Клеа Саймон - A Spell Of Murder

Nerves, Clara figured, rather than timing were pushing Becca. Because when she got to the police station, the young woman stopped short. She must have realized she was early to meet whoever it was who had called her.

“That’s all right,” she said to the older man at the front desk. He had enough wrinkles to be a Shar Pei, but his eyes were as sad as a basset hound’s. Clara hoped he’d be gentle with her poor person. “I’ll wait,” she said.

“You can have a seat over there.” His voice sounded doggish too, a low bark without much bite in it. “I’ll make sure he knows you’re here.”

She nodded and retreated to the bench he had pointed out. Before long, she was chewing on her thumbnail. If Clara had to bet, the dark-haired girl was thinking about Jeff and about what Maddy had said. At least, Clara hoped she was. Weighing whether or not to turn in your cheating ex-boyfriend certainly beat out fretting over his betrayal.

“Are you okay?”

Becca started at the voice. The man before her, neat in a pink-striped Oxford shirt and jeans, his damp, dark hair combed off his forehead, didn’t look familiar, and she blinked up at him. Clara, of course, recognized his scent—warm, slightly spicy, with a touch of turpentine.

“What? Oh, yes.” She forced a smile. “Thanks.”

Human senses may not be as acute as a cat’s, but even as Becca dismissed his query with a polite smile, Clara could see the realization dawning on her face.

“You’re the painter.” Her smile relaxed into something more natural. “From—” And then it disappeared. “Suzanne’s.”

“I am.” His voice was low and warm, and as he took a seat on the bench beside Becca, she looked away flustered. “Nathan,” he said, holding out a tanned and calloused hand. “Nathan Raposa.”

“Becca Colwin.” They shook, and Becca’s brows knit as the question begin to form. “Are you here because of…because of Suzanne?”

He nodded. “I let you in. Remember?” His voice sounded kindly, but its effect had worn off. Becca’s slight blush faded to something close to green. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded. “That was the first time I’ve seen—well, a body,” she said. “And you?”

“Oh, I didn’t go in!” He rejected the suggestion with a grimace. “But I was working there all day, and so I guess I’m as close to a witness as they’ve got.”

“Did you see who did it?”

He shook his head, freeing a lock of hair that, as it dried, was slowly returning to sun-bleached blond. “I was around back, probably. And with my music playing…well, I get into the zone. I told them that, but they kept insisting, like maybe there was something I’d overlooked.”

Becca waited.

“I told them all I could.” He paused, that grin was looking sheepish. “And that was that I was working there all morning, and I didn’t see or hear anything. At least, not until you came by.”

Chapter 12

Becca didn’t like the sound of that. Clara could tell by the way her forehead furrowed as she took in a quick breath. But before she could respond—or even let that breath out—her name was called by the man behind the desk.

“You’ll do fine.” Nathan reached over, as if to place one hand over hers, and pulled back just in time. “Just tell them what happened.”

“Rebecca Colwin?” An older man in a rumpled brown jacket was looking around.

“Here, before you go.” Nathan pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Why don’t you give me a call after,” he said, extracting a card. “It might help to talk about it. I’m not going to be able to work today anyway. And, besides, maybe we can salvage something good from the whole experience.”

“Ms. Colwin?” The man in the brown jacket was coming toward her.

“Here.” Nathan pressed the card into her hand as he rose. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Her voice cracked as she, too, stood and turned toward the disheveled man. “I’m Becca—Rebecca—Colwin.”

“Well, Becca Rebecca,” he said as the edges of his mouth twitched into a grin. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Becca turned back, but Nathan was already walking toward the door, and so, with a sigh that probably no one but Clara could hear, she followed the older man in.

***

Fifteen minutes later, she looked like herself again, neither too pale nor too pink. The older man—Detective Abrams—had gotten one of his staff to bring her coffee and take her sodden hat. But even without the extra fortification, she had done her best to recall everything she could from that morning. The detective’s questions had helped, prompting her along when she couldn’t seem to remember some of the details.

Although she’d been dreading it—her response to the handsome painter had made that obvious—the entire experience seemed to be doing her some good.

“Yes, that’s true.” She was nodding enthusiastically as the detective read back her description of the room. “That’s it exactly.”

He had seemed tentative, as if he didn’t trust his own note taking, and Becca was eager to help.

“The door was definitely unlocked when I came in.”

“Unlocked, but was it closed or open?”

She paused. “I am pretty sure it was slightly open. I mean, I knocked, but I wouldn’t have opened it unless it had been off the latch. That’s not me.”

“Of course not, Ms. Colwin.” The detective looked tired, his face as wrinkled as that jacket. But his manner was gentle and his voice soft. “So you heard a voice?”

“No.” Becca looked lost in her memory. “I just—the door opened, and I stepped in, calling for her.”

“Because you sensed something was off?” The detective sounded genuinely curious, his head tilting like Laurel’s did when she was listening to something she didn’t quite understand. “Because of your power—what did you call it, a sensitivity?”

“No, I don’t…” Becca looked flustered. “Oh, you mean the summoning? No, that was—I don’t know what that was.” She almost laughed as she shook her head. “I just wanted you to understand how Suzanne and I know each other. We’re not—we weren’t—friends, exactly, though maybe we could have been, if it weren’t for… Anyway, we know each other from our group. Knew each other.” She swallowed and fell silent.

“Your coven.” The rumpled man waited a moment before offering the word, pronounced so carefully, as if he had never heard it before. At least, thought Clara as she watched him, he was being respectful.

“Well, that’s what we call ourselves.” Becca looked down, slightly abashed. “I don’t even know if I believe in any of it. Only the last time we all got together, things were a little crazy because, well, because I think I did summon something.”

The man opposite her looked so confused Clara almost began to wonder about his intelligence.

“I thought I explained,” Becca said. Obviously, she was wondering too. “I was trying out these spells. And, well, I summoned a pillow out of the ether—out of nowhere.”

“Ah, of course.” A nod of understanding at last as a smile reconfigured those wrinkles. “So you do have power of some kind, and did Suzanne?”

“No, I don’t think so.” The memory made Becca stop and think. “I was the only one who had had any success. At least, thus far.”

“So you were special to the group.” He was speaking slowly, as if he were trying very hard not to miss anything again. But something in his tone was beginning to make the fur along Clara’s back rise.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that…” Becca must have heard an off note too. She had turned away from the man, but Clara could see the hot dark splotches that now stained her cheeks.