A Whisker of a Doubt Read online

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  To all the feral cat warriors out there saving lives every day. You are heroes.

  Acknowledgments

  Cat rescuers, especially those who work with feral cats, are special kinds of angels. People who care for ferals are outside late at night, early in the morning, in all kinds of weather, dealing with all kinds of people—all to make sure these cats have food, water, vaccines, and everything else they need to live their safest, most comfortable lives possible. The cats depend on their caretakers, even if they often can’t show it. There are so many dedicated feral cat caretakers I could mention, but the two I want to call out most are Journey Ewell and Joni Nelson. Journey, for everything you taught me and the adventures we had together, and Joni, for your dedication and commitment and all that you do. The cats need more people like you in the world.

  Thanks to my agent, John Talbot, and my team at St. Martin’s beginning with Nettie Finn, for bringing this book to life. And special thanks to Jason Allen-Forrest for reading this book and making it better; I so appreciate you!

  Of course, I wouldn’t be here without the rest of the Wickeds: Sherry Harris, Jessica Ellicott, JA Hennrikus/Julia Henry, Edith Maxwell/Maddie Day, and Barbara Ross. All these years later, the journey is still way better with all of you. Thanks for being my besties.

  For all the readers out there: thank you for supporting all us authors. We would be nowhere if it wasn’t for you.

  And finally, thank you to Aime, my partner in crime and the most patient person I know. This was your first experience with me and my deadlines, and you’re still around—and that’s saying something! Love you, babe.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday, December 22

  7:20 p.m.

  “Maddie, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Ethan Birdsong, my business partner and probably soon-to-be brother-in-law, asked. “It seems kind of crazy out there. And I’m not just talking about the snow.” Usually nothing much bothered Ethan—it was that chill, West Coast upbringing—but tonight worry lines creased his forehead.

  “It’s okay,” I said, gently moving my chunky orange cat JJ off my lap and setting him down on the couch. He gave a squeak of displeasure and went back to sleep, wrapping his tail around his eyes. I knew exactly how he felt. I dragged myself up and off the couch and deposited my empty tea mug on the coffee table. “I’ll be fast.”

  “But it’s late. And dark. And snowing,” my sister Val pointed out, snuggling up closer to Ethan under the fleecy blanket they were sharing. Ethan’s long legs stuck out from the bottom. Not surprising, given his six-foot-three frame. “We could both come. Just to make sure you’re okay, you know?” She didn’t actually look like she wanted to go anywhere, but I didn’t bother pointing that out.

  My sister and my business partner had gotten together last summer, after Val’s crappy marriage to her high-school boyfriend officially fell apart. They were perfect for each other and, for people who weren’t jaded about their own failed relationship status like I was, adorable together. And since I was currently jaded, the last thing I wanted tonight was to be a third wheel in their cuteness even if it was only for a bad-weather outing—and a non-romantic one at that.

  “Honestly, I’m good,” I said. “It’s not like it’s a bad neighborhood or anything.”

  That was actually an understatement. The Sea Spray Lane community in Turtle Point, where I was headed to feed a feral cat colony, was probably the most exclusive neighborhood in the entirety of Daybreak Island, which consisted of five towns. Most of the residents in Turtle Point were either generational Daybreakers from very old money, or people who had summered here for most of their lives and decided to retire in style. There were a couple of younger families, people who’d made a fortune on Wall Street or in Silicon Valley or something like that, but mostly the demographic was over sixty, and crime was pretty much nonexistent in Turtle Point. The island itself was usually light on crime anyway, but the biggest issue I could remember in Turtle Point was when seventy-year-old Henny Wilheim threatened to run her husband over with her car because he had, in her words, “oogled the waitress” when they’d gone out for their anniversary dinner.

  All of which accounted for the small police force—a fact my retired police chief grandfather used to gleefully point out often when he ran the Daybreak Harbor force, a much larger operation.

  That was the other thing about our island. Each town had its own police force, which gave all the residents an added feeling of comfort. In the winters when the island was at a quarter of its normal capacity it seemed like overkill, but when the population exploded during the summer season everyone was grateful for the extra oversight.

  But I knew what Ethan meant. Things had been surprisingly contentious out in the Sea Spray neighborhood because of the feral cat colony that had come to our attention a few weeks ago. Many of the residents found it appalling that these poor cats had dared to choose “their” woods to live in. Which meant they were opposed to feeders traipsing around out there, setting up cat shelters and feeding stations. When Katrina Denning, my rescue counterpart and animal control officer of Daybreak Harbor first told me there was major resistance to helping the cats, I’d thought she was exaggerating. Rescue people—and as a longtime rescuer and a current cat café owner I could say this—sometimes tended to inflate these types of situations if we felt the people weren’t doing enough to help. But I’d seen with my own eyes over the past couple of weeks how much the situation had declined. Someone had even vandalized one of the little shelters some kids from a local school had made us. I couldn’t be sure it was someone from the neighborhood, but it seemed pretty coincidental.

  Residents had gone from lamenting about the “filthy stray cats” living in their neighborhood to flat out refusing us access through a lot of our entry points to the woods. Lack of education—and a lot of snobbery—in my opinion. But we’d gritted our teeth, pasted on smiles, and attempted to educate, inform, and engage. And with the kindness of a couple of the neighbors with hearts, we had permission to get to the feeding stations through certain yards.

  It didn’t help that there had been a rash of thefts in the neighborhood—Christmas decorations, for heaven’s sake, so probably a bunch of bored rich kids doing the stealing—but the cat feeders were taking the blame. Some of these crazies were even talking about “removing” the cats through extreme measures. Unfortunately, when Katrina had heard about this last week it had sent her into a frenzy. She’d threatened some of the residents with animal cruelty charges, which ultimately resulted in her boss—the new police chief who had replaced Grandpa—banning her from caring for the colony. “At least until things settled down,” she’d told me, almost spitting the words, clearly offended at Chief McAuliffe’s approach.

  So, it wasn’t exactly a stable situation. Although I still highly doubted anyone was going to attack me.

  It wasn’t even my night to feed, but sin
ce Katrina had gotten herself banned and most of our other volunteers had quit because of all the turmoil, there was really no one else to do it. The only remaining volunteers were Adele Barrows, this guy Jonathan who couldn’t care less about the drama, and me. Adele was one of my volunteers at my cat café, JJ’s House of Purrs, and a quintessential crazy cat lady. She had more energy and spunk at sixty than pretty much anyone half her age—like me—especially when it came to cats. Jonathan worked with Katrina at the animal control office. He had covered last night, and Adele this morning, so it was my turn. So off I went: Maddie James, cat rescue superhero—who needed an extra cape because it looked pretty darn cold out.

  “Are you really sure you have to go?” Val asked doubtfully, looking out the window. I followed her gaze. The snow had started coming down harder. I reminded myself that I was the cats’ only hope of eating tonight and sucked it up. I was a rescuer. We were kind of like the U.S. Postal Service—neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow could stop us.

  “I do. And it won’t take long. They need food and I have to make sure their water isn’t frozen.” We’d placed heated water bowls in a shed with electricity that one kind resident let us use as a feeding station. But not all the cats went there, so we had to keep putting water out in the other shelters. Of course since it was freezing out, the water tended to ice over.

  Honestly, I did wish someone would go with me. I just didn’t want it to be Val. She’d complain the whole time about being cold and wet. And I didn’t want to interrupt her evening by taking Ethan up on his offer. Too bad my friend Damian was around. Damian Shaw owned and operated the Lobstah Shack down the street. Usually he was up for anything, but he’d closed up shop for the month to visit his family in Ohio for the holidays. I grabbed my heavy sweatshirt off the back of the couch and pulled it over my long-sleeved tee, then donned an extra pair of socks, my giant puffy jacket, and a scarf.

  “Your hat,” Val said, tossing it to me.

  “Thanks.” I pulled it on and tucked the rest of my hair inside my jacket. “Back soon.” I headed into the kitchen to fetch my boots and gloves and almost bumped into Grandpa Leo, who was heating up hot water for more tea.

  “Where you headed, doll?” Grandpa asked.

  “To feed the cats,” I said.

  “Roads aren’t great,” Grandpa said. “You want me to drive you? You’re a California girl now, after all.” He winked at me to show he was teasing, but I knew he would totally drive me if I asked him to.

  “Aww, come on, Grandpa,” I said, brushing his comment aside. “Once a New England driver, always a New England driver. I can handle a little snow.” I hoped. I hadn’t driven in snow in a long time. Like ten years.

  “Take my truck, not the car,” he said.

  I nodded. “Thanks.” I looked around for JJ and found him snuggled with one of the new cat café residents, Abe. Abe was a gray kitty with white paws who needed a friend. Found scrounging near a dumpster, he had been very sad and scared when he arrived. After a few days and a lot of loving from JJ and some of the other cats—and the rest of us, of course—he was slowly coming around.

  That was one of the things I loved the most about my café. It got kitties out of the stressful shelter environment and gave them a comfy home to live in while they waited for an adopter. People could come and visit with them here and see them in a more relaxed environment, which gave them more of a head start in the adoption process. And the fact that we got to use Grandpa Leo’s house for this endeavor and that I got to live with him again was just the icing on the cake.

  I gave JJ and Abe each a quick pet, then headed out.

  The driving was a little hairy, but not the worst snow I’d ever driven in. It was actually the good kind of snow. Light and fluffy, and the air wasn’t as terribly cold as it could’ve been, so the roads weren’t freezing as fast. I took my time, enjoying the quiet. If luck was on my side, I could be in and out of here in half an hour, and back home in my flannel jammies sipping hot tea in front of the Christmas tree and chatting with Grandpa by nine.

  I’d always loved being home for Christmas, although this year without Grandma would be really strange. And hard for everyone, especially Grandpa. But it would make the rest of us being together even more sweet, especially now that Val was finally happy.

  The thought depressed me a little. I was happy Val was happy, of course. I’d just thought that it was my turn too. My budding relationship with local hottie dog groomer Lucas Davenport had been going so well—until that stupid trip he took off-island last month. Thinking about it made me mad all over again. Who just takes a ferry and promises to be back in a few days, then doesn’t come back at all? I still couldn’t quite believe it. Lucas had gone to Boston for a gig with his band, the Scurvy Elephants, which happened to coincide with a dog-grooming conference. It had been right before Thanksgiving, and he was supposed to be gone four days max. Then a bad storm shut down the ferry services for a couple of days.

  But when they got back up and running, Lucas didn’t return on one. All I got was a voice mail the night they began ferry service again that said he had something to take care of and needed to be away for a while.

  And then nothing else. Like, nothing. He didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t answer my calls or texts. For a while I was freaking out thinking something had happened to him. It took me a while to come to grips with the fact that he’d blown me off. Pure and simple. Without even bothering to tell me he didn’t want to see me anymore.

  Since we’d never made our relationship “official” or declared ourselves a couple, I wasn’t sure how mad I could be. But then, after agonizing about it for three weeks, I’d finally decided anyone who could do something like that was basically a terrible human, and I couldn’t waste any more energy on it. No more wondering, no more worrying, and definitely no more contact—if he ever bothered to try to get back in touch.

  At this rate, I’d be surprised if he came back at all, although he did have a business here. Which made the whole thing make even less sense. But he wasn’t from here, so he’d probably decided that he didn’t want to deal with another Daybreak Island winter. It could get kind of miserable for sure, especially if you weren’t used to the isolation. And if you were a business owner, the lack of customers could easily shock you—both mentally and financially. But he’d left the business up and running. I’d taken a few casual trips by to confirm that his groomers were still there working.

  I knew for a fact that Lucas had taken a few plumbing jobs to plump up his bank account in the off-season. I also knew that he had no desire to ever do plumbing again, so he was probably regretting having to do that. His dad had taught him in the hopes that he’d take over the family business. Instead, Lucas had left Virginia without a backward glance, joined a band, went to grooming school, and ended up here on a little island off the coast of Massachusetts, where he’d claimed to be happy.

  I thought he’d been perfect. Perfect for me, at least.

  “No such thing, Mads,” I said aloud to myself, putting my blinker on and peering through the swirling snow as I prepared to turn onto Sea Spray Lane. “He’s just a guy. Actually, he’s a jerk.” What other word was there for someone who’d ghosted me like that?

  As I made the right turn, a car coming way too fast out of the cul-de-sac nearly slid into me. “Hey! What’s wrong with you?” I smacked my horn. Then realized the car looked a lot like Katrina’s dark gray Honda Accord. I squinted at my rearview mirror, trying to see for sure, but the car had already fishtailed off the street and was hurtling away, going way too fast for the weather conditions.

  It couldn’t be Katrina. She’d been banned, with the subtle threat of losing her job. Katrina knew that her being here would just cause trouble. Plus, Honda Accords were a dime a dozen.

  But not all of them had a sticker on the rear window that read ADOPT, DON’T SHOP, like hers did. Like this one did.

  I grabbed my cell and scrolled to her number, keeping one eye on the snowy road. I
f she’d been out here and fed, even undercover, she could’ve at least told me so I didn’t make the trip. But her phone went directly to voice mail.

  Weird. She was never out of touch. Especially now, with the situation so precarious.

  Tossing my phone back into my bag, I pushed her and the car out of my mind as I parked on the side of the road and prepared to go out into the snow. I prayed it would be an uneventful night.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, December 22

  8:15 p.m.

  The Christmas lights were off at the Prousts’ house.

  I’m not sure exactly why I noticed this in the middle of the snowstorm, which had picked up in the last few minutes. I was trying to make sure I didn’t stray from the Hacketts’ property on my way into the woods, and I should’ve been more focused on how my hands and feet were already freezing and I hadn’t even started my job yet. But I’d been in this neighborhood enough over the past few weeks that I could tell you everyone’s Christmas decoration story. Especially given the decoration theft scandal.

  The Prousts, by contrast to some of the other homes, hadn’t had anything stolen—at least that I’d heard—and they kind of flaunted it by lighting up every night. Virgil, the husband, had spent many a day out here tweaking and adjusting their decorations while his creepy wife, June, watched from some window. And their lights were plentiful: lining the roof, dripping down over the top-floor windows, winding around the giant pine tree in their front yard. And they were all white, of course. The only outlier was a small tree out front that sported multicolored, twinkling lights. White candles burned in every window. A classy, white-lighted Frosty the Snowman stood on their farmer’s porch, waving his lit-up broom at visitors. But tonight, Frosty was as dull and dark as everything else.

  I paused for a moment, hefting my giant bag of cat food to my other arm, and blinked through the snow swirling at me. I would’ve thought there was a power outage, but the two houses on either side of the Prousts’ blazed brightly—the Barneses’ and the Hacketts’. The Hacketts had the only house on the cul-de-sac with multicolored lights—a selection that rivaled the Prousts’. I also knew from hanging around here way too much that multicolored lights were quite frowned upon in the neighborhood. They were considered crass. Lilah Gilmore, our most prolific island gossip who lived at the top of the street, would tell me that colored lights meant the Hacketts were “new money.” Apparently people with old money considered white lights much more respectable. Which made me wonder if Virgil Proust had run out of white lights for his little tree out front, or if he was making some kind of statement.