Cat Scratch Murder

Cat Scratch Murder A CRYSTAL BEACH PARANORMAL COZY MYSTERY CRYSTAL BEACH MAGIC MYSTERY SERIES BOOK ONE KAREN MCSPADE Copyright © 2022 by Karen McSpade All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in whole or in part, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication. Edited by Darci Heikkinen Cover art by The Cover Coven This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Created with Vellum FREE GIFT Receive your FREE copy of Dog Gone Troubles, the Crystal Beach Magic Mystery series prequel, and get notified via email of new releases, giveaways, contests, cover reveals, and insider fun when you sign up for my Mystery Book Club mailing list! Click Here To Sign Up and Claim Your Free Cozy Mystery Book NOTE: If you’re already a member of my VIP Mystery Book Club, your email will not be added again. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Next in Series Sneak Peek Would you like more Crystal Beach mysteries? Free Gift Books By Karen McSpade About the Author Chapter One So, I didn’t know that the woman with a dead cat around her shoulders was a friend of Mr. Rask, who happens to own the magazine where I work. I mean, I hadn’t even met Mr. Rask before. I have now. He’s not a fan. To be fair, it wasn’t a dead cat, but whatever it was, it had previously been alive and was once probably cute and furry, with a significant other and maybe children. Now it was a shocked-looking shoulder warmer. And, well, the whole thing had upset me when I went to review the New Metropole Hotel in Boston and found myself waiting in line behind the woman with the fur stole. There was nothing faux about it. I couldn’t stop staring at the poor creature’s glass-beaded eyes that were staring back at me. Positively barbaric. All I did was make a passing reference to it in an otherwise glittering review of this wonderful new hotel, vaguely modeled—in the way modern buildings can only ever be “vaguely” modeled—on the hotels of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It was one of my best reviews and a real opportunity to step away from the fluff pieces I had been stuck on since… well, since the last time my tendency to have strong opinions had gotten me in trouble with Marv, my direct boss. He was the editor of Living It Large in Boston magazine, where I worked. For now. “Why did you do it, Sid?” Marv asked in that pained, almost pleading way of his. As “Sidney” Grace, named for my maternal grandfather, my moniker could be confusing—me being of the female persuasion. Sometimes I would tell people that I was named after the main character in the Scream movies, but then they would look at me and go, “Nah, you’re too old for that.” Well, they were right about that. This dressing down was happening shortly after Marv had been through a noisy, ten-minute chewing out by Mr. Rask that everyone in the office had been pretending not to listen to. Well, except me, who might have taken one too many trips past the office door to the photocopier during that time, as Marv had just pointed out. I knew it was my fault that I was the one in trouble—partly because Mr. Rask had pointed a trembling finger at me as he walked in and spat, “Is that her? Is that the one?” But also because it was always me. I was always the one doing something wrong. I was the one who fell into the cake at Marv’s fiftieth birthday party. I was the one who parked in the visitor’s parking space when the owner of the Boston Red Sox baseball team came in for an interview, resulting in him parking next to a tree that blew down on top of his Range Rover in a freak windstorm. I mean, come on, how is that my fault? Then again, I was also the one who accidentally posted the exclusive, pre-launch photos of the latest Chanel nail polish line all over social media. Me. Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Which, coincidentally, was what Marv was now saying. “Sidney, Sidney, Sidney, what am I going to do with you?” “Um… get me to write a piece about the benefits of faux fur?” I tried with a sheepish smile. Marv’s eyes narrowed. “Look, why don’t I just head home?” I suggested, backing out of Marv’s office. “Give you time to… you know… think through things calmly. Remember all the great pieces I’ve written for the magazine. Remember that poor old Sidney is thirty, single, and still paying off her student loan debt. You wouldn’t want to make all my cats homeless, would you?” And with that, I closed the door and headed home, unsure whether I would have a job in the morning. * * * George Michael singing “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!” brought me round as he did every morning. But I did not want to wake up today; I had wanted to sleep forever so that Marv couldn’t fire me. My eyes focused on the half-finished glass of rosé wine on the coffee table, and I became vaguely aware that I had fallen asleep on the couch, partly because the side of my face was sticking to the faux—yes, faux!—leather surface. I really can’t handle my alcohol anymore. “Half-a-glass Sidney,” that’s me. Wham!