A Spell of Murder

by Clea Simon

  “I don’t want you to encourage her.” Clara’s voice sank to a hiss. “She’s not a witch. We’ve got to stop her from thinking she is.”

  “Huh.” Harriet turned and began to groom. It was a dismissal, but Clara was grateful that her sister wasn’t going to put up a fight. “We could end this once and for all,” Harriet muttered, her mouth full of fur. “I could summon a knife and place it at that scone stealer’s apartment, and Laurel could get the police to go look for it, I bet.”

  “That wouldn’t solve anything.” Clara had given up arguing with Harriet and simply stared at their person. She was trying desperately to think, and her sister’s interruption wasn’t helping.

  “She’s right, of course.” Almost soundlessly, Laurel had joined them on the rug. “The clown, that is. We send Becca after the wrong person and, if we’re not careful, she’ll get killed too.”

  The Siamese didn’t seem too distressed by that thought, but Clara turned to stare at her, her own fur standing up along her spine.

  “What?” One syllable was all she could manage.

  “Someone is out hunting.” Laurel looked up, her blue eyes cool and inscrutable. “Who’s to say that our little Becca wouldn’t be next?”

  Chapter 21

  That question was only one of the many Clara was still mulling over when Becca finally gave up, forty minutes later. By then, she’d tried a scrying spell, an incantation supposed to make the hidden known, and fifteen words of power guaranteed to grant wisdom.

  As Clara or any of her sisters could have told her, none of them had a chance of working. Human tongues are simply unable to give the spells the proper feline pronunciation. As it was, the calico had gradually grown grateful for her person’s distraction. As she sat on the sofa, entranced by Becca’s gestures and strange pronouncements, she had had time to run through her own list of possibilities—many of a more mundane kind—searching for an answer.

  “I should just implant the idea that she drop the whole thing.” Laurel had woken from her nap and now stretched, extending her claws dangerously close to Becca’s leg. “This obsession is becoming quite dull.”

  “No.” Clara resisted the urge to bat at her sister. It wouldn’t do to provoke her. “You were right, what you said. I’m worried that she’s in danger.”

  Laurel tipped her head, regarding her baby sister anew. “Really?” Her voice dripped with something akin to skepticism. “You care about her that much?”

  “Of course!” Clara’s response was automatic, and then she caught herself. “You do too. Don’t you?”

  Laurel gave the feline equivalent of a shrug, the velvet fur of her shoulders twitching as she rearranged herself on the cushion. She would never, Clara knew, admit to having bonded with a human. Still, she had to love Becca, didn’t she? Becca had taken them in. She was their person.

  “She’s competent,” Laurel said, a bit begrudgingly, and Clara bit back her own reply. From her sister, this was high praise. Besides, Becca was finishing up.

  “It’s no use, Clara.” She addressed the little cat with a sad smile. “Maybe all the magic I have was used up on that one pillow. Only, you’d think…” She closed her laptop and stood with a sigh. “I mean, this is important.”

  Clara butted her head against Becca’s thigh. Her jeans were soft and warm, and the hand that came down to fondle her ears gentle. “You guys probably just see me as a walking dispenser of treats,” she said. Across the room, Harriet’s ears pricked up. “But I know what happened. I have power, and I should be able to use it. I mean, someone killed Suzanne, and I’d like to think it wasn’t someone in the coven…”

  The hand on Clara’s head froze, and before she knew what was happening, Becca was typing once more. “Maybe, it wasn’t us. Ande said something about a new job…” The hopeful tone had the calico purring, only to stop as suddenly as Becca did. “No!” One word, exhaled in a start.

  Before Clara could even figure out what had happened, Becca had risen once more. Grabbing her phone, she began pacing. “Come on. Pick up!”

  But the young woman’s invocations to the cell gods had no more power than any of her other spells, and soon she had dropped onto the couch again, the phone still and silent in her hand.

  “I can’t,” she said, turning to the cat beside her. “There’s no way to leave a question like that in a message.”

  Clara stared up, feeling as blind and powerless as most mere mortals must. All she could do was blink in support, but Becca didn’t even seem to notice. In fact, the young woman was staring into space with such intensity that Clara found herself compelled to follow her gaze. No, nothing there. Nothing one small cat could see, at any rate.

  “Larissa.” Becca mouthed the name of the coven’s oldest member and then bit her own lip as she read the images she had summoned. “Could she know?”

  Clara was itching to understand. If the older woman knew more about the murder, wouldn’t she have shared it? As she watched, wide-eyed, Becca stood once more and reached for her phone.

  “Larissa?” Becca’s voice sounded too light, like she was forcing herself to sound happy. “I’m so glad I caught you. I know we’re meeting tomorrow, only I was wondering if I could talk to you privately first. What about? Oh, that position you mentioned to me, and some other things. Would that be okay?” She paused, and appeared to hold her breath. “Great!” The word rushed out as if in relief. “I’ll be over in a few.”

  Clara watched as Becca grabbed her jacket and threw her laptop into her bag. The calico followed her gaze as she took in Harriet, dozing on the windowsill, and Laurel, whose complete unconsciousness was revealed by her most undignified sprawl. Just to be sure, Clara dabbed at her tail, one leather paw pad gently brushing the guard hairs along its edge. In response, the appendage flicked, and its owner shifted, one dark foot extending up into the air, as she rolled onto her back. Out cold, good.

  “Bye, kitties.” Over by the door, Becca called softly. A plaintive note in her voice alerted Clara to her slight unease. No, this wasn’t a social call. Her person was going hunting, or some version of the same. Using her real down-to-earth skills, Clara realized Becca was trying to uncover the truth. And once more, Clara was going with her.

  ***

  Becca didn’t take the T, and for that her cat was grateful. Using her powers and the mottling of her coat to fade into the few shadows of the bright spring day, Clara could have followed her person anywhere—even down into the subway and beyond. But like all cats, Clara detested loud noises, and even as Becca strode past the station entrance—the shaded calico hard on her heels—she could hear the roar of the steel beast below. As Becca kept walking, Clara felt herself relaxing, her open-mouthed pant subsiding once more and her tail perking up, as the roar of the city gave way to the quieter streets down by the river. This was better, she thought. Almost as if Becca were a cat herself.

  That thought faded as the young woman approached a gleaming tower as threatening as a trap and as out of place in the quiet neighborhood as a dog in a cattery. Becca herself seemed to have a moment of doubt. She stood, head back, examining the looming modern structure that reflected the glare off the river, her hands knotted together in what Clara recognized as the human equivalent of a self-calming groom. Then, as if the caress had indeed given her courage, she strode down the concrete approach, pulling open a steel-and-glass door so heavy it nearly swung shut before Clara could slip inside.

  “Larissa Fox.” A doorman blinked at her, his face impassive. “17 F, I think?” Becca added, and he shoved a book toward her to sign. While she did, Clara scoped out the lobby. Two plants, in the corner, wouldn’t offer much in the way of protection. She lowered her head, willing herself to become more deeply cloaked, and then trotted along behind the young woman as she headed toward the elevator.

  ***

  “Becca, you poor dear! Blessed be!” Larissa ushered the youn
ger woman into her apartment so quickly, Clara barely had time to follow. Once she did, however, she found plenty of cover. The lobby of the high-rise might be modern and spare, yet Larissa’s space inside it was anything but. Potted plants clustered around a freestanding bookshelf that served to separate the entranceway from a large living room. Hanging lamps inset with stained glass cast colored shapes on the rugs, which overlapped, almost tripping Becca as her host led her to a wide, low-set couch covered with bright, patterned throws. More lamps at either end were dimmed by shawls, their fringe so enticing that Clara forced herself to turn away.

  By then, Becca was seated, her slight form almost disappearing in deep, plush upholstery. An image of Harriet kneading those pillows sprang into Clara’s mind, and she willfully dismissed it. As much as she knew her sister would adore a setup like this, Clara had more important concerns right now.

  “Please.” Larissa was handing Becca a saucer, on which stood more colored glass. Green this time, with a filigree pattern. Clara’s discerning nose sniffed at the steam that rose from its gold-rimmed edge. This wasn’t the usual foul brew. “You must be distraught.”

  “Thanks.” Becca took a tentative sip. “Peppermint!”

  “It’s healing.” Larissa settled next to her, one hand brushing her long, dark locks out against the cushions in an almost feline fashion. “How have you been, my dear? Not taxing yourself emotionally?”

  “I don’t think so.” Becca had to struggle a bit to lean forward but managed to place her glass on a brass tray that rested on the nearby footstool. “Thanks for seeing me. I mean, alone.” She made another attempt to sit up and only succeeded in sinking deeper. “I was hoping you could tell me more about that position?”

  “The job with Graham? My old friend—mentor, really—he’s so much older than me, of course. But are you really ready to talk about this, my dear? It’s been such a trying week! I was thinking we should gather and do a cleansing circle for you. For dear Suzanne too, of course.”

  “Of course.” The smile on Becca’s face was as strained as that tea. “And, well, that’s part of what I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Oh?” Larissa’s hands fluttered like busy moths, rearranging the throw on the back of the sofa.

  “I gather Suzanne was concerned about the coven’s finances.” Becca stopped at that, though by the way she was biting her lip, Clara could tell she wanted to say more.

  “Dear Suzanne.” Larissa’s musical laugh sounded a bit forced. “She worried so, and about nothing. And you’re so sweet to ask. You know, I do believe there’s a reason you found dear Suzanne. You’ve always been the most gifted of our little coven. You and Trent, of course. But then, he’s special in so many ways.”

  “Trent?” Even Becca’s all-too-human ears must have picked up the off note in the older woman’s voice. “How do you mean?”

  “Well he’s our very own warlock, of course.” Larissa’s kohl-lined eyes cast down, as if following the pattern in the throw, before darting up again. “And, of course, he does like to do a little outreach, doesn’t he? You must know something of that, my dear.”

  Becca was too unworldly not to flinch, although in the dim light the color rising to her cheeks was probably not immediately apparent. “He’s been concerned about me after…after Saturday. And, well, he cared for Suzanne too.”

  “Of course.” Larissa sat back. “We all did. Now, would you like me to talk to Graham for you?”

  “I was hoping you could give me an introduction.” Becca managed to sit up straight finally, propping herself up on the pillows. “Just to get me in the door. I’m guessing that’s what you did for Suzanne, because she’d recently started a job that you’d referred her to as well—a position at Reynolds and Associates. Didn’t she? And it turns out my friend Maddy works there too.”

  Chapter 22

  “Come on, Maddy, pick up.” Becca was back on the sidewalk less than an hour later. Her visit with Larissa had raised more questions than answers. The older woman had laughed off her earlier referral—“Graham does run through his worker bees!”—despite Becca’s attempt to shock her into any kind of revelation. And despite three more distinct attempts to raise the issue of the coven finances, she’d been unable to get any kind of proper response to those questions either. In truth, the older woman’s defense—that their accounts mattered little and had no impact on the coven’s weekly functioning—had begun to sound increasingly sensible, supporting Ande’s assertion and leading Becca to wonder if Suzanne had indeed wanted to speak to her about something else entirely.

  Maybe, Becca mused, she simply had finances on the mind. Although the older woman had promised to call this mysterious Graham for her, Becca was no more convinced than she’d been earlier that she had a lead on a new job. In fact, once Becca had realized that Larissa’s “old friend” must be the same grumpy Mr. Reynolds she’d been hearing Maddy complain about, she was less likely to pursue a position—especially one that, as she already knew, called for qualifications she didn’t possess. Still, she was intrigued as to why neither Larissa nor Suzanne had ever mentioned this particular connection. Or, for that matter, why her old friend had never said anything about working with the dead woman.

  “Maddy, it’s me.” Becca made an effort to hold her voice steady. “Call me, please? It’s important.”

  While Larissa had brushed off her earlier referral of the other coven member as a mere triviality, referring vaguely to the intimacy of their world and the necessity of distributing what she called “patronage” among those she knew, the question had seemed to upset her. She’d spent the rest of the visit fussing with the upholstery and avoiding any direct questions about her supposed friend—or mentor, as she’d begun to term him—whom Maddy had always described as a bitter old man, his mind—and office demeanor—stuck in a century or maybe two prior. Somehow, Becca couldn’t reconcile that with what she knew of Larissa, and that left only her friend to explain.

  As Clara watched from underneath a forsythia in full bloom, Becca stared at her phone. That she could no more will it to ring than she could summon that pillow only made the little cat’s heart ache for her person. It must be so hard to lack power over the world, she thought. If only…

  “Becca?” The cat and the girl she loved turned at the sound of a male voice, warm and friendly. The blond painter, almost unrecognizable in a sport jacket, was striding up the walk, a wrapped bouquet in his hands. “What a surprise!”

  “Nathan.” Becca smiled despite herself, and tucked her phone into her pocket. “Hi.” But as she took in his clothes and the flowers, her cat heard her gasp. Disappointment, waiting to happen. Before she could say anything, the painter was talking again.

  “It’s good to see you again. I was hoping to hear from you—or run into you.” That smile seemed at odds with the nice clothes. The flowers. “I know this is a small town, but I’m sorry I ran out yesterday. The whole thing must have gotten to me more than I’d admitted to myself.”

  Becca nodded. “Me too.”

  “I’ve been thinking I was a fool for not getting your number yesterday.”

  Becca held her breath once more, this time with anticipation, and Clara looked on with concern. Those flowers… “You don’t…you don’t live here, do you?”

  “Me? No.” Nathan chuckled at the idea. “I was visiting someone—a relative. And you?”

  “Same. I mean, visiting. Larissa Fox.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, a sly smile tweaking the corners of his generous mouth.

  “You know her?” Becca saw it too. “She’s…well, she’s part of a group I’m in. We meet once a week to discuss, well, paranormal events.” She looked down, and so didn’t see his smile spread into a grin.

  “And let me guess.” Whatever humor was behind that smile now gave his voice a lilt. “She finances it—or some part of it—and thinks that her money gives her special rights over
all of you?”

  Becca recoiled slightly. “I…that’s not entirely fair.”

  His brows went up.

  “Well, maybe a little.” Their eyes met, and for a moment, Clara felt a tingle of magic in the air.

  “Hey.” He broke the silence. “If I don’t get these flowers up soon, I’ll be in trouble. May I call you?”

  “Yeah.” Becca was beaming. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  She was still humming to herself as she hit the street, and it wasn’t until she had turned the corner that she stopped short. “He didn’t take my number.” But the dismay on her face quickly resolved into a chuckle. “Small town,” she repeated, and walked on, so lost in thought that she almost didn’t hear her phone.

  “Maddy?” She stopped and swallowed. “Look, Maddy, we really have to talk.”

  ***

  Both Laurel and Harriet were at the door when Becca and her feline shadow returned. And while their sister wasn’t sure if their restless circling had more to do with the approach of dinnertime or their person’s anxiety, Clara joined them in circumambulating her feet.

  “What’s gotten into you three?” Becca caught herself. Laurel was, as always, graceful, but Harriet’s decision to stop short and wash her face had nearly sent their person flying.

  Still, their mobile presence served its purpose. Two purposes, actually. Becca dropped her bag and immediately went to fetch their cans, prompting a smirk from Harriet. “See?” She mewed over her shoulder as she led the way into the kitchen. “I can make more than a pillow appear!”

  “We didn’t get any answers out in the world, but something’s up,” Clara warned her siblings, even as she waited for her dish to be lowered to the floor. Laurel turned toward her, her blue eyes skeptical.

  “Don’t mind her,” Harriet muttered as she ate. Out of habit, Becca fed her first, having learned that the big marmalade would take the first dish set down anyway. “She’s just trying to distract us.”