by Clea Simon
“What?” Laurel’s ears flicked back. Any interruption tended to dispel her ability to suggest thoughts. “You want her to succeed, don’t you?”
“Not like that.” Clara did her best not to growl. “It’s not that kind of meeting.”
“They’re all that kind of meeting.” Laurel turned her back on her sister, but despite her feigned nonchalance, that chocolate tail was already whipping back and forth.
Clara, who knew how much was at stake, wasn’t going to let this one go. “Laurel,” she hissed. No response beyond another flick of those dark ears. “Laurel!” The calico had raised her paw to smack her older sister on her café au lait behind when Harriet interrupted.
“Where’s our breakfast?” The big marmalade looked around as she lumbered over to the chair, where two discarded outfits had already been tossed—evidence of the battle being waged between her younger siblings. “Is she—are you two—going to keep this up all day?”
“No.” Turning away, Laurel began grooming, as if the appearance of her own dainty brown booties were all that mattered. “It’s hopeless.”
As Becca pulled a modish—but modest—skirt and matching jacket out of her closet, Clara sighed with relief. She hadn’t wanted to fight. Clara didn’t think her slinky seal-point sister was jealous of her own particular power—the ease with which she passed through walls and closed doors. But the calico did suspect that her sister would not stand to have her more mischievous wishes thwarted again. Luckily, not even Laurel would start an argument with Harriet about breakfast, and the bigger cat’s interruption had already broken her brief spell. No magic was required to remind Becca of her most important of duties, however, and while Harriet and Laurel were still face down in their dishes, Clara snuck out—catching Becca as she headed for her appointment.
***
Maddy was outside, leaning against a concrete pillar and smoking, when Becca got to the Central Square office where she worked.
“I thought you’d quit,” said Becca, stepping back after a quick embrace.
“I have, sort of.” Her friend stubbed out the butt and fanned the air. “But I wanted to catch you before you went in.”
Before Becca could comment on the logic of that particular excuse, her friend had reached out for her again, holding her at arm’s length while she surveyed Becca’s skirt and floral summer jacket.
“You look good.” Maddy nodded. “Too good for this place.”
Clara had to agree. As much as she disliked Laurel messing with their person’s thoughts, in this case, the lingering effects of her suggestion had been positive. Becca wasn’t what one would call stylish, but the skirt and jacket worked together nicely, giving the young woman a more mature, put-together look than what she might have otherwise chosen. If only the acrid smoke didn’t insinuate itself into the pretty fabric.
“Thanks.” Becca smoothed the already wrinkle-free front of the jacket and threw her shoulders back. “I want to make a good impression.”
“If anyone can…” Her friend glanced over at the building’s glass doors, shaking her head. “He’s in a mood. That’s why I wanted to catch you—to warn you.”
Becca’s brows shot up.
“Well, yeah, and to have a smoke. I mean, it’s, what, not even nine thirty and he’s already reamed out the entire team.”
Becca’s perfect posture slumped. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Still watching the door as if afraid of what might come out, Maddy shook her head. “Another fight with his ex, I think. I got in early—we really could use some extra help, you know—and I could hear them. I mean, he was on the phone, with his door closed, and I could still hear him. I think she lives in one of his properties and has an untrained dog or something. He was yelling about ‘a shorter leash.’ I know, it sounds stupid. Remind me to never get married.”
Becca opened her mouth to respond and wisely shut it again before her friend could see.
“Anyway, don’t mention pets.” Her friend turned back to face her, once more taking in Becca’s outfit, from shoes to hair. “Though maybe cats would be…no, just don’t. And you do look good. This weather, your hair has some curl to it. Once we get you a job, we’re going to go out and meet some decent guys.”
“But not to marry.” Becca raised her hand to cut off her friend’s objection, a grin perking her pink cheeks up further. “That’ll be great. Though I may have a prospect of my own.”
“Oh?” Maddy drew the syllable out till it dripped with inflection.
“I’ll tell you after.” Becca took a deep breath and once more brushed down her spotless jacket. In some ways, Clara thought with more than a touch of pride, her person was very like a cat. “Wish me luck!”
Becca certainly moved like a cat as she exited the elevator for the fourth-floor office. A wise cat, that is, who entered an unknown territory with some trepidation.
Head up and back a little stiff, she stepped carefully, craning around to get her bearings as she walked through the open archway marked Reynolds and Associates and looked around.
Maddy had told her about the office’s open plan. Beyond the receptionist’s desk, cubicles with low dividers filled the floor, while the boss’s office sat far in the back. His door was closed, although she could see the balding man pacing through the interior window. And though all around her heads bent over keyboards or focused intently on glowing screens, she—and presumably all the workers who appeared so focused on their terminals—could hear him yell, “Not one more penny!”
Becca swallowed. At least Maddy had warned her. But before she could even contemplate facing the monster beyond, she had to pass the gorgon at the gate.
“May I help you?” The tone got Becca’s attention, and she turned to find herself facing a pair of cat-eye glasses. Maddy had warned her about Ms. White. “Reynolds’s faithful attack dog,” had been her exact words. “If a dog wore sparkly glasses and too much lipstick.”
“Yes, please.” Becca summoned what she hoped was a placatory smile, her own lips feeling suddenly dry. “I have an appointment with Mr. Reynolds.”
“Risa, you’re not listening!” bellowed the voice from beyond the front desk.
“I’ll see if he’s in.” The gatekeeper turned, rhinestones sparkling, and made a show of fussing with her phone.
“That’s it! No more!”
In the silence that followed, Becca held her breath, her smile frozen in place. Finally, whether through habit or some change in lighting on the phone that only the gatekeeper could decipher, the bespectacled woman before her looked up again.
“Mr. Reynolds will see you now.” The corners of her crimson mouth wrinkled up slightly. Clara hoped it was in sympathy. “Good luck.”
Muttering what she remembered of the charm against ill fortune under her breath, Becca made her way across the office, skirting the low cubicles and avoiding the inquisitive gaze of the inhabitants who glanced up quickly as she passed, like so many timid mice.
Becca wasn’t feeling any braver by the time she’d crossed the floor and paused to take a deep breath before she knocked on the door. The bark that greeted her—“Who is it?” —didn’t help.
“Mr. Reynolds?” She stepped into what was actually a rather nice office. Although the balding, red-faced man behind the desk was as disheveled as she’d expected, matching the pile of papers scattered before him, the room itself was spacious and lit by the huge window opposite, which looked out on the river and the city beyond. “I’m Becca Colwin.”
Reynolds’ eyebrows bristled like caterpillars as he gestured toward a chair.
“Larissa Fox referred me?” She perched gingerly, back straight and ankles crossed.
“Oh, yeah, Larissa.” He looked down at his desk and began to shuffle through the papers there. “One of Larissa’s pets, huh?”
He didn’t say it like he was expecting a
n answer, and so Becca held back, waiting until he found what appeared to be a printout of her resumé before proceeding. “As you can see, I’m experienced in research—”
“No master’s, though.” Reynolds frowned and flipped the page over, though if he hoped to find the answer on the back, Becca knew he’d be disappointed. “I’m looking for someone with an advanced degree.”
“I understand.” Becca had rehearsed this bit with her cats. “But I’m sure you’ll agree that three years of experience conducting multi-platform research has taught me the requisite practical skills that a graduate degree might not.
“Besides…” She paused, and Clara’s ears perked up. Usually, she had stopped by this point. “Someone with a graduate degree might not want to get her hands dirty. But I’m not afraid of doing off-site research, digging through any kind of files. City archives, paper, microfiche, you name it. I’m very motivated.” She paused again. “I really need this job.”
The caterpillars separated as the man before her flashed a grin that was like sunshine through the storm clouds. Even his color began to improve. “And I can pay you less than someone with more letters after their name too, I bet.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve got more grit than my ex, I’ll give you that. She expects everything to be given to her, or to her pets.”
Clara could tell that Becca was holding her breath. Maybe Reynolds could too, but he appeared lost in thought.
“Ah, at least you’re—wait, you must know that other girl. The one who…” He waved one stubby hand around as if to summon the name from the air around him.
“Maddy Topsic?” Even as she said it, Becca caught herself. Suzanne had worked here too, of course. Clara could almost see the shadow cross his mind. What was it Kathy had said? “You don’t want to just step into Suzanne’s shoes.”
But Reynolds accepted her answer. “Maddy, yeah. She’s a good kid. Takes too many smoke breaks, but she gets her work done.”
Becca’s sigh of relief was audible, and the man before her smiled in earnest—and then sniffed audibly. “You smoke too? Never mind.” He waved off his own question. “Look, I’m not promising anything. But let me take a look at what’s going on, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
His eyebrows went up again at that, but he kept silent. Only as Becca rose to take her leave did he call after her. “Oh, Becca?” She turned and waited. “You might not want to use the name Larissa that much. Her credit around here is kind of used up.”
***
Although she must have seen Maddy’s eyes peeping over the carpeted cubicle on her way out, Becca kept on walking. Not until she was out on the sidewalk again did she stop, leaning back against the column where she’d found her friend, to take a deep, calming breath. She’d been trembling, Clara realized, and it required all the little cat’s discipline to keep from rubbing against her in soft comfort.
She wasn’t the only one. As soon as Becca had her breath, her phone rang.
“How was it?” Maddy was on the line, the sound muffled as if she had her hand over the receiver.
“I think he liked me.” Becca sounded surprised.
“Of course he did!” A little louder, before sinking back down again. “But what about the job?”
“He said he’d let me know. I think, maybe, I got it.” Becca paused as she reviewed the conversation. “I think he was starting to ask me about Suzanne. Only I kind of spaced when he asked if I knew anyone there. I mean, I only found out she worked with you after she, well, anyway, I just said you.”
“Great.” Maddy didn’t sound like she meant it. “I hope I didn’t sink you.”
“No, not at all. In fact, he said you were a good worker or something.” A snort on the other end of the line. “I don’t think Larissa’s reference was good for much, though. He made some comment about her.”
“It got you in the door, though.” Maddy’s voice was philosophical. “Maybe she put a spell on him?”
“That’s not what we’re supposed to use our magic for, Maddy.”
Another snort, and her friend asked. “So, what’s this about a possible romance? Please tell me you’re not giving Jeff another chance.”
“No, no way.” Becca began walking, her face up to the sun. “This is, well, it’s not exactly a date. But I am getting together Sunday with someone I met recently, just to talk.”
“You didn’t tell me about anyone.”
Becca bit her lip. Clara knew she didn’t like lying, but what she was doing was close. “He’s, well, it’s the guy I met the day that Suzanne—the painter. The one I went out for coffee with.”
“I don’t know, Becca. Going out with someone you met at a crime scene—”
“He’s a witness, Maddy, same as I am. He’s been trying to help the police too. And I’ll be careful.” She rushed that last bit in before her friend could interrupt.
“At least it’s not Jeff.” Maddy’s approval was, at best, begrudging. But Becca looked relieved at the change in topic.
“Speaking of, I didn’t tell you the latest, Maddy. Jeff’s been acting really weird. I think he’s trying to throw suspicion on someone in my coven.” The line fell silent. “Maddy?”
She paused, waiting for her friend to respond.
“Look, Becca.” The humor was gone from Maddy’s voice. “You know what I think about Jeff, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier about what a cheating sack of whatever he is. But I’d almost prefer him to some stranger you just met. You’re a little too close to this investigation. I know you think you have some insight, but remember, Becca, a girl was murdered, and I wouldn’t trust anybody who might have been in the position to hurt her.”
Chapter 28
Maddy’s warning notwithstanding, over the weekend, Becca settled down to what had become her daily routine of online research. By Sunday, even Clara’s sisters were beginning to wonder if their person would ever leave the couch again.
“What’s she doing?” Laurel stretched, extending her slim café au lait body along the back of the sofa as she craned over toward Becca’s shoulder. “Doesn’t she have a date coming up?”
“That’s hours away. She’s doing research.” Clara sounded a bit smug as she snuggled against her person’s thigh. In truth, the little calico had only the slightest idea what Becca did as she tapped the machine on her lap, but as her person clicked away, she had recognized the family portrait—and her own feline forebear—as it surfaced once more. From that one startling image and from Becca’s various comments as she summoned other, similar sights, she’d gleaned that the young woman was once more looking into her own past and, unintentionally, that of the feline sisters. How this slim machine helped her do that might well be Becca’s own form of magic, the plump calico mused. Besides, Clara acknowledged as she shifted to make herself even more comfortable, the computer was warm.
“I wonder if I should tell the coven about my family…” Becca stared at the screen. “I mean, it might explain the spell.”
Neither Laurel nor Clara knew exactly what she was talking about. And Harriet, snoozing as usual, didn’t care. But as Becca scrolled through the pages, she found herself torn. Her latest find—a newspaper clipping from 1926—had been tantalizing in the extreme. A Rebecca Horne Colwin—her own great-grandmother—had “miraculously” survived a fire that had destroyed her house. She’d emerged from the wreckage, the clipping read, clutching her “favorite mouser” to her breast.
“Of course she went back,” Becca commented as she scrolled over the scanned clip. “She had to rescue her cat.”
Clara and Laurel exchanged a glance. “Never mind,” Clara purred softly. “We know who did the rescuing.”
Becca was too absorbed to notice as the seal point nearly barked in reply. The use of the word “miraculous” was unusual, she thought, as she made a note to check if such speculatio
n would have been common in the newspapers of the day. Maddy had been the documents specialist, back when they were in school. But even as she typed out her query, she found herself wondering if the author—or the authorities—had meant to imply something else. A woman, living alone with her cat, might be suspected of many things, even in the supposedly enlightened twentieth century. Might “miraculous” be interpreted as “suspicious”? If the fire had taken place a hundred and fifty years earlier, would Becca’s ancestor have been thrown back in, to be burned as a witch?
“They probably didn’t know about arson then.” Becca’s fingers floated about the keyboard. “But it can’t hurt…” With a few strokes, she sent off the query. Maddy might scoff at Becca’s interest in Wicca, but surely, she’d help her friend dig into what looked like a particularly interesting bit of family history.
“I wonder if I can make this into a screensaver?” With a tap-tap-tap, she’d enlarged it. “Wow, look at that, Clara.” The little cat raised her head to see. “Doesn’t that kitty look just like you?”
Laurel stared down as Clara debated her answer. No, she couldn’t actually tell their person that, yes, the “famous mouser” in the photo was a foremother of Clara and her two sisters. Nor could she explain Becca’s mistake to her—that it wasn’t the woman in the photo whose magic had saved her life and her cat’s. It was the woman’s calico familiar who had managed to extract them both when that earlier Rebecca Colwin’s attempts at a warming spell had gone so badly astray during one chilly New England night. That didn’t mean she wasn’t tempted to try.
“Don’t you dare.” Laurel reached down, claws extended. Even as the sisters squabbled over how they could use their powers—and both Laurel and Harriet did tend to favor relaxation over rigor—they all were well aware of the cardinal rule: no cat could reveal the basic truth about magic to a human. “If you think you’ll get a pass just because she has the same stupid markings…”