A Spell of Murder

by Clea Simon

  “But you’ve been following her, and I know she senses your presence. Pushing her to ask questions and uncover every little thing.” Laurel was beginning to doze off, which was never her most logical mode.

  “Besides, if Becca were still in bed, then we wouldn’t have had breakfast.” Harriet had finally joined them, licking her chops.

  “I don’t think it’s bad for her to go outside.” Clara knew she was in the minority, and the sidelong glances of her sisters confirmed this opinion. “Besides,” she added as a way of making peace, “I doubt she’s leaving right away.”

  “You heard her.” Harriet was in a mood, and Clara kept silent. Most cats live in the present, which makes the idea of “tomorrow”—or of any appointment, really—hard to grasp. Luckily, it also keeps them from worrying too much about the future or even holding on to a grudge for too long. Indeed, by the time Becca returned, showered and dressed, and sat back down on the sofa, Laurel and Harriet had seemed to forget their earlier pique. As Becca typed, it was Clara who grew concerned. Surely, it wasn’t good for a healthy young woman to spend an entire sunny spring day indoors. Not even a sweet one who had been through the mill recently, both personally and professionally.

  “What are you complaining about?” Laurel’s fangs showed as she yawned, and her claws unsheathed as she stretched. “This is perfect!”

  “I don’t know.” Clara didn’t want to leave Becca’s side. Still, she found herself pacing as the morning passed. She was even grateful when Becca picked up the phone again, as poor a substitute for fresh air and real contact as it might be.

  “Hey, Maddy.” Becca sounded happy, at least, and willing to forgive her old friend her well-intentioned lapse. “You wouldn’t believe what I just found in the genealogy archives. A woodcut of my great-great-whatever. Oh, and I’ve got an interview! Call me?”

  Harriet was asleep on her pillow by then, and Laurel halfway there, her dark-tipped tail lashing languorously across the sofa. Clara, however, found herself intrigued by Becca’s message, and when she jumped to the back of the sofa, she realized why. There—on the screen—was a picture. All lines and in black and white, it took a moment for the cat to make sense of it. An image without a scent is only half what it should be to most cats. But as she stared, she had the most profound realization. There, on the computer screen, was a print of her great-great-great-great-great-grand dam. The witch cat of Salem! Standing next to a nice-enough looking lady. A woman who—Clara leaned in to get a better view—kind of looked like Becca, if Becca had grown her hair long and then tied it all back in a knot.

  “Laurel, check this out.” Clara nudged her sleepy sister. “It’s Grandma.”

  “It’s a box.” Laurel stretched and rolled over. “A box you can’t even sit in. Though it is warm…”

  “No, look—” But before Clara could convince her sister to try to make sense of the flat, odorless image, the phone had rung again, and Becca, reaching for it, had closed the electronic device.

  “Maddy? Oh.” From the way she straightened in her seat, Clara could tell that her person was surprised. Not unhappy, though. “Hi, Nathan. I was expecting…someone else.”

  Clara angled her ear and was able to pick up the voice of the painter, if not his pleasant pine scent.

  “I realized I should take the initiative.” A nervous edge—or maybe it was the connection—pitched his voice high and brittle. “I know you’ve been through so much, but I was hoping we could get together, if you’ve got time.”

  Poor connection or not, Becca’s face lit up as he spoke, in a smile that warmed Clara like a purr—at least for the few moments before her brows drew together in consternation. “Wait, how’d you get my number?” There was a sharpness to her voice that made Clara take note.

  “I have my ways.” Clara heard Becca’s quick intake of breath. “I’m sorry, not funny.” Apparently, Nathan had too. “I got it from Larissa.” The answer came quickly and easily, his tone calming down to what the little cat remembered. But something about the way Becca had tilted her head—her lips tightly closed—made her pet think it wasn’t sufficient. “I mentioned meeting you to her the other day, when we ran into each other.”

  “Uh-huh.” Becca wanted more.

  “She seems to think we should get to know each other.” He laughed. “I know, pushy, huh? But you can ask her. I gather you’re getting together for a memorial tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Becca started and then caught herself, as if the man on the other end of the line could see her. Then she paused, and to her cat she appeared to be wrestling with a question other than the one she had just answered. “Look, Nathan, can I get back to you? This is an odd time.”

  Clara couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed when she rang off and, instead, began fiddling with her phone, tapping away at the device with her thumbs. While it was true that none of them knew this young man, the plump feline had liked his scent. Even more, she had liked the way he had treated Becca, taking her out for treats after that disconcerting meeting with the police. But Becca wasn’t Harriet, and if she had doubts, they were probably sensible, the pet reminded herself.

  Still, the little cat looked up hopefully when the phone rang again. Becca was no house pet to spend all her time on the sofa.

  “Maddy?” She’d grabbed up the phone without glancing at it.

  “Sorry.” Even before she saw Becca’s shoulders’ drop, Clara knew. It was her person’s ex.

  “Jeff.” No greeting, nothing cordial, and a new note—defiant—had crept into Becca’s voice. “What do you want?”

  “Look.” His voice had an edge of panic. Or maybe it was desperation. “I’m sorry, all right? I was a lousy boyfriend and I’m sorry. I really—I guess I was afraid of the commitment, or of how I felt about you.” Laurel couldn’t have rolled her eyes any harder. Jeff must have heard something because he suddenly broke off. “Look, Becca, don’t hang up. I’m sorry, okay? I mean it. And when I told you that I’d broken up with Suzanne, I meant I was going to. That going out with her was a mistake, and even before she found out I was your boyfriend, I was going to end it.”

  “So she was the one who ended it.” The words leaked out as sharp as Laurel’s claws. “Of course.”

  “I was going to stop seeing her. Really.” She didn’t respond, but before he could hang up, he tried one more time, his voice pitched high and desperate. “You’ve got to tell the cops that, Becca. I mean, I had no reason to want her dead.”

  Chapter 25

  “Excuse me?” Becca’s default mode was polite. “I, wait, what?”

  “Just, don’t take our relationship stuff to the police, okay? This is serious.”

  Polite, but still furious. “Jeff Blakey, if you think that I’ve been airing my personal laundry to the police…” She stopped with a sputter. Her outrage was convincing, but Clara could tell that, for the moment at least, the angry young woman standing before her was concerned that she’d done just that.

  Luckily, her ex didn’t know her as well as her cat did. “I’m sorry, Becca, but I think someone’s been telling them things, and, well, you’re the only one who makes sense.”

  “Oh?” She leaned back against the sofa, waiting.

  The answering sigh would have been audible, even to non-feline ears. “I thought I was in the clear, but then I was called in to answer some more questions about Suzanne, and it was kind of obvious they came from someone in your, you know, your group.”

  “The coven?” Becca straightened.

  “Uh-huh. There was a lot about if I knew how often you guys got together, and what was my involvement. I told them I didn’t know anything. That you and I had broken up before you got really into all that Wicca stuff. But this one cop, he kept pushing. Asking me why I was, you know, seeing two of you, and what that meant.”

  “What that meant?” Becca pronounced the last word as if it taste
d bad, and Clara licked her whiskers in sympathy.

  “You know.” The man on the phone was at a loss to explain. “What was it about your witchy stuff that attracted men. Whether you girls had some kind of competition going.”

  “Uh-huh.” Becca bit her lip. “And you think that this means that they suspect you?”

  “What else?” His voice was cracking. The fatigue had broken through into desperation. “They questioned me for more than an hour.”

  “Uh-huh.” The way Becca was nodding, Clara knew she was digesting his words slowly, as if they were a bit of gristle. “Maybe you’re right, Jeff. Maybe they were trying to get you to confess to being something more than just a nasty cheat.” A sputter came through the line, but Becca kept talking. “But if you ask me, what they’re doing is something else entirely. I think they’re asking you about me and my friends for a different reason. I think they suspect one of us in the coven.”

  Jeff had the grace not to sound too happy about that idea. Or maybe, Clara thought, the callow young man simply lacked the sense to follow Becca’s reasoning. All she could tell for sure was that despite some vague protests, Becca was able to get him off the phone fairly quickly. And if Clara had worried about her person’s lack of drive before, now she faced the opposite fear. Instead of settling back on the sofa, where Laurel was snoring gently, Becca became a whirlwind of activity. Picking up the few dishes she’d used, she muttered to herself like a discontented cat, until, finally, she disappeared into her bedroom and began throwing clothes around, emerging at last in an all-black outfit that seemed at odds with the beauty of the day.

  “Okay, kitties.” Laurel had woken and joined Clara in staring at their human. Even Harriet roused herself to look up. “I’m going to be out for a while, but don’t worry. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  “Really?” Laurel yawned and began to groom, her spirits if not her fur unruffled by the turn of events. “Do you think she expects us to respond?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clara as she checked her own tail and whiskers. “But I fear she’s going hunting, and not for the kind of prey that would feed any of us.”

  ***

  Her coat neatly groomed, Clara waited by the door until Becca left, slipping out only after the dark-haired girl, so as not to cause her concern. But as she followed her person’s rather hurried steps, the little calico began to have apprehensions of her own. Becca was upset, that much was evident. That she had felt spurred to action by the phone call—or maybe both phone calls—was also evident. What Clara wasn’t sure of was what her person intended to do about it.

  Surely, the cat thought as she trotted to keep up, Becca wasn’t going to meet Jeff. Nor would she likely be heading back to the police, not after what she’d said on the phone. Cats may not understand the ins and outs of law enforcement, but they tend not to believe in closed doors of any sort, as anybody who has cohabited with a feline knows.

  Still, the determined young woman marched on, her slight stature giving her an edge as she wove through the workday crowd. For her cat, it was a bit more difficult. Keeping herself semi-shadowed meant she had to be more careful of feet as she ducked and dodged down the crowded city sidewalk. When Becca turned off the busy main street, her pet breathed a sigh of relief. Even magical cats have a hard time out in the world. But as Clara looked around, the realization of where her person was headed made her catch her breath in a way no near miss by a pointy toe could.

  Suzanne’s apartment. The triple-decker with its fresh coat of paint looked as cheery as could be on this sunny day. Still, Clara was grateful when her person stopped short of walking up to the clapboard building and mounting its three white steps. Not that she was easy with the way Becca stood on the sidewalk opposite, considering.

  “I wonder who lives downstairs?” Becca voiced her thoughts. “And what they heard?”

  This, her cat knew, could not end well. Surely, if the police were talking to Becca’s ex, then they must have interviewed the neighbors as well.

  Of course, being a cat—and a shadowy one at that—Clara could check out the two lower apartments. In fact, she realized, it wouldn’t be difficult to slip inside the front door and at least take in the scents of the inhabitants.

  The first floor, she could tell right away, was the home of an older woman. Even from here, she could sense that simply from the combination of aromas: peppermint tea and the sharp tang of a muscle rub, leavened with the not unpleasantly musty smell of old books. The couple on the second floor were likely academics, she figured, from the amount of paper rustling in the slight breeze that made its way inside. They’d been gone for several days, Clara gathered from the dearth of any other sound, as well as a certain stillness of the dust. Probably since Suzanne had been found there, she realized. Cats, like most humans, have an aversion to violence, but the parti-colored feline couldn’t quite understand why people would leave after an attack. Surely, that young couple—French, she decided, from some faint herbal quality to their kitchen—must have realized that the violence above them was over by the time they took off.

  All she would have to do would be to cross the street. Clara took a deep breath. Cloaked as she was, no car would see her. Dare she risk it? For Becca she would, she decided, and glanced up at her person, only to see that she’d extracted her phone from her pocket.

  “Hi, Nathan?” Startled, Clara sat back down on the sun-warmed sidewalk. “It’s me, Becca. I was thinking and, yes, I’d like to get together,” her person said. But all the time, the cat at her feet could easily see, the young woman was staring at the building before her.

  Chapter 26

  Nathan had been right. The coven had voted not to wait for the solstice. “None of us want to rush you, my dear, but it simply wouldn’t do to put off the inevitable,” Larissa had said when Becca reached her that afternoon, in response to the flurry of texts. “We need to focus on the goddess.”

  “Too long to wait,” Maddy had interpreted, when Becca had explained to her friend why she’d be busy later. “She wants to get back to being the center of attention.”

  “I gather everyone else agreed,” Becca protested mildly. Marcia, sequestered in her law office, had been particularly keen on acting sooner, Larissa had told her, and as soon as Marcia had spoken up, Ande and Kathy had chimed in too. Trent’s opinion wasn’t cited by the older wiccan, but Becca certainly wasn’t going to reach out to him after what had happened. If Larissa said they were all on board, she’d accept that.

  “Like they had a choice?” Maddy snarked.

  “You’ve not even met Larissa.” Becca didn’t really disagree with her friend’s assessment of the situation, but she did feel honor bound to speak up for the older woman. “That is, unless she works with you too.”

  “Very funny!” Her friend had been wise enough not to take offense. “Just don’t stay out too late, okay? I want you to bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for your interview with old Reynolds.”

  ***

  In truth, the sun had barely begun to set by the time the coven had gathered. However, the lengthening shadows did make it easier for Clara to follow as her person made her way to their meeting place by the river. The setting, the little cat had to admit, was perfect. Although cars roared by as commuters made their way home from work, the gently sloping bank was grassy and fragrant from the sprinkling of wild flowers along the verge. Already, the water reflected as much orange as blue, the surface broken only by the wake of a single sculler passing by, silent as a water bug.

  “Becca.” Larissa had, as anticipated, taken charge, and was greeting each member of the coven as she arrived. Despite the usual handicap of draping sleeves and an impressive manicure, the dark-haired witch had already set up a small folding table with a jug of what looked to be cider and a plate of cookies that Harriet would have made quick work of. “Kathy.” The older woman nodded as the redhead came down the path. “Merry
meet.”

  “Merry meet,” Becca responded, spotting Ande over by the river’s edge. The tall accountant had her hands in her pockets and appeared to be staring at the reflections that wavered and took on new shape in the water before her. As Larissa began to fuss with the refreshments, Becca took a few careful steps down the sloped bank to join her, shuffling a bit on the slick grass to avoid losing her footing.

  “Hey.” Ande turned from her reverie, and Becca had the oddly unnerving realization that she and the taller woman were eye to eye. “I mean, merry meet.”

  “Hey, Ande. Merry meet to you too.” Becca took a deep breath, emboldened by this new equality. “I hear you voted for having the memorial tonight, Ande. I mean, as opposed to waiting for the solstice.”

  “Well, yeah.” The glowing light warmed Ande’s skin, and she stared over the water as if she were remembering a good dream. “I mean, life goes on, right?”

  “’Life goes on?’” Becca searched the other woman’s face. “No, Ande, something’s going on, but you can’t just dismiss it that easily.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ande snapped to focus suddenly. “Becca, I know how horrible this has been—I mean, you found Suzanne.”

  “You know it’s been horrible, but you’re not doing anything to help.” Becca spoke with quiet urgency. Up by the path, Larissa was getting louder. She wasn’t the most patient woman. “No, worse. You’re obfuscating things.”

  “Obfuscating?” Her brow wrinkled.

  “You know, making things muddy.”

  “I know what obfuscating means.” Ande sounded sad rather than wounded. “I just don’t get what you mean.”

  “You keep saying that Suzanne only wanted to talk to you about the coven finances, but that there wasn’t anything real there.” Becca fought to keep her voice low, even as her frustration mounted. “And you won’t come forward and tell the police about it. Meanwhile, I think they suspect me.”