by Clea Simon
“Jeff.” One word, spit out like a pill, and Becca turned to walk quite purposefully in the opposite direction. As Clara realized where she was heading, she had to wonder if perhaps she possessed some of Laurel’s skill after all.
***
“Jeff Blakey, please.” Becca stood at the steel and glass front desk of the Kendall Square startup. Before the purple-haired receptionist could do more than open her mouth, she continued. “Tell him Becca Colwin is here.”
“Right away.” The receptionist, who couldn’t have been much more than Becca’s age, bent her over the phone and turned away as much as she dared. “Jeff?” Clara, if not Becca, heard her quite clearly. “There’s a girl here to see you. I think she’s upset.”
“I’m not…” Becca bit back the end of her sentence and began drumming her fingers on the hard surface. “Thank you,” she said when the receptionist looked up again, the jewel in her pierced nose glittering.
“He’ll be right out.” The receptionist blinked and then turned quickly away.
“Maybe he does think I’m dangerous.” Becca’s faint murmur was nearly drowned out by the tattoo of her drumming, but she kept it up until her ex pushed open a glass door to step into the reception area.
“Becca.” He flipped his hair back. “I wasn’t—did we have a date?”
“I need to speak with you.” Becca pointed to the office exit. “Now.”
***
“Why did you think it was someone in the coven?”
Jeff had appeared surprised when Becca stopped immediately outside the tech central building. When she turned to confront him in her sternest voice, he could only blink in astonishment.
“Jeff Blakey, you answer me.” Becca had her arms crossed as she questioned her ex and her stance wide, almost as if she would block him from walking on. “What made you think it was one of us?”
“I don’t know.” The lanky young man looked down, his hair falling once more in his eyes. “I was just talking, I guess.”
“Just talking?” Becca’s eyes narrowed, rather like Laurel’s, her usual smile long gone as her mouth settled in a firm line. “To the police?”
“Well, I told you what Suzanne said.” As he spoke, Jeff glanced back at his office, though whether he was afraid of being overheard or hoping for an opportunity to bolt back in was beyond Clara. “You know, about someone following her. And I didn’t want the police to think it was me.”
“You didn’t mind them thinking it was me though.” A bitter note had crept into Becca’s voice. “And they evidently believed you. Did they just take you at your word?”
“Oh, honey.” Instead of answering, he made the mistake of reaching for her. Laurel couldn’t have slapped him down that fast. “I’m…I’m sorry, Becca. I wasn’t thinking. I thought I was in the clear, and so when they called me in again, I guess I panicked.”
At that, Becca stared at him so hard that Clara began to wonder if her person really did possess magical powers.
“Be honest now,” she said, folding her arms again. This time, Clara saw her make a discrete sign with her hands that she knew her person had first seen in one of her books. “Did you hurt Suzanne?”
“No, I did not.” He actually faced her as he spoke and that, more than any supposedly magical gesture, convinced Clara, if not Becca, that he was most likely telling the truth.
Or at least part of it. “So, why, Jeff? And don’t hold back.”
The young man before her sighed, as if he could deflate and disappear, and then craned around once in a fruitless search for an escape. “Okay, I hurt her. But not like that!” He rushed to counter Becca’s panicked response. “Look, I wasn’t the best—I should never have been with her. I was thinking about you, really. And I thought she had picked up on that.”
Becca waited, her skepticism showing on her face.
“She said something about how she’d found out something—something unexpected.”
“Did it have to do with money?” Becca interrupted. “With funds going missing?”
“Maybe. No. I don’t know.” Her ex looked thoroughly miserable. He didn’t even bother brushing away the hair that fell, limp, over his eyes as he slumped forward. “All I know was that she said she’d stumbled on to something that was supposed to be a secret.
“She never told me what it was.” He spoke softly now, as if talking to himself. “I thought it was about me. About something I’d done, and then, adding it together with her saying that someone was following her, I thought that maybe you–”
“A secret. And you thought—” Realization was dawning on Becca as she recounted what her ex had said. “You didn’t want me coming over to your place that Saturday. You thought that I might have been stalking Suzanne, and that the cops might have thought you were. And for all your protestations, it seems you must have an alibi that you don’t want to tell me about. Jeff Blakey, you were cheating on Suzanne too. Weren’t you? That’s why she took down all her photos from Facebook. Photos of the two of you. She dumped you—and you, you had another girl at your place on the Saturday that Suzanne was killed. Maybe even when you called me.”
“It was all wrong with Suzanne from the start.” He didn’t even bother to deny it. “I never should have—I missed you, Becca. It just took me all that to realize how much you meant to me. I’m so sorry. I never should have broken up with you. I never should have said anything about you to the cops.”
“No, Jeff, you shouldn’t have. But you did.”
When he reached once more for her hand, she pulled away without any sign of regret.
“Goodbye, Jeff. Take care of yourself.” She didn’t, thought Clara, even sound that sad.
Chapter 31
Jeff had stood, watching, as Becca walked away without looking back. Her cat had been particularly proud of the way she had strode off, as confident as a tabby in the clear fine day.
But as soon as she’d turned the corner, Becca’s shoulders slumped. And while Clara didn’t see any tears on her dear person’s cheeks, she could tell from the way her lips trembled and how she jammed her hands into her pockets that she was fighting to hold them off.
Once again, Clara wished for Laurel’s powers—or at least the freedom to show herself and cheer her person with a head butt and a purr. Maybe some of that translated, however, because before long, Becca was standing straighter. Soon, she even caught herself—looking around as if realizing where she was—and spoke aloud. “Research,” she said. “Time to get back to work.” And when she turned and began walking with a sense of purpose, Clara trotted along, out of sight but cheered beyond measure.
The word spoken by the young woman meant little to the cat. The idea of research, as well as work, for that matter, is foreign to felines. Clara, like her sisters, had gained her in-depth knowledge of the world through instinct, as much as observation. However, what she did understand as well as she knew her own whiskers were her sacred obligations to the young woman ahead of her, not only as royalty but as a pet. The fact that she also loved Becca, with her earnest intentions and gentle voice, only made these duties more pressing.
Clara knew she had her sisters to turn to if anything were to happen to Becca. But neither the fluffy Harriet nor the sly Laurel could ever replace the petite brunette with the curly hair and the gentle voice, for all her all-too-human bumbling. Clara had spoken the truth when questioned by her sisters. She didn’t know what Becca had planned, or where she was going—she certainly could not have anticipated that detour with Jeff. But thinking of that uncomfortable confrontation, Clara felt her apprehension growing, as Becca picked up her pace, pushing along crowded sidewalks and then—with barely a pause—dashing across a busy street. Becca meant well, but her less-than-feline senses didn’t pick up the dangers that Clara’s did. Her kind heart was too trusting, her manner too open. For a small creature—and the young woman was relatively small
in the greater scheme of things—she was positively careless. Or so Clara thought as the young woman turned from the street toward a looming red stone building and trotted up the wide steps as if unafraid of whatever she might find inside.
***
Clara made it in before the heavy door slammed shut, in time to see Becca approach a carved wooden barrier that stood waist-high, barely containing the aged dragon inside.
“Records, please?” Becca approached and the creature looked up, her scowl hinting at unimagined terrors. Amazed at the valor of the young woman she loved, Clara drew back. Only her devotion to the girl kept her from running.
“Third floor,” said the dragon, and went back to her newspaper.
Clara watched as Becca began ascending the wide steps. These were a challenge for the cat, as they offered little shadows and no place to hide. And while they weren’t as crowded as the city sidewalk, there were plenty of people walking both up and down. A feline, even a magical one, might be noticed here.
Still, when Becca turned onto the landing, Clara knew she had to act. With a mad dash she leaped up the stairs two at a time. “What!” A woman gasped, causing her companion to turn in alarm.
“I thought…” The woman gaped around her, pushing her glasses higher up on her nose. “Never mind,” she said. But by then, Clara was gone.
She found Becca one flight up, inside a large room lined with files. Although the flickering blue light of the overhead fluorescents didn’t offer much in terms of shadows, this room was at least quieter. Indeed, the blue-haired woman behind the counter appeared to be asleep.
“Excuse me?” Becca’s voice was soft. Living with cats, she had practice at gently interrupting a nap. Not until the woman blinked up at her did she continue. “I’d like to make a records search.”
Records. Suddenly, it all became clear. Reassured now of her person’s purpose, Clara found a corner by the window as Becca filled out paperwork. So this is what her person did at work, Clara thought to herself, watching as Becca took what looked like a large bound journal over to a table and began making notes onto a pad. From the way she tilted her head and bit her lip, it was easy to see the young woman was deeply engaged, and the scratching of her pencil certainly sounded industrious. Watching her, Clara realized that her person had a rich interior life of her own, something her cat had never fully realized. This made her respect Becca and love her even more. It also, if she was being honest, made her a little sleepy.
“Thank you, yes. The family name is Horne—Horne or Horne Colwin.” Clara jumped. She must have fallen asleep. Becca was standing before the clerk again, only this time she was handing back the large journal. In its place, the blue-haired woman offered her a box. Even from where she sat, Clara could smell dust and age—and something else as well. A certain familiar spice that drew her over to the table where, once again, Becca sat as she began to go through the papers within.
“Here it is,” she muttered to herself as she made another notation in her book. “Marriage and household…1749.” Clara’s ears pricked up. Cats may not be the best with dates, but some years were not to be forgotten. “Rebecca Horne and…Mistress Greybar?”
Becca pushed her chair back with a squeak that made Clara flinch. “That doesn’t make sense.” As if she were arguing with herself, she sat up, turning the card over in her hand, and then placed it on the table, drawing another and then a third from the file. “The cat is listed as the principal—” Another card and another soft sigh of exasperation. “Impossible,” she said at last. “These records…the transcription…there must be something wrong here.”
With another squeak, she stood and carried the file box back to the front desk, but the clerk there was at the far end of her enclosure, in close conference with a conservatively dressed older woman whose hair was done up in a khaki turban. Heads together, they appeared to be speaking softly, and neither noticed the agitated young woman who waited with growing impatience.
Cats don’t count time, not as humans do, but the confidential chat did seem to go on for a bit. Even as the clerk tried to draw away, the older woman reached out, holding onto her arm as if loathe to let her go.
Maybe it was that move or the clerk’s apparent desire to end the conversation or a certain familiarity to the dark purple nails on the older woman’s manicured hand, but something emboldened Becca. “Excuse me,” she said, and then repeated herself. “Excuse me,” her voice somewhat too loud for politeness’s sake.
“I’m sorry.” The clerk pulled away, though whether her apology was to the turbaned woman or the client she’d kept waiting was unclear.
“Larissa!” Becca started, for the turbaned woman had looked up as her confidante withdrew. “It’s me, Becca.”
“Becca, darling.” The older witch came forward, a smile spreading across her face, which was much less heavily made up than usual. “My.” Those lacquered nails came up to her mouth, as if she had suddenly remembered her appearance. “My dear! Do tell, what brings you here?”
“Research,” said Becca. If her colleague’s unusually mundane attire surprised her, she didn’t let on. “I’m sorry if I—”
“No, no, no.” Larissa waved off her objection. “Please, go on.”
“It’s busywork, really,” Becca admitted. “I figure, until I get something else, I might as well keep my skills up, and I’ve always been interested in genealogy. But I might have just found something that may explain what’s been going on.”
“What’s been going on?” Larissa’s brows arched like a cat’s back, and Clara felt her own fur rising in response. “Dearest, you have to tell me.”
“Please don’t.” Clara did her best to focus. If only she had her sister’s power. If only her person could see how her words appeared to have set the older woman on edge. But no matter how the little calico concentrated, Becca kept on talking.
“I wish I could. I feel like I’ve gotten so close.” Becca sighed, as if the effort cost her. “Only I think that something must have gotten messed up over the years.”
“Is it something I can help you with?” The clerk interrupted, and Clara thought she seemed grateful to focus on her other client. “Perhaps if you tell me what happened, we can clear it up.”
“It’s silly.” Realizing she had an audience, Becca gave an embarrassed laugh. “But are you sure that these are careful transcriptions of the original records?”
“Of course. This office houses family records—births, deaths, and marriages—back to 1635, as well as documentation of financial transactions in the public record.” She sounded quite proud. “In fact, I was just telling your friend here—”
“It’s not important.” Larissa slipped around the counter and took Becca’s arm. “Just a fancy.”
“Well, good.” The clerk sounded relieved. “Because these are public records, ma’am. That’s the point of our office.”
“Of course they are.” With a grin like a Cheshire cat’s, Larissa dismissed the clerk and led Becca away from the desk. “So please, dear girl, tell me more about what you’ve discovered.”
Clara watched in horror as the older woman led her person away with a grip on her upper arm as firm as a new mother’s on a kitten.
“It’s just…odd.” Once Becca was into her work, Clara remembered with dismay, she lost sight of anything else. “I’ve been tracing my family history. Did I tell you, one of my ancestors was reported to be a witch?”
“Woman of power, please.” Larissa winced but kept walking, propelling Becca toward the exit. “So, you’re researching your family?”
“Yes.” Becca pulled back. “That’s why I joined the coven in the first place. I mean, I was interested, of course, but—”
“Of course,” Larissa burst out. “I remember now. How fascinating. My own family history is shrouded in shadow. I believe we may have Native American ancestry—the name Fox, of course.”
“What? No, nothing like that.” Without the flowing sleeves, Larissa’s dramatic dismissal resembled a flailing fledgling.
Maybe that’s what brought Becca back. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you at first.” Becca took in her colleague as if seeing her for the first time. “I’ve been kind of caught up—and I should get back.”
“But I’ve wanted to speak with you.” Larissa leaned in close enough for Becca to note the fine lines around her eyes. “Alone.” A dramatic pause as she batted those eyes. “Have you noticed anything odd about Ande? She seems to have become fixated.”
“Ande?” Becca examined the woman in front of her, as if the answer to her query would be written on those black brows or the hawk-like nose between them. “Fixated—on what?”
“On Trent, of course.” Larissa’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “You know she has a crush on him.”
“No, she said—” Rather than finish her sentence, Becca extricated her arm. “I’m sorry. I need to get back.”
Larissa reached for her once again, and Clara saw her opening. As Becca stepped back toward the records, the cat ducked her head and jumped. Landing a beat behind her person, the agile feline arched her back and hissed. It wasn’t enough—the toe of Larissa’s shoe still caught her in the belly as she stepped forward—but at least it was the rounded toe of a running shoe rather than her usual pointy number. Plus, the impact did cause the other woman to stumble and pause as she righted herself. And with that, Clara dashed off after Becca, slipping into the records room just as the door swung closed.