Furever After (Magical Cats)

Furever After (Magical Cats)

Librarian Kathleen Paulson is in for a spell of trouble when she finds a dead body, and only her reliable magical cats can help her tail a killer in the newest installment of this New York Times bestselling series. Kathleen is busy running the library and planning her upcoming wedding to detective Marcus Gordon when she suddenly stumbles across a body in the library. She is surprised to learn that the deceased was in the middle of an unlikely heist—it seems he was trying to steal one of the paintings that had been in a box in the library’s workroom. Kathleen never knew any of the library’s rotating artwork was valuable and can’t imagine what the dead man wanted with it. But then an art history expert called in by the police identifies the almost-purloined painting as a piece that might have been part of a previous high profile art theft. Owen’s and Hercules’s whiskers are already twitching, and events soon make Kathleen realize that whoever killed the wannabe art thief has more than murder on their mind. Kathleen and her clever cats will have to work fast to prevent anyone else from getting hurt. “Checks all the boxes on the way to the happiest of endings.” - Kirkus “Although the 16th in Kelly’s “Magical Cats Mystery” series (after Paws To Remember ) is, like the others, a cozy mystery, it’s also a story of chosen family. Fans of the series and romantic cozies will enjoy the wedding and “happily ever after” premise.” - Library Journal 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 ( Paws to Remember , Whiskers and Lies , and Hooked on a Feline ) and, as Sofie Ryan, writes the New York Times bestselling Second Chance Cat Mysteries ( Fur Love or Money , Scaredy Cat , and Totally Pawstruck ). chapter 1 It was déjà vu all over again. The body was smack in the middle of my freshly scrubbed kitchen floor. Fred the Funky Chicken, minus his head. Earlier I'd found Ferdinand the Funky Frog, Fred's sibling by adoption, in the middle of the bedroom floor. He'd also been decapitated. "Owen!" I said sharply. Nothing. "Owen, you little furball, I know you did this. Where are you?" There was a muffled "meow" from the living room. I leaned around the doorway. The cat was sprawled on his back in the big wing chair, a neon yellow feather stuck to the top of his head. He rolled over onto his side and looked at me with the same goofy expression he always wore when he'd gotten into his catnip stash. I crossed the room and sat down on the footstool. Owen lifted his head to look at me. His golden eyes didn't seem to be able to properly focus on my face. "Owen, you killed Fred," I said. "And then you killed Ferdy. This has got to stop." He stretched and sat up slowly. Then he put a paw on my knee and tipped his head to one side as he tried to figure out how much trouble he was really in. The yellow feather was still stuck to the top of his head. I held out my right hand. "Give me Fred's head," I said. The cat looked at me, eyes narrowed, seemingly trying to feign ignorance about what I was asking. "C'mon, Owen, give it to me." He made a sound like a sigh then and spit what was left of Fred the Funky Chicken's head into my hand. It was a soggy lump of cotton with a stump of feather stuck on the end. "You have a problem, Owen," I told the little gray-and-white tabby. "You have a monkey on your back." We'd had this conversation many times before. I looked down at the chewed-up chicken head. "Or maybe I should say you have a chicken on your back." His response was to move closer and nuzzle my chin. I plucked the feather from the top of his head and stroked his fur. Across the room I heard a soft "murp." Owen's brother, Hercules, was coming down the stairs from the second floor. He glanced over at us and almost seemed to roll his green eyes. Then he headed for the kitchen with a flick of his tail. Hercules was indifferent-or maybe disdainful would be a better word-to the joys of catnip. I picked up Owen and set him on the floor. He stretched, yawned and began to wash his face. The effort was a little slapdash. I went out to the kitchen and dumped the yellow feather and the chicken head in the garbage can. Then I picked up the decapitated corpse and tossed that in, too. There were bits of dried catnip spread across the floor, a pretty common occurrence in this house. There was no sign of Hercules, which likely meant he was out in the porch, looking through the window, his way of communing with nature. For the most part, Hercules liked outside best when he was looking at it from inside. Hercules and Owen had been tiny, feral kittens when I'd found them, out at Wisteria Hill, the former Henderson homestead, about a month after I'd arrived in town. They were so small and so determined to come with me, in the end I'd brought them home. Both c