An Incantation of Cats

by Clea Simon

  Besides preparing for her guests, Becca did have work to do. Despite what she’d told Maddy, the fledgling investigator was feeling a bit more desperate than defiant. Money was tight, and her unemployment was running out. If she wanted to make being a witch detective a going concern, now was the time.

  Clara might not understand the details—finance being of little interest to a cat—but she picked up on her person’s intensity as she huddled over the laptop for the next few hours.

  The first was spent on what Becca called “old-school research.”

  “I can’t rely on my sensitivity for everything,” she had whispered to Clara. What that meant, as far as the cat could tell, was typing in people’s names and seeing what came up. Gaia/Gail Linquist seemed to have an awful lot of photos. With, Becca noticed, an awful lot of young men.

  “Tiger can’t have been that serious,” she said, with what to her cat sounded like a happy upward lilt. Clara wasn’t sure how she felt about this development. A few clicks later, though, she did agree that the goth girl’s jet-black hair was a more striking look than her original mouse brown.

  Margaret and Frank Cross seemed to have less of an online profile. “Makes sense,” Becca said. “Given their ages.”

  Once again, Clara couldn’t make heads or tails of the comment, or of the few photos that popped up. One, back when the used car salesman had more hair and his wife’s mouth had been smiling rather than puckered, made her sad, though. She leaned on Becca, and the two sat quietly for a moment with that one the screen.

  When Becca rose to fetch the smelly baggie, Clara became concerned. Her person had stuck it in the refrigerator, and her cat had hoped it would disappear there, never to be seen again, like that lettuce from last month. She was relieved to note that its smell had faded, somewhat, after its time in the chill—and even more so when she realized that Becca was only going to look at the thing, through the plastic, rather than touch or taste it. When she put it aside to return to her laptop, Clara considered her options. Harriet’s actions might have been troublesome, but her instincts were dead on, her calico sister realized. If only there was a way to get rid of the thing that didn’t draw attention to the feline sisters’ powers or otherwise break the rules against involving humans in their magic.

  “I’m sure Harriet could bury it again.” Silent as a shadow, Laurel had jumped up to join Clara and Becca on the sofa. “She doesn’t have to make it look like anything. She could just dig.”

  “Becca would worry.” Clara didn’t even want to admit the truth to herself. “She’d only turn the house upside down.”

  “Well, we can’t have that.” Laurel drew back in distaste, any kind of frenzied human activity, including housecleaning, being anathema to a cat.

  Before they could decide on any other action, Becca had picked up the bag once more. Holding it close to her laptop, she seemed to be comparing it to one of the odorless images. Clara and Laurel could only trade worried glances as Becca typed madly and then stared long and hard at the screen.

  After what seemed like an eternity to the cats, Becca finally put the specimen aside, and with a tantalizing dance of her fingers, the screen before her changed. That picture again—the woman and the cat—moved as Becca read. Although she didn’t have Laurel’s gift, Clara thought she could make out a few stray thoughts as she focused on her person. “Ancestor…” The little cat tried out the word. Yes, that was right. “With her familiar…”

  Could Becca be close to understanding? To comprehending, at last, that her cats had a history of power and had protected their people as best they could? Clara closed her eyes to concentrate and found herself visualizing her own mother. Those last days at the shelter…

  “Witch.” No, she wasn’t hearing Becca’s thoughts. Her person was whispering to herself, reading, Clara realized, the text on the screen. A story that seemed to dismay her, from the way she blinked and then closed her screen.

  She rose, then, but her mood carried over from whatever she had seen. Although their person remained quiet, the set of her mouth indicated trouble, Clara thought, as did the way her brows had pulled together. When she went for the vacuum cleaner, pulling it from the back of a closet where Clara and her sisters had hoped it had gone to die, she and Laurel made themselves scarce. Even Harriet woke in the ensuing tumult, blinking and affronted as they all crowded beneath the bed in safety.

  By the time they emerged, Becca had gone into full-on hostess mode, arranging her small apartment for the arrival of her friends. The three cats took refuge on the sofa, until an extra vigorous fluffing of pillows sent Laurel scampering once more, and an aggressive wiping down of the table had even Harriet hesitant to hover, no matter what tempting crumbs might have gone flying.

  Only Clara remained, to show her support as her person fussed. She might as well have been invisible, however, as Becca nearly tripped over her in her frenzy.

  “I’m sorry, kitty.” She reached down and scooped up her youngest cat. And although the embrace was a tad awkward—Clara’s foot stuck out and she could feel the bulk of her body already sliding through Becca’s arms—she began to purr. Clearly, Becca was still bothered. Whether that was because of her friend Maddy or because of what she’d found on her laptop, Clara couldn’t tell. Still, any opportunity the plump calico had to soothe her person was worth a little discomfort.

  “Hang on!” At the sound of the doorbell, Becca shifted, and Clara managed a decent landing on the floor.

  “Graceful,” Laurel snarled quietly from under the sofa.

  “I just wanted to make her feel better.” Clara sat and began to groom the fur on her back, where Becca’s embrace had ruffled it.

  “I thought you wanted her to give up all this witch silliness.” With Becca safely at the door, Laurel ventured from her hiding spot. “Give up the idea of being a detective, too. Too dangerous, you said. Too risky for a human to try. And that root…”

  Clara paused, tongue hanging out between her discreet white fangs. It was true that she had hoped that Becca would go back to being a researcher. The idea that she, or any human, could have magical powers was silly. Any cat would agree.

  The worst part, of course, was that Clara and her sisters were responsible for Becca’s obsession. It had been Harriet’s summoning of a pillow—the golden velvet pillow that had been plumped up so vigorously—that had started the trouble, when Becca had misread its appearance as the manifestation of her own attempt at a spell. But recently, she’d come around to the idea that her person might be more like, well, like her cats. And if there were humans who had powers, then their Becca should be one of them.

  “You look like a dog, with your tongue out like that.” Harriet emerged from the sanctuary of the bedroom to saunter past. Clara quickly closed her mouth as her oldest sister began snuffling up the crumbs that had gone flying. “Not to mention the way you tag along after her,” the marmalade added as she licked up a particularly tasty morsel.

  “It’s not like you need to.” Laurel appeared alongside her and, with a wiggle of her hindquarters, launched herself to the tabletop. “Together, we could—”

  “Kitties! No!” A loud clapping made Harriet put her ears back and Laurel leap to the floor. Only Clara looked up to see the tall, slender woman who was laughing behind her hands. The first of the guests had arrived.

  “Honestly, Becca, they’re fine.” Ande, a member of Becca’s self-styled coven, wiped tears of laughter from cheeks that were a shade darker than Laurel’s fur. “I mean, if you didn’t have cats, maybe you wouldn’t have your powers.”

  All three cats stopped at that and stared up at the newcomer as she walked past them into the kitchen. Even Becca froze, mouth open as if about to phrase a life-altering question.

  “That’s so funny you would say that,” Becca managed, her voice breathless. “I was just reading—”

  “Yoo-hoo!” Before Becca could elaborate, another voice rang out. “Everything okay?”

/>   “Marcia.” Becca turned to greet the petite newcomer who bounded in, dark eyes wide. “How’re you—I mean, merry meet!”

  “Merry meet yourself, Becca. But you shouldn’t leave your door open like that!” Taking off her ever-present Red Sox cap, she ran a hand through her brunette pageboy. “I got scared there for a minute.”

  “Why?” Ande stepped back into the apartment’s main room. She was holding the teapot that was always filled for the coven’s gatherings. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t you come through Central Square?” Marcia looked from Ande to Becca in disbelief. “Something’s happening at Charm and Cherish.”

  “Oh, yeah, I was down there this morning.” Becca took the teapot from Ande, who stood stock still, and proceeded back into the kitchen. “Are the police still there?”

  “Yeah.” Marcia dragged the word out as she looked from Ande to Becca. “You okay?”

  “Of course.” Ande managed a smile. Laurel, meanwhile, had re-emerged and began sniffing at Marcia’s high-top sneakers. “Becca, what were you saying?”

  Marcia wasn’t waiting. “Did you hear anything?” She tagged after Becca, stepping over the cat. “Is it related to that hit and run? I got an alert that the police are on the lookout for a red sports car with out-of-state plates. I guess the poor guy is still critical. It’s a good thing there was a vet nearby.”

  “Good thing he knew emergency medicine.” Becca raised her voice to be heard over the running water.

  “Yeah, well, that’s part of the training, isn’t it?” Marcia looked at Ande. The taller woman simply shrugged. “They’re calling him the hero vet.”

  “Isn’t that redundant?” Becca waved Marcia off as she reached for the kettle. “But, no, that was down by the river. The reason for all the fuss around the shop is because of Frank Cross, the owner’s husband. He’s…well, it seems he’s died.” Clara could hear the water reaching a boil. With her superior feline senses, she could also hear Ande’s startled gasp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I hear it might have been a coronary.”

  “And you were there?” Ande’s voice was tense with dread. “At the shop?”

  Becca shook her head as she counted out scoops of the fragrant mint tea. “Three. Four. Uh-huh,” she said. “No, not when it happened. I mean, I was at the shop earlier, but I think he was at his office when—oh, bother.”

  “You’d gotten to five,” said Marcia. “And it’s just us three today.”

  “Well, there’ll be seconds.” Becca shot her friend a grin as she poured the water into the teapot. “But, anyway, Margaret had wanted to hire me for a case—she had a problem with the shop. I told her I had a conflict and I couldn’t take it. But there was one thing I thought I could straighten out for her, just to put her mind at rest. It involved Frank, kind of, so I went down to his office—you know that car lot on Putnam? Anyway, he was alive then.”

  “Well, this must be something different.” Marcia turned her Sox cap in her hands as she thought. “There were a ton of cops by the shop, not an ambulance or anything.”

  “Margaret did tell me some valuables had gone missing,” Becca confided, her hand going up to the blue stone pendant. “She thought maybe Frank had taken them. That was…well, that was part of what I was looking into.”

  “Speaking of, nice necklace.” Marcia reached over. “Lapis?”

  “Thanks. It’s supposed to help discern truth from lies.”

  “Interesting.” Marcia eyed the necklace as Ande stepped closer. “How’s it work?”

  “When did you speak with Margaret?” Ande’s question saved Becca from having to confess her ignorance.

  “Late this afternoon.” Becca reached for the mugs. “I went there right after talking with Margaret. She lives above the shop and—”

  “Becca,” Ande interrupted her, her face serious. “Tell me you told the police about this.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to,” her host said as she fit the mugs and the teapot onto a tray. “I was trying to get to Margaret, but the police wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t.” Ande took the tray from Becca and handed it off to Marcia.

  “What are you talking about?” Becca turned from Ande to Marcia, who looked as puzzled as Becca did.

  “I don’t know if it was just a coronary, Becca.” Ande’s brow furrowed. “And I am so glad you’re not working for her.”

  Becca shook her head in confusion.

  “You don’t get that many cop cars for a medical emergency.” Ande pulled Becca back into the living room and sat her on the sofa.

  Marcia followed up before Becca could protest. “Ande’s right,” she said, setting the tray on the table. “You said there was some kind of a problem and that Margaret thought her husband was stealing from her? Maybe his heart didn’t simply give out. Or not by itself, anyway.”

  Chapter 12

  The three cats scurried as the three humans all began talking at once.

  “That makes no sense.” Becca stared, wide-eyed, at Marcia. “She loved him. She was afraid he was leaving her.”

  Marcia couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

  “Oh, goddess help me, you don’t think that my turning down her case drove her to do something—”

  “Hold on. Is anyone saying that Frank Cross’s death wasn’t natural?” Ande turned from one to the other. “Anyone besides us, I mean?”

  “No. This is pure speculation.” Becca was trying to be the voice of reason. “Besides, I was with her—”

  “When he was still alive!” Marcia voice belied her size, and her exasperation along with it. “But it all fits. I saw a cop questioning Gaia—you know, the girl who works at the shop? And they took Mrs. Cross out the back.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” Ande was only repeating what Becca had said, but the emphasis she put on the words made both her friends turn. “The way things were between them, she wouldn’t even necessarily know.”

  That brought Becca up short. “Ande, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Wait, you know them?” Marcia followed her friend as she moved over to the sofa. As she sat, the three cats emerged from under the table. The shouting, at least, seemed to be over.

  “I’ve done some work for the Crosses.” Ande, who had settled beside Becca, was staring at her hands. Almost, Clara thought, like she wanted to groom. “And, yeah, I’ve gotten to know them a bit.”

  “Work?” Marcia, who had settled in the easy chair, turned from Ande to Becca. “You mean, you’ve done their taxes or something?”

  “I’ve done hers.” Ande glanced up, her hands unlicked. “And the store’s. Not his business, though there’s some overlap. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t say anymore.”

  “That’s interesting.” Becca drew out the word. “So you didn’t do the books for his car lot?”

  “No.” Ande shook her head, her dark face grave. “Becca, you’re not looking into anything at that lot, are you?”

  “I’m not,” she answered, her voice still thoughtful. “Margaret Cross tried to hire me because she thought someone was embezzling. I couldn’t take her case because I had a conflict of interest, because something else came up—but when I went to tell her it all got mixed up with her husband.”

  “Oh no.” Ande was shaking her head, as if this were worse. “You’re involved in that whole mess between Frank and Gaia, aren’t you?”

  ***

  The flurry of questions and exclamations that followed sent Laurel leaping to the top of the bookcase again, while Harriet remained under the table. Only Clara, who had ventured out to the edge of the sofa, dared the torrent of voices.

  “What are they on about?” Harriet was getting annoyed. “Are we going to have to stay here all night?”

  “It’s about a man, isn’t it?” From her perch, Laurel’s blue eyes glowed. “I’m sure it’s about a man.”

  “I think it’s about money.” Clara, li
ke most cats, had only the vaguest ideas about finance and budgeting. She had learned a little, however. They all had when Becca had lost her last job as a researcher. Once she had set herself up as a witch detective, their person seemed less worried. At any rate, she spoke about it less frequently—at least until recently—and Clara didn’t think that was only because of the time she spent on the computer doing what her buddy Maddy called “freelance.”

  “Money, huh!” Harriet snorted, and curled up on herself. Clara suspected that her older sister was even less clear on the topic than she herself was, but she didn’t try to explain. She also knew how grumpy Harriet could get when she was due for a nap. Instead, she turned her ears forward and tried to pick up the thread of the conversation.

  “So, you don’t think Margaret Cross did something. Do you?” Marcia’s gaze swiveled between Ande and Becca.

  “I know she was angry with him.” Becca’s voice was cautious, and Clara’s tail began to lash in sympathy. “But not that angry. She was worried about him. She thought he’d gone missing.”

  “And that was in the afternoon, when she was home with her sister. But you found him easily enough. And you knew she was upset.” Marcia’s eyes fell on Becca’s necklace.

  “Yeah, I did.” Becca reached for the stone. “But, honestly, I believe she just felt bad because he was cheating on her.”

  “Like he was going to leave her. Only someone made it permanent.” Marcia turned back to Ande. “You knew something was up.”

  “Yeah,” the tall accountant acknowledged, a rueful note creeping into her voice. “I know they were having…issues. But Frank would never leave Margaret. He couldn’t.” She bit down on her lower lip to stop herself from saying any more.

  “It was her money.” Marcia put two and two together. “So even if he kept on fooling around—”

  “Wait, you know about that?” Becca broke in. Her two friends looked at each other. “Did everybody know?”

  “I made the mistake of going down to his lot once. Luz thought we could get a good deal on a car, but he had no inventory,” said Marcia. “What he had was a roving eye.”