries   “Owen and Hercules are a delight.”—Kings River Life Magazine   “If you are a fan of Miranda James’s Cat in the Stacks mysteries, you will want to read [this series].”—MyShelf.com   “Coziness at its finest. I adore those magical cats!”—Socrates’ Book Reviews   “With great characters and an interesting story, readers will be in for a treat with this classic whodunit.”— RT Book Reviews   “Small-town charm and a charming cat duo make this every cat fancier’s dream.”—The Mystery Reader Sofie Kelly is a New York Times bestselling author and mixed-media artist who lives on the East Coast with her husband and daughter. She writes the New York Times bestselling Magical Cats mysteries and, as Sofie Ryan, writes the New York Times bestselling Second Chance Cat mysteries. 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 t