The second book in the Cats in Trouble Mystery series, 2010

I want to thank my husband for putting up with a writer who doesn’t cook or even move away from her computer for months at a time. I love you. My three cats can’t read, but I owe them so much for their inspiration. The dog, too, since she believes she’s a cat on most days. And my sister for her encouragement. I know whom to turn to when the words won’t come-my sister and my daughter. Jeffrey, Shawn, Allison and Maddie, you are wonderful and always in my thoughts. My writing group is amazing. Kay, Amy, Laura, Dean, Bob, Joe and Millie, and to my fellow bloggers on Writers Plot-Lorraine Bartlett, Sheila Connolly, Doranna Durgin, Kate Flora and Jeanne Bracken-your support and insights are always invaluable. Thanks, too, to Susie, Charlie, Isabella and Curry for your generosity and friendship. Lastly, my agent, Carol, and my editor, Claire. What would I do without your knowledge and support? Thank you, one and all, for everything.

“The smallest feline is a masterpiece,’” I said, using a trembling finger to gently stroke the newborn kitten curled in the palm of my hand. “And that’s not me being brilliant. Those are Leonardo da Vinci’s words.”

“The Mona Lisa guy, right?” my friend Candace said.

“Yes, ma’am. An expert on masterpieces should know plenty about these wonderful babies,” I said.

“Look at you,” Candace said. “Your hand is shaking.”

“This is a big responsibility,” I said.

“You’re doing fine with these itty-bitty ones,” she said. “Better than I could do.”

Tonight, here in the Mercy Animal Sanctuary’s office, I definitely felt the full weight of the responsibility that shelter owner Shawn Cuddahee had bestowed on me. These four brown kittens entrusted to my care were preemies with a less-than-peppy mom. That meant tube feeding them every two hours, as well as caring for the weakened mama cat.

Though Shawn, who was spending all the daylight hours taking care of his shelter and these kittens, had taught me exactly what to do, I still feared I might make a mistake. That’s why I’d asked Candace to spend the night shift with me-for moral support. She’d heard all the same instructions from Shawn and had taken notes, so she could help me make sure I did everything right. But as for hands-on assistance? Deputy Candace Carson of the Mercy, South Carolina, PD performed better with an attitude and a gun than with a litter of kittens.

She said, “One more hour and we have to do another feeding. You did so good last time, Jillian.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to give it a try?” I said.

“They all had nice fat bellies and fell right to sleep after you did the midnight feeding. Why mess with success?” Her right eye twitched, and her voice was strained by what had to be her unease. The thought that she might have to do a feeding obviously made her more nervous than when she’d stormed into my house last fall and taken a murderer into custody.

That week in October, when my Abyssinian was catnapped and I came face-to-face with a murderer, had changed me forever-and in ways I never would’ve imagined. I’d moved to Mercy with my husband, John, who’d been fourteen years older than I was, when he wanted to retire. But he died of a heart attack not long after we arrived. Now I made my living sewing little quilts for cats, a mostly online business and a very quiet job. I’d thought my life was over when my husband died. But then I’d gotten involved in a mystery and a murder, and by the end of it I’d realized I had made new friends and was beginning a different life for myself.

Once the fireworks of the murder investigation ended, I began receiving e-mails from all over the country. Seems the story had reached the major news outlets. For some reason, folks have decided I can solve any mystery involving cats. So not true. I may be as curious as a cat, but I have no investigative training whatsoever. I responded to every e-mail to tell these desperate cat and dog lovers as much, but some remained persistent and have kept me updated about their lost animals. And of course they keep insisting that I can help them.

Putting those thoughts aside-the stories did tug at my heart-I said, “You’re nervous about the feedings; I get that. I promise you don’t have to do a thing except make sure we have enough coffee to keep us awake until six a.m. And I am running low.” I lifted my Belle’s Beans travel cup. The last time I’d stayed up all night on purpose was to cram for a college exam about twenty years ago.

Candace smiled with obvious relief. “I can do coffee. That antique Mr. Coffee machine Allison insists on keeping has met its match. I will serve you awesome java.”

Allison is Shawn’s wife and one of the sweetest people I have ever met. But Candace was right about the coffee-maker. I knew what to get them for their next anniversary.

Candace reached into her backpack and pulled out a small purple bag labeled STELLAR BREW. “This is from the Organic Coffee Company. Bought it online.” She stood and tiptoed over to the small table where the pot sat.

I set the sleeping kitten I’d been holding next to its mother’s tummy, and he never stirred. Though the office was small, the space heater did a less-than-adequate job of heating the place, and I didn’t want him to get chilled. Despite the gorgeous spring day, the night had turned cool, and I was glad I’d worn a sweatshirt. I’d also brought a couple of cat quilts along, hoping to finish hand binding them, but the lighting was too poor for sewing. So both Candace and I had added to our own warmth by sitting on the quilts instead.

The kittens, of course, with their heated pallet and their mother’s body, would be fine, temperature-wise. But the mama couldn’t lick her kittens enough-Shawn wasn’t sure why she was so weak-and every so often I stroked each one to keep its blood circulation adequate. I also had to rub their tummies with tissue after feeding to stimulate urination, another task the poor cat couldn’t do regularly enough. She didn’t seem to mind my help, but still, the babies looked so fragile, so breakable. I vowed not to make any errors tonight.

As Candace filled the Mr. Coffee with bottled water, Snug-that’s Shawn and Allison’s African Gray parrot-said, “Put on the pot, Allison. Put on the pot.”

Candace turned and stared up at his cage, which sat on a shelf close to the ceiling. “I’m not Allison, and I’m not sure I like being ordered around by a bird. Shawn needs to have a talk with you about the word please, Mr. Snug.”

“Shawn should have a talk with himself if that’s how he speaks to Allison,” I said with a laugh.

She pointed at me. “That’s a better idea.”

The mother cat mewed pathetically, and I reached into the box and stroked her head. “This sweetheart was fortunate to have been dropped at Shawn’s doorstep right before she delivered.”

“Lucky?” Candace sat back down to the grumbling tune of the old coffeepot as it worked its magic. “I’d say someone knew what they were doing-knew how amazing Shawn is with animals. Course, that might just be the cop in me, because I don’t believe in luck and I don’t believe in coincidences. No, ma’am, not me.”