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  Pawsibly Guilty

  The Secret Library Cozy Mysteries

  CeeCee James

  Copyright © 2021 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 Mariah Sinclair

  For my Family

  Contents

  Foreword

  Blurb

  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

  28. afterword

  Foreword

  Tall Tails Secret Book Club

  Pawsibly Guilty

  Check out the next book in the series,

  Catastrophe in the Library for Laura Lee’s next mystery.

  Blurb

  What happens when a murder occurs on the doorstep of a secret book club, and the owner of the house hates books?

  When Laura Lee and her club stumble on the dead body of the guest, and famous celebrity, Mrs. Fitzwater’s nephew, they have more than enough mystery on their hands. Snooping takes on a whole new meaning when one of the members of the books club swears they saw the nephew later that night… and very much alive. The mystery takes a twisting turn from espionage to spurned lovers, and the book club isn’t sure which way is up. Even worse, time is running out as the threat now comes their way. Someone doesn’t want to be found out and is willing to do anything to keep that from happening.

  Pawsibly Guilty by CeeCee James

  Chapter One

  The grandfather clock clanged its ancient gongs. The massive beast had held this exact spot in the house for nearly a century, shepherding the residents through their lives, declaring when it was time for bed, when it was time to wake, when to be hungry, even when to leave for church. Everyone respected the timekeeper’s rules with subconscious obedience, without actually noticing how the ancient clock ordered their day like they were one of Pavlov’s dogs.

  No one noticed tonight that the time was not accurate.

  I silently counted the clock’s chimes to ten o’clock, later than I’d expected. Usually, at this hour, I’d be climbing into bed in my teeny room on a floor far above the exciting glamor of the lower levels. I had a series of rituals I absolutely had to do, starting with finding my kindle and ending with wiggling my toes in the soft flannel sheets as I cuddled down to read for a few hours.

  Of course, every night Hank, the marmalade orange house cat with smiling green eyes, would leap onto my bed and weigh down the blankets, keeping himself just within the reach of my fingers to stroke his neck.

  Tonight, however, found me curled on an ottoman with my feet tucked under me. Candlelight brightened the room and danced across the ladies’ faces around me.

  This was our special book club room. A secret spot. And by secret, I meant that only the few of us knew of its existence, the tiny room tucked away and forgotten long ago in the bowels of the weary mansion.

  Women chattered around me, fueled by excitement and the small splashes of champagne Cook had managed to procure from the leftovers of tonight’s dinner. Our cheeks were flushed with more than alcohol. The air felt stifling hot from the summer’s sun beating on the roof all day. Though the home was absolutely fabulous in its architecture, it had a long way to go in dealing with both the sun and chilly winter drafts.

  “All right! Quiet, please!” Marguerite slapped the table with her shoe, using it as a gavel. The poor lady. She’d had a long day, what with Miss Janice’s small dinner party that was still taking place downstairs, to a washing machine that had gone berserk, and then dealing with a cranky repairman. She obviously was in no mood to put up with any of our kerfuffles, as she called them.

  We sat scattered around her on a motley crew of chairs, ottomans, and an odd sofa. At her tone, most of us at least tried to appear to give the head housekeeper our full attention. Although, over in the corner, Jessie and Amy remained in a giggly conversation, barely attempting to whisper.

  I glanced around the room and couldn’t help my grin. Even after all this time, it still had the power to take my breath away. Of course, it was the books, all stacked in leaning shelves that stretched from ceiling to floor along every wall, each one filled to the brim.

  Anyone caring to give the shelves a closer look would see they’d been assembled hastily with odd-length boards, bricks, and whatnot. But the volumes they held were priceless—rare first editions along with complete sets, some leather-bound with real gold gilding and exquisite drawings.

  These books were works of art, a collection worth millions. And I felt privileged to be among their presence and able to gaze upon their splendor.

  We were the only ones to know of their existence. Miss Janice, the owner of the manor, believed them to be nothing more than a pile of ash after she ordered their destruction years ago.

  Luckily, these women around me would never allow such a thing to happen. Instead, like stealthy squirrels, they’d brought the books here to save them.

  Marguerite tried again. “Ladies, please. We have to get started. It’s getting late, and I, for one, need some sleep.” She gave a rather damp smile and wiped a sweaty curl from her cheek.

  I fluttered my shirt for air and thought about searching for a fan tomorrow. I had sweat trickling in places I never imagined.

  The women finally quieted down, and Marguerite continued, “Tonight, we start with a bit of magic.”

  Cook propped her bare feet up on the coffee table. The redness and swelling of her toes practically screamed of long hours stuffed in tight shoes. “Magic! What’s this all about, Mar? I thought we were here to discuss the Night Circus?”

  Lucy, the second-floor housekeeper, timidly raised her hand. The young woman was as thin as a whip, emphasized by two lank braids that trailed on either side of her head. “I’m sorry. Magic? I didn’t know I had to learn that.” Uttering the ‘M’ word seemed to make her nervous, and she squeezed her pale hands together.

  “Shh,” said Mary. A headband barely contained her frowsy hair. She was not only my coworker but a very good friend. “This is going to be fun.”

  Her advice had the opposite effect on the audience, as several other women started murmuring. Apparently, we were a superstitious bunch, and the word “magic” set off a flood of conversations that centered around such topics as Great Uncle Ned’s ghosties in his barn, to strange knocks someone had heard the night before.

  Marguerite’s near non-existent eyebrows raised, rumpling her forehead like a Venetian blind. I thought she was about to use her shoe again, only this time not on the table. Fortunately, her expression was well-known in the group, and the women quieted down.

  She pushed a wispy gray hair back into her bun. “Now, then. Let’s continue. As you know, the book we’ve had this month talked about the power in a good trick. I thought it would be fun to learn one. Janet, are you ready to demonstrate?”

  A young brunette woman on the couch nodded.

  “If you could come u
p here, please.” Marguerite ticked at the top of the table with a blunt fingernail.

  The shy woman, still in her work apron, scurried to the front of the room. I wanted to remind her to stand straight and bit my lip instead.

  Janet reached into her pocket. She pulled out a quarter and then covered it with a handkerchief.

  She shouted strange magic words, “Circus cow!” We all laughed. She wasn’t done yet. After waving her hand, a puff of smoke appeared, and the quarter disappeared.

  Suitably impressed, I oohed and ahhed along with the others. The simple sleight of hand seemed more powder than magic, and I think we all caught what she did. Still, enthused by sugar and natural giddiness, everyone applauded.

  Marguerite clapped her hands to attempt to move the narrative forward. “This goes to show how our main characters, Celia and Marco, could deceive their audience. Now, who could relate with the protagonist?”

  Pounding interrupted her as furious footsteps raced down the hallway. The outer room’s door slammed open. Someone had entered Marguerite’s bedroom, and now, that same person stood somewhere in her room.

  All of us stared at the hidden bookclub’s door. The air prickled with nervousness as we waited to see what would happen next.

  Bam! The wood quivered from a blow. I flinched and spun toward Marguerite. Who could possibly know about our secret room?

  Just then, the hidden door flew back on its hinges.

  Butler stood in the doorway, gasping. “Mrs. Fitzwater’s nephew has just dropped dead in the cigar room.”

  Marguerite’s jaw hung open.

  “What?” Cook squeaked.

  Finally, Marguerite managed to stammer, “You’re surely not serious?”

  Butler ignored her. “Come quickly, all of you. The police are on their way, and Miss Janice is freaking out.”

  “Freaking out?” Cook repeated. “What is she doing?”

  “Pacing dramatically. Wringing her hands and fanning her face. I’m worried she might faint.”

  “Good heavens,” declared Marguerite, jumping to her feet. “Club’s adjourned!”

  Everyone ran for the adjoining bedroom. Marguerite shut the hidden door after us while we clustered around her bed. None of us wanted to be the first to venture into the hallway.

  Cook waved her hand with impatience. “What is wrong with you people? This is like herding a bunch of alley cats. Get on with you! She’s not going to bite.”

  I knew the persnickety owner. I always suspected Miss Janice’s bite was definitely worse than her bark. But I had no idea how bad it could get.

  Chapter Two

  Cook’s impatient comment spurred us forward, and we awkwardly flooded out of the room with more than a few flying elbows and bumps. That lack of elegance continued with us pounding down the stairs as if a winning lottery ticket waited at the bottom.

  I cringed to be making so much noise when we’d just learned someone had died in the house. However, I didn’t have long to worry because Miss Janice waited at the bottom of the stairwell, staring up at us.

  Her expression was a mixture of both horror and shock. She closed her eyes and pinched her floral wrapper tightly around herself.

  Then her gray eyes flashed open angrily. “Where on earth have you been? Having some secret meeting?” She seemed to struggle to keep her voice demure, but at the last moment, shrill panic crept in to strangle those final words.

  Luckily, Marguerite responded smoothly before any of us had a chance to tramp along with an obvious lie. “We were in the middle of a staff meeting when Butler came to fetch us. It seems there’s been an emergency?”

  Miss Janice’s lips puckered, showing how her lipstick had worn away, leaving a heavy line. “Unfortunately, Andy has had an accident. The police are on their way.”

  Standing a few feet to her left was Reverend Bay and two well-dressed businessmen. One of them I didn’t know, but the other I recognized as a politician. Finally, there was Mrs. Fitzwater.

  All four of them wore various expressions of uncomfortable shock. The men shifted stiffly in a way that suggested an intense desire to rush out of the house. What should have been a quiet nightcap with some flippant smalltalk had descended into an emergency, and one involving the police. Their uneasiness was nearly palpable.

  Poor Mrs. Fitzwater, it was her nephew who’d died. Not only was she Miss Janice’s friend, they were also neighbors, and she appeared often at the manor.

  I discreetly glanced in her direction. Mrs. Fitzwater was quite proper, so I didn’t expect tears, necessarily. But I was quite surprised at her cool-as-a-cucumber expression.

  She spoke to Reverend Bay in a low voice, and her hand rested gently on his elbow. I stepped closer to see if I could overhear.

  At the same time, Cook volunteered. “I’ll go make some tea. I have freshly-made snickerdoodles.”

  “We’ll take care of everything, Miss Janice,” Marguerite said, her chin tucked down in concern.

  Miss Janice nodded, her forehead relaxing with the news of a plan in motion. “You are quite right. We could all do with a spot of tea.” She turned toward her guests. “Will you all accompany me to the kitchen?”

  Cook waddled fast to lead the way while we all trailed behind like sad little ducklings. Once in the kitchen, Mary and I burst into speed. We rushed to get the housekeepers’ table set with napkins and teacups.

  Cook opened the refrigerator and pulled out a platter of cold beef. Humming softly, she began to make sandwiches. Lucy brought out a plate of danishes and cookies, and Marguerite found the good china and turned on the kettle.

  Miss Janice sat in the chair that normally Marguerite chose. The other guests settled like nervous doves on either side of her.

  We filled teacups while Cook loaded the plates with good food. Marguerite passed everything out. When the head housekeeper finished, she leaned to whisper in Miss Janice’s ear. “Ma’am…”

  “Yes, Marguerite?” Miss Janice asked.

  “Is Mr. Fitzwater in….”

  “The cigar room. Yes. That’s right.” Miss Janice’s steely gray eyes hid her emotion.

  “Should we do something for him, perhaps?” Marguerite frowned.

  “There’s nothing to be done. He’s gone. It was quick and very sad.”

  Marguerite nodded and shot a glance over the table at his aunt.

  Mrs. Fitzwater noticed the pitying look and shook her head. “Poor boy. I always knew he would come to a bad end.”

  “We don’t know that,” murmured the reverend.

  “That wasn’t a bad end? You saw how he died,” snapped the politician.

  “You’re assuming it was foul play,” the reverend answered again.

  Mrs. Fitzwater’s eyes opened wide. Her mouth mimicked the action before she finally sputtered, “What else could it be? He was perfectly fine one minute and dead the next.”

  “My dear lady, if it’s foul play, that would make one of us the culprit.” Reverend Bay stared straight in her eye.

  Mrs. Fitzwater lifted her chin. Though her strength could have been fueled by grief, I knew she was not someone to mess with. The two held the gaze of the other for a tense moment until the reverend looked away and began a conversation with the politician. Meanwhile, Cook plied all who refused the tea with coffee.

  Marguerite scooped her arm through mine, and half dragged me from the room. “Come along, Laura Lee.”

  “Where are we going?” I whispered. I expected to be scolded by Miss Janice as we left, but the woman scarcely noticed.

  “We need to find something a bit stronger for their constitution. A shock like this requires something to fortify them. Especially with the up-coming interviews with the police.” She checked behind her and then whispered, “Besides, what if they are wrong, and the poor man might need help yet?”

  Her question sent jolts of alarm through my body, and the two of us quickened our steps.

  “Where are those police? They must have been called a while ago,” Marguer
ite grumbled, sweeping a wisp of hair back in a nervous tick. “Remember not to touch anything.”

  “I definitely won’t.” I held my hands up as if to prove it.

  We arrived outside the cigar room. Both of us stood there as the grandfather clock ticked like a heartbeat. To be honest, I was terrified to see the poor man.

  “Right, then. Let’s go.” Marguerite straightened her shoulders and shoved open the heavy door.

  The thick scent of cigar smoke hit me first. It was mixed with something else. Nutty. Bitter even.

  The room’s dark interior was illuminated by several murky orange lights that hung by a copper chain from the ceiling. A velvet couch and four armchairs had been dragged around a large circular coffee table. On the floor, an ashtray lay upside down, and its contents spilled across the rug. Nearby was a lighter or something of the sort.

  Marguerite’s fingers tightened like talons on my arm even as my own breath caught in my throat. Beside the couch, the prone figure of Andy Fitzwater stretched along the floor. Although his eyes were closed, his face held an unnatural green tinge. The last time I’d seen him, the man had been the picture of young adult health, however, there was no mistaking that now he was quite dead.

  We practically tripped over our own feet in an effort to escape the room, even forgetting the brandy Marguerite had professed to be there to collect. We’d almost reached the door and the freedom it represented when Marguerite froze, her eyes wide with shock.