by Clea Simon
“Yes, I did!” Harriet sounded quite pleased with herself as her sister proceeded with her examination. “So now you can get off my case about it,” she said smugly.
Clara sat back, waiting.
“I used a treat as a base.” Harriet couldn’t resist explaining. “Because it was something I wanted. So when I realized what Becca was looking for, I just turned it back and—yum. It had gotten a little stale, though.”
Clara could have hissed, she was so upset. “But now Becca will never find it!”
Harriet’s own ears flicked in annoyance. “Make up your mind, why don’t you?” her words a near snarl as she walked past her sister toward the kitchen. “First you tell me to get rid of it. Now you’re all hissy.”
“He must be frantic.” Becca’s words could have described her own state of mind, except for the gender. In fact, over the next hour, she did her best impersonation of an animal on a rampage, her search ramping up as she swiped papers off surfaces and tipped furniture over in a growing frenzy. By the time she had all the sofa cushions up, all three cats were seeking shelter on the windowsill. Quite unfairly, both Laurel and Harriet blamed their youngest sibling.
“I’m not the one who summoned a version of that thing!” Clara defended herself as best she could. She knew what those cold stares could mean, and she had no desire to have her ears boxed or her whiskers pulled. And if Harriet sat on her again… “I asked you not to do that anymore!”
It was hopeless. Harriet looked briefly at Laurel, who puffed herself up ever so slightly. Then, both turned to face Clara.
“It has come to our attention that you seem to think you’re the only magical cat in this household.” When Harriet spoke in that tone of voice, Clara knew better than to argue, even though her sister was being horribly unfair. “Time and again, recently, you’ve countered our quite natural desires to use our skills to entertain ourselves. And—” Clara couldn’t help herself and opened her mouth to object. One raised paw, claws just showing through the white fluff, stopped her, as Harriet continued. “And thwarted our natural desire to improve the life of our person, as is our duty.”
Biting down hard, Clara kept herself silent. Harriet was reciting the cats’ canon law.
“Instead, you seem to believe that you are the only one who can aid our human in her pursuits, or that you have some kind of special bond with her.”
With that, Harriet turned to Laurel, who stared at her little sister so hard that she began to go cross-eyed. That was the Siamese in her. “You don’t,” she added, her voice a growly undercurrent to Harriet’s pompous mew. The double vision was distracting, Clara knew, and silently thanked their mixed genetics for cutting the lecture short.
“She must be punished.” Harriet, still peeved about Clara’s interference and the loss of her toy, was not going to let the lesson go that easily. “I’m out a toy—and a treat!”
“You ate the treat.” Clara couldn’t help herself. Harriet turned on her with a snarl.
“Kitties, what is it?” Becca looked up from the floor, where she had surrounded herself with the sofa’s cushions, including—Clara noticed—Harriet’s tasseled creation. “You’re picking up on my mood, I guess. I’m sorry.”
She sat back with a sigh that made Clara yearn to go to her. Laurel must have noticed her posture, or maybe it was the way her rump rose as she readied to leap, because suddenly she felt a paw come down on her tail. “We’re not done yet, missy!”
This was too much. Clara turned and hissed, raising her paw—claws out—to her sister. Nothing was going to keep her from Becca! Only just then, the muted ring of the phone interrupted them.
“Oh no!” Becca jumped up and turned, tossing pillows as she searched frantically. “Where did I leave it?”
Seeing her moment, Clara pulled free and jumped down to the floor. Her superior hearing had already identified the location of the humming device, and with a nudge at Harriet’s pillow, she was able to uncover it.
Becca grabbed it up with a smile that was worth all the treats in the bag to the calico. “Bother.” She sounded a bit breathless from the search, but still she reached out to stroke Clara’s mottled back. “Well, at least there’s a message.”
Clara leaned in and closed her eyes. Her sisters would make her pay for her interference, but right then she didn’t care. Becca’s hand was warm and she pressed just hard enough to make Clara stretch as she worked her way from shoulders to tail and then—froze.
“Oh no.” Becca barely choked out the words. “I can’t believe I forgot to call the detective back,” she whispered in horror. “And now they’re asking me to come down to the station.”
Chapter 36
“Don’t say it!” Clara glared at her sisters as she waited by the door. There would be a reckoning, but no way was she letting Becca talk to the police by herself. Not that she was sure what, exactly, she could do.
“Maybe I can convince her to run for it.” Laurel had picked up on their person’s distress and was stalking back and forth while Becca hurriedly changed her shirt. In all the tumult, it had gotten quite dusty.
“I could bring the amulet back.” Harriet hiccupped, her shoulders bouncing in an alarming fashion.
“No, please.” Clara did her best to keep her tone polite. “You don’t have to.” She ducked her head in the feline equivalent of a curtsy to both Harriet and Laurel. “I think it’s best if she just tells them the truth—what happened without any magic. I’ll report back.” Becca had emerged from her bedroom, smoothing her hair back as if she were indeed feline, and now she was reaching for the door. “I promise!”
***
Clara stayed close to her person as she hurried through the busy streets. In a way, Becca’s distraction helped—there was no way she was looking around for one small, shaded cat, even one with an orange patch over one eye. It helped that the day had progressed as well, giving Clara her choice of afternoon shadows to choose from as she leaped and darted to keep up with her person’s progress.
It was only when Becca neared the stairs to the Cambridge precinct that Clara held back. That tall, stone building, with its heavy doors, was too much like a cage for her liking. And truth be told, what could she do if the people inside were to hold Becca against her will?
Maybe she did have some of Laurel’s power, because Becca paused, as if constrained by the same fears. As Clara watched, Becca stepped off the sidewalk, almost as if she too could disappear in the shade of the sickly maple that grew out of the pavement nearby.
“Blessed goddess, hear my plea…” Clara caught the words, barely audible, of a protective spell, one that the coven had recited only weeks before. Becca didn’t seem to remember that Suzanne had been the one who found it—and had been rather expert at reciting it. Maybe, thought the cat, as she watched her person make a complicated gesture behind her back, it was just as well humans didn’t have any real power. If only she had a way of telling Becca that at least one of her pets was watching out for her. Standing there, murmuring—these people seemed to believe that everything had to be repeated three times—she looked so anxious that Clara longed to jump up into her arms.
She couldn’t, of course. To do so would not only break the rules, it would unnerve the young woman, and the plump feline suspected that Becca would need all of her wits in the interrogation to come. Thus, the loyal feline was forced to hang back, in the shadow of that maple, and watch as Becca, looking as uncomfortable as a cat in the rain, finished the spell. At least, Clara thought she did—as she watched, her person wrung her hands in what could only be understood as an attempt to stroke herself back into good humor. Clearly, she was trying to muster the courage to enter the building that loomed before her.
Perhaps it was unfair of Clara to blame Harriet, but the calico couldn’t help it. Her big sister’s carelessness had set in motion a chain of events that at least had disconcerted their be
loved person, and then her selfishness had exacerbated the situation. Of course, none of that would have mattered if Becca hadn’t gotten involved in the coven or ever flirted with the dashing warlock.
“Trent!” Clara blinked up as Becca called out. Sure enough, there was the warlock—coming down the steps of the precinct. Could it be, she wondered, that her person had in fact summoned him? “Over here!”
“Becca?” The bearded man who turned toward her was nearly unrecognizable. His usually sleek dark hair hung lank, his darkly shining eyes looked tired, set deep into shadowed sockets. Even his usual open-necked blouse had been replaced by ratty sweats, the droopy pants pulled up to reveal bunched white socks above worn sneakers. “Is that you?”
She stepped forward, into the light, and Trent rushed over to her. He would have taken her hands, Clara thought, only, at the last moment, her person stepped back. In response, he raised one hand to his oily hair, pushing it back from a forehead that Clara could now see was quite lined.
It wasn’t the hair though, or even his overall appearance that held her back.
“Are you okay?” said Becca, her voice low, her gaze shifting over to the building he had just left.
“Of course. What brings you here?” As he spoke, he stood up straighter and attempted a smile. To the observant cat, his teeth looked like fangs. “Are you—” His eyes darted nervously as he spoke, as if checking to make sure nobody had come from the police station behind him. But even as his scanned the street, he seemed to gather himself, his voice lowering into the confident baritone Becca knew well. “Are you going in to chat with the detectives again?”
“They called me,” Becca admitted, her face pinching up. “Twice. But why are you back here? Did something happen?”
“Not at all.” The smile stiffened as two uniformed officers descended the stairs, and he paused until they had walked by. “I gather there have been some developments, and I came in to offer my assistance, of course.”
“You volunteered?” Becca glanced down at his sweatshirt, the sweat pants, and sneakers. “Trent, if you don’t mind me asking, do you have a job?”
“Not you too.” For a moment, his face contorted in anguish, the sharp planes of his cheeks becoming drawn and desperate. Then, just as quickly, he recovered. “I do have a promising prospect—or I did.” He licked dry lips. “It’s nothing I’m at liberty to talk about right now. Of course, I do have other projects ongoing. A few investments.”
Becca didn’t appear convinced, to her cat’s clear-eyed gaze. Instead, it seemed like she was formulating a follow-up question, when he chuckled.
“Oh, is it my outfit?” He struck a pose, even as his grin wobbled. “I was working out, and after a run by the river, I found myself nearby the precinct.”
“You found yourself…? That’s right!” Becca’s eyes went wide as whatever query she’d been about to pose was eclipsed. “Your amulet! I found it. I mean, I thought you had already found it, but then it turned up, and I was going to call you. Only, I lost it again.”
“What are you talking about?” The fake smile was gone.
“The one you dropped when my cat broke the chain.” A rushed whisper of explanation.
“That’s crazy.” Trent shook his head, and the greasy locks fell back over his forehead.
“Ms. Colwin?” a voice called out. The rumpled detective was standing on the stairs. “Is that you?”
She ignored him in her rush to explain. “I thought maybe you didn’t care that much. I mean, it looks like an expensive piece, but maybe—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Trent’s hand went to the neckline of his dirty sweatshirt and pulled out a chain. “I have it. I took it with me—you saw that. I only had to put it on a different chain.”
“Rebecca Colwin?” The detective again.
Clara could only look on in sympathy as Becca stared in mute horror at the amulet in Trent’s hand. “See?”
Chapter 37
“This makes no sense.” Three minutes later, Becca was still rooted to the spot by the impossibility of what she had seen. Trent, whose confidence began to crumble as more uniforms strolled by, had taken off with a brittle giggle and a promise to be in touch. By then, the rumpled detective had finished his smoke and returned inside.
Only after one of those passing officers had paused on the walk beside Becca, turning as if to question her, did she move on. Even then, she could have been sleepwalking, her mind reeling with confusion. It was all too much, and when she rounded the corner, she leaned back against a brick wall, closing her eyes as she slid to the ground, desperate to gather her thoughts.
“Miss, are you all right?” a bearded stranger, his panting Labrador looking on placidly, asked with concern.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Becca bounced back to her feet but could only produce a feeble attempt at a smile. “I’ve just had a shock.”
“Do you have a friend you can call?” The good Samaritan looked ready to move along. “Someone you can talk to?”
She had held the amulet in her hand. Maddy had seen it. It didn’t make sense. Unfortunately, what did make sense was Trent’s appearance, here at the police station. The warlock had been called back—she didn’t buy his story about volunteering for a second—and he’d just as clearly been questioned about his finances. That meant somebody had made a call. Maybe Ande had said something. Only, Kathy had said that Ande was out to get Trent. Which seemed odd in that Ande had been so reluctant to come forward, despite Becca’s urging—and despite her knowing that the group’s bank account had been plundered. Was this all connected somehow? Was Ande behind it all—or Larissa, with her money? Suzanne had wanted to talk to Becca about the group’s finances. She, not Ande, had been alarmed about the money going missing. But before she could explain, she’d been killed.
“I’m not sure,” said Becca to the concerned stranger, and then she got up and walked away.
***
“Ande? Please call me back.” Becca had been calling as she walked, pacing the city streets like an anxious cat. With each new voice message, she’d become more annoyed—and more certain that everything was indeed interconnected. Yes, Ande had been the one to note the financial disparities. She’d also been the one to downplay them—only a few thousand, she had said—to Becca and, possibly, to Suzanne as well. But if she couldn’t reach the wiccan accountant, she was going to have to tell the police detective all she knew. Only, she was hoping to have a little more information before she bearded that particular rumpled lion in his den.
“Ande, if I don’t hear from you soon, I’m going to tell the cops everything. I have to.” Even as she spoke, she had another thought. “And, I’m sorry. I know you told me stuff in confidence, but I’m going to tell them about Larissa too.” She paused. “Please, call me.”
It wasn’t merely that she didn’t want to betray Ande’s trust. The idea of crossing the older woman by herself was scary. Larissa liked to be in control, and she certainly wouldn’t want to hear that her finances had been discussed—by the coven’s resident accountant no less. Still, whatever was going on with the older woman’s investment into their little group, it was looking more and more like it was connected to Suzanne’s murder. And the fact that Becca had been asked to talk to the police once more gave her reason—and license, Becca figured—to seek some answers. After all, she couldn’t avoid going into the precinct for much longer.
Phone in hand, she continued walking—not back home, as Clara had hoped, but toward the riverfront tower where Larissa had her condo. The shadows had grown longer by then, as the afternoon progressed with more calls and more messages left. While this made Clara’s path easier, it didn’t mean she worried less. Becca should be withdrawing from conflict. Heading home to where her sisters waited, Clara thought. Instead, she was marching toward a confrontation.
Half a block away, she was stopped by
the sound of her phone.
“Becca?” Ande’s voice rang out from the little device. “I’m sorry I missed your calls. I’ve been crazy busy.”
“It’s okay. Thanks for getting back to me.” Becca paused and turned away from the glass-fronted tower, as if those windows were eyes that could see her here, out on the walk. “I’m sorry—I’ll get right to it. Did you talk to the police?”
“Excuse me?” Ande’s confusion sounded real, but Clara crept closer to hear what she could.
“The police,” Becca repeated. “Did you tell them what you told me about the coven’s finances—or maybe they’re really Larissa’s?” Becca stared up at a tree, as if the details of that earlier conversation could be found in the new leaves. “And did you say anything about Trent?”
“Trent? No. Look, all I know is that Suzanne said she’d found something,” Ande corrected her. “That last night we were all together, before the meeting. I don’t know if she really did, poor thing. But why are you harping on this? Surely, a couple of grand one way or another isn’t motive for murder.”
Becca’s mouth opened, but she didn’t speak. Clara knew why. Most cats wouldn’t understand the ins and out of finance, and, in truth, Clara couldn’t have balanced a checkbook if her kibble depended on it. But she did understand how carefully her person was watching her pennies. Yes, she suspected, to some people a few thousand dollars might be motive—and it seemed quite apparent that Becca was thinking along the same lines.
“It’s not me who’s doing the asking,” she said at last. Ande probably couldn’t hear the dying note in Becca’s voice—part sad, part rueful—but Clara could. The woman on the other end of the line couldn’t miss the urgency with which Becca repeated her initial question, though. “What did you tell the police, Ande?”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” her friend insisted. “I haven’t spoken to them. I’m sorry, I know I said I would, but I haven’t had time.”
“You haven’t had time?”