“This is for the cat?”
“We don’t call him the cat,” Hannah said quickly.
“This is for Mr. Mustachio?” He’d moved in with a bunch of delusional cat-fiends, but as long as he was here, he would have to cater to their delusion. At least he liked cats. Better than he liked people most of the time. [p. 28]
Quintessential cosy crime: stoic ex-cop Sam Jones has moved into Chez Celine, an artists' cooperative, where he hopes to write detective novels and maybe have a sideline in private investigation. Sam is surprised to find that his landlord is a cat -- the eponymous Mr Mustachio, a splendid orange Persian -- but intrigued by Algernon, the late owner's cute ward, who signs things. ("Mr Mustachio doesn't have hands.") When Mr Mustachio is accused of breaking a million-dollar vase, Sam discovers the unsavoury undercurrents of Chez Celine.
This was great fun, with a vividly-written cast and a central mystery that ... well, seemed obvious to me, but the individuals concerned didn't know they were living in that kind of novel. I read this in a couple of hours, on a cold and gloomy day, and went straight on to the next in the series.
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