The Great Catsby

by B K Baxter

  The Great Catsby

  A Nola Tail Mystery Book #1

  B.K. Baxter

  BrixBaxter Publishing

  Contents

  Find B.K. Baxter

  Description

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

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  Insiders Group

  About the Author

  Copyright

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  www.bkbaxterbooks.com

  Description

  Watch what you wish for… Some inheritances are literally death.

  My life has been turned upside down by my inheritance, but my only complaint is the cat that came along with the new house.

  I swear he’s judging me as I settle in and try to make new friends in my new small-town Louisiana neighborhood.

  And just when I start to settle into my new job and get back to reading my classic novels, I’m pulled chapters deep into a mystery.

  The Beauty Queen in the town has been offed. Someone has killed the darling.

  Wouldn’t you know it? An innocent man has been framed.

  I shouldn’t get involved, but somehow, my cat seems to have a way with finding clues in some of my favorite stories. Not that any of that makes sense.

  Why would it?

  The cat is the sleuth, I’m the amateur, and we have alligators in the backyard.

  Throw in a dead body, a book club that’s filled with suspicious characters, and you have my new life.

  And I thought being a librarian in Louisiana was going to be dull.

  Introduction

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  Prologue

  The old plantation house was big, meaning it at least had size working in its favor. It was much larger than our old one-bedroom apartment in Baltimore, but bigger wasn’t always better. Just ask Jade, who seemed less than enamored with my own superior size. She was always moaning that she needed to start lifting weights to be able to pick me up.

  Jade and I were getting settled into our new home in the exotic-sounding province of New Orleans, Louisiana. The air was heavier here, laden with moisture that made my fur frizz. I was used to Baltimore’s climate. While humid in the summer, we’d also had a snowy winter. The climate in Louisiana made me feel like I was walking through Jello.

  Jello was another food Jade wouldn’t let me eat.

  For a roommate, she was decent enough. She kept me fed, even if she ignored my schedule, despite my insistent regular reminders. And she always remembered my favorite kibble. It was the delicacies reserved for the creatures that walked on two legs that she and I didn’t see eye to eye on.

  Why she refused to share the ham on her sandwich or to let me get a taste of the cream she was pouring into her coffee, I would never know. It was probably related to my impressive size and her envy of me.

  And while we’re on the topic of all things edible, the food here in Louisiana was different too. Scents of various spices unknown to my nostrils before we’d strayed this far down south were appearing to greet me every day. It kept my nose busy, and my brain, as I determined which new tasty tidbits to try and how to beg, swallow, or steal them.

  Despite my excitement at a novel culinary journey, it was still difficult to settle into a new routine. I found myself gazing out the dusty windows past trees that looked too lazy to hold up their own leaves. I was homesick for the busy streets of Baltimore.

  Out here, the only thing I saw out my windows were nutria slowly hauling their fat rat bodies across the lawn in the daytime heat like Mr. Hanes, the old man in 4B back in our old building, hauling himself across the summer sidewalk.

  Back in Baltimore, my favorite pastime was sitting in the front window that looked out over the sidewalk and hissing at the dogs when they passed. The smart ones always whined and hunched back on themselves. The stupid ones barked, running in circles and getting their owners entangled in their leashes. I’d once seen a Pekingese catch her leash on her owner’s heel, causing said owner to tumble into a puddle and let out a string of curses filthier than the maintenance man when he couldn’t get the sink to unclog.

  That little episode had kept me in stitches for a week. But really, it wasn’t fair of me to laugh. Dogs were idiots. No wonder they needed their owners to lead them around everywhere, lest they get lost or go haring off after anything with a pulse that crossed their path. We cats were much more refined. We didn’t have owners. We had roommates. And we didn’t need anyone to guide us around at the end of a string.

  Strings were prey.

  Maybe the size of this place wasn’t the benefit I thought it was. It meant more territory to protect. Back in Baltimore, I only had to worry about the small enclosed backyard that belonged to the apartment complex and my bent-eared nemesis, an old gray tabby male that insisted on encroaching on my domain.

  My yowls against him were legendary, as was the bout of fisticuffs we’d come to the time I’d managed to escape the apartment and caught him on the fence. Unfortunately, Jade insisted that I act like a gentleman, so we’d yet to have a rematch. But I batted at the window like a champion whenever I saw him, and I’d like to think he feared me from afar.

  Still, I preferred to see this rambling old structure as an upgrade. One that afforded me certain advantages. Like the unexpected exit to the outdoors that Jade had yet to find. I used to have to wait for my chance to dash out the door when Jade wasn’t expecting it, but she’d gotten pretty good at blocking me over the years we’ve cohabitated. But the broken window at the far end of the basement allowed me secret access to the fairyland that was now mine to claim.

  I’d already done a reconnaissance mission to get my bearings and had unearthed a town buried in the past. In Baltimore, I’d had to be mindful not to run afoul of the traffic or Sir Chonksworth the Bold would become Sir Chonk the Flat. Although I often tried to run off with one of Jade’s pancakes, I didn’t want to become one. But the traffic in New Orleans was like a mouse that hated cheese: it didn’t exist.

  The main street had only one stoplight in the center of the town, the bones of which were laid 275 cat generations ago, or around six human generations. Not every structure was that ancient, but none were exactly what I would call modern. Especially the old library where Jade had started her job as assistant librarian.

  Why she chose to surround herself with books instead of more interesting things like moths, catnip, or even boxes, I’ll never understand. She always had her nose buried in her books. Back in Baltimore, she’d read aloud from one to me every night. Mostly, I slept on her lap, but the stories still managed to sink in.

  And what ridiculous stories they were. The authors never spent enough time on the most interesting parts. No discussion of hunting for small furry things or chittering at birds. No mentio
n of the ecstasy of burying your nails in corrugated cardboard. Just silly things like love and betrayal and regret.

  And sometimes murder.

  At least those stories were a little intriguing. Cats were well-built instinct machines, and the desire to feel a heartbeat slow under our teeth was one we all shared. Despite our killer instincts, we still craved affection from those closest to us. But that didn’t mean we liked to hear about all that mushy human emotional nonsense.

  The New Orleans Public Library was housed in a historic building that was slowly crumbling in the moist Louisiana heat. Still, the space itself was pristine, likely thanks to the elderly woman charged with bossing my roommate around. Jade might grumble about her after work as she debated with herself over whether to have a second glass of wine with dinner, but no one could argue that the head librarian ran a tight ship.

  Across the street from the library was City Hall, a square building built of stone in the center of a manicured lawn that stretched for an entire block. The corners of the square were decorated with archaic cannons that, like my roommate, hadn’t seen any action in years.

  I’d already spent several nights wandering the town. I’d passed a drug store with its bright green cross. A grocery store that smelled fresher than our local bodega, with signs advertising sales on things I’d never heard of like white hominy and gumbo base. A restaurant that reeked of eons of grease that seemed to have soaked into every pore.

  Not that I was complaining. I’d spent an hour exploring the dumpster behind that place and managed to find a couple choice treasures. But the days of grooming required afterward proved those treasures weren’t worth the trouble.

  There were other buildings that weren’t unlike the ones I’d seen in Baltimore the few times I’d managed to make it onto the streets. A church. A school. A building to repair those noisy automobiles humans seemed to love, and a building to feed them. Offices. Houses. Businesses.

  It might be smaller than Baltimore, but it had all the requisite pieces to make it livable for Jade. People in New Orleans seemed friendly enough as well. They were polite, always showing their entire mouth full of teeth but not in an aggressive way. They might talk funny, but all humans and their insistence on words sounded foolish.

  So why did I feel like Jade was getting herself into something she might not be able to handle here in the Deep South?

  The secrets. I could smell them. Some were buried far beneath the soil of this sleepy town, but some weren’t so deep. Some were very near the surface, just waiting to be discovered. Jade might not be able to tell, but I could.

  Things weren’t as they seemed in New Orleans.

  It was a good thing I was here to keep Jade safe. And to ferret out the secrets one by one. Sir Chonksworth the Bold loved nothing more than a good mystery. And I knew that it wouldn’t be long until some secret scratched its way into the light.

  In the meantime, I’d keep Jade company in this big old house, patrolling its halls and its grounds, making sure she kept us fed, and angling for the occasional scratch behind the ears. Some things might be vastly different about this place, but some things away stayed the same. Like the fact that a good scratch behind my ears always made me purr.

  Not all secrets were bad. Some ended in new discoveries that bring us closer together.

  Me? I planned on discovering the secret of how to snag one of those oyster po’boys I’d heard about. As long as Jade didn’t discover my emergency exit.

  My roommate was clever, but she tended to get distracted. It was up to me to make sure she focused on the important things. Speaking of, it was about time to let her know the food bowl was empty again.

  It was a quandary, how that kibble always seemed to disappear so fast. I might be able to uncover long-buried secrets, but the secret of never-ending kibble was a mystery I had yet to solve.

  Chapter 1

  “Sure, her family may have been here for over a century, but that doesn’t mean they’ve ever had an ounce of class.”

  I was working my way through a stack of returned books, half-heartedly listening to Dottie’s stories as I wondered at how even the air conditioning couldn’t keep the Louisiana heat at bay. I would never understand why Uncle Mike had chosen this out of the way hamlet that could have stood right inside the gates of Hell based on its temperature alone.

  Miss Dottie Turleigh often stopped by the library as she made her rounds, and today, she’d decided to keep me company as I went about my duties. I didn’t mind since Dottie seemed like a rather harmless old lady to me, a relic on par with our surroundings.

  I’d met her the first day I’d started my part-time assistant librarian job at the New Orleans Public Library. She’d been wearing a long-sleeved dress made of heavy fabric that would have given me heat stroke if I’d worn it for even five minutes, and a jaunty little hat had been perched on her nest of gray curls. She’d even been wearing delicate lace gloves, completing the look of a woman who could have walked out of the pages of a decades old Ladies Home Journal issue.

  She’d introduced herself to me and smiled, revealing twin rows of perfectly pearly-white dentures. I’d quickly learned during that first meeting that she might know as much about my Uncle Mike as I did. My uncle wasn’t the limit of her knowledge however. Dottie Turleigh seemed to know the biography of nearly everyone in Saint Dismas Parish.

  Her true talent lay in her delivery, the hushed matter-of-fact tone she considered appropriate for spilling others’ secrets coupled with the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth-despite-the-heat look on her sweet-old-woman face.

  Dottie was currently regaling me with the details of her ongoing feud with a neighbor whose dog preferred Dottie’s yard for doing its business. This wasn’t the first time she’d had words with her neighbor. Apparently, they’d clashed since grade school when they’d both taken first communion at the same time and the neighbor girl had stepped on Dottie’s veil, ripping it and causing Dottie’s mother to, “pitch a fit loud enough that Daddy had to lock her up in the bedroom and put her to bed with one of his little blue pills.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Dottie and the picture she painted of New Orleans. When I’d arrived in town almost a month ago, I’d recently suffered the biggest shock of my life after learning I’d inherited an antebellum plantation house from my newly deceased uncle. An uncle I’d barely known, I should add. His death had brought me to this small town on the banks of the Mississippi River, a town where time seemed to move as slowly as the swirls and eddies of the muddy currents that flowed by it.

  Baltimore was by no means the center of the universe, but the pace of big-city life had not prepared me for a town that looked to be only a few blocks long when I first arrived. I quickly realized that its confines sprawled beyond the compact downtown area, stretching to include massive, majestic houses like the one I’d inherited. Stately and steeped in history, these mansions had once been occupied by women swallowed by the yards of fabric that made up their hoop skirts and men who dueled with pistols to defend their family’s honor. Or so I imagined.

  Ages had passed since those halcyon days before the War of Northern Aggression, as I’d heard it called since I’d arrived in Louisiana, but I could still see the ghosts of that bygone era all around me. This library, for example, had once been the railroad depot before the lines had merged and converted to freight only. They’d no longer needed a waiting room for passengers, so the city had converted the old brick building into a library. Its ancient wooden benches had been exchanged for shelves, although a few still lined the walls under the front windows where the occasional patron would sit and read.

  The rectangular brick building sat along Main Street, its front facing City Hall, its back still lined with ghost tracks that were no longer in use. Its windows were trimmed in white, and its entry doors were a glossy emerald green with matching lamps suspended from the overhang above them. The first time I’d seen the New Orleans Public Library, I thought it didn’t look like much, e
specially after the Enoch Pratt Free Library, the block-long stone edifice that was one of the most beautiful buildings in the city of Baltimore. It had several stories lined with endless shelves, and although I’d only been a junior cataloger there, I’d felt like I was part of some vast machinery that brought hallowed knowledge to the masses.

  I didn’t think the little one-story building in New Orleans could hold even a quarter of the periodicals section of my old library, and the “machinery” of my new library consisted of myself, the head librarian, and a cleaning woman who came twice a week to empty the trash and mop out the bathrooms. And as for bringing knowledge to the masses, I’d quickly learned that the majority of our patrons devoured a diet comprised exclusively of paperback romance novels and lurid true-crime tales.

  Still, I had to admit that the library, like the town, was growing on me. The only part of the job I didn’t enjoy was sitting in her office, clicking slowly through the screens on her ancient computer. Head Librarian Luanne Jackson greeted my natural enthusiasm with arms crossed and brow furrowed. Luanne didn’t seem to have a sense of humor. Or an ounce of patience. Or even basic human kindness. She felt affection for her collection. Anyone or anything else was viewed with suspicion and annoyance.