by Clea Simon
“One moment, please.” The tech held up his left hand, palm out, to stop them, even as he continued to brush the door’s metal frame with his right.
“What happened?” Becca’s head swiveled as well, from the broken glass to her boss. A uniformed officer had appeared and was moving the crowd, which continued to creep forward, back almost to the curb. Becca looked like she was ready to follow them, but Margaret had rooted herself to the spot. “I don’t understand.”
“They broke the glass.” Her boss shrugged, as if the answer were obvious.
“I see.” Becca pressed on. “But – why? Was there an accident?”
Margaret made a sound like a passing bus, blowing the air out from between those carmine lips. “Accident? No way. Maybe they thought we actually had some money in the register. Or, I don’t know, that some of those crystals were worth something. Like we had emeralds in there.”
She shook her head, though whether in disbelief or to dismiss such a foolish idea, Clara couldn’t tell. The idea of anyone breaking the law over a rock of any kind, even a very pretty one, seemed foolish to the cat. It wasn’t like you could eat a rock, and most of them weren’t even much fun to play with. But as she watched Becca and her boss, another idea began to take shape in her mind.
Becca had been repainting the faded front window, touching up the colors on the animals that, Clara had learned, symbolized the signs of the zodiac and the weird knots and squiggles that signified various alchemical elements. What if those pictures – newly bright and visible – had prompted this violence? Even now, Clara could see the green and gold letters that remained above the broken glass. “Magic,” she had heard Becca say – as if those lines and shapes could conjure.
Her dream had not explained everything, and she had left before Harriet or Laurel could have filled in the blanks. But Clara knew the truth of what she had seen – the rage in that other woman’s eyes. Humans wanted power, wanted the gifts that their cats could bestow. The other side of that wanting, though – that was dangerous. Clara could still smell the smoke.
Harriet hadn’t finished with her story of their family, and of the people they had long befriended. But Clara had heard enough to understand that some people reacted badly to others, especially to special people like her Clara. Becca often talked about how open and friendly this city was. After all, she had noted, Cambridge was the kind of place where a coven of would-be witches advertised for new members in a laundromat. But what if she were wrong? What if – Clara shivered – the burning times had come back again?
Chapter 18.
The police apparently had the same idea. Once the tech waved Becca and Margaret into the store, urging them to step carefully, Clara leaped to follow, easily clearing even the farthest-flung shards.
“You’re the owner?” A woman in a dark blue suit emerged from the back room. With her black hair pulled back into a slick bun and a pale, stern face, she looked like another tech. Like the tech, she was wearing gloves, with which she waved the two back from the window. Her voice, however, suggested authority. “Leave that, please. We haven’t finished,” she said. “And you must be the sales clerk?” She turned her deep-set hawk-like eyes on Becca.
“Yes.” Becca nodded. “Becca Colwin. And this is Margaret Cross.” The boss had gone immediately to the register, which was open.
“I’m sorry.” The woman turned toward the owner but didn’t stop her as she pulled the drawer out further. “That was the first thing we looked at. You’ve been cleaned out. Do you have any idea how much was in there?” Dark eyes met Becca’s. “Either of you?”
Becca inhaled. “I opened, but I only made one sale today. A candle, and she used her card. So, maybe twenty dollars in small bills?”
The cop raised one brow.
“We try to keep change,” Becca explained. “A lot of our customers come in for a charm or a bundle of herbs, and we’re pretty much a cash business.”
Without comment, the cop turned back to Margaret.
“It would’ve been twenty-eight dollars.” Margaret admitted. “A ten, two fives, and eight ones. But even with insurance to replace that glass is going to cost me.”
“And valuables?” She turned her head, taking in the packed shelves and the dish by the register. “I see what look like gemstones. And you mentioned herbs?”
“They’re crystals. Quartz, mainly.” Becca explained as Margaret trotted over to check the back shelf. “And the herbs are pretty basic.”
“Nothing medicinal?” A slight pause made her meaning clear.
“No, not really.” Clara saw a small, sad smile play at the corner of her mouth. “I mean, sage is good for lifting depression, but not in the way that you mean.”
“It’s still here.” Margaret spoke from the corner.
“What?” The detective walked over to join her.
“My gong. It’s an antique. Cost me, too.”
The detective’s lips tightened, but she only nodded before turning back to Becca.
“You had locked the store up and left for lunch. How long were you out?”
Becca checked the clock. “No more than an hour ago. I’m pretty sure.”
“And only one customer had come into the store all morning?”
“I didn’t say that.” Becca’s voice rose as she corrected the woman. “And, I’m sorry, who are you again?”
“I’m Detective Branch. “
“I know a Detective Abrams.” Becca paused until the silence grew awkward. “There was something that happened … a while ago.” Her voice trailed off.
“So, this morning?”
“We only had that one sale, but we do get browsers.” Was Becca going to mention Ruby? Clara stared at her person, wishing once again that she had Laurel’s powers.
“Anyone stand out?” Those dark eyes narrowed slightly, as if she could see what Clara couldn’t.
“There was one man who seemed, well, a little creepy.” The detective feigned surprise. “This is Central Square,” Becca explained. “We get some odd people. It’s a city. At the time I didn’t think anything of it. But now…”
“What was creepy about him?” She pulled a pad from her pocket and waited, pen poised.
“He was asking about someone who used to work here, Gaia Lindstrom. I don’t know. I didn’t like him.”
“That girl…” Margaret butted in, scowling. “She was trouble.”
The detective nodded but she didn’t put the pad away. “Was that it?”
“No.” Becca frowned in concentration. “He said something about me working alone. That’s what freaked me out. So I mentioned that the owners lived upstairs, and he left.”
“Do you think I’m in danger?” Margaret piped up, suddenly anxious.
“This is probably just a smash and grab.” The detective reassured her. “Although it possible that this man you spoke to was casing the store, and you let him know that nobody else worked here.”
“So it’s your fault.” Margaret turned on Becca, once the detective had taken their contact information and left. “And then you took off. You practically told that man that the store would be unguarded.”
“I locked the store.” Becca protested. “We’re on a busy street.”
“Becca did nothing wrong.” Elizabeth stepped in from the back room. “She has a right to take a lunch break. Besides, he didn’t take anything.”
“How can you be sure?” Margaret wheeled on her sister. “He emptied the register.”
“That was for show.” Elizabeth shook her head. “And I know because I’ve just been looking through the store room.”
Becca opened her mouth to protest and then caught herself. Only after Margaret herself rattled off into the back did she approach the taller of the two sisters. “How can you say that?” She kept her voice low. “It’s such a mess back there.”
Elizabeth smiled. “There’s nothing a man like that would want. Personally, I’m glad you weren’t he
re when he came back.”
“Wait, so you think…” Before Becca could finish, Margaret was standing in the doorway.
“Someone was back there.” Clara couldn’t decide if the short woman was angry or scared. “The place is a mess.”
“But nothing’s been taken.” Elizabeth went to her and guided her, hand on her back, to a chair. “I promise. So why don’t we go back upstairs and have a cup of tea? I’ve already called our insurance agent, and they’re sending over someone to board up the door.”
Margaret sputtered but let herself be propelled toward the door. Elizabeth looked back over her head toward Becca. “The glass will be replaced tomorrow. If you’d let them in, Becca? And start thinking about what you want to paint on the new door.”
Once they were gone, Becca got to work, sweeping up the glass fragments from the shattered door. With the uniformed officer outside, she was left in peace, the curious crowd kept at bay as she moved from the broom to the vacuum. Only Clara’s deep love for her person kept her around once that came out, and only because she found a safe, deep shelf to shelter in. When the horrendous roar finally stopped, the little calico was shocked to realize that she’d missed another set of vibrations – a bearded man in a blue jumpsuit was standing at the door, a stack of plywood leaning against his leg.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” He was speaking to Becca, who was staring open-mouthed, but Clara came gingerly forward. “Hatch sent me to board up a window?”
“Sorry, yes. I was – I should have been – expecting you.” She nodded to the door. While Clara sniffed his work boots and the green metal toolbox he’d placed on the ground. “You’re standing by it. I guess we should be grateful they didn’t break the big window.”
“Different M.O.” He stepped inside and sized up the damage, pulling a tape measure from his box to take the height and width of the shattered pane. “This was someone who wanted to get in quickly.”
“It happened right in the middle of the day.”
He shrugged. “Maybe it was vandalism, then. But by the look of your rug, I’d say they came in and did a pretty thorough search.”
“A search?” Becca turned to look.
“Look.” He pointed with one gloved hand. Sure enough, a tell-tale sparkle caught the afternoon light. “There’s glass fragments going down each aisle.”
Twenty minutes later, he was done, but Becca was still vacuuming for the second time, running the horrid machine back and forth over the narrow aisles between Charm and Cherish’s packed shelves, her brows knit in concentration. Concerned, Clara had forced herself to watch – from a safe perch on the counter. Becca seemed to be taking this quite personally, but this time, almost all the glass had been sucked up, her pet would have told her, if she could. And the few splinters that remained were hidden well enough to not threaten any wayward human. No, something else was bothering Becca. Considering everything that had happened the last two days, that was no surprise.
Knowing how her human worked, Clara wasn’t overly surprised when she took out her phone. To humans, the little cat realized, speaking to the device served much the same function as grooming. What did surprise her was who she called
“Elizabeth? It’s Becca.” When Becca bit her lip like that, lifting one foot behind the other leg, she felt uncertain about something. “I had an idea I wanted to talk over with you. Would you call me back?”
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Becca kept checking the device. From her frown, Clara could tell it was not providing the satisfaction she sought. But at least Becca had put the vacuum cleaner away, shutting it in a closet and safely closing the door – and freeing Clara to explore. She needed none of her power when her superior senses would do, and she leapt from her safe haven to take in the odd assortment of scents that had taken over the little shop.
The most obvious, to the sensitive feline, were the traces of various people. The man with the boards, for sure, with his interesting boots and the pine-y smell of the boards he’d nailed in place. He had dogs, she could tell, but she assumed he couldn’t help it.
She had a harder time getting a read on that detective. She was polished and professional, but Clara sensed little of warmth about her. It didn’t matter. What she was seeking was more elusive. Doing her best to discount the smell of deodorant and shoe polish – that detective – as well as the raw wood and doggy smells of the repair man, Clara got to work. Closing her eyes and opening her mouth, she breathed in deeply. There – a wisp of a scent. Scents, really. The first was familiar – an itchy, ashy smell. A smoker, she thought. Or someone who had been near fire. Faint hints of leather and motor oil. Along with that, a deeper, stronger scent. Sweat, she thought, only a particular kind – bitter with fear, she suspected. Whether these traces came from the same man or from more than one was hard to tell. Human men, she had learned, were an odd bunch, and unlike Laurel she was just as happy to have Becca steer clear of them.
At that, the memory of the earlier visitor came up. A man, older, wearing a leather jacket from another era, was not the usual client of a store like Charm and Cherish. And although Becca, and Clara as well, had been relieved when he had left, the calico had to wonder. Could that be whose scent she now traced?
Becca had mentioned the man to that detective, only she had seemed to downplay her gut impression. That, Clara knew, was something a cat would never do. In fact, she made a mental note to talk to Laurel about it. If her sister could convince their person to pay more attention to her instinctive reactions than to her reason – to be more like a cat, that is – then Clara would rest easier. It would also, she mused, make her person a better detective, even if nothing could actually make a human, no matter how well intentioned, into a witch.
If only Becca would trust her cats. Between the three of them, Clara knew, they could be quite good at detecting. Laurel with her powers to suggest and read the thoughts of various humans. Clara with her ability to go out into the world. And Harriet, well, Clara wasn’t sure exactly how her big sister’s facility with pulling objects out of the ether could actually improve an investigation, but she was sure it would. Family, she was learning, worked together. In fact, she could imagine Laurel quizzing her now, asking her every little thing about the man who had been here.
And – it hit her like a sharp clap – who had then left. That man, the one who had unnerved Becca so, hadn’t come far into the store. Clara remembered Becca tensing as he approached her station. She’d sensed a threat, the calico was quite certain. She had also felt protective of the girl Ruby, who was sheltering in the back room. But the man had stopped, when Becca spoke to him, and retreated, departing the store and leaving Becca and her cat relieved.
Had he come back? Nose to the linoleum, Clara searched for further traces. Too much had happened, though. Too many people had come and gone, all with their particular aromas. As she searched, Becca had come out from behind the counter and was pacing. Only a quick move by Clara kept her from getting stepped on, her person was moving in such an agitated manner. But that movement had stirred the air, and much as she was loath to acknowledge, Clara caught another whiff. Sweat – that bitter scent – once more. The man had been deeper in the store than she had known. Yes, following her nose made it clear – he had been down these aisles, each one of them. Though whatever purpose he had had in returning was as much of a mystery as before.
It wasn’t a puzzle she had time to work out. Becca had ducked into the backroom and emerged with her coat and hat. Keys in hand, she pulled tentatively on the board that now filled the top of the door, and, finding it nailed tight, she locked the door behind her, unaware of the cat who leaped through that plywood barrier to jog along at her side.
Chapter 19.
Ruby was still asleep when Becca got home, but neither of Becca’s two remaining cats had slept a wink.
At least, that was the implication as they caught their youngest sister up.
“She’s been like this all da
y.” Laurel told Clara. The two cats were perched on the back of the sofa, looking down at the girl who lay, mouth slightly open, below them. “I haven’t left her side.”
Harriet, who had lumbered up to join her sisters, snorted. “One of us kept watch, at any rate.” While Laurel peered down at the slumbering girl, dangling a paw close to her open mouth, Harriet arranged herself into a more sphynx-like pose, pulling her head back into her ruff, a sure sign that she felt proud of herself. “I never closed my eyes.”
Clara wisely declined to comment, and instead jumped lightly down as Becca tiptoed past the couch where her houseguest had begun to gently snore. Once her sisters realized that Becca was heading toward the kitchen, they quickly followed suit.
“What happened?” Laurel mewed, even as she twisted around Becca’s ankles. “I can tell you’re upset, you know.”
“She can smell strangers on you.” Harriet pushed in between them. “Also, you’ve got dust in your fur.”
Clara didn’t want to spoil their meal telling them about the vacuum cleaner. But she quickly caught them up on the break-in and the all-too-cursory investigation that followed. “Whoever broke the door walked all over,” she said. “The humans in charge didn’t seem to realize that.”
“I don’t see what the big deal about that is.” Laurel had an affinity for walking the perimeter of any room she entered. Usually via the highest shelf she could reach.
“I don’t know why they bothered.” Harriet, on the other hand, moved as little as possible.
“I don’t either, exactly.” Clara couldn’t explain why this oversight troubled her, but by then Becca was laying down their food dishes – Harriet’s first, of course – and the time for conversation was over.