by Clea Simon
“Elizabeth?” Margaret shook her head. “Hardly. She thinks she knows best. As always.”
As she settled onto a stool behind the counter, Becca leaned forward. “She was telling me about Gaia.” Another quick peek, but the older sister still had not emerged. When the widow sniffed once more—perhaps she had a sinus condition—Becca hesitated. But when Margaret only dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up handkerchief, she began again. “I’m sorry. I’m not interested in gossip, but Gaia’s been having some problems, and you have to see how this looks. I was thinking that if, perhaps, someone was angry at Gaia, she might have thought to scare her a little.”
The wiry-haired widow sighed, and for a moment Becca looked like she was about to apologize. Clara understood—Becca was a sweet girl and inclined to be sensitive—only just then she hoped she’d hold firm. “Please, Becca, you need answers,” she muttered in a low feline rumble. If only she had a little of Laurel’s powers of persuasion, the calico thought yet again, as she concentrated as hard as she could.
“Have you spoken to the police about the theft?” It sounded like a digression, and Clara stared up at Becca, wondering what her person was aiming at.
Margaret seemed to deflate further, and Clara realized there was, indeed, some kind of connection. “Frank,” she said, as her bowed shoulders rose and fell once more. “He was a dreamer. He thought bigger than he was. What else can I say?”
“So you didn’t report the jewelry? The watches?”
A single sad shake of the head. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? I mean, to anyone but me.”
“But if you think someone was stealing…” Becca’s tone stayed even, her voice soft, but she wasn’t giving up.
“Someone was. Only, well, that’s all over.” Another brush of her hand, as if larceny were a pesky fly.
Becca sucked in her lip. Clara recognized that move. It meant she was thinking about something or, no, regretting it. “Margaret, when I said I couldn’t take your case, it wasn’t because I didn’t think it was legit.”
“It doesn’t matter, dear.” The large eyes raised to meet Becca’s were dry but sad. “I did some silly things, too.”
“I was wondering.” Becca’s voice, already quiet, grew powder-puff soft, as gentle as a kitten’s paw, and Clara waited. “Was that what happened with Frank, Margaret?” Becca glanced quickly toward the door, expecting Margaret’s older sister to emerge at any moment. “Tell me, Margaret. Did you want to scare him a little? Bring him back in line?”
“Frank?” Margaret’s head went back as she screwed up her face in confusion. “You think I…that I made him sick? You think that’s why he left? You can’t, possibly…”
Becca reached out to take her arm. “I don’t mean it was anything intentional. Of course not.” Becca remained quiet, the voice of sympathy, though Clara could hear how tightly controlled her breathing was. “But if there was an accident with one of the herbs from the shop, maybe? I mean, I would understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Margaret pulled away, any trace of that brittle giddiness gone, replaced by an acid scorn. “I don’t know where you get your information, but I didn’t dose my husband with anything. Not from my shop, not from anywhere. I’ve never hurt anybody, not even that cheating little trollop you seem to have become friends with.”
Becca started to protest, but Margaret cut her off.
“I’m extremely glad I didn’t spend any money on your so-called psychic services.” Her dark brows descended as she glared at Becca. “It’s pretty clear you’re no good at detecting anything. Frank’s heart gave out, you silly girl. He was a cheater and a loser, and it’s his own fault if his guilty conscience finally caught up to him.”
***
“Why don’t we step outside?” A hand gripped Becca’s upper arm and she turned to see Elizabeth, who proceeded to march her toward the door. “Shall we?”
Clara bristled, ready to spring. But as soon as she had Becca out on the sidewalk once more, the older woman released her. Blowing out her lips, she reached up and pushed that wiry hair off her face. “Stupid girl.” It sounded more like frustration than a reprimand.
“I’m sorry.” Becca still seemed stunned by Margaret’s outburst. Or perhaps, thought Clara, by the widow’s lack of grief.
“Not you—that Gail. Gaia, as she calls herself.” Elizabeth peered back into the shop. Checking for her sister, Becca thought, and giving Becca a moment to collect herself. “She was a menace.”
“You mean, because of the wolf’s bane?” After Becca threw out the name of the poisonous plant, Clara could hear that she held her breath, waiting.
“So foolish.” Elizabeth frowned. Her bushy black brows arched like a cat’s back, but she didn’t pretend not to understand. “You do know that aconite can bring about arrhythmia, a heart attack, don’t you? If the police found that plant in the shop…well, Gaia should be happy I made her get rid of it.”
“You made her get rid of it.” Becca repeated the words to make sure she heard them correctly.
“Didn’t she tell you?” Elizabeth barely noticed. “Yes, I tried to make her understand the danger. Not that a girl like that takes anything seriously. I was glad when it disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Surely, thought Clara, the older woman would notice the emphasis her visitor placed on the word.
“Re-homed. Tossed. Whatever. As long as it was no longer sitting right there in the Charm and Cherish window. Stupid.” She shook her head again, but slowly, as if consumed more by disappointment than anger.
“So you didn’t take it?” A tilt of the head.
“Me?” Elizabeth laughed, face up in an appeal to the heavens, and then focused those dark eyes on Becca. “You should know better, Becca. You more than anyone. But never mind.” She turned and reached for the door, ready to rejoin her sister. “Just stay clear of this, okay? It’s not safe.”
Clara looked up at Becca then, but her person simply stood there, too stunned to respond. The little calico, meanwhile, couldn’t help but notice how the older woman’s eyes flickered under those heavy brows as she nodded once more to Becca, and then slid over to the cat who stood at her side.
“Especially with your family history,” she said.
Chapter 19
“You’ve been gone all day!” Harriet greeted Clara at the door with an eager sniff. “This is as bad as when Becca had that job of hers. We haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Did she spend all afternoon with that Tiger?” Laurel circled, her tail lashing with the excitement of the hunt. “Is she bringing him home soon? Are they going to his place?”
“No!” It was all Clara could do to contain her temper. “Everything’s gotten so much more complicated! You don’t understand, either of you. Ow!”
That was in response to Laurel, who had batted her ear. Harriet merely stared, affronted, her own flag of a tail flipping back and forth in annoyance.
“There’s a lot you don’t understand, runt.” Laurel was not going to forgive easily. “Especially about men and women like our pretty Becca.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s this whole situation.” Clara looked at Laurel and then Harriet. The time for secrets, she realized, was over. “There’s something I haven’t told you. A lot, actually.”
With her ears tuned for Becca’s footsteps on the stairs, Clara filled her sisters in on what had happened. The lunch, running into Gaia, and, more disturbing to the little calico, her interaction with both Margaret and Elizabeth. As she described the older woman, tall with that wiry silver hair and a beak-like nose that seemed to draw her dark eyes close together, Harriet rose to her feet. Thinking that her oldest sister was simply getting restless, Clara hurried to finish.
“That look was bad enough,” she said, ears flicking backward at the memory. “But then that Gaia said something that really freaked me out. She said that this Elizabeth was looking for Becca, only she called her Clara. Like may
be she was really looking for me.”
“Huh.” Eyes closed, Laurel sniffed dismissively. “Like the runt of the litter, Clara the clown, would be the feline she sought.”
“I’m the one she saw,” Clara offered, hoping to appease her sister. She had her own thoughts as to why the wiry-haired woman had asked for her, but there was no sense in antagonizing her sisters. “Becca’s smart. She must have figured it out. Elizabeth is taking over the shop. She’s getting rid of stuff, and it looked like she was maybe gardening. That could mean she was doing something else with that poison plant. Plus, she said that her sister was better off without Frank.”
“And she fired Gaia?” Harriet took a while to understand, sometimes.
Clara resisted the urge to nip her older sister. “The girl is lucky! At least she got out alive. But that’s not the strangest thing. This Elizabeth, it’s like she staged all this to bring in our Becca. She spoke as if she knew Frank was going to die. As if she was already planning—”
“Well, what’s going on here?”
Clara turned. Harriet sunk down onto her belly, and Laurel jumped as Becca shut the door behind her. They’d all been listening so intently to Clara they’d missed the sound of their person, who now stood, smiling down at her three pets.
“It almost looks like you three are having a conference. Or, should I say, a convocation?”
“More later,” Clara mewed softly as she turned toward her person.
“No sign of poison.” Laurel had already rubbed her face against Becca’s legs and now stood to bury her brown snout in Becca’s palm. “She’s clean.”
“Well, that’s a mercy!” Harriet made a desultory pass. “There are some odd scents on her though.”
“Really?” Clara pushed in, earning a slight snarl from Laurel.
“Hey, I’m working here!” One brown paw raised to bat her little sister.
“Just when I thought you were all getting along so well.” Becca’s tone was enough to make Clara slink off, tail down. “Ah well, never mind, kitties. Let me get you some dinner. I’ve got some strategizing to do.”
“Sorry.” Clara slipped in behind Laurel as the three cats followed their person into the kitchen. “Can you…?”
“On it,” said Laurel. “Something about this ‘strategizing’ I don’t like.”
“Gaia?” Even before the third can was down on its mat, Becca had her phone out. “Call me please.”
When the phone rang only a few minutes later, Becca grabbed it. By then, she was on the sofa, feet up, with her computer on her lap. Laurel was bathing on the armrest, while Clara, at her feet, sat up at attention. Harriet could still be heard in the kitchen, hoovering up the last few crumbs.
“Hey, Maddy.” As Becca closed the laptop, she put one hand over her eyes. “No, I didn’t get to the police today. I was on my way when I ran into Gaia outside the shop. I was hoping to get her to come to the cops with me, but she bolted, and I ended up talking to Margaret Cross and her sister, and it all got complicated. I’ll go tomorrow, I promise. With or without her, but it would be better if she’d come with me.”
As Clara listened, Becca ran through the events of the afternoon. When she got up to her decision to come home rather than continue on to the police station, Clara couldn’t help but feel like her person was intentionally leaving something out.
“You just don’t want to admit that she messed up.” Laurel, stretched along the couch back, managed to mute her usual Siamese voice.
“You weren’t there.” Clara shifted. “She was afraid. That woman—Elizabeth—seemed to be warning her off.” It made her uncomfortable when Laurel eavesdropped on her thoughts. Besides, she wanted to listen to the conversation.
“Like that’s any different?” The distinctive yowl grew a bit louder.
“Hush, now.” Harriet landed with a thud and, seeing that Becca had taken up most of the sofa, began to knead her instead.
“Come to think of it,” Becca was saying. “I’m going to try Gaia again now.”
Laurel glared at Clara, but Clara only had eyes for Becca as she punched in the by-now familiar number. Something was very wrong. She could feel it.
“Hey!” With a startled mew, Harriet leaped sideways to avoid the laptop, which slid to the sofa beside her. “What’s going on?”
Neither of her sisters answered, although Clara joined Laurel on the sofa back as Becca rose and began to pace.
“Hey, Gaia. Thanks for picking up.” Becca was doing her best to be casual. Clara could hear the slight sing-song cadence of her voice. Until she stopped and stood up straight. “Gaia, what’s wrong? You don’t sound good. You—what? Did you say ‘numb’? Where are you?” She started looking around, and Clara rolled a pencil out from under the sofa for her person to grab. “I’ll call you right back.”
“Emergency? I just spoke with a friend at 932 River…” As Becca spoke, she headed toward the door, grabbing her coat as she did. “You need to send an ambulance there now.”
Chapter 20
Clara didn’t even consult with her sisters. As quickly as she could fade her orange spots to gray, she followed Becca out the door and down to the street, where Becca hailed a passing cab. Overcoming her natural feline distrust of motorized vehicles, Clara even managed to scramble onto the black vinyl seat beside her.
“Mount Auburn Hospital,” Becca told the cabbie. “I’m sorry, I don’t have the address.”
“Emergency?” The cabbie’s voice emerged from his darkly shadowed jowls.
“What? No, I’m fine.”
“Emergency room, I meant.” Dark eyes caught hers in the rearview. “Don’t worry. I actually drive for a living.”
“Of course.” Clara didn’t understand the slight blush that crept into Becca’s cheeks. She did know that the car was moving more smoothly than Becca’s usual ride shares. In the seat beside her, Clara was taking no chances, however, and dug her claws into the slick upholstery. The small risk that Becca would notice the indents was worth not being thrown around should the car stop short.
“Uh, miss?” Clara needn’t have worried. Becca was so distracted that she was halfway out of the cab before the driver called her back.
“I’m sorry.” Becca fished out her wallet and handed the driver a bill. “And thanks.”
If Clara thought the ride was bad, the scene that met her when she followed Becca through the sliding glass doors was worse. Beeps and blats, along with a terrifying array of smells stopped her in her tracks. Only the rattle of wheels alerted her to jump to one side in time to avoid being run down as some kind of a trolley rolled by, propelled by four white-clad feet clearly in a hurry.
“Gaia—Gail Linquist?” Becca’s voice, over by a window, made Clara focus once more and she hurried to join her by the safety of the wall. “Has she been brought in?”
“One moment, please.” Considering all the noise and activity, the woman who responded sounded surprisingly calm. “Are you family?”
“No, I’m a…a friend.” Becca leaned in. “I’m the one who called an ambulance for her.”
“Becca Colwin.” A male voice, deep and oddly familiar. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Detective Abrams.” Becca, breathless, barely got the words out as Clara identified the large and rumpled man who had come up behind her. Clad in a tweed jacket that sagged at the elbows and wrinkled khakis, the man smelled of stale coffee, the dust of paperwork, and the sweat of many, many hands. In other words, he was a cop. That he was familiar with Becca, and she with him, put the small cat somewhat at ease. She, too, remembered the unexpected gentleness of the big man. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Becca’s voice lifted with relief. “I’ve been meaning to come talk to you.”
Eyebrows like untrimmed hedges rose as the detective sipped from a paper cup.
“I shouldn’t be surprised.” A rumble like the wheels of that trolley. “Only when your name came up, I thought I would insert myself into this�
�situation.” He motioned with the cup. “Shall we go have a chat?”
“I can’t.” Becca looked over the window, but from all Clara could see, the woman on the other side did not respond. “I’m waiting to hear about Gaia. Gail, I mean. She’s a friend. A client. Well, sort of.”
“Let’s go chat, Becca Colwin.” One large hand reached out behind her to propel her along. “I think you’ll want to talk to me about this ‘Gaia Gail friend client sort of’ of yours.”
Chapter 21
As relieved as Clara was to leave behind the noise and traffic of the waiting room, the idea of her person heading off with the rumpled cop wasn’t exactly comforting. Yes, she knew—or hoped she knew—that the big man was both kind and fair. However, he did work in a building that resembled a giant cage. Also, as he walked Becca along, one big mitt behind her as if to stop her from escaping, he propelled her first through a set of double doors that threatened to close on the skittish cat and then a long passage that smelled of chemicals, all the while herding Becca like a determined sheepdog. Even as she paused, looking back toward the loud room, he kept his sad, dark eyes on her, taking in everything, Clara thought.
In the past, this large man had proved himself more gentle than his rough exterior suggested. Still, Becca was clearly ill at ease, looking up at him as they walked, and so, despite her own discomfort with their surroundings, her loyal cat stayed close, waiting for a chance to break them both away.
“Why don’t we have a seat?” Holding out a hand the size of Harriet’s water dish, he directed Becca toward a row of molded plastic chairs in relatively quiet alcove. Apparently carved out of the hallway, it appeared to be a waiting room, though for what, the little cat could not tell. It had no windows, and she couldn’t read the signs that hung overhead. It also had no carpet, and no plants for cover, and so Clara focused hard on her shading as she ducked around her person to take up position beneath an orange seat.