by Clea Simon
Indeed, although Becca was appropriately enthusiastic in her greeting of Harriet and Laurel once she got in, she was clearly distracted. She’d barely noticed that Clara had appeared later than her sisters, hung up as she was in sniffing the stairs as Becca bounded up. And although she had fed her pets before doing anything else, as was only proper, she didn’t follow up with a snack for herself or even a cup of tea. Instead, she headed toward Ruby’s bag, which had gotten tucked under the coffee table in all the fuss when the police had arrived.
“Please be here.” Becca rummaged through the bag, like Laurel looking for a bug. Moments later, she squeaked as if she had found one, as she pulled out a metal ring with a paper label and – yes – a key.
“Number five! Thanks to the Goddess.” She said, holding the label up to the light. When she headed back to the front door without donning coat or hat, Clara’s heart sank. She had figured out what Becca was about to do, and she knew there were dangers her person could not comprehend. With no way to warn her, the little calico had no choice but to follow along
“Where’s she going?” Harriet, who had already finished her food, stuck her head out of the kitchen. “She hasn’t eaten.”
“She’s going next door.” Clara, her tail twitching nervously, explained. “I’ll report back.”
“Good. You do that.” Harriet licked her chops. “And since she’ll probably feed us again when she comes back…”
“Enjoy.” Clara called, knowing her sister would likely clean her dish, whether she gave her blessing or not. And with that, she was off.
The yellow crime scene tape should have given Becca pause. Clara knew enough about humans to know that, even if the paper seal that covered the door jamb had already been cut. But once she had unlocked the door, Becca ducked under the tape as easily as any cat. That’s where she froze, with a gasp that caused her cat to look up in alarm.
There was no danger. Nothing confronting her person that the shaded cat could sense, and no movement beyond a few beetles deep in the door’s wooden frame. However, Becca had gone white, her breath quick and shallow. Following her gaze, Clara realized what had startled her so – a dark patch, its uneven edges smeared to faint streaks on the pale wood of the foyer.
Blood. Clara could have prepared Becca, if she’d had Laurel’s powers. The smell of it was obvious to the felines next door, and even dry filled the air with its sharp iron tang. Of course, it hadn’t occurred to the cat that her person would be so taken aback by the crusty brown spot, which had already begun to stain the wood beneath. The man it had come from was dead, and whoever had killed him had left. There was no threat left in this room.
Unless… Clara’s whiskers twitched. As the currents stirred up by the opening of the door disturbed the stale air, a faint scent had reached her. A hint that she could only hope would evade her human.
If only Becca would back out of the apartment. Follow her instincts and retreat from this place of death. But the young woman whom Clara loved was nothing if not determined, and so, after a few deep breaths that appeared to bring the color back into her cheeks, Becca walked into the apartment proper, skirting the dark spot to enter the living area itself.
Her growing sense of dread making her tail droop behind her, Clara followed. It wasn’t only that horrible stain that set the neighboring unit apart. Even without that reminder, the apartment was as different from Becca’s as could be. Bare brick walls made the main room appear larger than Becca’s, an impression aided by the extra windows made possible by the unit’s placement in the corner of the building. That sense of space was furthered by the spare, clean furniture – two sleek chairs, set before a glass table, and that new leather sofa the cats had seen coming up the stairs not that long ago. The kind of style Clara could only think of as “shiny.”
Sniffing at the leather, Clara could barely pick up any trace of the animal that it had once belonged to while the glass table looked to be good for neither sitting or scratching. In fact, the only positive about the cold modern décor was that it appeared to have distracted Becca from the mess in the entry.
“Wow.” Becca walked slowly through the long living room, running a finger along a bookshelf bare of books. “Is that…?” She picked up an oddly shaped vase and looked at its underside before replacing it on the shelf with exaggerated care. Laurel, Clara knew, would have a heyday with that. She could visualize her sister strutting down the shelf and how, with one well-aimed paw, the delicate porcelain would go crashing to the floor.
To her it all looked uncomfortable. People weren’t cats, she well knew. But lacking the cushioning comfort of fur, wouldn’t they want something soft? Some pillows for that sofa, like Becca had? She watched her person as she made the rounds, apparently appraising the slick surfaces. Some things about humans she would never understand.
“Maddy would love this place.” Becca was talking to herself to keep her nerve up, Clara suspected. Despite having a key, her human was here without permission, and she was essentially a law-abiding creature. Clara knew she obeyed a very different set of rules, but she was anxious too. In part, she was picking up on Becca’s emotions. Cats are essentially empathetic. In part, because she had realized something that Becca had apparently forgotten. She had given shelter to the woman who, if not a suspect, had been staying here. If anyone reported an intruder, Becca would be the first person they would look at.
Maybe Clara had some of Laurel’s powers of suggestion, or perhaps these thoughts had occurred to Becca too. Having made a complete tour of the place, she stopped, seemingly reconsidering whatever mission she had in mind.
“Poor Ruby.” She looked around. “She’s probably told them about the violin…”
She paused at that and then began to search in earnest. First casually and then with increasing fervor, Becca checked the closets and under the bed.
“Maybe they took it.” She was talking to herself, her cat suspected, to avoid thinking about what had happened to the man who had lived here – or that spot on the floor. “Maybe it was evidence – or a motive for Ruby. But wouldn’t he have had music? Or even a music stand?”
“Hod odd.” She was standing in the bedroom by this point, staring into a closet that was empty of everything but a few wire hangers.
As Clara watched, Becca renewed her search. More methodical this time, Becca went room by room, opening drawers and looking under every piece of furniture. The kitchen, she found, was well stocked. But the drawers, like that closet, were nearly empty. A small chest, in the living room, held two pairs of jeans and some t-shirts, briefs, and socks, and one shelf in the bathroom medicine chest held a toothbrush, a nearly empty tube of toothpaste, and a natural deodorant scented so strongly with patchouli that Clara’s ears went back.
“Maybe the police took his things and missed that chest.” She stared at the deodorant as if it had the answers. “Or maybe he wasn’t supposed to be living here either.”
Chapter 28.
When the phone rang next morning, Becca jumped for it, abandoning an active search through her sock drawer that had piqued intense interest from Laurel.
“Ruby, are you okay?” She hit speaker, one wool stocking in hand, as she continued to dress. “Where are you? What’s happening?”
The laughter that greeted her seemed to confuse her, and Clara jumped onto the dresser beside her sister.
“Yes, yes – to everything. I am fine.” Ruby, sounding surprisingly joyful even through the device’s tinny speaker. “The police had more questions, but what could I tell them?” She punctuated her question with a nervous laugh and her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Oh, but Becca, I do not want to have to deal with your police again. They kept me for so long.”
“They can’t do that. That’s wrong.” Becca fumed. “I’ve got to get you a lawyer. Where are they holding you? Have they said anything about charges? An arraignment? Bail?”
“No, please. All is well. I am leaving here now, and I have
the best news.”
Becca stopped pacing to listen.
“The conservatory! I am admitted. I called to check in and was told that being a student, I have a place to live.”
“That’s wonderful.” Clara could hear the relief in her person’s voice. “I didn’t know the conservatory had student housing.”
“They do not, exactly, but there is housing for students.” Ruby paused. “When I called, I was put through to an official, and that is what he told me. I may not be saying that right.”
“No, I understand.” Becca went back to rummaging through the drawer, ignoring the sealpoint who hovered. “I’m so happy for you. Where is it, and when can you move in?”
“What is it?” Clara couldn’t resist. “Moths?”
“You wish.” Laurel lashed her tail. “No, something was dropped here.”
Clara peered into the open drawer. “Catnip mouse?”
“Focus, Clown.” Laurel’s blue eyes went steely. “Have you forgotten how to be a cat? If we only relied on what we could see, we’d be as helpless as they are.”
Clara sniffed the air, but all she got was the wool from those socks and the beguiling pine scent of a balsam sachet. She did feel a certain warmth, but that was to be expected, from those socks. Distracted, she focused instead on the continuing conversation between the humans.
“Maybe your grandfather’s violin brought you luck.”
In the pause that followed, Becca dug out the other sock. Perhaps it was suggestion – Laurel wasn’t above playing tricks on her sister – but Clara thought she caught the echo of a slight thud, as if something hard had slipped between the bundled stockings as the drawer closed.
“Maybe.”
Ruby’s subdued response seemed to spark something in Becca. “Hey, can we meet later?” She hopped over to the bed, one sock half on, and sat. “I have an idea I’d like to talk over with you. I could bring your stuff over. See the new place?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Great.” Becca paused to jot down an address. “I’m working until four today, but I’ll come by after.”
Chapter 29.
Her ancestors may have been denizens of the desert, but Clara was grateful for her fur as she watched Becca bundle up. In addition to those wool stockings, she added a thick mohair sweater, and when she pulled a pair of big red mittens from the closet, her cat began to have serious doubts about her leaving for work at all.
Those doubts – and the fact that the mittens resembled plush toys – led Clara to bat them from the bench where Becca sat to pull on her boots, a bout of cat-like play that earned a scornful stare from Harriet and a scolding from Laurel.
“Must you be such a clown?”
“I thought that was part of my job.” Clara, who’d been up on her haunches, settled down and turned toward her sister. “Besides, don’t you want her here at home for as long as possible?”
“Clueless.” The Siamese muttered as she walked away.
Confused, Clara would have pursued her sister, only with a final flourish – a scarf that matched those mittens – Becca was already shouldering her bag – and Ruby’s as well.
“Bye, kitties.” She reached for the violin. “Please, try not to destroy everything. Okay?”
Once outside, Clara was grateful for Becca’s care. In fact, she would have wished her own lush fur on her person. Although the wind of the day before had calmed, it had left in its wake a brooding cold, almost as if the sky were waiting for some climactic event. The pedestrians on the street appeared to share this feeling. So many were racing along with their eyes on the clouds that Clara wondered if her shading made any difference at all. But if the lessons from her sisters had imparted anything, it was that she could endanger Becca by breaking the rules. Better to stay unseen, she told herself as she dodged a heavy-soled boot, than to risk bringing trouble to the human she loved.
By midday, the cat was wondering why her person had ventured out at all. When Becca had opened the shop, there had been a brief flurry of activity. Two women had ventured in to buy candles, both wrapped in matching shearling coats that gave off an exciting wild aroma and set the calico’s whiskers tingling.
“In case we lose power,” the taller of the pair had explained, picking several of the biggest beeswax pillars off the shelf. These were, Clara knew from previous customers, among the priciest candles in the shop. She would miss their warm scent, reminiscent of summer blossoms and honey and a particular vine that often trailed out of Becca’s window box. But seeing the mix of pleasure and relief on Becca’s face as she rang up the purchases more than compensated.
She was wrapping the heavy candles in tissue paper when the shorter of the two noticed the plate of gemstones by the counter.
“Oh, is this a ruby?” Pulling off a woolly shearling mitten, she picked up a dull red stone that came to life as it caught the light. To Clara, it appeared to glow faintly, emitting a faint warmth that drew the sensitive feline.
“A garnet, I think.” Becca offered a gentle correction, as Clara crept closer. “It’s supposed to help circulation.”
“That’s funny.” The woman held the stone in her palm, smoothing it with an outstretched finger before extending her hand to her friend. “It feels warm to me. Does it to you, Linda?”
“If it warms your heart, dearest, I’m happy to get it for you. How much?” That latter was to Becca, who smiled as she rang up the total.
“Would you like me to wrap that?”
“No, thanks.” Linda slipped her mitten back on over the stone. “This weather, I can use it like a little heat pack.”
Soon after, an older man stepped in, setting the bells jingling. But although he looked around, checking out every aisle with a concentration that drew his heavy brows together and made his large nose appear even more hawk like, he didn’t settle on anything.
“May I help you?” Becca called as he strode down another aisle. “If you’re looking for candles, they’re right up front.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you,” he said, with a trace of an accent, and returned to the counter with a five-dollar pack of votives.
“Have we met?”
“No, no.” That accent growing heavier as he fussed with his wallet, throwing down a bill before rushing back out.
Becca stood watching, a thoughtful look on her face. “The city,” she said softly, after a minute or two had passed. Since then, nobody had even ventured into the shop, and while Becca had taken out her stencils – outlining a smiling sun in the center of the door’s new window – she had spent more time looking up at the sky than filling in the detail.
That sky must have wanted the day to pass quickly, growing darker even as Becca finished her lunch. By the time she had cleaned the front window, her breath frosting it even as she wiped, the usual bright colors had grown dim. Becca switched on the overheads, but even as she watched them flicker and buzz, Clara could sense her growing discontent. Most days, Becca would have lost herself in one of the thick books that lined the back shelves, and Clara thought again about the volume Elizabeth had brought downstairs. Today, her person seemed more interested in the street outside than any history or compendium of spells. Frustrated by her inability to do anything but watch, Clara curled up on one of the larger tomes, a reference work that lay on its side, and let her mind wander. Not into sleep exactly, but something close.
The light, she thought, as she began once more to dream. Like today, it was gray. The clouds dark and closing in.
Clouds? Her nose twitched, and her waking mind recalled those candles. Not the sweet honey-scented ones, but others. Not clouds, she realized. Smoke, and through it all voices.
“She helped me.”
“No, please. She saved my child.”
“She’s innocent.”
Innocent? Clara’s ears pricked up. What was this talk of innocence in a haze of smoke and noise? Who were these voices, and who were they pleading with?
>
Why was the smoke so thick?
“It’s as dark as night out there.”
Becca’s voice woke her, and she sniffed the air. Although the air in the shop was dry and warm – a welcome byproduct of the lack of customers – her sensitive nose picked up the slight draft that still had managed to leak beneath the closed door. Clouds, she thought as she took in the moisture and some ineffable heaviness in the atmosphere. That moisture she had noticed earlier. Snow, she realized. Not smoke.
“The French toast alert must be off the charts. Early on, we had some customers looking for candles. But nobody’s come by in the last hour.” She was speaking on the phone, the store as still as it had been all afternoon. “I was wondering what you’d think about me closing early?”
A pause. “You are? Thanks, Elizabeth. I’ll lock up so you don’t have to rush – and if you want to wait, I’ll help with the inventory tomorrow. Do you want me to bring some candles up to you two in the meantime? Okay, then. Stay safe.”
As soon as she hung up, Becca locked the front door and headed into the back room, where she’d stashed her coat along with Ruby’s violin and bag. She had already drawn those tempting mittens from her pocket and was in the process of winding the red scarf around her neck when she paused – staring at the violin case on the floor beside the coat rack.
Good, her cat thought. She’s being careful.
She didn’t think that Becca could have heard her. No matter what her sisters said, Clara knew she lacked that power. Still, her person appeared to hesitate, looking down at the instrument as if considering its fate.
Clara didn’t know why she felt a wave of relief when Becca hung the bag back on the rack and tucked the instrument on a shelf, pushing it back deep behind a box of gemstones. All she knew was that the flash of warmth she felt was more than mere affection. Her person might not have any magical powers, but she was being smart. For that, the little cat was grateful. And so with a level of restraint that she hoped her foremothers would be proud of, she resisted the urge to jump up as Becca pulled those big plush mittens from her pocket and, donning them, pulled the back door shut behind her, listening for it to lock before she walked off into the darkening day.