Клеа Саймон - A Spell Of Murder

Clara knew she had her sisters to turn to if anything were to happen to Becca. But neither the fluffy Harriet nor the sly Laurel could ever replace the petite brunette with the curly hair and the gentle voice, for all her all-too-human bumbling. Clara had spoken the truth when questioned by her sisters. She didn’t know what Becca had planned, or where she was going—she certainly could not have anticipated that detour with Jeff. But thinking of that uncomfortable confrontation, Clara felt her apprehension growing, as Becca picked up her pace, pushing along crowded sidewalks and then—with barely a pause—dashing across a busy street. Becca meant well, but her less-than-feline senses didn’t pick up the dangers that Clara’s did. Her kind heart was too trusting, her manner too open. For a small creature—and the young woman was relatively small in the greater scheme of things—she was positively careless. Or so Clara thought as the young woman turned from the street toward a looming red stone building and trotted up the wide steps as if unafraid of whatever she might find inside.

***

Clara made it in before the heavy door slammed shut, in time to see Becca approach a carved wooden barrier that stood waist-high, barely containing the aged dragon inside.

“Records, please?” Becca approached and the creature looked up, her scowl hinting at unimagined terrors. Amazed at the valor of the young woman she loved, Clara drew back. Only her devotion to the girl kept her from running.

“Third floor,” said the dragon, and went back to her newspaper.

Clara watched as Becca began ascending the wide steps. These were a challenge for the cat, as they offered little shadows and no place to hide. And while they weren’t as crowded as the city sidewalk, there were plenty of people walking both up and down. A feline, even a magical one, might be noticed here.

Still, when Becca turned onto the landing, Clara knew she had to act. With a mad dash she leaped up the stairs two at a time. “What!” A woman gasped, causing her companion to turn in alarm.

“I thought…” The woman gaped around her, pushing her glasses higher up on her nose. “Never mind,” she said. But by then, Clara was gone.

She found Becca one flight up, inside a large room lined with files. Although the flickering blue light of the overhead fluorescents didn’t offer much in terms of shadows, this room was at least quieter. Indeed, the blue-haired woman behind the counter appeared to be asleep.

“Excuse me?” Becca’s voice was soft. Living with cats, she had practice at gently interrupting a nap. Not until the woman blinked up at her did she continue. “I’d like to make a records search.”

Records. Suddenly, it all became clear. Reassured now of her person’s purpose, Clara found a corner by the window as Becca filled out paperwork. So this is what her person did at work, Clara thought to herself, watching as Becca took what looked like a large bound journal over to a table and began making notes onto a pad. From the way she tilted her head and bit her lip, it was easy to see the young woman was deeply engaged, and the scratching of her pencil certainly sounded industrious. Watching her, Clara realized that her person had a rich interior life of her own, something her cat had never fully realized. This made her respect Becca and love her even more. It also, if she was being honest, made her a little sleepy.

“Thank you, yes. The family name is Horne—Horne or Horne Colwin.” Clara jumped. She must have fallen asleep. Becca was standing before the clerk again, only this time she was handing back the large journal. In its place, the blue-haired woman offered her a box. Even from where she sat, Clara could smell dust and age—and something else as well. A certain familiar spice that drew her over to the table where, once again, Becca sat as she began to go through the papers within.

“Here it is,” she muttered to herself as she made another notation in her book. “Marriage and household…1749.” Clara’s ears pricked up. Cats may not be the best with dates, but some years were not to be forgotten. “Rebecca Horne and…Mistress Greybar?”

Becca pushed her chair back with a squeak that made Clara flinch. “That doesn’t make sense.” As if she were arguing with herself, she sat up, turning the card over in her hand, and then placed it on the table, drawing another and then a third from the file. “The cat is listed as the principal—” Another card and another soft sigh of exasperation. “Impossible,” she said at last. “These records…the transcription…there must be something wrong here.”

With another squeak, she stood and carried the file box back to the front desk, but the clerk there was at the far end of her enclosure, in close conference with a conservatively dressed older woman whose hair was done up in a khaki turban. Heads together, they appeared to be speaking softly, and neither noticed the agitated young woman who waited with growing impatience.

Cats don’t count time, not as humans do, but the confidential chat did seem to go on for a bit. Even as the clerk tried to draw away, the older woman reached out, holding onto her arm as if loathe to let her go.

Maybe it was that move or the clerk’s apparent desire to end the conversation or a certain familiarity to the dark purple nails on the older woman’s manicured hand, but something emboldened Becca. “Excuse me,” she said, and then repeated herself. “Excuse me,” her voice somewhat too loud for politeness’s sake.

“I’m sorry.” The clerk pulled away, though whether her apology was to the turbaned woman or the client she’d kept waiting was unclear.

“Larissa!” Becca started, for the turbaned woman had looked up as her confidante withdrew. “It’s me, Becca.”

“Becca, darling.” The older witch came forward, a smile spreading across her face, which was much less heavily made up than usual. “My.” Those lacquered nails came up to her mouth, as if she had suddenly remembered her appearance. “My dear! Do tell, what brings you here?”

“Research,” said Becca. If her colleague’s unusually mundane attire surprised her, she didn’t let on. “I’m sorry if I—”

“No, no, no.” Larissa waved off her objection. “Please, go on.”

“It’s busywork, really,” Becca admitted. “I figure, until I get something else, I might as well keep my skills up, and I’ve always been interested in genealogy. But I might have just found something that may explain what’s been going on.”

“What’s been going on?” Larissa’s brows arched like a cat’s back, and Clara felt her own fur rising in response. “Dearest, you have to tell me.”

“Please don’t.” Clara did her best to focus. If only she had her sister’s power. If only her person could see how her words appeared to have set the older woman on edge. But no matter how the little calico concentrated, Becca kept on talking.

“I wish I could. I feel like I’ve gotten so close.” Becca sighed, as if the effort cost her. “Only I think that something must have gotten messed up over the years.”

“Is it something I can help you with?” The clerk interrupted, and Clara thought she seemed grateful to focus on her other client. “Perhaps if you tell me what happened, we can clear it up.”

“It’s silly.” Realizing she had an audience, Becca gave an embarrassed laugh. “But are you sure that these are careful transcriptions of the original records?”

“Of course. This office houses family records—births, deaths, and marriages—back to 1635, as well as documentation of financial transactions in the public record.” She sounded quite proud. “In fact, I was just telling your friend here—”

“It’s not important.” Larissa slipped around the counter and took Becca’s arm. “Just a fancy.”