Buy a Whisker

“A surefire winner.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Miranda James

“An affirmation of friendship as well as a tantalizing whodunit,
The Whole Cat and Caboodle
marks a promising start to a series sure to appeal to anyone who loves a combination of felonies and felines.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Ryan kicks off the new Second Chance Cat Mystery series with a lot of excitement. Her small Maine town is filled with unique characters. . . . This tale is enjoyable from beginning to end; readers will look forward to more.”

—
Romantic Times

“Cozy readers will enjoy the new Second Chance
Cat series.”

—Gumshoe

“If you enjoy a cozy mystery featuring a lovable protagonist with a bevy of staunch friends, a shop you'd love to explore, plenty of suspects, and a supersmart cat, you'll love
The Whole Cat and Caboodle.
”

—MyShelf.com

PRAISE FOR SOFIE RYAN WRITING AS SOFIE KELLY AND THE
NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING MAGICAL CATS MYSTERIES

Final Catcall

“Kelly hits a home run. The book's plot is spectacular. There is a new twist, along with a new suspect, around
every corner. With the addition of romantic tangles, [
Final Catcall
] makes for an excellent addition to the already outstanding series.”

—
Romantic Times

“Owen and Hercules are a delight.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“The author is brilliant in not only writing character portrayals but in creating a mystery complete with twists and turns that will keep the reader trying to figure it all out. . . . I absolutely could not put it down.”

—Socrates' Book Reviews

Cat Trick

“Match two magical kitties with an extremely inquisitive librarian and a murder or two, and you have all the makings of an extraordinary mystery series . . . a captivating cozy!”

—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

“The characters are likable and the cats are darling.”

—Socrates' Book Reviews

“Small-town charm and a charming cat duo make this every cat fancier's dream.”

—The Mystery Reader

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

The Whole Cat and Caboodle

Published by the Penguin Group

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penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

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

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Darlene Ryan, 2015

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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ISBN 978-1-101-62594-1

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.

For the gang at Starbucks

As always, I owe a debt of gratitude to my agent, Kim Lionetti, and my editor, Jessica Wade, for helping make this book the best it could be. Thanks also to Isabel for managing dozens of big and small details throughout the process. Thanks go to fellow writer Laurie Cass, who can always find something good to say about even my weirdest ideas. Thank you to all the readers who have embraced this new series. And thank you to Patrick and Lauren for their unwavering love and
support.

Elvis had left the building. I watched him make his way across the snow-packed front walk to my SUV, parked in the driveway. I opened the passenger door, and he dipped his dark head in acknowledgment before he disappeared inside. The cat—not the swivel-hipped singer—had been named after the King of Rock and Roll, and he'd pretty much trained everyone around him to cater to him like he was royalty, musical or otherwise.

Elvis settled himself on the passenger seat and turned to look over his shoulder as I backed onto the street, the way he always did. It was icy-cold, and my breath hung in the morning air. It was also very early. One of the best things about sharing the drive to work with the cat was the fact that he wouldn't try to engage me in conversation before I'd had at least one cup of coffee.

Lily's Bakery was the only place to get a decent cup of coffee before seven a.m. in North Harbor, Maine. We had no fast-food outlets, no drive-throughs. The
slower pace of life was what attracted so many tourists, that and the gorgeous scenery along the Maine coast.

As usual, Lily was behind the counter when I tapped on the door. She kept the shop locked until seven thirty but let in regulars like me who stopped for coffee and a muffin to start the day. She smiled and came to open the door, and the warmth of the small space with its delicious aroma of fresh bread and cinnamon wrapped around me.

Lily ran Lily's Bakery with some help from her mother and another baker. She'd been selling her baking since she was twelve. The small building on the waterfront that housed the bakery had been left to Lily by her grandfather. She'd opened the business when she was twenty and had been running it, successfully as far as I knew, ever since.

“Hi, Sarah,” she said. She was wearing skinny jeans and a pink thermal shirt with her long, dark hair up in its usual high ponytail. When she was in the kitchen, she kept her hair under a Patriots ball cap.

“Good morning,” I said, trying not to yawn.

I could smell the rich, dark-roast coffee. I stopped by the bakery a couple times a week, and it was always made by six thirty. Lily had her morning routines, and she kept them like clockwork. She'd told me once that she got everything ready for the morning before she left the night before so she didn't have to waste time going down to the basement, where she kept a lot of her supplies.

Lily reached for the pot, and I handed her my stainless-steel mug. I looked in the glass-front display case as she poured, wondering if a chocolate éclair could be classed as breakfast food.

“You really need to have some protein at breakfast,” she said.

I looked over at her. “I need some breakfast at breakfast.”

She smiled, which I thought she didn't do enough of. “What's in your refrigerator, Sarah? You don't have to stick to traditional breakfast food in the morning, you know.”

I took the mug she was holding out and recited the contents of my fridge. “Three eggs, two tomatoes that taste like the carton the eggs are in, and a spinach quiche that fell.”

Lily looked confused. “Quiche doesn't fall.”

I moved to the end of the counter for the insulated carafe that held cream and the glass-and-stainless-steel sugar-cube dispenser that looked like a futuristic spaceship.

“It does if your hands are wet when you pick up the dish,” I said, adding cream and two sugar lumps to my mug. “Half the egg-and-cheese stuff went on the floor, and the spinach all slid to one end.” I stirred my coffee and screwed the lid on. “And then I kind of forgot to set the timer when I put it in the oven, so the spinach turned out extra crispy.” I walked back over to her. “Let's just say I don't think even the raccoons would eat it if I dumped it in the backyard.”

I could see Lily was trying not to laugh. “Hang on a minute, Sarah,” she said. She went back to the kitchen and returned after a minute with something wrapped in waxed paper. “Here. An apple-raisin roll with some Swiss cheese, on the house.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking it from her.

Lily walked me to the door. I glanced at the inky sky through the big front window. There was something smeared on the glass, I realized.

I took a step closer to the window. “Lily, were you egged?” I asked.

She nodded, folding her arms defensively over her chest. “This is the second time.”

“Because of the development?”

“Yes.”

About two and a half months ago, a developer from Massachusetts had proposed a mixed-use project—housing and business—for part of the harbor front, unique to the area and environmentally responsible. It had the potential to increase tourist traffic, and since all the businesses along the harbor front depended on visitors for a big part of their income, everyone had gotten behind the idea. Everyone except Lily.

“Did you call the police?” I asked. It looked like the culprit had used an entire carton of eggs on the window.

“I did,” she said with a shrug. “But it happened in the middle of the night. There isn't much the police can do. No one was around, and I don't have a security camera.”

She eyed the smeared glass for a moment; then she looked at me again. “It's been more than just eggs.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Someone switched a canister of sugar for salt in the kitchen, they canceled a delivery of cardboard cake boxes and waxed paper, and I'm pretty sure someone let a mouse loose in the store.” She pulled a hand over her neck. “I can't prove any of it has anything to do with the harbor-front proposal, but realistically, what else could it be?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Egging the windows and switching sugar for salt is childish. You don't deserve this kind of thing just because you don't want to sell the bakery.”

Lily exhaled slowly. “Some people don't see it that way.” Then she shook her head. “Luckily, the egg will come right off with the ice scraper I use on my windshield.” She pasted on a smile that told me the conversation was over. “Anyway, I need to get back to the kitchen. Have a good day, Sarah.”

“You too,” I said. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Elvis's whiskers twitched as I climbed back into the SUV. He eyed the wax-paper-wrapped sandwich and then looked expectantly at me.

“You can have a tiny bite of cheese when we get to the shop,” I said, pulling my keys out of my jacket pocket. He immediately settled himself on the seat, looking straight ahead through the windshield, his not-so-subtle way of saying, “Let's get going
.
”

My store, Second Chance, was a cross between a
secondhand store and an antiques shop. We'd been open for less than a year. We sold everything from furniture to housewares to musical instruments—mostly from the fifties through the seventies. Some of our stock had been repurposed from its original use, like the tub chair under the front window that in its previous life had actually been a bathtub, or the quilts my friend Jess made from recycled fabric. I often went in to the shop early if I had a project on the go. At the moment I was working on removing five coats of paint from an old wooden dresser that dated to the early 1900s.

I'd worked in radio after college until I'd been replaced on the air by a syndicated music feed and a tanned nineteen-year-old who read the weather twice an hour. As a kid I'd spent my summers in North Harbor with my grandmother. It was where my father had grown up. I'd even bought a house that I'd renovated and rented. When my job disappeared, I'd come to Gram's, at the urging of my mom, to sulk for a while and ended up staying and opening Second Chance. The store was in a redbrick house, built in late 1800s, in downtown North Harbor, Maine, just where Mill Street began to climb uphill. We were about a fifteen- to twenty-minute walk from the harbor front and close to the off-ramp from the highway, which meant we were easy for tourists to find and get to.

I parked the SUV at the far end of the parking lot. Elvis already had a paw in the top of my canvas tote, his way of letting me know he had no intention of
walking across the lot to the back door. I scooped him inside the bag and grabbed my breakfast.

The first thing I did when I got inside was nudge the heat up a few degrees, grateful that my brother, Liam, had checked the old house from top to bottom before I'd bought it. He'd discovered that the old furnace was on its last legs, and I'd managed to get the seller to knock several thousand dollars off the purchase price.

Elvis and I had breakfast in my second-floor office while the workroom warmed up, and he managed to mooch two bites of Swiss cheese. After I ate, I grabbed my dust mask and left him there washing his face.

It was a busy morning, and I didn't go back to my office until it was time to leave to meet my friend Jess for lunch. Wrapped in my heavy parka, I cut across the parking lot and stepped inside the old garage we used for storage, tugging on the soft gray hat that my grandmother's friend Rose had knitted for me. I pulled my gloves out of the pocket of my jacket.

“I'm leaving,” I called to Mac. “Can I bring you anything back?”

Mac was in the far corner of the building, gloves and jacket off, working on the knot that kept a pair of old brown blankets wrapped securely around two ladder-back chairs.

Mac was the proverbial jack-of-all-trades. There wasn't anything he couldn't fix as far as I'd seen. Second Chance may have been my store, but Mac was more partner than employee.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe a turkey sandwich and some soup.” He looked in my direction then and held up one hand, feeling for his wallet with the other.

I shook my head. “That's okay,” I said. “I'll get it when I get back.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

Mac was tall and strong with close-cropped black hair and light brown skin. He'd been a financial planner, but he'd walked away from his high-powered job to come to Maine and sail. It was his passion. All summer in his free time he had crewed for pretty much anyone who asked. There were eight windjammer schooners that tied up at the North Harbor dock, along with dozens of other boats. Eventually Mac wanted to build his own boat. He worked for me because he said he liked doing something where he could see some progress at the end of the day. He was an intensely private man, so I didn't know much more about him now than I had when I'd hired him a bit more than six months ago, but I'd always been able to count on him and I trusted him completely.

He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Tell Jess I should have a couple of boxes for her at the end of the week.”

I nodded. “I will. I should be back in about an hour.”

I walked across the parking lot, happy to see several cars parked there. January was a slow month for pretty much every business in North Harbor, but it
hadn't been as quiet as I had expected. Maybe that was because we were a resale shop. Our prices weren't cheap, but they were reasonable and on most things I was willing to dicker.

I'd backed my SUV into the last space at the end of the small parking lot—which was even smaller at the moment, thanks to the mountains of snow that flanked it on two sides—so only a little snow had drifted onto the front window. As soon as the engine was running, I turned on the heater and got back out to brush the snow off my windshield. When I'd bought the used SUV in the fall, Liam had tried to convince me to choose a vehicle with seat warmers. I was starting to think I should have listened to him.

I had no trouble finding a place to park when I got downtown. North Harbor sits on the midcoast of Maine. “Where the hills touch the sea” was the way it'd been described for the past two-hundred-plus years. The town stretched from the Swift Hills in the north to the Atlantic Ocean in the south. It was settled in the late 1760s by Alexander Swift, and it was full of beautiful, historic buildings and quirky little businesses. Not to mention some award-winning restaurants. The town's year-round population was about thirteen thousand people, but that number more than tripled in the summer with summer residents and tourists.

North Harbor was very different in the middle of winter than it was in the summer and fall. I wouldn't have been able to park just a couple of doors down from McNamara's in August, and there would have
been more than three tables occupied inside the small sandwich shop. Jess was at a table to the left of the main counter. Her hands were wrapped around a heavy mug of what I guessed was hot chocolate, and she was deep in conversation with Glenn McNamara.

Jess had grown up in North Harbor, but we really hadn't been friends as kids, probably because I was a summer kid and she was a townie. We'd gotten close in college, when I'd put an ad on the music-department bulletin board at the University of Maine, looking for a roommate. Jess had been the only person to call because, it turned out, she'd taken the ad down about five minutes after I'd put it up.

Jess had been studying art history and I'd been doing a business degree and taking every music course I could manage to fit into my schedule, but we'd become fast friends. It was impossible not to like her. She had an offbeat sense of humor and a quirky sense of style.

Glenn caught sight of me first. “Hey, Sarah,” he said. “Has it gotten any warmer?” He was tall with broad shoulders and still wore his blond hair in the brush cut he'd had as a college football player.

I shook my head as I pulled off my gloves and hat. “No,” I said. “According to Rose, it's cold enough to freeze the brass off a bald monkey.”

Glenn laughed.

Rose Jackson wasn't just one of my grandmother's closest friends, she also worked part-time for me at
the shop, along with another of Gram's friends, Charlotte Elliot. Rose had been a teacher and Charlotte a school principal. I'd known them my whole life, so working with them meant I got mothered and gently—or sometimes not so gently—instructed on what I should do a lot of the time.

I loved them and I knew they loved me and only wanted me to be happy. We just didn't always agree on what that was.