In the charming town of Mayville Heights, librarian Kathleen Paulson and her two cats pounce on clues to catch a killer, in the eleventh installment of this New York Times bestselling series. Spring is coming to Mayville Heights, and Kathleen’s brother, Ethan, has arrived in town with his band, The Flaming Gerbils. But not everything goes as scheduled when one of Ethan’s bandmates gets into a fight with a man interested in investing in the town. When the businessman’s body is later found, Ethan’s friend is implicated in the crime. Kathleen wants to help her brother by solving the case, but she has no shortage of suspects from which to choose. Prior to his death, the investor was fighting like cats and dogs with lots of people. If this librarian wants more than a whisker’s chance of solving the case, she will need to rely on her trusty feline sidekicks, Owen and Hercules. Praise for the  New York Times  Bestselling Series   "Cozy readers will enjoy spending time with Kathleen, her cats, and the appealing residents of Mayville Heights."— Publishers Weekly   "Will delight fans of cat mysteries and Jenn McKinlay's Library Lover's series."— Library Journal   "Ms. Kelly continues her highly successful series with another winning tale...Lots of great characters and two adorable cats."—Fresh Fiction   "Owen and Hercules are a delight."—Kings River Life Magazine   "With great characters and an interesting story, readers will be in for a treat with this classic whodunit."— RT Book Reviews Sofie Kelly is a New York Times bestselling author and mixed-media artist who writes the Magical Cats Mysteries and, as Sofie Ryan, writes the Second Chance Cat Mysteries. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2019 Sofie Kelly 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 t