An Incantation of Cats

by Clea Simon

  Another shrug. “I think. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  Becca paused, cataloging the theft—or the other woman’s sudden reluctance to discuss it—and moved on, her hand creeping to the pendant in the hollow of her throat. “Well, then, if you don’t think anyone has been in here, I have to ask. Looking at all those jars…is there any chance that maybe…I mean, so many of those roots look alike…”

  “You think I nearly poisoned myself?” The other woman’s eyes went wide. “You mean, by accident, right?”

  Becca didn’t respond, and Clara knew she was weighing the possibilities. The cat couldn’t imagine why a human would choose to make herself sick. Then again, Laurel had eaten a moth once, with disturbing results, and Harriet had no problem coughing up furballs with amazing regularity.

  “People make mistakes.” Becca’s response, when it finally came, was phrased to sound perfectly noncommittal.

  “Not possible. I know what wolf’s bane looks like.” The woman behind the counter turned again, taking in the various botanicals. “We don’t even have it here. I mean, why would we?”

  “Wolf’s bane does have medicinal uses,” Becca pointed out. “You said so yourself.”

  “And it can also be used for harm,” Gaia shot back. “You know the rule.”

  A nod from Becca. “An ye harm none, do what ye will,” she recited. “But that doesn’t mean botanicas and purveyors to the craft don’t stock it.”

  “We don’t.” Gaia was firm. “I do all the buying. Well, with Margaret, Margaret Cross. She’s the owner.”

  Becca’s face fell and Clara knew why. The kind-hearted girl didn’t want to think that the older woman was behind the attempted poisoning—or the attempted cover up. Still, she rallied as she recalled the initial reason for her visit. Finally, she had her opening.

  “Of course,” she said, and leaned forward, as if about to impart a secret. “Actually, I’m really here to see Margaret. Is she available?”

  “You know Margaret?” A quizzical lift of one pierced brow. But as Becca fumbled for an answer, Gaia provided her own. “Oh, yeah, you must have gotten her okay to post your notice. She’s not—I haven’t seen her or her crazy sister at all today. But is there something I can help you with?”

  “No.” Becca bit her lip, which she always did when she was thinking. Clara did her best to still her tail, which threatened to lash in anticipation, and watched, waiting to see what her person would do. “It’s personal, to be honest. Do you know how I can reach her?”

  “I have her cell number.” Gaia pulled open a drawer beneath the register.

  “So do I,” Becca admitted. “She’s not answering.”

  “That’s curious.” Gaia leaned back, her hands still on the drawer. “Usually, she’s on top of everything. In everything, I should say. The woman has no boundaries.”

  Something about Becca’s expression must have given her thoughts away, because Gaia’s eyes went wide. “You don’t think she’s…the wolf’s bane,” she said, her voice growing breathless.

  “You mean that maybe she got her hands on some? And that maybe somehow, by mistake maybe…” Becca’s voice went high and tight, as Clara knew it did when she was about to lie, or almost lie. “Would you have any reason to suspect her?”

  “Any reason, such as that she has accused you of embezzling.” Clara provided the missing words. “Accused you of stealing from the register you have your hands on?”

  “Suspect?” Gaia tilted her head, looking for all the world like Laurel at her most quizzical. “Why would she…no, that’s not what I meant.”

  Becca and Clara both waited as the other woman shook her head. “I just mean, well, if she’s not answering, and she’s not here. Maybe it wasn’t just me. Maybe someone has tried to poison her, too.”

  Chapter 6

  “Let’s not panic.” Becca put out her hands in a calming gesture as Gaia tensed, ready to run from behind the counter. “There’s no reason to jump to conclusions here.”

  “But you don’t know.” The counter girl sounded breathless, gulping her words like air. “I mean, we share mugs. I brew a big pot of tea first thing in the day…maybe it wasn’t meant for me. Maybe Margaret…”

  “Please calm down.” Becca spoke softly but firmly, like one would to a panicked kitten. She couldn’t be about to share her suspicions, could she? Clara wondered, when Becca responded with a question of her own. “What was your last interaction with her?”

  “Like I said, I spoke to her this morning. She called right before I took my break. She wanted to confirm my schedule.”

  Becca listened without comment, and Clara didn’t need Laurel’s powers to know why. The older woman had probably checked in to make sure her staffer was going to be in the store before she visited Becca. That didn’t seem to be information Becca was ready to share with her younger client, though. “And you haven’t heard from her since?”

  “No.” Gaia sucked her lips. “But, well, you know I took a kind of long-ish break to go see you. And then, well, I was so upset that I felt a bit light-headed and I thought, maybe, some lunch…”

  “Who covered the shop while you were out?” Becca interrupted what was clearly going to be a chain of excuses.

  “Nobody,” the woman said, like it should have been obvious. “It’s not like we have this huge staff or anything. In fact, it’s pretty much just me and Margaret’s nutty sister Elizabeth. But she just flits in and out. I don’t think Margaret pays her. She’s always complaining about money, and I know she pays me little enough. That’s why I figured, well, if I needed to take some time off…”

  “So, Elizabeth didn’t cover for you?” Becca tilted her head, looking for all the world like Laurel when the Siamese was trying to figure something out.

  “No, I put up a sign, saying that we’d be open again in an hour. I mean, maybe it was closer to two hours. But, you know, who knows when anyone came by? Because if they came by an hour after I left, then it was only…”

  “So the shop was closed.” Becca might have been thinking out loud, but her words cut the other woman off.

  “Uh-huh.” She acknowledged. “You think maybe she came by?”

  “I don’t know.” Becca turned, taking in the crowded shelves, with their books and bric-a-brac. “Did it look like anything had changed when you came back?”

  A slow shake of that jet-black bob showed the other woman’s confusion. “Do you think someone broke in?”

  “I’m not sure.” Becca spoke slowly. “I was trying to reach Margaret because, well, something was bothering her.” As she spoke, she began to walk around the store. She picked up a candle and turned it toward her, noting its blackened wick. “Do you usually light these?”

  “Me? No.” The idea was met with a grimace. “I don’t want to have to shell out eighteen bucks for that.”

  Becca flicked the darkened wick, her finger settling on the shallow cavity surrounding it. “Someone has.”

  She moved on to the display of Tarot cards. “Was this pack open?” She turned back to Gaia. “Maybe as a display model?”

  “What?” Gaia was by her side faster than Clara could pounce, scooping up the open cards. “No, well, maybe. We do let customers look at the cards. I mean, if they seem serious. In fact, maybe that candle…”

  Becca was watching her, a puzzled look on her face. Clearly, something was bothering the black-haired girl. Something beyond her concern about being poisoned. “Does anyone else have the keys to the shop?”

  A shrug. “Frank—Mr. Cross, that is.” Her pretty mouth pouted in annoyance. “But he never comes down here. He’s got his own office, and I don’t think he thinks much of this place. In fact, I’m pretty sure he wishes she’d fail so he could get another tenant.”

  “Another—wait, he’s the landlord?”

  A shrug, as Gaia brushed her bangs out of her eyes, revealing another piercing. “Well, yeah. I can’t imagine she’d have this place otherw
ise. Didn’t I tell you? They live upstairs.”

  Even Gaia must have heard Becca sigh. To Clara, it was a roar of annoyance. “How do I get up there?” She made to go behind the counter, and Clara could tell she was heading for the back door.

  “That’s just the store room.” Gaia headed her off. “And our little break area.”

  She took Becca’s arm and led her toward the front door. “The building entrance is past the cleaners. Hang on.” She fished a ring of keys from her pocket, like she was about to lock up.

  “Oh, there’s no need. I can find it.” Becca reached for the door. “Is there an apartment number?”

  “It’s the fourth floor. They call it the penthouse.” An exaggerated widening of her kohl-rimmed eyes showed what she thought of that. “You sure you don’t want me to come along?”

  “No, thanks.” Becca glanced toward the counter. “I feel like I’ve kept you from your job for long enough today.”

  This time, Gaia didn’t even try to hide it when she rolled her eyes.

  ***

  “There’s something odd going on with that store.” Becca couldn’t have known that Clara was right beside her as she walked past the dry cleaners, its lights glowing in the growing dusk. But maybe she sensed her pet’s presence, the little calico thought. Her warmth as the afternoon sun began to fade. And maybe the companionship of the devoted feline was helping her process. “That candle—it made Gaia uncomfortable for some reason. And the way she grabbed at those cards, laid out like that? It was almost like she didn’t want me to see something.”

  Becca had reached a nondescript metal door, marked only with the street number and a grimy inset window. While Clara waited, Becca leaned forward to spy through the dirty glass. Clara could pass through doors but there were limits to her abilities. She could jump, but not high enough to see through the inset window—just as she couldn’t read the labels on those jars and bottles. If only she had thought to climb up while Becca was questioning that other woman.

  Any regrets had to wait, however, as Becca pulled open the door and entered a small foyer that smelled of dust and rot, undoubtedly from the pile of takeout menus that lay moldering in the corner.

  “Penthouse, there it is.” Becca examined a directory and pressed a button by the mailboxes. After a pause, she tried again, as the dust settled in silence. Clara, careful not to stir it back up, nosed the interior door, held ajar by a rubber wedge.

  She might not have Laurel’s power of suggestion, but then again, she might not need it. The foyer was small enough that Becca soon noticed and let herself into the stairwell. As she started up, she pulled out her cell.

  “Third time’s the charm,” she said as she punched in the number. But even before the call could go once more to voicemail, the ringtone was drowned out by a clattering on the stairs as first a pair of clogs and then striped tights appeared.

  “You’re here!” a tall stork of a woman announced as she reached the bottom stair. Examining Becca over her hawk-like nose, she nodded, her shoulder-length gray hair as wild as unraveled yarn. “Finally!”

  “Is it that nasty girl?” The unmistakable caw of Margaret Cross filtered down from above. “Has she come to gloat?”

  “Excuse me?” Becca addressed the woman on the stairs as she pocketed her phone. “You must be…”

  “Elizabeth Sherman.” The gray-haired woman extended a hand. “Margaret’s big sister. Come on up.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach Margaret.” Becca had to step quickly to keep up. Elizabeth nearly sprang up the stairs, despite clogs and the smock-like dress that might have tripped a shorter woman. “And I might have some news she doesn’t like but I need to tell her…”

  Before she could finish, they’d reached the top, where Margaret, still in her suit, was waiting. “It’s the wrong girl,” said the more formally dressed woman with a scowl as she turned back into the apartment. “I meant the other one.”

  Becca’s head swiveled between the two women, considering the similarities in the sisters’ wild hair, which played so differently with Elizabeth’s height and rather hippie-ish attire and Margaret’s double-knit suit. For Clara, the main distinction was a faint difference in scent, almost as if the store owner’s sour attitude—or maybe her hair dye—had curdled something inside her.

  “Mrs. Cross.” Becca followed the shorter woman into a large, well-lit living room decorated in wood and earth tones. A shelf that ran the length of the window was lined with potted plants. Without turning to acknowledge her guest, the storeowner plopped down on a nubbly brown couch.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve been trying to reach you.” Becca hesitated, standing on the other side of a cherry-stained coffee table. “I need to talk to you about your case.”

  She stopped there, looking up at the taller sister, who had clomped past her into the adjoining kitchen, turning on a tap and humming tunelessly as she knocked dishes about. But before Becca could ask Margaret if she wanted to move the conversation to a more private venue, she was startled by a sob. The store owner had doubled over, her face in her hands.

  “Mrs. Cross—Margaret, are you okay?” Becca raced to her side, and, shuffling onto the sofa beside her, tentatively reached one arm around the older woman’s broad back, patting her shoulders as they heaved up and down with tears.

  “She’ll be fine.” Elizabeth stepped back through the open doorway holding a tray with a teapot and three mugs. “Did you meet him yet? The man?”

  Becca looked up. She seemed about to answer, when Margaret broke in.

  “There is no other man. Only my Frank.” The woman on the sofa sobbed once, with what might have seemed like dramatic emphasis. “He’s gone.”

  Becca patted her back again as she looked to the sister for clarification.

  The other woman only shook her grey curls as she placed the tray on the table. “Sugar?”

  “No, please don’t bother.”

  Elizabeth disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Becca with the distraught Margaret—and a confused cat. Becca liked her tea sweet.

  “Margaret…” Becca focused on the woman beside her. “Mrs. Cross, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Was it sudden?”

  “Was it…?” A bleary face turned up to Becca, trails of mascara mirroring the wild black hair. “Frank’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Frank’s been unfaithful.” Elizabeth, returning, put down a silver sugar bowl and three spoons. “I warned you, Margaret.”

  “Oh.” Becca paused, the possibilities sinking in. “And you think that…”

  “I know!” Another glare as Margaret pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and wiped her face. “That black-haired minx downstairs.”

  Elizabeth took this in stride as she sat and poured the tea. If she’d looked up, she’d have seen the play of emotion over Becca’s face. At first, Clara thought her person would use this very reasonable excuse to leave. But, no. Although Becca was kind, she was also determined. Taking a deep breath, she began to speak.

  “Ms. Cross, I’ve got to ask…” Another breath to get the words out. “If you thought Gaia—Gail—was involved with your husband, well, it would be understandable, if you were angry… If you wanted to… I mean, if you had suspicions…”

  “Suspicions?” Becca didn’t get a chance to finish. “I’ve known something was going on for a while. Late nights at that dead-end car lot of his. Like he was really sitting there all alone. I have my sensitivities too!” This was directed toward her sister, who only nodded.

  “Car lot?” Becca’s face brightened. “Oh, is he—are you the Crosses of Cross Cars, the used car lot down by the river?”

  “Don’t tell me you ever bought a car from him?” She barked out a laugh. “No, of course not. I’d know if he’d sold any.”

  The older woman’s glare didn’t invite an answer.

  “Well, anyway.” Becca cleared her throat. “I mean, it would be only human if you
wanted to implicate the other woman in a less personal crime. Or perhaps scare her…”

  “Scare her? I’m the one who’s bereft.” The tears had stopped. Margaret’s mood, however, had not improved. “He was out late again last night, and when I came home today, he was gone. He’s cleaned everything out.”

  “Everything?” Becca craned her head around, confused. Although she appeared to be taking in the reasonably full bookshelf, the shelf of plants, and what looked like a high-end sound system, Clara knew she was looking for a particularly stinky baggie.

  “What?” The bark of the question pulled her back to Margaret’s scowl, which creased her lipstick alarmingly. “This? This is all mine. But his rings, his watches—they’re all gone! All the little presents I gave him.”

  A sudden intake of breath as she jumped up, racing to a door at the far end of the room. “I knew it!”

  With a quizzical glance toward Elizabeth, Becca rose. She followed the voice and found Margaret in what was clearly the master bedroom. Leaning over a low vanity, she was staring into an opened jewelry box, whose gold satin lining matched both the curtains and the fluffy duvet behind her.

  “He took mother’s pearls, Bitsy,” she called out, and then pulled a lower drawer open. “And my diamond earrings as well.”

  With that, she turned, fixing Becca with dark eyes sparking with rage. “If he gave my sparklers to that little hussy, I swear, I’m going to kill them both.”

  ***

  “I think we should alert the police.” Ten minutes later, and the three were sitting in the living room again. On Becca’s urging, Margaret had made an inventory of her valuables. Sure enough, although the electronics were all untouched, everything small and pocketable had been taken. “This might have been the work of a professional.”

  “It’s the work of that little hussy.” Margaret had gone from tears to anger and back again, and now slurped her tea. “Believe me, I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Margaret. But how can you be sure?” Becca turned to the other sister for confirmation, but Elizabeth was pouring the last of the tea into Margaret’s mug. When that was done, she rose without a word and retreated to the kitchen. “Have you spoken with your husband?”