Murder and a Song (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) by Nancy C. Davis
Authors: Nancy C. Davis
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Chapter 1
It was June in the West Yorkshire
village of Little Hamilton, and that meant trouble. Every year Patricia Lansbury ended up taking
a tour of the village to appease all her neighbours, who got unseasonably
irritable. She couldn’t blame them. June was the month of the YorkFest music
festival, the English North’s answer to Glastonbury, and it always caused major
disruption.
Pattie
thought that she was prepared this year.
She had been training her houseguests to become comfortable with loud
music. Every meal time she would turn up
the radio and watch their ears twitch.
Cats were not fond of sudden loud noises.
For
the last five years, Pattie’s house had been a luxury “Feline Retirement Home”,
and it was home to no less than thirteen rescues, strays and
foster-kitties. Pattie was fifty-six and
a widow, and her two sons had long since left home. It had been time that she did something for
herself, for a change!
That
morning she laid out thirteen bowls of food for thirteen cats, all to their particular
tastes. She had no objection to letting
her cats roam outdoors, but for the next ten days she wanted to keep them
safely inside, away from the chaos and noise of the festival.
Pattie
cleaned her spectacles, checked that all the windows were closed, and then set
off into the village.
The
weather was cool and the air felt crisp and clean. She loved days like these, where she could
walk for miles breathing in the country air, which reinvigorated her body and sharpened
her mind. It had been a while since
she’d had to properly exercise her mental faculties. The daily crossword just wasn’t good enough
sometimes. The last true test of her
wits had been a double murder case that winter, and she certainly didn’t want
to hope for another crime like that in Little Hamilton! The police had been thoughtful enough to ask
her to consult, considering how her son had once been a Detective with
them. The only good thing to come out of
that whole debacle is that she inherited another cat for her meowing brood,
Macy, who had belonged to her now-deceased neighbour Mister Mosby.
Pattie
checked on her elderly neighbour, Mrs Lancaster, and her cat Fiddles. Mrs Lancaster was complaining about all the
litter in the village since the festival-goers had started pouring in from
across the country. Why couldn’t they
clean up after themselves?
Pattie
visited Mrs Atkinson, who wasn’t her favourite person, but she owned the only
Persian in the village and Pattie just couldn’t resist running her fingers
through that long white fur. “The sooner that silly YorkFest finishes, the
sooner we’ll have our village back to ourselves!” Mrs Atkinson said, tutting.
“I
see no reason we can’t share,” Pattie told her kindly. “After all, it’s only
for a few days.”
“A
few days too many!” Mrs Atkinson replied.
All
of Pattie’s neighbours seemed to have something to complain about when it came
to the festival. Robert Fredrikson
wasn’t looking forward to the loud, thumping music from dawn until midnight. Betty Partridge and her husband were
obsessing over the state of the countryside, which would inevitably be left as
a muddy pit that would take all year to repair itself – just in time for next
year’s festival. The only people who
were happy were Benjamin Rosswell and his wife Clara, who owned the general
store as well as the B&B upstairs.
Festival time was their busiest month of the year.
Pattie
made her way to the rise near Hawthorn Crescent, the highest point of the
village at the top of the valley. From
there she could look down over the valley and across the wide fields, split
here and there by the streams
It was June in the West Yorkshire
village of Little Hamilton, and that meant trouble. Every year Patricia Lansbury ended up taking
a tour of the village to appease all her neighbours, who got unseasonably
irritable. She couldn’t blame them. June was the month of the YorkFest music
festival, the English North’s answer to Glastonbury, and it always caused major
disruption.
Pattie
thought that she was prepared this year.
She had been training her houseguests to become comfortable with loud
music. Every meal time she would turn up
the radio and watch their ears twitch.
Cats were not fond of sudden loud noises.
For
the last five years, Pattie’s house had been a luxury “Feline Retirement Home”,
and it was home to no less than thirteen rescues, strays and
foster-kitties. Pattie was fifty-six and
a widow, and her two sons had long since left home. It had been time that she did something for
herself, for a change!
That
morning she laid out thirteen bowls of food for thirteen cats, all to their particular
tastes. She had no objection to letting
her cats roam outdoors, but for the next ten days she wanted to keep them
safely inside, away from the chaos and noise of the festival.
Pattie
cleaned her spectacles, checked that all the windows were closed, and then set
off into the village.
The
weather was cool and the air felt crisp and clean. She loved days like these, where she could
walk for miles breathing in the country air, which reinvigorated her body and sharpened
her mind. It had been a while since
she’d had to properly exercise her mental faculties. The daily crossword just wasn’t good enough
sometimes. The last true test of her
wits had been a double murder case that winter, and she certainly didn’t want
to hope for another crime like that in Little Hamilton! The police had been thoughtful enough to ask
her to consult, considering how her son had once been a Detective with
them. The only good thing to come out of
that whole debacle is that she inherited another cat for her meowing brood,
Macy, who had belonged to her now-deceased neighbour Mister Mosby.
Pattie
checked on her elderly neighbour, Mrs Lancaster, and her cat Fiddles. Mrs Lancaster was complaining about all the
litter in the village since the festival-goers had started pouring in from
across the country. Why couldn’t they
clean up after themselves?
Pattie
visited Mrs Atkinson, who wasn’t her favourite person, but she owned the only
Persian in the village and Pattie just couldn’t resist running her fingers
through that long white fur. “The sooner that silly YorkFest finishes, the
sooner we’ll have our village back to ourselves!” Mrs Atkinson said, tutting.
“I
see no reason we can’t share,” Pattie told her kindly. “After all, it’s only
for a few days.”
“A
few days too many!” Mrs Atkinson replied.
All
of Pattie’s neighbours seemed to have something to complain about when it came
to the festival. Robert Fredrikson
wasn’t looking forward to the loud, thumping music from dawn until midnight. Betty Partridge and her husband were
obsessing over the state of the countryside, which would inevitably be left as
a muddy pit that would take all year to repair itself – just in time for next
year’s festival. The only people who
were happy were Benjamin Rosswell and his wife Clara, who owned the general
store as well as the B&B upstairs.
Festival time was their busiest month of the year.
Pattie
made her way to the rise near Hawthorn Crescent, the highest point of the
village at the top of the valley. From
there she could look down over the valley and across the wide fields, split
here and there by the streams
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