Already honored with nine Cat Writers’ Association Muse Medallions for her series, Murphy takes us back to Molina Point, California in Cat Telling Tales, as a suspicious fire, a tragic death, and a rash of unanticipated houseguests, both human and feline, inflame the investigative curiosity of our furry detective trio.
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The print edition can also be purchased at Amazon and is widely available in other bookstores, where it can be special-ordered if it is not in stock.
"If you've followed the adventures of Joe Grey and Dulcie through the years, you certainly won't want to miss this latest adventure. On the other hand, if you have never read any of these novels, isn't it about time you tried one?" --Bob Walch, Salinas Californian, January 13, 2012.
"A must-read for Murphy’s devoted audience and a good choice for those who enjoy Rita Mae Brown’s Sneaky Pie Brown novels." --Booklist
"The story line focuses on the clever mystery but also provides a deep spotlight on the impact on animals and people when families leave behind pets as they are forced from their homes. The former makes for an enjoyable feline detective thriller; while the latter affirms why Shirley Rousseau Murphy has won Cat Writers Association Awards." --Harriet Klausner, Future Mystery Anthology Magazine, January 2012.
"Shirley Rousseau Murphy writes a magical story that is precious and full of every emotion. . . . Many of us read mysteries because they make the world right in the end, or at least better. And that is exactly what Mrs. Murphy has done." --Sandie Herron, Lesa's Book Critiques, January 14, 2012.
"Although Cat Telling Tales is a great book on its own, reading all of the way through the series is extremely satisfying: watching the different feline police informants help solve the mysteries and seeing the relationships of the ever-expanding circle of people who know the cats' secrets is delightful and rewarding." --Vicky Gilpin, --Fresh Fiction, January 16, 2012.
As everyone knows (or, should by now) these amazingly fun, entertaining characters have been the plot of sixteen novels thus far. . . . This installment is truly heartwarming. . . . A perfect little mystery. Joe Grey is the ultimate hero, and the message of love behind this tale is one that everyone should learn. --Feathered Quill, November 2011.
Clyde and Ryan had been married just a year next week, but nearly from the moment Clyde slid the ring on her finger and engulfed her in a bear-hug kiss, they’d celebrated their marital bliss fly throwing themselves into buying run-down houses, taking advantage of the falling market to launch into the small but challenging remodel projects that were a sideline for Ryan, turning each dilapidated shack into a bright little home so appealing that, despite the economic downturn, it sold often within days of being listed This, on top of her full schedule of new-house construction, indicated a form of insanity that could beset only the human mind.
Though maybe, Joe thought, Ryan’s creative inner fire was, after all, somehow akin to the same burning drive that made a cat stalk, capture, and kill; maybe, indeed, the same single-minded kind of obsession and commitment. . . .
Rolling over, he edged into a patch of sunlight that shone down through the clerestory windows; the bright shaft streaming past him picked out, as well, the carved antique mantel with its hand-painted tile insets, each bearing the image of a cat--cats whose history often perplexed Joe, their uncertain origin an aspect of life that sharply unnerved the tomcat, that told him more about his own ancestry than he cared to dwell on. . . .
Now as the sun rose higher, its warming rays touched not only the cat tiles of the mantel, but the letter that stood on top, a small pink envelope propped against a stack of architectural books. A letter that seemed to Joe as insistent as a blinking neon sign, awaiting Ryan’s attention, a missive he found both repugnant, and worrisome. . . .
The message carried an aura of disaster, of bad karma, if you will, that made his fur twitch and his paws tingle with sharp misgiving. The fact that Ryan didn’t want to talk about it was sign enough that the request was going to screw up their lives. What was really worrisome was that, though she’d set the letter aside, she hadn’t ignored it to the point of laying it facedown and slapping a book over it, or dropping it in the round file. This unsolicited bid for bed and hoard would, sooner or later, require her dutiful response. Joe knew what answer he’d give, but he guessed Ryan wouldn’t follow his advice. Social courtesy is a human trait that most cats don’t consider of much value. Except, of course, when that courtesy is toward the cat himself. . . .
Leaping from the table to the mantel, he read it again, looking pointedly at Ryan. This, not pie-in-the-sky real estate investments, was the dilemma facing them right now. He looked at the photograph of Debbie herself and the two little girls that she had enclosed hoping, perhaps, to charm an invitation from the Damens. There wasn’t much charm apparent. . . . The best-looking one of the group was the cat, and even he didn’t look too happy. The older child held the big red tabby awkwardly in her arms, squeezing him so tight the cat’s ears were flat to his broad, tomcat head. The camera had caught his ringed tail blurred, swinging in an angry lash, the cat obviously practicing great restraint in not slashing his juvenile captor. Debbie’s letter didn’t mention the cat, until the very end.
". . . Here’s our picture that my neighbor took last year, the girls were cute then but they’ve gotten so gangly now. In the picture, Tessa is four, Vinnie is eleven. I don’t have the cat anymore, Erik used to throw things at it, so I guess it ran away. A neighbor said it hung around the nursing home up the street, that they took it in, but then that burned down. The kids won’t stop whining after it, so stupid. I’ll see you soon, I do hope you have room for us, otherwise I don’t know where we’d go. . . ."
This was just great, just what they all needed, a whining houseguest with two kids, One that looked like a royal pain--and practically on Clyde and Ryan’s anniversary, which they’d planned to spend having a quiet dinner with close friends. Joe looked again at the picture, focusing on the red tomcat, a handsome young fellow with wide, curving stripes. There was a certain look about him, a sharp awareness in his wide amber eyes that made Joe wonder, that made him pause with a keen curiosity. Debbie didn’t seem to care that he might have died in the nursing home fire, in a shocking and painful death. Had she even bothered to look for him? Or was a child’s lost cat like a lost hair ribbon, of only passing note and no value?
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