The Curious Case of Emily Lickenson

Blurb Catnip and cadavers in the care home. Cat blogger extraordinaire Emily Lickenson’s whiskers twitch when the head cook at the local care home unexpectedly dies. As curious as a cat, Emily can’t resist investigating exactly what happened. She recruits her snoopy Aunt Mattie (who herself is half-convinced she used to be a spy) to hunt for clues like felines on the scent of a plump rodent. The clever duo soon discover evidence of murder and a gaggle of suspects, a ditzy sous chef, grumpy cleaner who wanted the less than friendly chef sliced and diced. In this adorably quirky Agatha Christie style whodunnit you’ll find twists and turns, red herrings served with a slice of puzzle pie, and surprises that’ll have you turning the pages to find the killer before they find Emily. The Curious Case of Emily LIckenson CeeCee James Copyright © 2022 by CeeCee James All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover by Pixel Squirrel For my Family Contents Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 2122. Afterword Chapter One My name is Emily Lickenson, a name I’ve had to both explain and ward off laughter through the years. It was the result of an unfortunate typo, if typos were what they called them out there on Ellis Island. My great-great-great-grandfather, Herman Dickenson, immigrated here from England. He apparently saw the typo, but rather than correcting it he chose to keep and embrace it. It was some time later I’d learned he’d been on the lam from cattle-rustling somewhere near the border of Scotland. Why he’d thought he’d be concealed and overlooked by just one letter difference in his last name may also account for the fact that no one in my family had ever attended college. At any rate, my last name finally became my bread ticket when I was hired by Whisker Treats cat food company as one of their permanent web page article writers. At nearly thirty I’d found my niche. They, of course, adored my name, and I adored supplying them all sorts of fun feline information. And it was a job I could do at home, which suited me even better. I lived in the town of River Bend, just south of Westville, about five miles from my Aunt Mattie. She was a hoot, sarcasm wrapped in a tiny five foot frame, with the ability to solve cases that baffled the local police. She claimed she was an honorary detective, something that would have undoubtedly come as a surprise to the local police force. However, there was no denying her uncanny ability to track down the bad guy. She also rescued animals, and was a big believer that animals chose their people as well. At the moment, she had Shakespeare, a cat she was fostering for the last two years. Why so long? He was a difficult case, and, as Aunt Mattie determined, had yet to find his people. I didn’t mind living on my own. I’d been a loner for a long time, ever since childhood. Maybe some things just stayed with you. My parents went on a…. Well, more about that later. Now I was being summoned. The 70s-era phone shrilled from its cave beneath a pile of printer pages on my desk. As with most things in my life, the phone was a hand-me-down. It, along with my flowered couch, my wicker ottoman, and my magazine rack, kept me caught in a strange time warp. One which I truly had no great desire to escape, and presumably why my friends had always referred to me as an old soul. I lifted the princess-pink receiver and slid it comfortably into the space between my cheek and chin. I wasn’t afraid to say it was my favorite color, even if my ex-boyfriend used to give me flack for it. “Hello?” “Emily, where are you? I need binoculars.” It was my seventy-six year old aunt, who had spent each year dedicated to meddling in other people’s business. “Didn’t I just buy you a pair last Christmas, Aunt Mattie?” I protested. My purse wasn’t that deep, even with a pretty good income coming in. “Shakespeare ruined them.” No other apology or explanation given. I bit my bottom lip in frustration, before easing out, “How did that happen?” There was a pause. Then Mattie’s exasperated voice rose in volume. “They weren’t any good anyway. Could hardly see across the street to the neighbor’s living room. I even held them up to Shakespeare’s eyes for a look-see, but he clawed the glass, and now the lenses are scratched. You know how that cat is, always scratching up my stuff. Not that it matters. You should have bought a better pair.” My eyes narrowed, but I managed to keep my voice level. “I see. We’ll take them by the optometrist and see if the lenses can be polished back to new. Remind me to grab them the next time I come over.” “Huh. When will that be? Next Christmas?” Swallowing a salty retort, I answered, “No, Aunt Mattie, I’ll be over sometime later this week. I’ve got deadlines with the blog business right now. I lost some photos, and now there’s no time.” “Photos, schmotoes. Someday, you’ll have all the time you need, missy, and there won’t be no Aunt Mattie to talk to.” She always knew how to get me. I answered gently, “Later this week, Aunt Mattie, I promise. I’ll call first. Oh, there’s the door…I need to go.” Wincing a little, I softly set the phone back in its cradle. Sighing, I dropped down into my desk chair. My little work space was a sanctuary from the world, locking out everything