Клеа Саймон - An Incantation Of Cats

An Incantation of Cats

A Witch Cats of Cambridge Mystery

Clea Simon

An Incantation of Cats

A Witch Cats of Cambridge Mystery

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Clea Simon

Cover and jacket design by Mimi Bark

ISBN: 978-1-947993-80-8

eISBN: 978-1-951709-01-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019953160

First hardcover edition January 2020 by Polis Books, LLC

221 River St., 9th Fl., #9070

Hoboken, NJ 07030

www.PolisBooks.com

For Jon

Chapter 1

Laurel always did like to pretend she knew best.

“ Something’s not right with this girl,” the slender sealpoint sniffed, her chocolate brown nose quivering over the new client’s glitter-flecked sneakers. Keds high-tops that still smelled of glue, they provided the only touch of light in the visitor’s otherwise all-black outfit. “She’s trouble. I can tell.”

The newcomer, whose ragged raven bob matched her goth-style skinny jeans and oversized shirt, didn’t seem to notice the curious feline inspecting her sparkly feet as she sprawled on the sofa. Instead, she remained absorbed in her phone as she waited for Becca, the apartment’s human resident, to return.

Laurel’s two siblings, who had toys of their own, were not as oblivious.

“ Well, of course!” Harriet, Laurel’s creamsicle older sister, didn’t even look up from her post on the windowsill, where she lay preening her lush coat. “If something wasn’t wrong, she wouldn’t be here.” The self-satisfied half-purr in her voice was barely muted as she reached to groom the orange patch that spread across her broad back. “That’s our Becca’s job, after all.”

“Hush, please.” Clara mewed softly from her seat on the dining table at the big room’s far end. The youngest of the three littermates, the plump calico was loath to interrupt her siblings. Although they were only minutes older, both Laurel, whose coloring revealed her paternal Siamese heritage, and the long-haired Harriet liked to assert their precedence.

As the felines murmured quietly among themselves, their conversation taking place in tones beneath those of human hearing, Becca had reappeared, balancing a loaded tray. The sweet-faced young woman was settling the tray on the low table by the comfy, if worn, sofa, and the little calico didn’t want to miss a thing.

“Here we go.” Becca, whose own brown curls most resembled Harriet’s lush fur, unloaded two mugs, a teapot, and a plate of cookies. “Peppermint tea,” she said, placing one mug before her distracted visitor. “It settles the nerves. And besides, it smells nice.”

“Thanks.” The black-clad newcomer didn’t look up as Becca poured the fragrant tea. “No, thanks,” she added, face down, as her host held out the cookies.

“Something is wrong with her!” Never one to turn down a treat of any kind, Harriet lumbered to her feet and launched herself onto the sofa, just as Becca replaced the untouched plate on the tray. “If she doesn’t want cookies, I don’t know if Becca can help her.”

“Sorry.” The thud of the marmalade cat landing next to her got the funereal newcomer’s attention, and she had the grace to apologize as she tucked her phone into her jeans, a sheepish grin making her look suddenly younger. Close to Becca’s own age of twenty-six—or about two-and-a-half cat years—thought Clara as she made her own, more subtle approach and sniffed the air. Something did smell off about the newcomer, something besides her somber attire on what was otherwise a bright autumn morning. As much as Clara didn’t want to admit it, Laurel might be right.

“No problem.” Unaware of her pet’s concern, Becca perched on the armchair that faced the couch, notepad open and pencil poised. “Gaia, you said? Gaia Linquist?”

A quick nod, her lips drawing in.

“Why don’t we start with what has brought you here today?”

The visitor exhaled noisily, staring down at the plate, eyes heavy with liner. Perhaps the cookies were to blame , Clara mused. Maybe the black-bedecked girl had an eating disorder she hoped Becca could help her with . Or maybe she was in mourning, the inky coloring all over her face signaling some kind of enchantment. Becca, the cat’s person, had started advertising her services as a witch detective only a few months prior, but what that actually meant was open to interpretation. Does she think Becca can counter a spell? Clara pondered this with growing alarm as her oldest sister edged closer to the tray. I hope Becca hasn’t promised that she can cast one.

Harriet licked the nearest cookie, her tongue darting out as quick as could be, but still the visitor didn’t react. When she finally looked up at Becca, the unpainted parts of her face were deadly pale. “I think someone wants to use the craft against me,” she said.

Even Harriet paused, pink tongue slightly visible as she and her sisters watched to see how their person would respond. Becca was a normal young woman, after all, despite Clara’s secret belief that her person’s diminutive stature hid a great spirit. But the good-natured brunette who opened their cans didn’t respond with the promise of remedial witchcraft, to the calico’s relief. Nor did she react with the kind of shock or horror or even disbelief that many of her peers would. Although her eyebrows rose slightly, she continued to write.

“Very well,” she said to herself, before addressing her visitor once more. “And would you tell me how someone is attempting to use magic against you?”

With another nod, the young woman reached into another pocket, extracting a plastic bag that she held up for display. “This,” she said. “I found it in my mug.”

All three cats recoiled as the musty scent spread, and Laurel positively smirked. Becca, being more visually oriented than her pets, reached for the baggie and held it up to the light, examining the knobby root within.

“Do you know what this is?” Becca turned it around, examining it, as Clara forced herself to move closer. “It looks like ginger—or possibly ginseng?”

“I wish,” the visitor said with a dismissive snort. “It’s wolf’s bane. You know, monk’s hood? Aconite?”

“You’re sure?” Becca took in her visitor, though whether her eyes had widened in skepticism or alarm, her cat couldn’t tell.

“Of course. I’m studying to be an herbalist, and I know a poison when I see one.” The visitor clicked her tongue as if her profession were too obvious for words, showing off the glint of a tongue stud in the process. “I work at Charm and Cherish.”

“Of course.” Becca mused. Clara knew her person had visited the little shop outside Central Square. Most recently, she had emerged with the pretty blue stone pendant she wore now. But even though the little calico often tagged along after her person on her errands she rarely accompanied her inside. Packed to the rafters, literally, with “all things Wiccan,” the tiny storefront always smelled too strongly of strange dried plants and scented candles for the sensitive feline’s comfort. “I knew I recognized you…”

“That’s how I got your number,” her visitor went on. “I saw your notice on our community board. The one about ‘Witch Detective.’ I figure, if someone’s coming after me using the craft, you’re the one who can help.”

Becca took a deep breath, and Clara, who loved her, could see the play of conflicting emotions across her face. “I understand,” she said at last. She spoke slowly, as she searched for just the right words. “And I have worked on several cases already. But this is serious. And this is more than a simple spell or hex. If you really think someone is trying to poison you, you really should talk to the police.”