Клеа Саймон - A Spell Of Murder

“I don’t know, Becca. Going out with someone you met at a crime scene—”

“He’s a witness, Maddy, same as I am. He’s been trying to help the police too. And I’ll be careful.” She rushed that last bit in before her friend could interrupt.

“At least it’s not Jeff.” Maddy’s approval was, at best, begrudging. But Becca looked relieved at the change in topic.

“Speaking of, I didn’t tell you the latest, Maddy. Jeff’s been acting really weird. I think he’s trying to throw suspicion on someone in my coven.” The line fell silent. “Maddy?”

She paused, waiting for her friend to respond.

“Look, Becca.” The humor was gone from Maddy’s voice. “You know what I think about Jeff, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier about what a cheating sack of whatever he is. But I’d almost prefer him to some stranger you just met. You’re a little too close to this investigation. I know you think you have some insight, but remember, Becca, a girl was murdered, and I wouldn’t trust anybody who might have been in the position to hurt her.”

Chapter 28

Maddy’s warning notwithstanding, over the weekend, Becca settled down to what had become her daily routine of online research. By Sunday, even Clara’s sisters were beginning to wonder if their person would ever leave the couch again.

“What’s she doing?” Laurel stretched, extending her slim café au lait body along the back of the sofa as she craned over toward Becca’s shoulder. “Doesn’t she have a date coming up?”

“That’s hours away. She’s doing research.” Clara sounded a bit smug as she snuggled against her person’s thigh. In truth, the little calico had only the slightest idea what Becca did as she tapped the machine on her lap, but as her person clicked away, she had recognized the family portrait—and her own feline forebear—as it surfaced once more. From that one startling image and from Becca’s various comments as she summoned other, similar sights, she’d gleaned that the young woman was once more looking into her own past and, unintentionally, that of the feline sisters. How this slim machine helped her do that might well be Becca’s own form of magic, the plump calico mused. Besides, Clara acknowledged as she shifted to make herself even more comfortable, the computer was warm.

“I wonder if I should tell the coven about my family…” Becca stared at the screen. “I mean, it might explain the spell.”

Neither Laurel nor Clara knew exactly what she was talking about. And Harriet, snoozing as usual, didn’t care. But as Becca scrolled through the pages, she found herself torn. Her latest find—a newspaper clipping from 1926—had been tantalizing in the extreme. A Rebecca Horne Colwin—her own great-grandmother—had “miraculously” survived a fire that had destroyed her house. She’d emerged from the wreckage, the clipping read, clutching her “favorite mouser” to her breast.

“Of course she went back,” Becca commented as she scrolled over the scanned clip. “She had to rescue her cat.”

Clara and Laurel exchanged a glance. “Never mind, ” Clara purred softly. “We know who did the rescuing.”

Becca was too absorbed to notice as the seal point nearly barked in reply. The use of the word “miraculous” was unusual, she thought, as she made a note to check if such speculation would have been common in the newspapers of the day. Maddy had been the documents specialist, back when they were in school. But even as she typed out her query, she found herself wondering if the author—or the authorities—had meant to imply something else. A woman, living alone with her cat, might be suspected of many things, even in the supposedly enlightened twentieth century. Might “miraculous” be interpreted as “suspicious”? If the fire had taken place a hundred and fifty years earlier, would Becca’s ancestor have been thrown back in, to be burned as a witch?

“They probably didn’t know about arson then.” Becca’s fingers floated about the keyboard. “But it can’t hurt…” With a few strokes, she sent off the query. Maddy might scoff at Becca’s interest in Wicca, but surely, she’d help her friend dig into what looked like a particularly interesting bit of family history.

“I wonder if I can make this into a screensaver?” With a tap-tap-tap, she’d enlarged it. “Wow, look at that, Clara.” The little cat raised her head to see. “Doesn’t that kitty look just like you?”

Laurel stared down as Clara debated her answer. No, she couldn’t actually tell their person that, yes, the “famous mouser” in the photo was a foremother of Clara and her two sisters. Nor could she explain Becca’s mistake to her—that it wasn’t the woman in the photo whose magic had saved her life and her cat’s. It was the woman’s calico familiar who had managed to extract them both when that earlier Rebecca Colwin’s attempts at a warming spell had gone so badly astray during one chilly New England night. That didn’t mean she wasn’t tempted to try.

“Don’t you dare . ” Laurel reached down, claws extended. Even as the sisters squabbled over how they could use their powers—and both Laurel and Harriet did tend to favor relaxation over rigor—they all were well aware of the cardinal rule: no cat could reveal the basic truth about magic to a human. “If you think you’ll get a pass just because she has the same stupid markings…”

“I won’t.” Clara ducked her head and resumed her position, curled against Becca’s leg. As much as she wished she could communicate with her person, it was neither possible nor advisable. Still, if she could only get Becca to stop trying out spells, it would be something. As the three cats knew, magic was for felines. And once again, Clara regretted that her oldest sister had not taken more care with her particular skill.

“I wonder…” Becca was looking at the pillow Harriet had summoned. For once, the fat marmalade wasn’t sleeping on it. She’d dropped off while sunning on the sill, instead. But it didn’t take magic to understand the import of that glance. Between the clipping and that soft apparition, Becca was thinking of trying a spell again.

When the phone rang, Clara looked up at Laurel. Her sister’s blue eyes blinked back, blameless. “Not me,” she purred beneath her breath, not that Clara was sure she believed her.

“Becca, it’s me.” Maddy sounded frazzled. “We’ve got to talk.”

“You know, I was just thinking of you.” Becca, on the other hand, seemed inordinately pleased. “In fact, I was wishing you would call. I wonder if perhaps the key to a summoning is—”

“Becca!” Her friend cut her off. “You didn’t ‘summon’ me. I’ve been meaning to call you, all right? Even before you emailed. I keep thinking of you going out with that painter guy tonight. You’re not still thinking of doing that, are you?”

“Yeah, I am. But not—wait, Maddy.” Her friend had started to sputter. “Maddy, I should explain: it’s not really a date date. I have questions for him. Questions that the police might not know to ask.”

***

Only after Becca promised that she would meet the cute painter in a public place, and would check in immediately after, did her friend calm down. But whether it was because the cats’ determined person was planning some high-level sleuthing or some other reason that Clara couldn’t discern, Becca seemed unable to concentrate after her conversation with her friend. Instead, she spent the rest of the afternoon fussing as she hadn’t in months, redoing her hair and picking over her clothes, before settling on a perfectly fine outfit that Clara hadn’t seen before.