by Clea Simon
“I’ve been trying him all day. He’s not answering his phone.”
“You haven’t been either.” The words slipped out. “I’m sorry, but I was trying to reach you.”
“I wasn’t in any shape to talk to anyone else.” Margaret sniffed. “Besides, I wanted to leave the line free. I don’t trust those things.”
There was no easy answer to that, so Becca changed the subject. “Maybe he lost his phone? Maybe he’s been busy?”
Margaret shook off the idea. “I’ve had an idea for a while now. I just thought I could catch them before it came to this.”
“Ah.” Becca turned thoughtful. “Is that why you hired me?”
“What? No.” A glare like a hawk. “Someone has been stealing from me, and this just makes me even surer it’s that girl. Gail—Gaia—whatever she calls herself. I’m sure that once you start looking into it—”
“That’s just it. I can’t,” Becca interrupted her. “That’s why I was trying to reach you earlier today, Mrs. Cross. I have a conflict of interest. That’s only one reason I think you really need to talk to—”
“It’s that girl.” Her gaze was piercing, and Becca squirmed a little, even as she spooned sugar into her tea. “She’s hired you, too. Hasn’t she?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Becca tried to sound firm. In truth, she wasn’t sure of the etiquette of the situation. Did hiring a witch detective automatically convey confidentiality? It seemed like it ought to.
“She’s outsmarted me every step of the way.” Margaret looked angry now, rather than sad. Her cracked lipstick set in a tight red line until she started speaking again, and this time her fury seemed directed at Becca. “You do realize what she’s doing, don’t you? She’s playing you. Playing you to get to me. She knew I was going to talk to you. She saw me taking down your number, only she got to you first. What did she say? Did she accuse me of something? Financial malfeasance? Spousal cruelty? I bet Frank spun her some stories about me…”
Becca swallowed, her eyes darting to the kitchen, but Elizabeth did not re-emerge. “I’m sorry,” she said one more time. Only this time, her voice sounded a little more resolute. “I understand that this all very difficult, but if you won’t let me call the police about the jewelry theft, I don’t see what else I can do here. This seems to be a domestic matter that I really don’t want to be a part of.”
“Oh, you’re part of it, young lady. In fact, I’m wondering if you two came up with this together.” The scowl deepened into something truly scary.
Becca put her mug down, frustrated. She no longer wanted to drink anything in this house. What she wanted to do was leave. “Wait a minute. You came to me. I have not conspired with anyone. I don’t do that,” she said. “In fact, as a witch, you should know our basic rule—as long as ye harm none.”
“Tell that to Gail.” The woman across from her pushed her own mug away and slumped in her seat. Suddenly, she looked no more than an old woman, defeated and in mourning. “Frank wasn’t a great husband by any means, but he was the only one I had. Bitsy was right about that girl. She doesn’t care about the shop, about the craft. She’s just into whatever she can get.”
Becca, having witnessed the other girl’s lax attitude, bit her lip.
“I knew he was up to something with that lot of his. He never wanted me to come down there. Never mind that I paid for it. She was probably hoping for a free car or something. Wait till she discovers Frank has no money of his own,” she said, half to herself. “Then she’ll see who’s been taken for a ride. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets rid of him before long.”
***
When it became apparent that no amount of persuasion would get Margaret to call the cops, Becca stood to leave. “I’m sorry,” she said again, heading toward the door, though Clara inferred her regret had more to do with showing up at all than for the other woman’s sorrows. “I really have to go.”
It was near dark by the time she was out on the street again. Around her, the lights of the city were casting colors over the sidewalk, making it easy for Clara to sidle up to her person with care. Becca might have been oblivious even if her pet had made herself visible, the calico realized, as her person collapsed against the brick wall with a deep sigh.
“Becca?” At the sound of her name, she jumped. Elizabeth was standing beside her. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but I wanted to catch you.”
“It’s no problem.” Becca’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come down.”
The other woman only smiled. “I wanted to tell you how grateful I am for you coming here today. For your interest in Charm and Cherish.”
“But I’m not—” Becca shook her head. “I don’t know how much you heard, but I’m not taking your sister’s case. I think she should go to the police. Maybe you can work on her?”
“Maybe.” A noncommittal shrug. “But she’s right, you know. Her husband was stealing from her. Still, there are other reasons…”
“I get that she’s embarrassed.” Becca filled in the blank. “But she’ll have to file for insurance, especially if there are family heirlooms involved.”
“Of course, and we are family.” Elizabeth reached out, putting her cool hand on top of Becca’s. “Be careful, dear.”
Becca nodded, a million thoughts playing across her face. “Thanks,” she said, and turned away.
“And you, too.” Elizabeth whispered, her gaze directed to the shadowed calico at her feet.
Chapter 7
“I must have imagined that,” Clara told herself, frozen to the spot. “Could I have misheard?”
Fancy rarely got the better of the little calico. Cats in general are extremely practical. But recently Clara had realized that she’d been taking on some of Becca’s quirks, most likely because she loved her so—a trait her own two sisters never hesitated to point out. After all, nothing else made sense. So when the older woman turned, chuckling softly, back to the shadowed building entrance, Clara shook herself whiskers to tail, and looked around for Becca.
Her person had paused only a few yards away in front of that colorful Charm and Cherish window, now lit from within as the afternoon sun faded. But although Becca appeared to be considering her options, she didn’t pull open the door with its friendly bell. Instead, she stayed on the sidewalk, her round face drawn with concern, as she gazed in at the raven-haired salesgirl behind the counter who appeared utterly absorbed in her cell phone.
Was her person considering warning Gaia/Gail about her employer’s rage or interrogating her further about the identity of her not-a-boyfriend? Clara couldn’t tell, although the slight frown on her person’s face alerted her that some serious thinking was going on. And so when Becca shook her head and kept walking, her pet could only be relieved. It wasn’t that late. This time of year, dusk came early. Still, it was time for Becca and her pet to retire. Clara wanted to think through that odd final encounter with that strange Elizabeth. The two sisters might look alike, but Clara had the distinct impression that they were as different as, well, Clara and her siblings. And no matter how nasty that Margaret might be, Clara couldn’t help but think that she was the safer one for Becca—and for herself.
Clara was musing about how odd humans could be when she suddenly realized that she had lost her person in the growing dark. Panicked, she dropped her shading for a moment, her back arching like a Halloween cat.
“What the—!” A man in a business suit stopped just short of tripping over her, causing the bike messenger behind him to swerve. The cyclist nearly hit a tree, and while Clara looked up at the businessman in a silent, wide-eyed apology, he had turned to vent his rage elsewhere.
“You’re not supposed to ride on the sidewalk!” he screamed at the cyclist. “And you’re supposed to have a light.”
Hopping on one foot as he righted his bike, the cyclist eyed him coolly, blue eyes wide. Dressed in a black pullover and jeans dyed the same hue, he looked lean
and fit, a creature of the growing dark, with a helmet to match and a scent that was vaguely familiar. If these two were to fight, Clara would have bet on the cyclist, despite the businessman’s obvious pique. That is, if cats were gambling animals. Which, the plump animal reminded herself, they were not.
Nor was the slender young man the type to take offense. “Sorry, man,” was all he said, but his voice wasn’t the one Clara was expecting. Her faint memory dissipated as, readjusting his helmet, the cyclist kicked off and was gone. By the time the pedestrian had turned back to Clara, she had shaded herself once again and dashed behind him, desperate to figure out where her person had gone.
Being a cat has some advantages. Small and agile, if not quite as lithe as Laurel, Clara was able to weave through the crowd emerging from the T. Shaded and nearly invisible, she had to be extra careful, especially when a young mother pushing a stroller lost her grip, for a moment, on the hand of her toddler, who stumbled right at the calico.
“Kitty!” The little girl chortled with glee as Clara scrambled up the trunk of a small maple.
Alerted by the cry, her frazzled-looking mother reached over and grabbed her hand. “There’s no kitty there, Lily,” she said.
Clara didn’t have time to puzzle out what had happened. Had she let her shading fade once again, startled by the oncoming stroller? Or did the child have power of some sort? She thought again of Elizabeth and her odd farewell. She’d bring it up to her sisters later, she decided as she craned around. The maple wasn’t tall, though its placement broke up the concrete cityscape nicely. And Clara had to maneuver around a squirrel who had already tucked himself in for the night in order to spy through a break in the scarlet leaves.
“I mean no harm,” she murmured as the fluffy rodent started in alarm, scrabbling at the tree’s smooth bark as he did. For a moment, she thought about uncloaking, then decided against it. From the look on that grey face, the sudden appearance of a cat might be enough to cause him to fall off the limb entirely.
The height didn’t help. Even though her feline vision barely acknowledged the growing dusk, Clara couldn’t see Becca’s curls or her silly velvet hat. Not even that perky feather showed itself above the crowd. That didn’t mean she should worry; Clara knew that. After all, maybe Becca had just stopped to pick up some dinner or a treat for later. But something was making the fur along her spine stiffen. Maybe it was the bitterness with which the older woman talked about her employee. Or maybe it was Gaia herself. Something was off with those two women, and every guard hair on her body was on alert. In desperation, she closed her eyes, raising her nose into the air.
Success! She got it—a slight scent of her person, faint but distinct. Over…where was it? Yes, toward the river. Scrambling down the tree in a rush that nearly upset the squirrel, she dashed down into the gutter, the better to make a beeline toward the young woman whose happiness and safety were Clara’s main responsibility.
By the time she reached her, the young woman was heading down a street Clara had never seen before. Though only a few blocks away, it felt like a different city. Clara was used to her own part of Cambridge. In their own neighborhood, even the larger red-brick buildings were softened by window boxes and a few stately beech trees. On the main drag they had just visited, at least the lights were colorful, as was that captive maple poking out of the sidewalk.
The street they had just turned down might as well have been on the moon. Treeless—grassless, even—all was hard and dry, and in the growing dark, the industrial buildings that climbed above the concrete sidewalks loomed like watchful giants. Sniffing the air, Clara caught traces of the river, and the reeds along its shore. Even with her superior night vision, however, she could see no sign of such greenery. Not through the high chain-link fence that Becca now approached, or in the cracked asphalt of the lot beyond.
Instead of grass or trees, Clara could see several cars that seemed to be frozen in time, judging from the fine layer of dust on all but one of them. Only minutes from the bustling city center, the strip felt foreign—and dangerous. Every instinct told the small cat not to go farther. But there was Becca, walking through that deserted lot, toward the cinder-block building at its center. The squat building, at least, showed signs of life. Its glass front shown with light, and from where she watched, Clara could see the glow from another opening in the back. And so, gathering up her courage, the little cat dashed over the open tarmac to catch up with her, just as Becca pushed the door open.
“Hello?” The room was dominated by an empty desk and the strong smell of burned coffee. Overhead, a fluorescent bulb buzzed. “Is there anyone here?”
Becca looked around. The window showed only the lot outside, still and dark, but a door to the right stood slightly ajar. More light and the smell of that coffee emanated from within. Raising her voice, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Hello?”
“Calm down!” a man’s voice called from behind the door.
“Mr. Cross?” Becca’s voice rose with tension as she took a step forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I—”
“Please!” The voice sounded agitated, and Becca stopped in her tracks. On the other side of the door, the man started speaking again, only this time his voice was quieter. Clara, whose hearing far surpassed her human’s, made sure to shade herself carefully and crept by Becca. Her person might want to respect Frank Cross’s privacy, but it was easy enough for the shadowy calico to slink by, even without additional magic, squeezing through the narrow opening without nudging it further.
The man in the small office might not have noticed her even if she had. Pudgy and sweating, with a skein of brown hair that ran across a glistening pate, he paced, oblivious to anything other than the beige phone squawking in his hand.
“Please, I promise.”
As Clara watched, he pushed his damp hair back farther on his head and patted it. If that hair had been Harriet, it would have bit back, the way he kept at it, flattening it out. He still might not have noticed, as focused as he was on the phone, which was pressed so tightly to his ear that only the faintest sound escaped.
“No, you’re wrong.” He licked dry lips and paused in his pacing. “No.” Leaning forward, he caught his desk chair with one hand, and Clara wondered if he was going to be sick. “Please!”
Something was wrong, horribly wrong, and Clara’s thoughts went to her person. Zipping through the nearly closed door, she found Becca still standing, caught in her uncertainty.
“Let’s leave!” the calico did her best to suggest, thinking of the brisk, fresh air outside. Of the nice warm apartment that awaited. But Clara didn’t have Laurel’s gift, and besides, Becca was caught up in this interaction, despite being unsure of what to do.
“Mr. Cross?” Her voice was so soft that even had he not been on the phone, Clara doubted he would have heard it.
“No!” So loud Becca started. “I didn’t…I wouldn’t ever…” A clatter as the balding man slammed down the receiver, and then a loud sigh. Becca gathered herself up to knock on the half-closed door when another sound broke the silence: wracking sobs, like a man overcome with grief or, possibly, shame. Letting her hand fall to her side, Becca stepped back, and then turned and left, as quietly as she had entered.
“Well,” she said, once she was again on the darkened street. “Maybe that’s settled. It sounds like she reached him!”
She might have thought she was speaking to herself, but the day’s curious interactions had Clara thinking. Perhaps she had misinterpreted Elizabeth’s odd farewell, or the woman had been disoriented by the dusk. Perhaps the toddler on the street had been confused by the squirrel, or simply liked to yell out “kitty!” Clara had little experience of human kittenhood. But, increasingly, she wondered about her own connection with Becca. The bond between them was so strong, wasn’t it likely that her person sensed her presence? At times like this, it was all the little calico could do to resist twining around her person’s a
nkles. Only the knowledge that her sudden appearance here, in this bleak industrial part of town, would give Becca a fright kept her from letting her presence be felt. As it was, Becca appeared more relaxed as she turned toward home.
“Maddy? I’ve got some good news for you.” Clara wasn’t crazy about Becca talking on her phone as she walked. Cambridge was her home, but it was still a big city, and the spotted cat wished her person would stay alert to her surroundings, especially now that the dusk had given way to night. Still, it was useful to eavesdrop on Becca’s conversation.
“Uh-huh, I’m still taking Gaia’s case,” she was saying to her friend. “But I’m free of the other one, her boss’s.” Clara couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but from the way Becca was nodding, she could guess that her friend was repeating her advice that Becca drop the whole thing.
“There might not even be a case,” she picked up once her friend fell silent. “I mean, Margaret, the boss, was saying that someone was embezzling, but I think she was just angry at Gaia. She thought her husband was having an affair with her. I think she was trying to frame Gaia. And maybe scare her, too.” Becca’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think maybe she saw the root that Gaia brought over and stole it.”
Slight squawks escaped from the phone.
“It’s—no, Maddy, I’m not getting involved in anything criminal. In fact, I’m walking away now. I had a hunch, when she wouldn’t let me call the police, even though she was wailing about jewelry being stolen. She was trying to convince me that her husband had taken it and run off. Sure enough, her husband is at work. To be honest, I think he was dodging her calls, but when I walked in, they were clearly having it out. Don’t worry, Maddy, I’m not getting between them. I don’t know what he did, and I don’t want to know. But I can tell you he feels super bad about it now.”
