Cat Trick

Praise for the National Bestselling Magical Cats Mysteries

Copycat Killing

“I’ve been a huge fan of this series from the very start, and I am delighted that
this new book meets my expectations and then some. . . . Cats with magic powers, a
library, good friends who look out for each other, and small-town coziness come together
in perfect unison. If you are a fan of Miranda James’s Cat in the Stacks Mysteries,
you will want to read [this series].”

—MyShelf.com

“This is a really fun series, and I’ve read them all. Each book improves on the last
one. Being a cat lover myself, I’m looking at my cat in a whole new light.”

—Once Upon a Romance

“A fun whodunit. . . . Fans will appreciate this entertaining amateur sleuth.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“This charming series continues on a steady course as the intrepid Kathleen has two
mysteries to snoop into. . . . Readers who are fans of cats and cozies will want to
add this series to their must-read lists.”

—
Romantic Times

Sleight of Paw

“This series is a winner.”

—Gumshoe

“If you are a fan of mysteries and cats, you need to be reading this series now!”

—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

“Kelly’s appealing cozy features likable, relatable characters set in an amiable location.
The author continues to build on the promise of her debut novel, carefully developing
her characters and their relationships.”

—
Romantic Times

Curiosity Thrilled the Cat

“A great cozy that will quickly have you anxiously waiting for the next release so
you can spend more time with the people of Mayville Heights.”

—Mysteries and My Musings

“If you love mystery and magic, this is the book for you!”

—Debbie’s Book Bag

“This start of a new series offers an engaging cast of human characters and two appealing,
magically inclined felines. Kathleen is a likable, believable heroine, and the magical
cats are amusing.”

—
Romantic Times

Also Available from Sofie Kelly

Curiosity Thrilled the Cat

Sleight of Paw

Copycat Killing

C
AT

T
RICK

A M
AGICAL
C
ATS
M
YSTERY

S
OFIE
K
ELLY

OBSIDIAN

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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Books Ltd.)

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2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed
in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Purchase only authorized editions.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PUBLISHER
’
S
NOTE

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.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility
for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am deeply grateful to everyone at my publisher, Penguin, for all the hard work they’ve
put into each book in the Magical Cats series, especially my editor, Jessica Wade,
and her assistant, Jesse Feldman, who can always find an answer to whatever question
I’ve asked. Thank you as well to the staff at Bookends Literary Agency, especially
my agent, Kim Lionetti, for her guidance and enthusiasm.

I’m indebted again to Police Chief Tim Sletten (Retired) of the Red Wing Minnesota
Police Department for answering so many questions. Any errors in police procedure
are because I’ve played with reality.

A big thank-you to fellow writers Laura Alden and Lynn Viehl for getting behind every
story idea I have, no matter how outlandish it may be. And thanks to Judy Gorham and
Susan Evans for being my cheering section.

Thank you to all the readers who have embraced Kathleen, Owen, Hercules, and everyone
in Mayville Heights. I love hearing from you.

And lastly, thank you to Patrick and Lauren. I’m blessed every day to have you both.

1

F
or a second, I wasn’t sure that I was seeing what I seemed to be seeing, which was
a small, round sesame water cracker topped with half a sardine in Louisiana hot sauce
and a slice of black olive making its way across Marcus Gordon’s table seemingly under
its own steam. I was tired. Was I just hallucinating? I pushed my bangs off my forehead,
rubbed the space between my eyes with the heel of my hand and looked again. No, it
was definitely moving, sliding across the speckled Formica tabletop like a slap shot
from a hockey stick.

Or a swat from a cat’s paw. An invisible cat’s paw.

I leaned forward, snatching the cracker off the table as Marcus turned from the counter.
It was too late to pretend I was just brushing away a few crumbs.

“I didn’t think you’d like those,” he said. There was a cute little furrow on the
bridge of his nose, and a lock of dark wavy hair had fallen onto his forehead. I shook
my head. This wasn’t a good time to get distracted by how Detective Marcus Gordon
looked when he frowned . . . or smiled . . . or walked across a room. I’d stopped
by so he could check out a chair I’d gotten from my neighbor Rebecca—Marcus was certain
he could fix it—and accepted his offer of a glass of lemonade and what was looking
like a rather unique take on crackers and cheese.

“They, uh, just looked so good I thought I’d try one,” I said. Okay, that wasn’t exactly
the truth. I liked the sesame crackers and the black olives, but I wasn’t that crazy
about the sardines in hot sauce. On the other hand, I couldn’t put the cracker back
on the plate and let Marcus eat it after it had been batted all over the table by
a small gray tabby cat, invisible or otherwise.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I nodded, trying not to inhale the combination of fish, spices and olives. “Cheers,”
I said, raising the cracker in a kind of toast. Then I stuffed the entire thing in
my mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed. And immediately began coughing.

Marcus started over to me, and I waved a hand to let him know I was all right. “I’m
okay,” I rasped. “It was just . . . spicier than I expected.”

“Kinda sneaks up on you,” he agreed. There was a hint of a smile in his blue eyes.
“Would you rather have cheese?” He’d been about to slice a block of mozzarella.

“Please,” I said, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from my ponytail behind
one ear. He turned back to the counter, and I reached for my glass of lemonade to
rinse away some of the heat in my mouth. I glared in the general direction of where
I figured my cat Owen was. I knew he was the culprit. He loved sardines. And he was
the only cat I knew that could become, well, invisible. That cracker hadn’t hopped
down from the plate and gone sliding across the table under its own steam.

I pulled the plate closer in case he got the idea to try for another treat. And since
Marcus had his back turned, I leaned forward and felt around, hoping that even though
I couldn’t see Owen, I could maybe get lucky and be able to grab him.

Not a chance. I couldn’t see the cat, but he could see me, and all he had to do was
jump out of the way of my sweeping hand. That was the problem with having a cat who
could disappear at will. He did, generally when he wanted to do the opposite of whatever
it was I wanted him to do—like horn in on my visit with Marcus instead of staying
home. And how the heck was I going to get Owen back to the house again? He’d obviously
snuck into my truck and then hopped out when I’d gotten here. Could I trust him to
follow me when I was ready to leave? I needed something to use as incentive.

I took another drink and palmed one of the sardine-topped crackers, hoping Marcus
hadn’t counted exactly how many he’d put on the plate. Then I pushed my chair back
and stood up, brushing a few stray cracker crumbs off my jeans. “I think I might have
left my phone in the truck,” I said. “I’m just going to check. I’ll be right back.”
I kept the hand holding the cracker down by my leg, hoping it would be enough to entice
Owen. I knew he’d be tempted to just sit on the table and eat all the sardines from
the plate. I was hoping he was smart enough not to try it.

“Owen,” I stage-whispered, as soon as I was outside and around the side of the house.
I looked around but I couldn’t see him, of course. “You better be out here.”

I opened the driver’s door of the truck, set the cracker in the middle of the seat
and waited. After a long moment, Owen appeared, gray head down, sniffing the food.
I’m tall enough that when I leaned across the bench seat my face was inches from his.
“You are in so much trouble,” I hissed. He looked up at me, all innocent golden eyes.
“How would I have explained things if Marcus had seen that cracker moving across the
table all by itself, like it had little wheels on the bottom?”

The cat looked intently at me and it almost seemed as though he shrugged. Then he
nosed the olive ring off the top of the sardine, bent down and ate it. I waited for
him to spit it back out or at least make a face. All he did was lick his whiskers.

“Don’t tell me you like olives, too,” I said. “You know what Roma will say.” Roma
Davidson was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights and also the town veterinarian.

Owen made a face and shook his furry tabby head at the sound of Roma’s name. She wasn’t
one of his favorite people, although in the last several months it had seemed like
he might be warming up to her. At least a little.

Roma had been very insistent that I was feeding Owen and his brother, Hercules, way
too much people food. And I probably would have agreed that she was right if they’d
really been just everyday house cats, which they clearly weren’t. Along with Owen’s
invisibility, Hercules had the ability to walk through walls . . . and doors and pretty
much any other solid object that got in his way.

Of course, Roma didn’t know about the cats’ unique skills. No one did. It wasn’t the
kind of thing I could casually drop into a conversation without seeming more than
a little . . . well . . . crazy.

Owen used his paw to nudge the chunk of sardine onto the seat. Then he sniffed it.
He sniffed everything he ate. If I gave him four identical kitty treats, he’d sniff
each one before it went in his mouth.

“You’re not going to like that,” I said, pointing at the bit of fish. “It’s Louisiana
hot sauce.
Hot. Sauce
.” I emphasized the last two words. Owen being Owen, he immediately gobbled up the
fish. I waited for him to yowl and spit it back out again.

He didn’t so much as gasp. His kitty eyes didn’t water. He licked the last of the
hot sauce from the top of the cracker and then pushed it at me.

“Thank you, but I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m going to go back inside now, and you’re
going to stay here.”

He blinked and vanished.

“Okay,” I said, straightening up. “I guess that means I’ll have to stop at Harry Taylor’s
on the way home and give that bag of sardine crackers in the glove compartment to
Boris. I can’t give them to you if I can’t see you, and I don’t want them to get stale.”

I knew Owen’s tail had to be twitching in annoyance, even if I couldn’t see it. Boris
was Harry Taylor Junior’s dog, a big, gentle German shepherd and Owen’s mortal enemy—if
a cat can have a mortal enemy. When all else failed, the threat of Boris getting the
cats’ treats was usually enough to convince them to see things my way.

I waited for Owen to reappear. He didn’t. Was he trying to see if I was bluffing?
Maybe I’d used Boris as a negotiating tool one time too many. Maybe I was giving the
cat way too much credit. Maybe he hadn’t understood a word I’d said. I was on the
fence about how well Owen, and his brother, Hercules, could follow a conversation.
On the other hand . . . I leaned along the seat again, opened the glove compartment
and pulled out a small, plastic Ziploc bag about half-full of my homemade sardine-and-cheese
cat treats. “I’ll keep them with me so I don’t forget to stop at Harry’s,” I said.

That did it. Owen yowled his objections. Maybe he did understand what I was saying.
Silently, I counted to three and he appeared on the seat again.

I held up the bag. “You can have the whole bag if you stay here.”

He glared at me, eyes narrowed.

“Your choice,” I said.

I had started to back out of the truck when Marcus spoke behind me. “Did you find
it?” He was wearing his usual citrus-scented aftershave—much nicer than Owen’s sardine
breath.

I shot the cat a look and made a small motion with one hand, both of which meant “Disappear,
now
.”

One thing all cats know—whether or not they have superpowers—is when they have the
upper hand. Owen sat up straighter, looked around me and gave a pitiful meow.

“Kathleen, is that Owen?” Marcus asked.

I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out slowly and twisted to look at him over my shoulder.
“I guess he hid in the truck,” I said. “He does that sometimes. I was just going to
give him a few crackers, and then hopefully he’ll take a nap.” I turned back to look
at the cat. He’d closed his eyes and hung his head. His shoulders were slumped. If
they gave Academy Awards for cat acting, Owen would win. He looked pathetic.

“You can’t leave him out here,” Marcus said. “Bring him inside.”

I could see the gleam of one golden eye as Owen watched to see what I’d do. “I don’t
think that’s a good idea,” I started.

“He can’t hurt anything in the house.”

I gave Marcus a half smile because I already knew I’d lost. I’d been bested by a small
gray cat. And not for the first time.

Marcus put a hand on my back and leaned around me. “Do you want to come inside?” he
asked.

Owen looked up all long-faced and meowed softly again.

“See?” Marcus said. “He doesn’t want to stay out here by himself.”

I reached over and picked up the little tabby, who immediately nuzzled my neck, a
self-satisfied gleam in his eye.

I followed Marcus back around the side of the house. Watching his long legs move made
up—a little—for the fact that I was now going to be sharing the rest of my visit with
a devious, sardine-loving cat. “This is not over,” I hissed at Owen as we stepped
into the kitchen.

“It’s okay,” Marcus said. “You can put him down. I’m serious. He can’t hurt anything
in this house.”

“You have no idea what he could do if he set his mind to it,” I warned. I set the
cat on the floor and whispered, “Behave yourself,” in his ear, not that I really thought
the warning would do any good.

Owen made a show of looking around as though he hadn’t been in the room a few minutes
earlier.

“You want some sardines?” Marcus asked the cat, who licked his whiskers again at the
word “sardines.”

I sat back down at the table. Marcus gave me a small plate with more crackers and
some sliced mozzarella.

Owen waited patiently while Marcus got a bowl of the little fish ready and set it
on the floor. He was careful not to touch the cat. Owen and Hercules had been feral
kittens when I’d found them over a year and a half ago at Wisteria Hill, the abandoned
Henderson estate. I’d come to town to be the new head librarian at the Mayville Heights
Free Public Library and supervise its renovation. The cats happily draped themselves
all over me, but it was hands-off with almost everyone else. Just last winter Owen
had had a run-in with a police officer who had tried to pick him up. It hadn’t gone
well—for the officer. Luckily Marcus had been there to rescue the cat.

Owen did his suspicious sniffing routine; then he picked up a chunk of one sardine,
set it on the floor and started eating.

“Does he do that with everything?” Marcus asked, dropping into the chair opposite
me.

“Ever since he was a kitten,” I said. “You’re probably going to want to wash that
floor. He’s not good at staying in one place.” I could hear Owen nudging the bowl
closer to the table, closer to us. He might not have liked to be touched, but he did
like people.

Marcus rolled back the sleeves of his blue shirt. “I should be able to get at that
chair tomorrow,” he said, dipping his head toward the back door and reaching for a
cracker at the same time.

The chair he was referring to actually looked more like a pile of firewood sitting
on the floor. It was an old rocking chair—or would have been if it hadn’t been in
so many pieces. It had come from Wisteria Hill. Businessman Everett Henderson had
sold the place to Roma at the start of the summer. Everett’s fiancée—and my backyard
neighbor—Rebecca, had been supervising clearing out the old house before the property
officially became Roma’s in a few days. I’d gone over to help a couple of times and
rescued the old rocker from the discard pile.

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said, picking a tiny clump of gray cat hair from the front
of my tangerine-colored sweater. “I just hated to see it thrown away. The wood is
beautiful. It’s a good chair, or it would be if it hadn’t come apart.”

When I’d put the pieces of the rocking chair in the back of my truck I’d thought it
would be easy to reassemble. And it had been. Except the rocker leaned about thirty
degrees to the left. Marcus had heard me venting my frustration to my friend Maggie,
and he’d offered to put the chair together for me. With Maggie grinning and poking
me in the ribs with a finger, it had been impossible to turn down his offer.

Marcus looked from the pile of wooden pieces to me, and his eyebrows went up. “If
you say so,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t exactly convinced.

I gave him a sheepish smile. “I like things that have a story.”

He washed down another cracker with his lemonade. “This table probably has a story,”
he said, rapping on the top with his fingers.

“Where did you get it?” I glanced down at Owen, who was under my side of the table,
enthusiastically licking hot sauce off the tail end of a sardine.

“Burtis Chapman.”

I laughed. “If this table belonged to Burtis, it has more than one story.” Burtis
Chapman had a number of small businesses on the go in Mayville Heights. Some of them
were even legal.