I have always liked quirky protagonists in mysteries. Here are a few excerpts:

I have always had sensitive feet. My mother used to argue with the shoe salesmen at J.C. Penney’s about my high arches and long toes, but their only response was to cram my protesting metatarsals into penny loafers and sneakers mass produced for kids with ordinary feet. Those shoes pinched and rubbed the joy out of my boyhood. I was nearly thirty before I discovered the Scribe, a handmade shoe by Bally. For a time my feet were happy.

The sun was riding high, I was on a new case, and I had been made a permanent member of the claims adjusters club. This was clearly my lucky day. Chanting “a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh,” I wheeled out of the parking lot and headed toward the low income residential district where the Marshalls lived. “In the jungle the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight,” I sang as I tapped the gas pedal to the rhythm of my music. I couldn’t remember the second verse so returned to a few more choruses of “a-weema-weh’s.”

Macavity met me half way down the dock, circling around my legs like a hostile predator, letting me know just how mad he was that I had abandoned him for so long.
“Get over it,” I said, and Macavity glared up at me with his one green eye and his one hazel eye. I glared back at him with my mismatched eyes, but he always wins. His eyes were the reason I’d rescued him when he was only a kitten. I’d gone with a friend to get a cat for her and ended up with one of my own.
“Okay, I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”
Somewhat appeased, Macavity ran on ahead. I knew exactly where he’d be – standing next to his treat jar, expecting his usual and then some. Sometimes he can be a real pain. But I can’t imagine life without him.

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