Secondhand shop owner Sarah Grayson and her rescue cat, Elvis, sniff out the suspect in this new, delightful Second Chance Cat Mystery from New York Times bestselling author, Sofie Ryan. Sarah Grayson is taking a break from her bustling secondhand shop in small-town Maine to spend time with a friend and her dog. But their purr-fect visit comes to an end when the dog leads them to a storm cellar on a nearby property, where they discover a dead body. The deceased turns out to be a sticky-fingered financial adviser who swindled millions from investors and who has been presumed dead for almost three years. Unfortunately, suspicion falls on the owner of the property where the body was found—and that owner is a good friend of Charlotte’s Angels’, the senior citizen sleuths who work out of Sarah’s shop. It’s all paws on deck, as the Angels are determined to clear his good name. But with a tight-lipped widow, a possibly shifty sister, and a slew of unhappy investors in the mix, the list of murder suspects seems endless. Sarah, Elvis, and the Angels have a lot of webs to untangle before they can catch the culprit. Sofie Ryan is a writer and mixed-media artist who loves to repurpose things in her life and in her art. She is the author of Scaredy Cat , Totally Pawstruck , and Undercover Kitty in the New York Times bestselling Second Chance Cat Mysteries. She also writes the New York Times bestselling Magical Cats Mysteries under the name Sofie Kelly. Chapter 1 "I think it's impossible to take a bad photo of Elvis," Rose said. "I think you're right," I said. We were standing in my office more than halfway through the proofs from a photo shoot Elvis had taken part in the day before and there wasn't one image so far that had caught him with his eyes closed or mid-sneeze, which was usually what happened when I had my picture taken. That might have been because Elvis was naturally photogenic, or it might have been because he was a friendly black cat who loved attention. Elvis had been in a cat show almost a year ago and had attracted the notice of a well-known pet food company. He'd spent most of Monday morning at a photo shoot that was part of a public service campaign funded by the pet food company to encourage people to adopt an older shelter cat. Rose and I were looking at the proofs. She was the reason Elvis had been in the cat show in the first place. Rose Jackson was a private investigator. She looked like someone's sweet, cookie-baking grandmother-which she was. People tended to underestimate her and then regret it later. She was tiny, barely five feet, with white hair, gray eyes and a warm smile. She was also stubborn and resourceful, with a memory like a computer, which included some stories about me that I really wished she would forget. Charlotte's Angels-yes, the name was inspired by a certain TV show from the late 1970s-the detective agency Rose ran with her friends, had had a case that required them to be undercover on the local cat show circuit. Elvis had been their entrée into that world. To my surprise he had risen to the challenge, charmed everyone he encountered and walked away with the blue ribbon in the house pet category, a trophy and the chance to be a spokesperson (spokescat?) for more than one pet supply company. Rose and her cohorts had caught the person they were after. I had ended up with a concussion. Rose and Elvis were both intently studying the computer now. "I think this one is my favorite," she said to him. "I like the way you're tilting your head to one side just a little." The cat narrowed his green eyes as though he wasn't sure he agreed with her. "Mrrr," he said. Rose touched the screen with one finger. "See how long that makes your neck look?" Rose always talked to Elvis as though he understood everything she said to him. I had a sneaking suspicion a lot of the time he did. He leaned in for a closer look and then murped his agreement. It seemed he did think Rose was right after all. Elvis had been a street cat of sorts before he'd ended up with me. It made him the perfect choice for a campaign urging people to think about adopting an older pet. I had no idea how he had ended up here in North Harbor, but the scar that cut diagonally across his nose and the others that were covered by his fur suggested he had been on his own for a while. On the other hand, Elvis was friendly and sociable and had had no problem adjusting to living with me. I had never thought of myself as a "cat person" but now I couldn't imagine life without him. "I don't have any input into which photos they'll end up using," I said to Rose. "They just sent these to me as a courtesy. I'm not even sure who's going to make the final decision." She waved away my words with one hand. "It doesn't matter, dear," she said. "They're all wonderful." She smiled at Elvis. "You're doing a very good thing, helping other cats find homes." Then she leaned over and kissed my cheek. "You did a