Клеа Саймон - A Spell Of Murder

“Dear Suzanne.” Larissa’s musical laugh sounded a bit forced. “She worried so, and about nothing. And you’re so sweet to ask. You know, I do believe there’s a reason you found dear Suzanne. You’ve always been the most gifted of our little coven. You and Trent, of course. But then, he’s special in so many ways.”

“Trent?” Even Becca’s all-too-human ears must have picked up the off note in the older woman’s voice. “How do you mean?”

“Well he’s our very own warlock, of course.” Larissa’s kohl-lined eyes cast down, as if following the pattern in the throw, before darting up again. “And, of course, he does like to do a little outreach, doesn’t he? You must know something of that, my dear.”

Becca was too unworldly not to flinch, although in the dim light the color rising to her cheeks was probably not immediately apparent. “He’s been concerned about me after…after Saturday. And, well, he cared for Suzanne too.”

“Of course.” Larissa sat back. “We all did. Now, would you like me to talk to Graham for you?”

“I was hoping you could give me an introduction.” Becca managed to sit up straight finally, propping herself up on the pillows. “Just to get me in the door. I’m guessing that’s what you did for Suzanne, because she’d recently started a job that you’d referred her to as well—a position at Reynolds and Associates. Didn’t she? And it turns out my friend Maddy works there too.”

Chapter 22

“Come on, Maddy, pick up.” Becca was back on the sidewalk less than an hour later. Her visit with Larissa had raised more questions than answers. The older woman had laughed off her earlier referral—“Graham does run through his worker bees!”—despite Becca’s attempt to shock her into any kind of revelation. And despite three more distinct attempts to raise the issue of the coven finances, she’d been unable to get any kind of proper response to those questions either. In truth, the older woman’s defense—that their accounts mattered little and had no impact on the coven’s weekly functioning—had begun to sound increasingly sensible, supporting Ande’s assertion and leading Becca to wonder if Suzanne had indeed wanted to speak to her about something else entirely.

Maybe, Becca mused, she simply had finances on the mind. Although the older woman had promised to call this mysterious Graham for her, Becca was no more convinced than she’d been earlier that she had a lead on a new job. In fact, once Becca had realized that Larissa’s “old friend” must be the same grumpy Mr. Reynolds she’d been hearing Maddy complain about, she was less likely to pursue a position—especially one that, as she already knew, called for qualifications she didn’t possess. Still, she was intrigued as to why neither Larissa nor Suzanne had ever mentioned this particular connection. Or, for that matter, why her old friend had never said anything about working with the dead woman.

“Maddy, it’s me.” Becca made an effort to hold her voice steady. “Call me, please? It’s important.”

While Larissa had brushed off her earlier referral of the other coven member as a mere triviality, referring vaguely to the intimacy of their world and the necessity of distributing what she called “patronage” among those she knew, the question had seemed to upset her. She’d spent the rest of the visit fussing with the upholstery and avoiding any direct questions about her supposed friend—or mentor, as she’d begun to term him—whom Maddy had always described as a bitter old man, his mind—and office demeanor—stuck in a century or maybe two prior. Somehow, Becca couldn’t reconcile that with what she knew of Larissa, and that left only her friend to explain.

As Clara watched from underneath a forsythia in full bloom, Becca stared at her phone. That she could no more will it to ring than she could summon that pillow only made the little cat’s heart ache for her person. It must be so hard to lack power over the world, she thought. If only…

“Becca?” The cat and the girl she loved turned at the sound of a male voice, warm and friendly. The blond painter, almost unrecognizable in a sport jacket, was striding up the walk, a wrapped bouquet in his hands. “What a surprise!”

“Nathan.” Becca smiled despite herself, and tucked her phone into her pocket. “Hi.” But as she took in his clothes and the flowers, her cat heard her gasp. Disappointment, waiting to happen. Before she could say anything, the painter was talking again.

“It’s good to see you again. I was hoping to hear from you—or run into you.” That smile seemed at odds with the nice clothes. The flowers. “I know this is a small town, but I’m sorry I ran out yesterday. The whole thing must have gotten to me more than I’d admitted to myself.”

Becca nodded. “Me too.”

“I’ve been thinking I was a fool for not getting your number yesterday.”

Becca held her breath once more, this time with anticipation, and Clara looked on with concern. Those flowers… “You don’t…you don’t live here, do you?”

“Me? No.” Nathan chuckled at the idea. “I was visiting someone—a relative. And you?”

“Same. I mean, visiting. Larissa Fox.”

“Ah.” He nodded, a sly smile tweaking the corners of his generous mouth.

“You know her?” Becca saw it too. “She’s…well, she’s part of a group I’m in. We meet once a week to discuss, well, paranormal events.” She looked down, and so didn’t see his smile spread into a grin.

“And let me guess.” Whatever humor was behind that smile now gave his voice a lilt. “She finances it—or some part of it—and thinks that her money gives her special rights over all of you?”

Becca recoiled slightly. “I…that’s not entirely fair.”

His brows went up.

“Well, maybe a little.” Their eyes met, and for a moment, Clara felt a tingle of magic in the air.

“Hey.” He broke the silence. “If I don’t get these flowers up soon, I’ll be in trouble. May I call you?”

“Yeah.” Becca was beaming. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She was still humming to herself as she hit the street, and it wasn’t until she had turned the corner that she stopped short. “He didn’t take my number.” But the dismay on her face quickly resolved into a chuckle. “Small town,” she repeated, and walked on, so lost in thought that she almost didn’t hear her phone.

“Maddy?” She stopped and swallowed. “Look, Maddy, we really have to talk.”

***

Both Laurel and Harriet were at the door when Becca and her feline shadow returned. And while their sister wasn’t sure if their restless circling had more to do with the approach of dinnertime or their person’s anxiety, Clara joined them in circumambulating her feet.

“What’s gotten into you three?” Becca caught herself. Laurel was, as always, graceful, but Harriet’s decision to stop short and wash her face had nearly sent their person flying.

Still, their mobile presence served its purpose. Two purposes, actually. Becca dropped her bag and immediately went to fetch their cans, prompting a smirk from Harriet. “See?” She mewed over her shoulder as she led the way into the kitchen. “I can make more than a pillow appear!”

“We didn’t get any answers out in the world, but something’s up,” Clara warned her siblings, even as she waited for her dish to be lowered to the floor. Laurel turned toward her, her blue eyes skeptical.

“Don’t mind her,” Harriet muttered as she ate. Out of habit, Becca fed her first, having learned that the big marmalade would take the first dish set down anyway . “She’s just trying to distract us.”

“No, I’m not!” Clara rarely got angry at her siblings, but Harriet was being particularly obtuse. “Don’t you see? Something’s wrong.”