by Clea Simon
“I won’t.” Clara ducked her head and resumed her position, curled against Becca’s leg. As much as she wished she could communicate with her person, it was neither possible nor advisable. Still, if she could only get Becca to stop trying out spells, it would be something. As the three cats knew, magic was for felines. And once again, Clara regretted that her oldest sister had not taken more care with her particular skill.
“I wonder…” Becca was looking at the pillow Harriet had summoned. For once, the fat marmalade wasn’t sleeping on it. She’d dropped off while sunning on the sill, instead. But it didn’t take magic to understand the import of that glance. Between the clipping and that soft apparition, Becca was thinking of trying a spell again.
When the phone rang, Clara looked up at Laurel. Her sister’s blue eyes blinked back, blameless. “Not me,” she purred beneath her breath, not that Clara was sure she believed her.
“Becca, it’s me.” Maddy sounded frazzled. “We’ve got to talk.”
“You know, I was just thinking of you.” Becca, on the other hand, seemed inordinately pleased. “In fact, I was wishing you would call. I wonder if perhaps the key to a summoning is—”
“Becca!” Her friend cut her off. “You didn’t ‘summon’ me. I’ve been meaning to call you, all right? Even before you emailed. I keep thinking of you going out with that painter guy tonight. You’re not still thinking of doing that, are you?”
“Yeah, I am. But not—wait, Maddy.” Her friend had started to sputter. “Maddy, I should explain: it’s not really a date date. I have questions for him. Questions that the police might not know to ask.”
***
Only after Becca promised that she would meet the cute painter in a public place, and would check in immediately after, did her friend calm down. But whether it was because the cats’ determined person was planning some high-level sleuthing or some other reason that Clara couldn’t discern, Becca seemed unable to concentrate after her conversation with her friend. Instead, she spent the rest of the afternoon fussing as she hadn’t in months, redoing her hair and picking over her clothes, before settling on a perfectly fine outfit that Clara hadn’t seen before.
“Don’t look at me.” Laurel sat beside her younger sister in the bedroom doorway, watching their person get dressed. She flicked her tail in the feline equivalent of a shrug and began to bathe.
“Don’t tell me she’s going out again.” Harriet had joined them on the bedroom rug, having woken from her nap hungry.
“I’m sure she’ll remember to feed us,” said Clara, who had her own mixed feelings about the evening. “Besides, she won’t be out late.” She’d gathered that much from the phone conversation.
“No matter.” Harriet turned. “I’ve got things to keep me busy too, you know.”
As Clara watched her stump off, fluffy tail sweeping the air as she walked, she couldn’t avoid a niggling tickle of fear. Harriet never had anything more important on her mind than food. Nothing that didn’t immediately gratify, at any rate.
But when her sister’s exit was followed by the soft thud that indicated she’d landed on the sofa, Clara did her best to turn her focus elsewhere. Harriet wasn’t likely to get them into any trouble in one of her favorite napping spots, no more than she already had anyway. It was Becca who was going off to meet a strange man. Never mind that he smelled pleasant—Clara thought of the trees by the river—the painter had been there, at Suzanne’s apartment, the day she had met her violent end. And nothing about that scene had ended well for anyone.
Still, Becca had a bounce in her step as she bid the kitties farewell and headed down to the street. Harriet was still nestled into the sofa as she left, but even Laurel didn’t try to stop Clara from following her.
“If it were a little darker, I’d join you,” said the older cat, licking her cream-colored belly. “You know I would.”
“Of course,” lied Clara, touched by her sister’s concern, and then leaped into the growing dusk.
Becca was, as she’d promised, careful. She circled the block twice before entering the little café. Still, Nathan had gotten there before her. Clara heard her sharp intake of breath as he stood and waved with a smile.
“I got here a few minutes early.” He reached to pull out Becca’s chair, only bumping it into her. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem.” Becca arranged herself and looked around. “Did you order?”
“I thought I’d wait. Shall I get?” He stood again, but she held out her hand to stop him.
“No, I will.” Good girl! Clara thought, silently thanking Maddy for her warning. As nice as this man smelled and as harmless as he’d proved to be at that first coffee date, it never paid to take chances. Besides, in five minutes, the pair were seated again, heads together over mugs of mocha.
“I know it’s supposed to be a winter drink, but…” Nathan sipped, then licked the foam moustache.
“I know, right?” Becca agreed, appearing to relax. But when he reached forward, as if to place his hand over hers, Becca drew back. “Hey, Nathan, may I ask you about that day?”
“The day your friend was killed?” His voice had gotten serious.
Becca nodded. “I was talking to my ex.” Her words sounded rehearsed, and Clara realized that in fact the young woman had been practicing her approach that afternoon. “And he told me that the police seem to suspect my—well, the group of friends that I know Suzanne from.”
It wasn’t the best explanation, but Nathan appeared to accept it. Clearly, there was more coming.
“I was wondering if you could tell me again in detail what you heard that day. What you saw.”
There was no chance of hand holding now. The young man seated opposite her didn’t leave or protest. But after taking a deep breath, he stared down into his mug, as if the answer was written there. Then he began to talk.
“You know that I didn’t see what happened. Or who,” he added quickly. “I mean, yeah, I saw you go in, because I’d noticed you. But otherwise…” Even in the noisy coffeehouse, a silence hung between them.
“But you heard something?” Becca didn’t have magical powers. She was, however, a perceptive young woman.
Nathan nodded. “There was that phone call that I told you about. An argument—but that was hours before. And there might have been something else. Right before you came by, I had my music on, but there was a moment between songs. I heard—I thought I heard—that poor woman arguing with someone.”
“With who?”
He shook his head, as if disappointed with himself. “I put it wrong. In truth, I only heard her—your friend. I’m pretty sure I recognized her voice. She used to say hi to me.” He paused for a shy smile. “So I thought it was her, and that she was yelling at someone—but it was so brief. Just a few words.”
Becca stared at him, willing him to go on.
“I told the cops all this. I can’t be sure. Something about ‘him’ and ‘tech,’ maybe. Or ‘protect.’ It could have been either. All I know is that she was angry and she was yelling at someone. It was so brief, I wasn’t even really sure I heard anything, but in retrospect, maybe I did. Maybe I heard her yelling at someone who was in the room with her.”
“Tech?” Becca barely breathed the word. “My ex is in tech.” She bit her lip. “If he didn’t break up with her, then maybe there was another man. Maybe he knew…” She looked up at the painter, a horrible suspicion dawning on her face.
“But he called you, right?” Nathan interrupted the runaway train of thought. “You said he called and you answered, as you went in?”
“Uh-huh.” Becca drew out both syllables. Clara could almost see the thoughts going through her mind: Maybe it was the other man. Someone else who knew Suzanne. Who knew them all…
“Well, then he wouldn’t—it would’ve been too obvious.” Nathan’s answer was overly hearty, as if he were trying to
convince himself. “I mean, to call you right after…” The words died out, but his meaning was obvious.
“Unless he saw me and wanted to stop me from going up. From finding her. He said he was at his place, but he didn’t want me to come over.” A high, nervous note had entered Becca’s voice, a sound that made Clara want to draw her away to safety and peace. “Maybe he was really hiding nearby—”
“No, wait.” Nathan must have heard it too. He reached across the table and took her wrist. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Becca. You’re angry at your ex, so it makes sense you’d suspect him. But be sensible. He’s worried about you. He’s the one who told the police it might be someone from your coven, right?”
“Yeah.” Becca exhaled, the tension easing audibly. And then just as quickly, she jumped up, pulling her hand back as fast as if he had bitten it.
“Coven?” She barked out the word. “How did you know I was in a coven? Unless you knew it from Suzanne.”
“No, wait.” Nathan shook his head, as if he could dismiss his error, but it was too late. Becca’s chair had already toppled backward as she fled out the door.
Chapter 29
“Becca, what’s wrong?” Maddy’s anxiety only riled the cats up more. All three had been orbiting Becca since she’d run in, slamming the door behind her, and nothing Clara could do would calm her sisters—or the young woman who panted into the phone. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.” Becca leaned back on the door. Speaking made her breathe, at least, and that helped to calm her slightly. “Just—Maddy, I think you were right. I think Nathan, the painter, might have murdered Suzanne.”
“Wait, what?” The response was so loud, Harriet stopped in her tracks, and Clara almost bumped into her as she stared up at their person. “I knew you shouldn’t have gone out with him. Him or that other witch guy. They’re both trouble.”
“No, Trent is—I don’t know what Trent is.” The distraction seemed to help Becca too. Stepping over the heap of Harriet, she proceeded into the living room, and Clara jumped to the sofa, hoping to claim the cushion next to their person before Laurel could. To her surprise, it was Harriet who barreled up next to her, shoving her out of the way.
“Mine!” Even before Becca sat down, the big cat had settled, spreading herself over one sofa cushion, while one white paw hooked over its padded edge.
“Never mind.” Clara could visualize the other woman waving off the digression. “Tell me what happened with the painter.”
“It was so weird.” Becca was still talking as she reached over to stroke Harriet’s orange and white fur. “I didn’t have any sense—I mean, I trusted him.”
Clara eyed her sister. Harriet didn’t seem to be enjoying the absentminded stroking that Clara would have reveled in. More than that, however, she seemed intent on holding her place even as Becca shifted.
“Yes, I know he was at Suzanne’s building. But the police had questioned him and everything.” She turned further as she spoke, but Harriet didn’t budge, hanging onto the edge of the sofa cushion with one snowy paw. “It was strange, Maddy. It started off with him telling me something else he heard that day. Something he hadn’t told me before. He said he told the cops, but I only have his word for it. And there’s something else…”
More high-pitched chatter from the other line.
“He—and, please don’t say it—but he knew something he shouldn’t.” Becca closed her eyes, as if the memory was painful. “When we met, he’d said he didn’t know her—that they’d only said hi once or twice. I didn’t want him to think I was too flakey, so I’d only told him that Suzanne and I were in a group together. I’m sure of it. But he mentioned the coven, Maddy. He knew Suzanne better than he let on, and, no, I don’t think that’s the kind of the thing the police would know to ask him about.”
Clara didn’t have to listen to get the gist of Maddy’s response. She agreed that Becca was probably too trusting. What she didn’t agree with was that the young woman should probably avoid men for a while. After all, Clara had liked Nathan’s sweet-sharp pine scent and gentle voice as well. But Becca was responding.
“Also, he knows Larissa, which is suspicious. Unless…” She paused, and there was silence on the other end. “Larissa gave him my number. She could have told him about Suzanne, about the coven too. Oh, Maddy, do you think I made a mistake? Do you think I just ran out on a nice guy for no reason?”
“Becca, a woman was killed, and you’re worried that you weren’t polite?” The answer came back loud and clear, and for once, Clara had to agree.
“I guess you’re right.” Becca’s hand was resting on Harriet’s broad back, and Clara waited for her sister to jump down. “At any rate, I should write Larissa a thank you—for the job recommendation, I mean.”
“Maybe hold off.” Clara barely heard Maddy’s response as she focused on her sister. Harriet didn’t like steady pressure on any part of her broad anatomy. If she didn’t move soon, she was liable to bite. “I asked Reynolds about new hires and he said something about a new guy coming in: a new guy.”
“Maybe he meant generically?” Becca switched hands on the phone, and Clara breathed a sigh of relief. “A new person?”
“I don’t think so. He said something about a fox in the henhouse. I gather the other candidate is coming in next week. I’m sorry, Becca. It’s all marketing research anyway. Not the kind of thing you should be doing. I mean, do you really care who is spending more than they can afford?”
Clara longed to lean in and comfort her person. If only Harriet would give way.
“Well, I would have, but it’s okay.” Becca shrugged. “That job was a long shot for me anyway.”
“Look, I’ll see what I can find out.” There was an edge in Maddy’s voice that made Clara think of Laurel and her dirty tricks. “We’re not giving up just yet, kiddo.”
Chapter 30
Her friend’s words didn’t have an immediate effect. Either that, or Laurel was using her powers of suggestion to keep their person nearby, because Becca spent most of the day on the sofa, skimming job sites and the occasional kitten video. But the young woman was too resilient to be thrown for long, and when Tuesday broke with sunny promise, she was up and dressed before any of her cats had finished their morning toilette.
“Another date?” Laurel paused in her routine, paw extended behind her ear.
“I don’t think so.” Clara tried to hide the worry in her voice. Laurel’s plans for their person did not align with what her younger sister saw as Becca’s best interest. To cover, she began to lick her paw.
“You just did that one.” Laurel’s blue eyes didn’t miss much. “What are you hiding?”
“Bye, kitties!” Becca called. It was a habit, nothing more, but Clara still looked up—and felt a paw weighing down on her tail.
“Talk,” said her sister.
“Yeah.” Harriet had ambled over. “Talk.” From the way the plump orange and white cat was licking her chops, Becca suspected she’d been cleaning the breakfast dishes rather than her luxurious fur. Still, if she was going to trail Becca, Clara had to rally her sisters to her side and fast.
“I think this has to do with that man she was out with the other night.” This was for Laurel, whose tail lashed once, back and forth, in interest. “He’s been texting her. Though it could be a shopping trip.” That was for Harriet. But the plan almost backfired.
“Wait a minute.” Harriet wasn’t usually that quick on the uptake, but when food was involved she didn’t let much get past her. “You’re just saying that…”
“Look, if you want to join me, you can.” Already, Becca’s footsteps were growing fainter. “I’m simply worried about her. And she is our responsibility.”
Harriet looked at Laurel, and Laurel stared back. Clara held her breath, whiskers trembling. Becca was almost out of earshot already. But the little calico had
hit on the one truth that all real cats know. Laurel lifted her paw, and in a flash, Clara was out the door, ignoring both its wooden solidity and the latch that had locked it shut.
“Make sure she brings back treats!” Harriet called after her youngest sibling, but she was already gone.
***
Quickly fading her orange patches to grey, Clara did her best to blend in with the morning’s shadows. Still, in her haste, she nearly tripped a young mother, busy with her toddler, and had to act fast to dodge a bike messenger cutting across the sidewalk to avoid construction. Her haste paid off, however, as she caught a whiff of Becca’s clean, warm scent and—soon after—the sight of her dark curls bobbing through the crowd.
“Maddy’s right,” she was saying to herself in a voice too soft for any human ear to catch. “I need to get back to work—at least on my own work. It’s too easy to rely on web searches, and how can I expect anyone to hire me if I don’t keep up with primary sources?”
Her musing and her stride were cut short by the buzz of her phone. For although the young woman kept up her jaunty pace as she fished the device out of her pocket, a quick glance at the screen stopped her cold.
“No!” she exclaimed before even answering. “I’m just—no.” She shoved the phone back into her pocket and shut her eyes. By the time she opened them, a few seconds later, her phone had ceased its buzzing. “I’ll call them back later,” she promised out loud. “Even the police can’t expect everyone to take every call.”
But it was with a more tentative step that she set out. And when a car drove slowly by, she stopped once more. Black and white at its ends, with a slash of gold in the middle, it resembled nothing so much as a calico like herself, Clara thought. Only the sight of the vehicle—or maybe it was the words written on its side—had Becca gasping.
“They can’t…” She paused, her thought unfinished, and turned slowly to check out the road behind her. “Are the police following me?”
Clara had never really envied either of her sisters their particular powers before. Right now, though, she wished she were better at suggestion. Watching her person, frozen with indecision—or could it be fear? —was heartrending. Surely, the appearance of the cruiser, coming right after that rejected call, was coincidental. Besides, she thought, no one could suspect the sweet young woman of murdering her friend, no matter what her unfaithful ex may have suggested to the police.