by Clea Simon
“It doesn’t look like it’s in the best shape.” Becca pointed to a rough oval near the instrument’s curved bottom, where the pale wood showed through. Only after a moment of silence did she look up to see Elizabeth regarding her, curiously.
“Didn’t you have any kind of musical education growing up?” The question sounded rhetorical, but Becca heard the reprimand in it.
“I took piano lessons for a while.” She regarded the bare patch. “I just mean, well, it looks like the finish has been worn off. Surely, that can’t be good.”
“It means this violin has been played constantly. It’s a sign of use, not mis-use.” As she spoke, Clara dabbed at the velvet. It felt warm, somehow, as if all those hands had left their mark.
Becca nodded, accepting the older woman’s correction. “Well, that means she’s more likely to miss it, I guess,” she said. “But that doesn’t help us identify the owner.”
Clara jumped out of the way as Becca pulled the case forward and closed it to examine the cloth traveling sleeve, her fingers resting on a concealed zipper along its edge. revealing a zippered compartment. Making an excited, and rather cat-like sound, she pulled out the contents.
“Dvorak, Bach, and Telemann,” she read, thumbing through the pages. Watching her, Clara had the distinct feeling that her person could make no more sense of the black marks on those pages than she or her sisters could of writing. Still, she seemed enthralled, taking in the dense cascades of rising and falling marks as well as the smudged pencil notations that ran between the lines. “This seems to be a counting exercise.” She flipped one sheet over.
“Have you found something?” Elizabeth, who had been examining the case itself, asked.
“Just music.” Placing the charts on the counter, Becca reached into the pocket once more. “Wait. There’s something down on the bottom.”
She pulled out a scrap of paper, apparently torn from the same notebook of staff paper as the rhythm exercise. The writing was in the same soft pencil that had marked up the music scores, and which now rolled out onto the counter. But while Clara eyed that pencil, resisting the urge to send it rolling with a swift swipe of her paw, Becca seemed captivated by the paper.
“I don’t know what language this is.” She raised it to show it to Elizabeth. “Those accents are all over the place. I’m guessing it’s something from Eastern Europe?”
“I’m not sure.” Elizabeth reached for it, lifting it closer to her face. And as she did, Becca gasped and grabbed it back.
“What?” Elizabeth looked on as Becca laid it flat on the counter, back side up.
“I don’t know what the rest of it says.” Becca was pointing at a set of symbols that appeared vaguely familiar. “But 13 Highland? That’s where I live.”
Chapter 5.
“Go.” Elizabeth was close to shoving Becca out the door. “If she had your address, it’s likely she was looking for you. People don’t often wander in here by accident, my dear. At any rate, she may be headed that way.”
“But – the shop.” Becca hesitated, her eyes darting from the other woman’s face to the black book that still lay on the counter.
“I think I’ll be able to handle things here.” Elizabeth placed her hand on the book, though whether to shield it or draw strength from it, Clara couldn’t tell. “And I’ll put you down for the full shift. Don’t worry.”
“But if she comes back?” Becca’s focus honed in on the book, and Elizabeth slid it back.
“This is a time for action.” Elizabeth’s eyes, under those brows, were hard. And so Becca nodded and then grabbed a flier off the wall behind her that advertised a crystal therapy workshop, two weeks past. Flipping it over, Becca used the pencil and began to write.
“Did you lose your –” She paused, thinking. “I won’t say ‘violin.’ We want to make sure only that girl or someone who knows her picks it up. “Did you lose your instrument? Please inquire inside.”
“I’ll hang it on the window.” Elizabeth took it from her, as if to forestall any further questions. “Now hurry. You might be able to catch up with her if you go now.”
Although she couldn’t see the cat trotting alongside her, Becca did just that, pulling on her coat and hat and slinging the case over her shoulder, as she’d seen the other woman do, and making it back to her building in record time. Even from the street, Clara could hear her sisters prowling around the apartment, and as Clara followed Becca to the stairs she caught the soft thud as Laurel jumped down from the bookshelf. That was to be expected – Laurel and Harriet might not venture out as Clara did, but they would never admit that they were any less aware of happenings in the outside world. Only, as Becca and Clara made their way up, the calico began to suspect that something more than the vibrations of their approach was stirring her sisters up. Yes, she decided as she heard a heavier tread. If even Harriet was pacing something was up.
Clara knew that her person had no special powers. Still, she wondered if Becca was picking up some vibrations as she slowed on the stairs, stepping slowly and carefully as she reached the second floor.
Only when she paused on that floor to look down the hallway did Clara understand. Becca wasn’t picking up her sisters’ distress, she was anxious. That horrible neighbor lived down here, and – from the slight movement of her door – it appeared she had been peeking out, perhaps alerted by the sound of the building’s front door opening.
Clara couldn’t tell if Becca had seen it too, though from her hesitation she suspected her person had noticed something. But if Becca had thought about calling the other woman out, she quickly dismissed it, stepping as carefully as possible up the remaining stairs to her own floor.
“Oh, there you are!” Becca exclaimed, exhaling in relief. “I was hoping I’d be able to find you.”
Down at the hall’s end stood the young woman. She turned, as Becca spoke, one hand still on the knob.
“Are you staying here?”
Clara could see the key in the lock, but something in the way the other woman started made the ordinary act – the unlocking of a front door – seemed furtive, as if she were a skittish cat. “Are you friends with my neighbor?” Becca asked again, confused.
“I– well, not exactly.” The young woman looked down at the key as if it were foreign to her. As if her hand had not already turned the knob to open the door. “In fact, I was going to leave–”
“Leave! That’s right.” In her surprise at finding the young woman, Becca had almost forgotten the reason for her search. “You left your violin at the shop.”
Without waiting for a response, Becca shrugged to lift the case’s strap over her head. For a moment, there was silence. Becca extended her arm, holding the violin out to its owner. Her face lit up with surprise and a look Clara hoped was joy. And then, as the door swung open with a slight squeak, she turned – and began to scream.
“No!” She shrieked, and like that, Becca was at her side. Clara too, although neither woman knew it, staring into the apartment, where a skinny body lay face down on the floor, its straw-colored mop dark with blood. To Clara, the smell was overwhelming. Its metallic tang almost drowning out the stench of sweat and of fear.
Even to Becca the odor must have been obvious, but it didn’t stop her. As Clara stared aghast, her person knelt by the prone man’s side. With one hand she brushed back the blood-soaked hair, revealing the gray eyes, wide and sightless, the wire-rimmed glasses nowhere to be seen.
“What’s all this noise?” Both women jumped at the sound behind them. The nasty neighbor, a scowl on her face, was mounting the last of the stairs. With one pointy toe she shoved the violin case aside. “If I hear any more of this, I swear I’m going to call the police–”
“Do it!” Becca, panting, jumped to retrieve the violin before it fell. “Call 9-1-1. There’s been – someone’s hurt.”
The newcomer craned around her to look before jumping back. “What the? Who’s that?” Her voice sound
ed more affronted than concerned.
“That’s my roommate.” The musician stammered out the words, her eyes fixed on the body on the floor. “I’m sorry – I mean, landlord? The English…”
“You know him?” The woman from downstairs had recovered quickly and was now punching numbers into her phone. “He’s a friend of yours?” This was addressed to Becca, who made herself turn back to the body – even as she put her arms around the young woman to draw her away.
“It’s – he’s – my new neighbor.” Becca stammered as if she found it hard to speak, her mouth gone suddenly dry. “He is – was – my new neighbor. We had just met.”
“That’s not Justin Neil.” The brunette glowered, though whether at Becca or the blood that stained her hands, Clara couldn’t tell. “And that’s who owns this unit. I met Justin at the condo association’s first meeting, and I’ve never seen this man in my life.”
Chapter 6.
“What’s she saying?” Laurel’s voice reached Clara through the door, so loud and clear that even the cop interviewing Becca must have heard her yowl. “What’s happening?
“The police are talking to Becca.” Clara, still shaded, murmured to the closed apartment door. The calico understood her sisters’ curiosity – the howl of sirens had only added to the cacophony of screams and sobs since that body had been found, roughly a half hour before. “Can’t you hear them?”
While Laurel did tend to brag about her ability to hear thoughts, she could also have joined Clara out on the landing. The calico knew her Siamese sister might not have quite the calico facility with shimmying through closed doors, but she had shown an amazing ability to get where she needed to be when she wanted. Laurel, Clara suspected, was hanging back out of deference to Harriet. While all three felines did share some powers, Clara was learning, travel of any kind was difficult for the hefty marmalade and passing through a solid object like a door would not be particularly easy or comfortable, especially if their oldest sister had recently eaten. When Laurel didn’t respond, though, Clara suspected that the subject was touchy.
“I’m trying to find out more,” she mewed. “Hang on.”
Making her way carefully across the crowded landing, Clara found her person seated on the stairs, a uniformed officer above her and the violin case by her side. Standing a few steps below her, a uniformed policewoman was taking notes. Another officer had already escorted the dark-haired violinist down to the lower floor. Her sobbing had calmed somewhat, but Clara could tell from Becca’s furrowed brow that her person was listening in on the other conversation with concern.
“No, I’m sorry.” Becca looked up at the officer above her, her face pale. “I know what she – the other girl – said, but I don’t know who that man was.”
“You said he was your neighbor?”
“I thought he was.” Becca shook her head slowly, as if trying to shake off a bad dream. “I thought that was Justin Neil, the new owner. I’d met him just the day before. But my other neighbor – the woman from downstairs – she says that’s not him.”
The officer waited for her to go on.
“I saw him in the hall, and I guess I just assumed. There’ve been so many changes.” Becca sighed, as if to shed the weight of the world. “I’ve been here for close to five years, and I knew the old tenant, Tony, pretty well. But he moved out. The building’s going condo. There’s been a lot of changes.”
“Your friend referred to the deceased as her roommate and as her landlord.”
“She’s not my friend.” Becca sounded exhausted. “I mean, I just met her.”
“Your life is full of strangers, Miss Colwin.” The plain statement came out like a judgment.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I thought he was my neighbor. And she – well, she came into my store, the shop where I work. I didn’t know she was living here.”
“According to the unit owner, she doesn’t.”
“What?” Becca perked up. “You’ve met the owner? Who is he?”
“Justin Neil.” The cop eyed her curiously. “Just like you said – and like it says on the mailbox.”
“What’s going on here? Who’s in charge?” Loud footsteps caused them both to turn as a man with dark, slicked-back hair and a face like a thundercloud came storming up the stairs, a uniformed policewoman hard on his heels.
“Sir, sir, you can’t go up there!” She called, her voice tight with strain.
Moving with all the authority of his pinstripe suit, not to mention the touch of gold at his wrists, the glowering man ignored her, the overhead light casting reflections like lightning as he barreled toward the apartment. If Zeus were a businessman, Clara thought – an old tale of Becca’s taking shape in her brain, and she stepped aside. The cop questioning Becca stood a good foot shorter. Still, he frowned and – raising one hand as if to pause Becca’s recital – stepped sidewise to block him.
“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t proceed further.” He held his arms out, apparently unwilling to do any more to restrain a man of such obvious authority.
“But that’s my apartment.” The newcomer spoke as if that settled it. The cop didn’t move, however, and the man stopped, stepping back and brushing at the sleeve of his jacket, as if contaminated by the officer’s touch. As he did, he took in the scene, scanning the landing from the man in blue who had dared to stand in his way to the panting officer who had followed him up the stairs, passing over Becca along the way. “What’s going on here?” It wasn’t a question so much as a demand.
“As I tried to tell you.” The cop who’d chased him up the stairs took a deep breath, though whether that was because she’d run up the stairs or to help her control her temper Clara couldn’t tell. “There’s been an incident.”
Clara felt Becca flinch at the word. The man in the suit didn’t seem to like it either. “An incident?” His glare turned on Becca as if she might be responsible.
“I didn’t–” She caught herself. “Wait, are you Justin Neil?”
“Did you have a tenant or a roommate, sir?” The cop who had chased him interrupted before he could answer.
“A tenant?” The man looked back at her, frowning in such confusion that Clara wondered if he didn’t know the word. Within a moment, however, the light dawned. “You must mean my assistant.” Another frown, though at the mistake or the mention of the man himself wasn’t clear.
“Does this assistant have a name?”
“Why?” Another bark, this one accompanied by a screwing up of the eyes. “Yes, of course. Larry Rakov. What’s happened?”
“Would you describe your assistant, please?” She pulled a pad out of her back pocket.
“Larry’s more of a property manager.” The man frowned. “He was someone I hired to set up the apartment, and to watch over it while I’m away on business. I travel frequently, you see.”
The officer tried again. “Was he a younger man? Long hair?” With one hand, she stroked her chin, miming that scrawny beard.
Another frown. “Why?”
“I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.” The officer started to usher the newcomer back toward the stair as two technicians emerged from the apartment.
“What’s happened?” The suit pulled away. “Have I been robbed?”
“Please, sir.” The male cop stepped in again. His tone was more deferential than it had been with Becca but just as persistent.
“I knew he was bad news.” The man was still grumbling, even as the second officer ushered him back down the stairs. “I didn’t know him but even an idiot could have seen that much.”
“He seemed nice enough to me.” The words were out of Becca’s mouth before she could stop them.
“Yes?” Her cop was all business again. “What else can you tell me about the man you thought was Justin Neil?”
“Not much.” Becca shook her head, as if shaking loose the few memories. “I assumed he was the new owner, but I might have misunderstood hi
m.” She paused, the impact of what had happened weighing on her. “He did say something about having friends over. And that he didn’t mind cats.”
“Cats?” The cop’s voice rose in an almost Laurel-like crescendo.
Becca nodded, a trace of a smile playing over her face. “Yeah, I’d worried that my cats were making too much noise, but he said they didn’t bother him. He seemed nice.”
“In what way?” Becca looked too preoccupied to notice how the cop’s eyes narrowed.
Clara’s ears pricked up at that. If only she had Laurel here beside her. “Laurel, are you getting any of this? But although her sister could have spied on the officer’s thoughts, she didn’t seem to be in earshot. Pique, Clara thought, at being left out of the action.
“We didn’t speak for long.” Becca looked better, as if the effort to remember was a useful distraction. “Come to think of it, he didn’t actually say he was living there. But since he was next door when we spoke I assumed he was my new neighbor.”
The cop answered with another question. “Do you know your other neighbors in the building?”
Clara picked up a sharpness in the cop’s voice, but perhaps it was too subtle for human ears. Becca simply shook her head once more before responding. “No, there’s been so much change.”
“You’ve had no interaction with your other neighbors at all?”
Becca looked up at that. “Did the woman downstairs say something?”
When the cop didn’t respond, Becca swallowed, realizing, perhaps, that she’d talked herself into a corner. “I did have an exchange with one of the new tenants,” she confessed. “Last night, after I got home from work. I gather my cats were running around. They’re not used to me working full time, and I think they get lonely.”
She paused, but the officer stood there waiting.
“They knocked some things over. A potted plant and some books.” Becca scanned the officer’s face, looking for sympathy or at least understanding. “I gather they made some noise. Anyway, the woman on the second floor – the one with the big hair – she was really upset.”
