NATIONAL BESTSELLER • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY SUSPENSE MAGAZINE From the front flap: Rita Mae Brown and her feline co-author Sneaky Pie Brown return with a mystery starring Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, intrepid kitty sleuths Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, and Tee Tucker, the ever-faithful crime-solving corgi. This time around, Harry and her animal friends track a killer whose trail has gone as cold as the weather in December. Praise for Nine Lives to Die   “Witty and entertaining . . . a recipe for continued success and an engaging read.” — Richmond Times-Dispatch   “The unabashed loves of [Rita Mae Brown’s] life . . . are infectious. Perhaps because they are so clearly heartfelt, it’s easy to be swept up in the glory of her passions.” — New York Journal of Books “Murder and mayhem are the order of the day in bestseller [Rita Mae] Brown’s well-plotted twenty-second Mrs. Murphy mystery. . . . Brown’s idyllic world, with its Christian values, talking animals, and sympathetic middle-aged pet owners, has understandably struck a chord with many readers.” — Publishers Weekly   “Rita Mae Brown, along with . . . Sneaky Pie, have made Harry Harristeen and her feline companion, Mrs. Murphy, household names.” — Library Journal Praise for the Mrs. Murphy mysteries   “As feline collaborators go, you couldn’t ask for better than Sneaky Pie Brown.” —The New York Times Book Review Rita Mae Brown is the bestselling author of the Sneaky Pie Brown series; the Sister Jane series;  A Nose for Justice and Murder Unleashed; Rubyfruit Jungle; In Her Day; and Six of One, as well as several other novels. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter and a poet, Brown lives in Afton, Virginia.   Sneaky Pie Brown , a tiger cat born somewhere in Albemarle County, Virginia, was discovered by Rita Mae Brown at her local SPCA. They have collaborated on twenty-one previous Mrs. Murphy mysteries—in addition to Sneaky Pie’s Cookbook for Mystery Lovers and Sneaky Pie for President . 1 “Gin!” “I don’t believe it.” Susan Tucker stared at the cards that her childhood friend, Harriett Haristeen, “Harry,” had smacked down. The six other women in the room, all slack-­jawed, came over to view the winning card. “Well, Susan, she did,” BoomBoom Craycroft, another childhood friend, said and smiled. “Harry can’t play cards worth squat,” Susan complained. “Well, I did tonight.” Harry beamed. “Susan, mark your calendar, Tuesday, December third, my best friend Harry knocked the stuffing out of me at gin.” Jessica Hexham was petite and middle-­aged, well dressed even though the evening was relaxed. She murmured, “Maybe something less exuberant for the calendar—­just a red-­letter day?” “Do you remember when Miss Donleavey lectured us about red-­letter days on the ancient Roman calendar?” Susan rolled her eyes. BoomBoom, Susan, and Harry had been in the same class at old Crozet High School. While the buildings still stood, students now attended Western Albemarle High School, a large complex consolidating former small community schools. Jessica Hexham, Alicia Palmer, Charlene Vavilov, and Arden Higham had not. Jessica had attended Miss Porter’s; Alicia, Orange High School; Arden, Buck­ingham High; and Charlene, older than the others, had attended St. Catherine’s in Richmond. With the exception of Jessica, all were central Virginia natives. Jessica, born and raised in Concord, Massachusetts, often found them amusing while contradictory at times, and they were reliably solid friends. “Alea jacta est,” Susan pronounced with emphasis. Harry translated. “The die is cast. Said when Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon in 49 B.C. at the head of the Thirteenth Legion. He knew civil war would follow.” “Talk about a red-­letter day,” said BoomBoom. “Isn’t it something, though, how a device thousands of years old still works, I mean, a red-­letter day? God bless Miss Donleavey. She taught us well.” Jessica also recalled her Latin teacher at the expensive private school, perhaps less fondly. “I would never bless Miss Greely.” The others laughed. “Charlene, bet you took Latin at St. Catherine’s,” Alicia wondered. “You couldn’t go to college without two years of it,” said Charlene. “I took four. It’s helped me more than I could know when I hated memorizing those conjugations.” She laughed. “Funny, isn’t it?” the uncommonly beautiful Alicia said. “What we use? What we remember?” “What I remember, apart from amo, amas, amat, was Miss Donleavey’s mysterious disappearance. Never found her.” Harry picked up the cards to shuffle. Susan reached across the card table, placing her hand on Harry’s forearm. “Don’t you dare.” “Huh?” Harry blinked. “I’ll shuffle.” “Are you calling me a cheat?” Harry’s voice rose. “No, but you won the last hand, so it’s my turn to shuffle. Plus, what if you have a hot hand?” Susan used the gambling term. “I’d better tell that to my husband.” This evoked more laughter. The lights flickered, once,