Gerry Coneybear has her hands full. Between her work as a cartoonist and children’s book author, raising one-year-old Dot with partner Doug, and caring for the 19 cats her late aunt left her—along with the rambling old house known as The Maples—life in the village of Lovering on the Ottawa River is anything but quiet. Add a busy social calendar, and Gerry is already stretched thin.

So what does she do? She signs up for a three-month, once-a-week art conservation internship in downtown Montreal. It’s chaotic, yes—but also invigorating. Gerry finds purpose volunteering at a women’s shelter, strikes up a friendship with a homeless man, and starts to notice a troubling pattern of thefts—small and not-so-small—back home in Lovering.

Theft is one thing. But when a suspicious death rocks the village, Gerry and her faithful friend Prudence are once again pulled into a mystery with deadly consequences.

Gerry opened the door, and Monkey padded onto the porch, settling beside the boot tray. Dot followed the cat, sat down on the floor, and began playing with the footwear.

"No, don't touch that, Dot. Dirty. Dirty. And you." She addressed the cat. "No more chewing on people's shoes."

She bent to pick Dot up, then paused and looked closely at Sergei's boots.

Like at least half of Lovering's men, he wore the ubiquitous golden leather workboots. They looked to be in good shape. Except--the tongue of the left one was frayed at the top, as if it had been gnawed by something. Like a cat.

Gerry quickly flipped the tongue down. There, in indelible marker, so he could find them quickly from piles of similar ones at the curling rink, Doug had written "D.S."

"Okay," Gerry said faintly. "Okay, everybody. Let's get our snack and go back to the den."

Monkey accompanied them. Once in the den, Gerry closed the door, feeling shaky. There was no lock on the door, but still… She turned the TV back on but reduced the volume. Dot ate crackers while Gerry watched the clock. One hour till the Markovs leave. Fifty minutes. Forty-five. At thirty-five minutes to go, someone knocked at the door and Gerry jumped.

"Gerry, any more bathroom cleanser? Sergei finish."

Gerry replied and found her voice raspy in her throat. "Yes. There's a new one under the kitchen sink."

"Okay. Thank you."

Ten more minutes went by. A quarter to twelve. Ten to twelve. With five minutes to go, Natalya was again at the door. "We finish, Gerry. You leave the money somewhere?"

Gerry swore under her breath. Usually, she left the cash on the table in the living room. Where was her purse? Probably in the kitchen hanging off a doorknob where it usually was. She swore again, thinking fast.

"I'm coming," she called. "Dot, just stay here, okay? Mommy has to do something."

Dot, entranced by a game show's contestants dressed in costumes, a show she usually didn't get to watch, didn't notice Gerry let herself out of the den and close the door behind her. Monkey came along.

When Gerry reached the kitchen, she saw the Markovs on the side porch, changing their shoes. Don't look. Don't look at their feet, she warned herself. But Dot's word--peets--popped into her head, and an absurd urge to laugh bubbled up. Don't look at their peets. What stopped her was the chilling thought that she might be just five feet away from the person who had killed Ian Murchison--and had been cold-blooded enough to steal and wear his boots.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to look up as she handed Natalya the money. "Thank you." She made herself smile.

They mumbled their thanks and goodbyes before getting into their van. Gerry stood at the sink, gazing out the window. Sergei lit a cigarette while Natalya, in the passenger seat, smiled and waved as Sergei backed the van up. Gerry sagged. She hoped Natalya wasn't involved but wasn't sure that was possible.

She thought about what she was going to say, then phoned the police.