by Clea Simon
The Monday workday had begun in earnest, for those who had jobs, and it was all Clara could do to keep up with her person as she strode rather purposefully down the city sidewalk. The hat Becca had jammed on her head before she left the house—a wide-brimmed velvet number that kept the rain off her face—helped. But the cloaked cat still nearly tripped a bearded man in a suit when she stopped suddenly to take in the scents of the damp air. By good luck, her near victim was obsessed with his cell phone and only muttered something about the slippery sidewalk as the shadowy feline slipped by.
Nerves, Clara figured, rather than timing were pushing Becca. Because when she got to the police station, the young woman stopped short. She must have realized she was early to meet whoever it was who had called her.
“That’s all right,” she said to the older man at the front desk. He had enough wrinkles to be a Shar Pei, but his eyes were as sad as a basset hound’s. Clara hoped he’d be gentle with her poor person. “I’ll wait,” she said.
“You can have a seat over there.” His voice sounded doggish too, a low bark without much bite in it. “I’ll make sure he knows you’re here.”
She nodded and retreated to the bench he had pointed out. Before long, she was chewing on her thumbnail. If Clara had to bet, the dark-haired girl was thinking about Jeff and about what Maddy had said. At least, Clara hoped she was. Weighing whether or not to turn in your cheating ex-boyfriend certainly beat out fretting over his betrayal.
“Are you okay?”
Becca started at the voice. The man before her, neat in a pink-striped Oxford shirt and jeans, his damp, dark hair combed off his forehead, didn’t look familiar, and she blinked up at him. Clara, of course, recognized his scent—warm, slightly spicy, with a touch of turpentine.
“What? Oh, yes.” She forced a smile. “Thanks.”
Human senses may not be as acute as a cat’s, but even as Becca dismissed his query with a polite smile, Clara could see the realization dawning on her face.
“You’re the painter.” Her smile relaxed into something more natural. “From—” And then it disappeared. “Suzanne’s.”
“I am.” His voice was low and warm, and as he took a seat on the bench beside Becca, she looked away flustered. “Nathan,” he said, holding out a tanned and calloused hand. “Nathan Raposa.”
“Becca Colwin.” They shook, and Becca’s brows knit as the question begin to form. “Are you here because of…because of Suzanne?”
He nodded. “I let you in. Remember?” His voice sounded kindly, but its effect had worn off. Becca’s slight blush faded to something close to green. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She nodded. “That was the first time I’ve seen—well, a body,” she said. “And you?”
“Oh, I didn’t go in!” He rejected the suggestion with a grimace. “But I was working there all day, and so I guess I’m as close to a witness as they’ve got.”
“Did you see who did it?”
He shook his head, freeing a lock of hair that, as it dried, was slowly returning to sun-bleached blond. “I was around back, probably. And with my music playing…well, I get into the zone. I told them that, but they kept insisting, like maybe there was something I’d overlooked.”
Becca waited.
“I told them all I could.” He paused, that grin was looking sheepish. “And that was that I was working there all morning, and I didn’t see or hear anything. At least, not until you came by.”
Chapter 12
Becca didn’t like the sound of that. Clara could tell by the way her forehead furrowed as she took in a quick breath. But before she could respond—or even let that breath out—her name was called by the man behind the desk.
“You’ll do fine.” Nathan reached over, as if to place one hand over hers, and pulled back just in time. “Just tell them what happened.”
“Rebecca Colwin?” An older man in a rumpled brown jacket was looking around.
“Here, before you go.” Nathan pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Why don’t you give me a call after,” he said, extracting a card. “It might help to talk about it. I’m not going to be able to work today anyway. And, besides, maybe we can salvage something good from the whole experience.”
“Ms. Colwin?” The man in the brown jacket was coming toward her.
“Here.” Nathan pressed the card into her hand as he rose. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Her voice cracked as she, too, stood and turned toward the disheveled man. “I’m Becca—Rebecca—Colwin.”
“Well, Becca Rebecca,” he said as the edges of his mouth twitched into a grin. “Why don’t you come with me?”
Becca turned back, but Nathan was already walking toward the door, and so, with a sigh that probably no one but Clara could hear, she followed the older man in.
***
Fifteen minutes later, she looked like herself again, neither too pale nor too pink. The older man—Detective Abrams—had gotten one of his staff to bring her coffee and take her sodden hat. But even without the extra fortification, she had done her best to recall everything she could from that morning. The detective’s questions had helped, prompting her along when she couldn’t seem to remember some of the details.
Although she’d been dreading it—her response to the handsome painter had made that obvious—the entire experience seemed to be doing her some good.
“Yes, that’s true.” She was nodding enthusiastically as the detective read back her description of the room. “That’s it exactly.”
He had seemed tentative, as if he didn’t trust his own note taking, and Becca was eager to help.
“The door was definitely unlocked when I came in.”
“Unlocked, but was it closed or open?”
She paused. “I am pretty sure it was slightly open. I mean, I knocked, but I wouldn’t have opened it unless it had been off the latch. That’s not me.”
“Of course not, Ms. Colwin.” The detective looked tired, his face as wrinkled as that jacket. But his manner was gentle and his voice soft. “So you heard a voice?”
“No.” Becca looked lost in her memory. “I just—the door opened, and I stepped in, calling for her.”
“Because you sensed something was off?” The detective sounded genuinely curious, his head tilting like Laurel’s did when she was listening to something she didn’t quite understand. “Because of your power—what did you call it, a sensitivity?”
“No, I don’t…” Becca looked flustered. “Oh, you mean the summoning? No, that was—I don’t know what that was.” She almost laughed as she shook her head. “I just wanted you to understand how Suzanne and I know each other. We’re not—we weren’t—friends, exactly, though maybe we could have been, if it weren’t for… Anyway, we know each other from our group. Knew each other.” She swallowed and fell silent.
“Your coven.” The rumpled man waited a moment before offering the word, pronounced so carefully, as if he had never heard it before. At least, thought Clara as she watched him, he was being respectful.
“Well, that’s what we call ourselves.” Becca looked down, slightly abashed. “I don’t even know if I believe in any of it. Only the last time we all got together, things were a little crazy because, well, because I think I did summon something.”
The man opposite her looked so confused Clara almost began to wonder about his intelligence.
“I thought I explained,” Becca said. Obviously, she was wondering too. “I was trying out these spells. And, well, I summoned a pillow out of the ether—out of nowhere.”
“Ah, of course.” A nod of understanding at last as a smile reconfigured those wrinkles. “So you do have power of some kind, and did Suzanne?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The memory made Becca stop and think. “I was the only one who had had any success. At least, thus far.”
“S
o you were special to the group.” He was speaking slowly, as if he were trying very hard not to miss anything again. But something in his tone was beginning to make the fur along Clara’s back rise.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that…” Becca must have heard an off note too. She had turned away from the man, but Clara could see the hot dark splotches that now stained her cheeks.
“Still, it must have been very gratifying, to have a spell—a summoning spell—work. Especially when none of the other women in the coven had managed that.” He appeared to be reading his notes, but Clara could tell that he was watching Becca. Watching her color rise.
“We’re not all women.” Becca faced him again, eager to set the record straight. “We’re equal opportunity.”
“Ah.” The detective sat back, waiting. A broad grin began to spread across his worn face.
“Our coven leader, Trent, is a man,” she explained. “I mean, we’re very egalitarian. That’s one of the tenets of Wicca, of what we do. But it just so happens that Trent is the most experienced and, well, he’s a man.” She sounded like she’d run out of steam.
“One man in the coven.” The detective seemed to find that interesting. “But even he can’t do what you can. That must be extremely gratifying, especially since you’ve lost your job. Your boyfriend too, I believe. Having a power like that must have made you feel special—especially to this man, this Trent.”
“No.” Becca’s voice was full of scorn. Too full, Clara thought, remembering those flowers. “It’s not like that.”
“No, of course not.” The kind, fatherly face beamed right back at her.
“So tell me, how long were you stalking the victim?”
Chapter 13
Despite her sisters’ reservations, Clara knew that they would have responded. Laurel would have attacked that detective, claws out. Harriet would have bristled, at least, fluffing up her bulk to ottoman-like proportions. Clara simply wanted to get Becca out of there as soon as possible. Luckily, the young woman seemed to be on the same wavelength.
“What? Are you kidding me?” She stood up, her voice rising along with her. “Stalking?”
“Now, now.” The seated man raised his hand as if to stop her, his tired face looking just as gentle as it had all along. “Please, miss. We understand how emotions can run high. Your boyfriend was stepping out…”
“But you don’t understand.” She hesitated, and Clara feared she was going to sit again. “I wasn’t stalking anyone.”
“You knew that the victim was seeing your ex-boyfriend? You’ve said that you were to meet her at noon. He tells us he spoke to you at half past, which leaves a half hour unaccounted for. We’ve also heard that you were quite upset.”
“Jeff?” Her voice ratcheted up again. “He said that?”
“We’ve had several people in to talk with us,” the detective continued.
“What about Trent?” Even as Becca said the name, a look of horror came over her. “Wait, he had a key…”
“We’re speaking to several people,” the detective repeated.
“But you think I…” She reached for the back of the chair, this time to steady herself as she suddenly went pale. “That I could…?”
The tired-looking man did not answer. Instead, he pushed his own chair back with a scraping sound that made Clara—her fur already on edge—jump. “This is an ongoing investigation, but I’m sure all questions will be answered in time,” he said as he rose with a tired sigh. “In the meantime, we’d appreciate it if you remained available to answer any further questions.”
***
Clara had to hold back as Becca left the suddenly airless room. As much as she wanted to brush up against her person—to give her the feline equivalent of a hug with her soft fur and the gentle pressure of her warm body—the little cat had to keep in mind that she was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to Becca. If she showed up here, she’d be as likely to startle her as comfort her. Besides, the young woman was so distracted that even if Clara were as big as Harriet, she’d be at risk of tripping her person as the detective escorted her down the hall and out.
“Becca!” At the sound of her name, the flustered young woman looked up. The day had cleared, but she didn’t appear to feel the warm sun. Instead, she blinked, blind as a new kitten, as a man approached. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.” She stopped and focused. It was the painter, only he had rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal sinewy forearms and his hair had dried. “I’m sorry—Nathan?”
“Yeah.” He smiled, his teeth white against his tan. “I thought I’d wait around. And, well, I’m glad I did. You look a little out of it. They didn’t make you look at photos, did they?”
Becca shuddered. “No. No way. We just…talked.”
“Ah.” Nathan nodded, comprehension dawning. “That can be worse. Hey, would you want to get something to eat? I know I could use some coffee and a muffin.”
“Yeah.” She sounded tentative, but then repeated with more resolve. “Yes, I would. I think they think…I think that maybe…” She swallowed hard. “I need to talk this all over with somebody.”
As Clara followed them to the coffee house, she grew increasingly grateful that her sisters hadn’t come along. For starters, Harriet would have gotten so excited by the idea of a muffin that she might have materialized right there, which would have caused no shortage of confusion. Laurel, meanwhile, would have been so intrigued by the sun-kissed painter with his spicy scent that she’d be twining around his ankles as he walked—unless she’d have already rejected him as competition for Becca’s time and attention, in which case, who knew what havoc she would wreak. Although the housecat in Clara understood both impulses, she had more discipline than either of her siblings and prided herself on her calico ability to hang back and weigh a situation before acting.
As she slipped in the closing door and waited by the one empty table, Clara tried to focus on what Becca needed—and what one small feline could do for a beleaguered human.
“Here, drink this.” Nathan had insisted that Becca sit—choosing the same table Clara had picked out—and returned a minute later with a large, froth-topped mug. “You’ve had a shock.”
“Thanks.” A sound rather like a purr emanated from Becca’s mouth, and she licked away a foam moustache with a gesture Laurel would have been proud of. “I really need—what is this?”
“Mocha cappuccino.” Nathan put his own mug down and went back to the counter. By the time he returned, with muffins, Becca had begun to look more like herself, the warmth, milk, and sugar augmenting the caffeine in her recovery.
“I figure you’ve been through an ordeal.” He raised his own mug to drink, but Clara could see he was watching the young woman who sat opposite him. “Were they brutal?”
“It was one man—a detective—and he was, well, full of questions,” Becca said, reaching for the closest muffin. “Though he seemed to know a lot.” She broke off a piece and nibbled at it absently. Clara, who enjoyed her food almost as much as her sisters did, thought she wasn’t really tasting it. “What did you tell them about me?”
“About you?” Nathan’s eyebrows rose. “Just that I let you in.”
“Did you tell them what time?” But the man seated opposite was shaking his head.
“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really keeping track.” He had the decency to look abashed. “And they asked, and so I had to tell them that you looked distracted. But, then, I went around the back again, until, well, until you started screaming.”
“Did you at least tell them how brief my visit was?” Becca broke off another piece, but only crumbled it between her fingers. “I mean, you must have only gotten back to work.”
It was not to be. “Sorry. I had my music playing, and I was really done with the painting for the day. It being Saturday and all, I’d only come by to do another coat on the t
rim. But, well, I’d noticed you.” He looked down at his mug and thus missed seeing the blush climbing into her cheeks. “I’d seen you coming up the street and I’d been kind of hoping you’d come out soon, and so I was taking my time, cleaning up, until I heard—well, you know. And then I ran around front and saw that other guy holding you, hustling you out of the building. I was ready to jump in. But just then, I heard sirens and the cops were pulling up, and I realized I should stay out of the way.”
Becca blinked up at him.
“Until you’d been taken care of, of course.” The painter’s eyes opened wide. They were blue, Clara noted, but a more grey-blue than Laurel’s. “By the EMT, that is. Then I came forward—anyway, I’m sorry. Finding your friend like that must have been awful.”
“Yeah, it was. Thanks.” Becca held her mug close as color drained from her face to leave her sickly pale. “But Suzanne and I weren’t friends. Not exactly.”
“Ah.” Now it was his turn to look thoughtful. “Work colleagues?”
“We’re in a cov—a group. A discussion group. We were,” she corrected herself as her color returned to something like normal. “We had just had our weekly meeting a few days before, and she’d asked me to come by.”
“And she called you that morning, right?” He bit into his own muffin while he waited for her answer.
“No.” Becca shook her head. “She’d asked me when we last met. Why?”
“Huh.” Another bite, and his face grew thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “That’s strange. I heard her on the phone earlier that morning—maybe an hour or two before you showed up. She sounded like something was on her mind. Honestly? Maybe even angry.”