Chapter 1

For a second, I wasn't sure I was seeing what I seemed to be seeing, which was a small, round, sesame water cracker topped with half a sardine in Louisiana hot sauce and a slice of black olive making its way across Marcus Gordon's table seemingly under its own steam. I was tired. Was I just hallucinating? I pushed my bangs off my forehead, rubbed the space between my eyes with the heel of my hand and looked again. No, it was definitely moving, sliding across the speckled Formica tabletop like a slap shot from a hockey stick.

Or a swat from a cat's paw. An invisible cat's paw.

I leaned forward, snatching the cracker off the table as Marcus turned from the counter. It was too late to pretend I was just brushing away a few crumbs.

"I didn't think you'd like those," he said. There was a cute little furrow on the bridge of his nose, and a lock of dark, wavy hair had fallen onto his forehead. I shook my head. This wasn't a good time to get distracted by how Detective Marcus Gordon looked when he frowned . . . or smiled . . . or walked across a room. I'd stopped by so he could check out a chair I'd gotten from my neighbor Rebecca—Marcus was certain he could fix it—and accepted his offer of a glass of lemonade and what was looking like a rather unique take on crackers and cheese.

"They, uh, just looked so good I thought I'd try one," I said. Okay, that wasn't exactly the truth. I liked the sesame crackers and the black olives, but I wasn't that crazy about the sardines in hot sauce. On the other hand, I couldn't put the cracker back on the plate and let Marcus eat it after it had been batted all over the table by a small, gray tabby cat, invisible or otherwise.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

I nodded, trying not to inhale the combination of fish, spices and olives. "Cheers," I said, raising the cracker in a kind of toast. Then I stuffed the entire thing in my mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed. And immediately began coughing.

Marcus started over to me, and I waved a hand to let him know I was all right. "I'm okay," I rasped. "It was just . . . spicier than I expected."

"Kinda sneaks up on you," he agreed. There was a hint of a smile in his blue eyes. "Would you rather have cheese?" He'd been about to slice a block of mozzarella.

"Please," I said, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose from my ponytail behind one ear. He turned back to the counter, and I reached for my glass of lemonade to rinse away some of the heat in my mouth. I glared in the general direction of where I figured my cat Owen was. I knew he was the culprit. He loved sardines. And he was the only cat I knew that could become, well, invisible. That cracker hadn't hopped down from the plate and gone sliding across the table under its own steam.

I pulled the plate closer in case he got the idea to try for another treat. And since Marcus had his back turned, I leaned forward and felt around, hoping that even though I couldn't see Owen, I could maybe get lucky and be able to grab him.

Not a chance. I couldn't see the cat, but he could see me, and all he had to do was jump out of the way of my sweeping hand. That was the problem with having a cat that could disappear at will. He did, generally when he wanted to do the opposite of whatever it was I wanted him to do—like horn in on my visit with Marcus instead of staying home. And how the heck was I going to get Owen back to the house again? He'd obviously snuck into my truck and then hopped out when I'd gotten here. Could I trust him to follow me when I was ready to leave? I needed some incentive.

I took another drink and palmed one of the sardine–topped crackers, hoping Marcus hadn't counted exactly how many he'd put on the plate. Then I pushed my chair back and stood up, brushing a few stray cracker crumbs off my jeans. "I think I might have left my phone in the truck," I said. "I'm just going to check. I'll be right back." I kept the hand holding the cracker down by my leg, hoping it would be enough to entice Owen. I knew he'd be tempted to just sit on the table and eat all the sardines from the plate. I was hoping he was smart enough not to try it.

"Owen," I stage–whispered, as soon as I was outside and around the side of the house. I looked around but I couldn't see him, of course. "You better be out here."

I opened the driver's door of the truck, set the cracker in the middle of the seat and waited. After a long moment, Owen appeared, gray head down, sniffing the food. I'm tall enough that when I leaned across the bench seat my face was inches from his. "You are in so much trouble," I hissed. He looked up at me, all innocent, golden eyes. "How would I have explained things if Marcus had seen that cracker moving across the table all byitself, like it had little wheels on the bottom?"

The cat looked intently at me and it almost seemed as though he shrugged. Then he nosed the olive ring off the top of the sardine, bent down and ate it. I waited for him to spit it back out or at least make a face. All he did was lick his whiskers.

"Don't tell me you like olives, too?" I said. "You know what Roma will say." Roma Davidson was one of my closest friends in Mayville Heights and she was also the town veterinarian.

Owen made a face and shook his furry tabby head at the sound of Roma's name. She wasn't one of his favorite people, although in the last several months it had seemed like he might be warming up to her. At least a little.

Roma had been very insistent that I was feeding Owen and his brother, Hercules, way too much people food. And I probably would have agreed that she was right, if they'd really been just everyday house cats, which they clearly weren't. Along with Owen's invisibility, Hercules had the ability to walk through walls . . . and doors and pretty much any other solid object that got in his way.

Of course, Roma didn't know about the cats' unique skills. No one did. It wasn't the kind of thing I could casually drop into a conversation without seeming more than a little . . . well . . . crazy.

Owen used his paw to nudge the chunk of sardine onto the seat. Then he sniffed it. He sniffed everything he ate. If I gave him four identical kitty treats, he'd sniff each one before it went in his mouth.

"You're not going to like that," I said, pointing at the bit of fish. "It's Louisiana hot sauce. Hot. Sauce." I emphasized the last two words. Owen being Owen, he immediately gobbled up the fish. I waited for him to yowl and spit it back out again.

He didn't so much as gasp. His kitty eyes didn't water. He licked the last of the hot sauce from the top of the cracker and then pushed it at me.

"Thank you, but I don't think so," I said. "I'm going to go back inside now, and you're going to stay here."

He blinked and vanished.

"Okay," I said, straightening up. "I guess that means I'll have to stop at Harry Taylor's on the way home and give that bag of sardine crackers in the glove compartment to Boris. I can't give them to you if I can't see you, and I don't want them to get stale."

I knew Owen's tail had to be twitching in annoyance, even if I couldn't see it. Boris was Harry Taylor Junior's dog, a big, gentle German shepherd, and Owen's mortal enemy—if a cat can have a mortal enemy. When all else failed, the threat of Boris getting the cats' treats was usually enough to convince them to see things my way.

I waited for Owen to reappear. He didn't. Was he trying to see if I was bluffing? Maybe I'd used Boris as a negotiating tool one time too many. Maybe I was giving the cat way too much credit. Maybe he hadn't understood a word I'd said. I was on the fence about how well Owen, and his brother Hercules, could follow a conversation. On the other hand . . . I leaned along the seat again, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a small, plastic ziplock bag about half–full of my homemade sardine and cheese cat treats. "I'll keep them with me so I don't forget to stop at Harry's," I said.

That did it. Owen yowled his objections. Maybe he did understand what I was saying. Silently, I counted to three and he appeared on the seat again.

I held up the bag. "You can have the whole bag, if you stay here."

He glared at me, eyes narrowed.

"Your choice," I said.

I started to back out of the truck and Marcus spoke behind me. "Did you find it?" He was wearing his usual citrus–scented aftershave, much nicer than Owen's sardine breath.

I shot the cat a look and make a small motion with one hand, both of which meant, disappear, now.

One thing all cats know—whether or not they have superpowers—is when they have the upper hand. Owen sat up straighter, looked around me and gave a pitiful meow.

"Kathleen, is that Owen?" Marcus asked.

I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out slowly and twisted to look at him over my shoulder. "I guess he hid in the truck," I said. "He does that sometimes. I was just going to give him a few crackers and then hopefully he'll take a nap." I turned back to look at the cat. He'd closed his eyes and hung his head. His shoulders were slumped. If they gave Academy Awards for cat acting, Owen would have won. He looked pathetic.

"You can't leave him out here," Marcus said. "Bring him inside."

I could see the gleam of one golden eye as Owen watched to see what I'd do. "I don't think that's a good idea," I started.

"He can't hurt anything in the house."

I gave Marcus a half smile because I already knew I'd lost. I'd been bested by a small gray cat. And not for the first time.