Клеа Саймон - A Spell Of Murder

“Becca, you’re not making sense.”

“I am!” Becca insisted. “She had this necklace—a crystal teardrop. I think Trent gave it to her, and that Larissa knew.” The image of her colleague, lying lifeless on the floor, came back—the horror of it. The streak of blood already growing dark. The knife protruding from Suzanne’s bare throat. “Maddy, I think the killer took the necklace.”

“Please, Becca,” her friend entreated. “This is a job for the police. You need to stop this—you need to tell them everything that’s going on.”

“I can’t, Maddy—not just yet. They must already think I’m involved, or else why would they be asking me to come in again? And, well, I don’t know, do I? Maybe she’d just taken it off. And the whole thing could be totally innocent.”

“Yeah? Well, who killed her, then?”

Becca didn’t have an answer for that one, and her friend knew it.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” Maddy was fading as she descended into the subway. “Look, I’ll go with you tomorrow, first thing before work, okay? And tonight—do you want to come over? We can watch a movie or something.”

“I’d love to.” Relief suffused Becca’s voice, and for the first time since she’d left the house, Clara relaxed. “Oh, but, no, I can’t.”

Clara’s ears pricked up. As, it seemed, did Maddy’s. “No? Not another date?”

“Oh, I wish.” Exhaustion—or exasperation—drained the life out of Becca’s voice. “I can’t believe I forgot, Maddy. And now it’s too late to cancel.”

Silence on the line. Then, “Becca?”

“The coven is meeting tonight, Maddy! That must be where Larissa and Trent were heading, and I’ve got to rush home and clean up.”

***

In truth, Becca had over an hour before the group was scheduled to convene. That left her plenty of time to get home and pick up what was generally a fairly neat apartment. True, Laurel and Harriet had been bored in her absence, and had made their point by knocking several small objects off the bookshelf. The point, Laurel said, was to keep Becca busy while they debriefed Clara, a task for which the seal-point feline seemed to have more enthusiasm than their oldest sister, who had made herself scarce.

“ Can’t this wait?” Clara looked on in sympathy as Becca frantically rushed around, picking up pens and paperweights. “Becca is in a tizzy.”

“How do you think we felt?” Laurel’s ears flicked backward, revealing a bit of temper. “You run out to talk to the police, and we don’t hear from you for hours.”

“I know, but we never got there.”

Becca was on her hands and knees, looking under the sofa. Searching once more, Clara realized, for the amulet.

“She ran into that Trent, and he showed her that he still has his pendant,” she explained.

“ Good.” Harriet had ambled in from her nap. “Then I can make another. So you owe me a treat!”

It was useless. Clara’s spirits sunk, as did her tail, and she turned from her sisters to watch her person’s frenzied quest.

“Listen up!” A sharp slap to the side of her head brought her back. Laurel, her blue eyes blazing. “You act like you’re the only one who cares, but we want to do what’s best for her too. But you’ve got to tell us what you know — and quickly too! Those cookie eaters are on their way.”

“Cookie eaters?” Harriet looked toward the door.

“Harriet, focus!” Clara looked from one sister to another. She’d never heard Laurel speak this way, not to Harriet. Even the big marmalade seemed somewhat taken aback and sat blinking under that blue glare.

“I know I’ve been a bit lax.” Laurel had the grace to dip her head. Cats see a direct stare as an offensive move, and once she had their attention, the middle sister seemed ready to shift into a conciliatory fashion. “This has been a comfortable perch. But you do know our family history, don’t you?”

Harriet blinked and turned to Clara, who tilted her head inquisitively. “I know we have a duty to our people and that we come from a long line of witch cats.”

“And what happens when we don’t pay attention?” Laurel’s tone had become a bit schoolmarmish—only with an edge that worried Clara and set her spine tingling. “What happens when we aren’t careful?”

“We don’t get treats?” Harriet offered the most serious punishment she could imagine.

“ Our people — the women we are bound to serve — are taken as witches in our place.” Laurel was practically hissing. “They’re taken away away and burned.”

“They don’t do that anymore.” Harriet looked to Clara for support. “Do they?”

“I don’t think so.” Clara wracked her brain. She hadn’t heard of anything like that. “But the police haven’t been very kind to our Becca,” she added, her soft mew growing more thoughtful. “And she’s worried that they do suspect her of something. They do keep calling.”

“You see?” Laurel said, turning. “Tails and whiskers up!” And just then, the doorbell rang.

***

“Hey, Marcia. Come in.” Becca did a good job of hiding her disappointment, but Clara heard it in her voice, in the dying fall as she opened the door for the first arrival. “Oh, is that a cake?”

“Banana bread.” Marcia looked around, her large eyes widening dramatically. “What’s up with your cats?”

Clara turned. Harriet and Laurel were both staring at the diminutive woman, and even a human must have been able to feel the suspicion—and, in Harriet’s case, hunger—in their gaze.

“I was out for a lot of the day.” Becca was improvising. “I think they were lonely.”

“Okay, then.” Marcia gave the sisters a wide berth as she passed into the apartment. “I’m the first one here?”

“Yes.” Becca ran past her to replace the sofa cushions, which she’d piled on the table. “Sorry, I was…I was doing a little cleaning. Shall I take that?”

“Sure.” Marcia leaned in slightly, and Clara had the distinct impression that the shorter woman was about to confide. Only just then, the doorbell rang again. “Never mind. I’m going to get a knife.”

“Becca, I’ve been thinking.” Ande stepped in before her host could say anything. “Maybe she was down at city hall because she’s filing a suit for fraud?”

“Who was?” Marcia emerged from the kitchen with a bread knife—and the obvious question for a paralegal. “What’s the suit?”

“Oh.” Ande blinked, at a loss for an answer.

“It’s nothing,” Becca covered. “I was doing research on something, and I ran into a roadblock. I think someone was trying to keep some information private.”

“Who’s the claimant? Of course, I don’t know if anyone could keep a fraud suit private,” Marcia opined as she sliced. “We deal with those all the time, and it really depends if it’s criminal or civil—and that can get complicated. It’s not like a bankruptcy, where you can get the records sealed like that.”

As Marcia snapped her fingers, the doorbell rang again, and when Clara saw Larissa in the doorway, she looked over at Laurel. If only her sister would use her powers of suggestion to change the subject. Laurel, however, had had enough of the doorbell and retreated to the sofa. Harriet, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.

“Darling, so nice to see you again.” Luckily, Larissa was as self-involved as usual. “I trust you were able to get your work done?” She took Becca’s arm as she entered, almost spinning her around. “I was working on a little project of my own, you see.” As she leaned in, Clara got a whiff of patchouli that almost made her dizzy. “I might have good news for you later, but let’s not share anything yet. Are we agreed?”