Synopsis

Bijou, a plucky modern-day house cat with an ancestral Viking spirit, spends her time running the Fox Burrow Pet Inn with her human, Spencer (she/her), and her assistant, Skunk, a mentally negligible Pomeranian. Together, the happy trio has created a safe haven for four-legged guests in their remote town of Grey Birch. But when a handsome baker from California comes to the inn with his piglet Hamlet and pitbull puppy Fennec, everything changes. And when a shocking murder occurs and Fennec goes missing in the Denver area, Bijou must dive paws-first into solving the mystery before another life is taken — maybe even her own.

Amazon * B&N * Kobo * IndieBound

Praise

“A cozy told from a unique purr-spective makes for an interesting series debut. Cat lovers in particular will find Bijou, an adroit Norwegian Forest Cat, irresistible.” — T. C. LoTempio, national best-selling author of the Nick and Nora mysteries

“A don’t-miss witty and whimsical cozy with a feisty feline sleuth that pawsitively pounces off the page.” ―Elizabeth Craig, best-selling author of the Myrtle Clover mysteries

“Charming. Witty. Fun. Bijou, the Viking cat, the narrator of Cold Snap, is a fearless feline who will capture reader’s hearts and keep them entertained. Cat lovers will be delighted by Schneider’s tale.” —Abby Collette, Wall Street Journal best-selling author of An Ice Cream Parlor Mystery series

“I found Codi Schneider to be a creative writer with compassionate insight into feline thinking. Cold Snap is a steady stream of humor, suspense, and amazing antics of Bijou the Viking cat. This novel is refreshing as you never know what Bijou will do next or what other animal she will enlist as her accomplice. The author keeps you entertained with the drama animals come up with while the humans fall in love, start a business, and solve a crime. This novel was a delight to read…I highly recommend this story to animal lovers.” —Readers’ Favorite, 5 stars!

“There is a genuine mystery at the heart of the novel . . . A sweet and often amusing animal-centered whodunit.” —Kirkus Reviews

A note from Codi about her love for animals

“My favorite thing about traveling is not only meeting people from all around the world, but meeting the animals. Whether it’s making friends with horses in Egypt, cows in India, or dogs and cats in Japan and Thailand, I’m always drawn to their welfare and to their stories. I find that the more animals I meet and observe, the more I’m inspired to write from their perspectives.”

Excerpt

Crime doesn’t often visit the town of Gray Birch, Colorado, because it can’t squeeze itself over or between the mountains. They’re too high, you see. And too close together. Even the clouds here have to tuck in the abdomen just to pass by. I’d certainly never seen Crime in my seven years as a resident. Not until last summer. Well, spring, really. It all happened last spring under the cloak of a white sky that didn’t so much murmur mystery as conundrum. And this crime, this conundrum, blew in with the snow—just as cold, just as shocking.

But first, before I recount this tale, an introduction. You may call me Bijou. Though Brynhild or Freydis would be more fitting because, despite my French name, I’m 100 percent Norwegian Forest cat. Possibly 99 percent. I know this because I have the beautiful long fur. And the strength of ten bears. Also, I’ve earned exactly 103 tabby stripes for bravery.

My ancestors, dear reader, were Viking cats. Rapturous specimens and decorated longship mousers possessed with the Ancient Bloat of Respect. That bloat now resides on me. Some might say I’m overweight, but I know better. This bloat has been passed down through posterity and hangs proudly between my knees. And like all forms of respect, it must be fed frequently.

Now, as a modern-day Viking cat, you’d think I’d bat the jowls of Crime with rapid-fire paws. But when I trotted along the riverpath that shockingly snowy night of June 1 and stumbled upon the beaten and bloodied corpse, I wasn’t in my most Vikingest state. I was too full of maple cupcakes and bubble ale. For instead of anticipating Crime that night, I’d anticipated, and greatly indulged in, the grand opening of Witching Flour, Gray Birch’s new bakery. And I wasn’t alone; nearly the whole town had come out for it.

The corpse was, as corpses tend to be, very dead. It laid supine on the riverpath, propped up by an unenthusiastic shrubbery. The side of its head was matted with blood and rogue spindrifts of river spray, and one hand lay palm-up on the ground, its fingers extended as though reaching for something important. Something unseen.

Donning my imaginary Viking helmet and hefting my imaginary Viking shield, I crept closer. Overhead more clouds gathered, crowning the mountains and murmuring the many merits of more snow. The flakes coming from these springtime drifters were heavy and thick, cloaking the sur- rounding flowers in buttercream. This storm, I knew, had angered the townspeople. They were desperate for summer, their knobby knees revealed beneath paisley skirts just that night. Possibly, I thought, closing in on the shrubbery, this much blood would anger them as well.

My paws sinking into winter’s spite, I circled the shrubbery to investigate the matter of identity. Reaching the riverside, I stopped to face the corpse head-on. Now we Viking cats have many expectations, but I had not expected recognition. I stared at this face I knew, but there was a failing to see eye to eye. Its eyes were empty and mine full.

For a long moment, time stood still, all noise and all thought drowned in the shock of falling snow.

And then, with a buzz of oddly composed clarity, I knew it was imperative I search for that same something important and that same something unseen those stiff, white fingers reached for. I knew now what it was. Who it was. He could be hiding. He hated violence. He hated cold and darkness. I called for him, but, of course, he couldn’t answer. Lifting my paw, I pushed off, searching every bush and bramble, checking every hollow and tree well, arching around rocks and stuffing myself in spaces never meant for a Viking’s vast- ness. I gave extra care to check the river, my eyes piercing the moonless waves and coils—the water slick and soft as it slid over its rocky bed.

But there was nothing. No tracks in the snow, no scent upon the wind, no sound but the whisper of my own paws. Returning to the shrubbery, I forced myself to face those poor, sightless eyes head-on. Then, without warning, a war cry ascended from my lips, ballast to the weight and thump of my dropping heart.

Swallowing, I found my throat arid. Unfamiliar with the ways of Crime, I racked my brain while my stomach roiled. All the while, that poor, dead face stared at me with a horrid, tactless derision.

Then I saw it. The tiny circle of red webbing. His collar, silver tag faceup, the name, Fennec, engraved across the slick surface. It lay half-buried in the snow, inches from the corpse’s outstretched fingers.

Any air I still possessed flung itself from behind my incisors and legged it for Lapland. A rush of sound filled my ears as though the whole of the river had drained into their canals. Dizzy, I tipped to the side and made a snow cat on what was recently a burgeoning mushroom.

A Viking, I mused, staring up at the tumbling flakes, really should possess more fortitude. Possibly though, Crimes of Awfulness took getting used to. There had never been any murders or dognappings in this town before. There were a few hundred stone cottages nestled in the forested valley between the mountains, yes. There were mild-to-medium cases of altitude sickness and honeyed lattes peppered with cayenne, yes. Murders and dognappings, no.

Swiveling my neck, I looked again at that once kindly face I knew and loosed a lament that could chip wood. I was just a splat in the snow. A gray-and-black-striped mop, wrung out and left to dry under the watchful eye of a blizzard. Bijous weren’t meant for shock. They were meant for swording, fjording, and consuming great quantities of salted cod.

The minutes floated by as I mused darkly on offenses against the law, letting the snow mound on my midriff and waiting, waiting for Trauma to vacate the system.

Excerpted with permission from COLD SNAP: A Novel by Codi Schneider. © 2021, Codi Schneider. Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint, a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Trailer

About the Author

Codi Schneider was raised in the snowy mountains of Colorado on a steady diet of books. She is a mystery-loving animal enthusiast who, when not writing, can be found traveling the world on horseback. She lives in Denver with her husband, two horses, and a cat who is not a Viking but a lover of REM sleep.

Website * Twitter * Facebook * Instagram