A Cat on the Case

by Clea Simon

  “Hang on!” Becca must have been doing dishes. Clara could hear the sink running. “Maddy, you didn’t have to–”

  Becca opened the door, but if she expected her good friend she was in for a rude surprise. The downstairs neighbor, a grimace contorting what would otherwise be a pretty face, stepped past her into the apartment, eyeing the three cats.

  “So you knew her,” she said, ostensibly to Becca, although the way she was staring at Laurel would have been considered intimidating to any other feline.

  “Excuse me?” Becca scrambled after her.

  “The illegal.” The neighbor’s eyes narrowed, as Laurel stared back at her. Clara watched from beneath the sofa with growing alarm.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Becca stepped in front of the woman, blocking her from going any further, and prompting Laurel to duck around her to keep the woman in her sight. “But that’s a rude way to talk about anyone.”

  The woman sniffed. “I don’t know how else to refer to someone who is where she has no right to be. An intruder in a luxury building, no less. Her and her friend – the squatter.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clara felt Becca’s confusion, though which part of the intruder’s statement had spurred it was beyond her. “If you mean that poor man, he worked for Mr. Neil. He had every reason to be there.”

  “Right.” The intruder sniffed as if she smelled something foul. “Justin only said that because he was embarrassed, an employee taking advantage of his hospitality by camping out in his new home. I wonder if he slept in his bed.” She recoiled, her face drawing up like Laurel’s, when she smelled something foul. “I only hope he doesn’t reconsider his move. I’m sure a man like Justin Neil understand the risks of moving into a neighborhood in transition, but really – a murder? He might as well have been one of the homeless.”

  Becca only shook her head, the other woman’s words clearly as incomprehensible to her as they were to her cat. “I don’t know how you can talk about that poor man like that. And, just for the record, I don’t think he was here illegally.”

  “And you would know how?” Her brusque tone caught Becca up short. As did her own second thoughts, Clara realized.

  “He wasn’t hiding,” she responded, but Clara could see how uncertain she was. “He answered the door when I knocked.” She paused, as if reviewing her memories. “He seemed shy, but he wasn’t being weird about being there. And, well, nice.”

  Another huff from the glossy brunette only served to bring Becca back to the present.

  “And that poor girl who found him? She had nothing to do with any of this. She’s new to town.”

  “Really?” From those red lips, the word became an accusation.

  Becca nodded. “She’s a student. A musician. We talked because she came by my – my place of business this morning.”

  “Good for you.” Clara thought. The less this nasty person knew about Becca’s life the better. Laurel, meanwhile, had begun to slowly advance toward the woman, stepping carefully while still holding her gaze with her blue eyes.

  “So you say, but I heard you call out to her. You were trying to get her attention.” The woman leaned in, screwing up her eyes in a most unflattering manner. “You have something of hers.”

  Now it was Harriet’s turn. Rising from her pillow, she slowly arched her back, her fur beginning to puff up.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Becca stepped sideways, confusing Clara until she realized that her person was moving to hide the violin case.

  “Yes, you do. I heard you.” The woman brushed her hair back from her ear, then paused to scratch at it.

  “What are you doing?” Clara focused on her sisters, who were both staring at the intruder. “And can I help?”

  “Remember the desert.” The idea came with a wave of warmth, as if the radiator had just kicked in. Although her coat was short, it was thick, and Clara didn’t suffer from the cold as Becca did. Still, after the morning’s adventures, the warmth was welcome, and she purred, feeling herself adding to each rising wave.

  The woman before her, however, didn’t seem to find it quite as comfortable. Pushing her thick dark hair back from her forehead, she gasped slightly, and looked around. “What’s with this place?”

  “Sorry?” Becca didn’t seem to feel the rising heat. At least, she wasn’t pulling at her collar, as the brunette was, drawing the lush blue wool away from her throat as if it were strangling her.

  “You – this apartment.” She wiped at her cheek, then looked down to see the mascara there. Another blink, and a clump of lashes went flying, leaving her eyes lopsided. “It’s an abuse of our resources!” Clasping her hand to her eye, she turned and stormed out.

  “How strange.” Becca stood in the open doorway as the other woman clattered down the stairs. Beside her, Laurel began to purr.

  “Don’t all thank me at once.” The sealpoint stretched out her dark paws, as if admiring her claws.

  “How did you do that?” Clara yawned and stretched, the heat making her sleepy.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Harriet lumbered over to the sofa, determined to insert herself into the conversation. The orange patch across her back heaved up and down with what might have been laughter or possibly a hairball.

  “There’s so much warmth here. I built on that.” Laurel must be feeling generous if she was willing to explain. “And you remember more than you know.”

  At that Clara sat up straighter. This was what she wanted to know. Before she could inquire, a familiar buzz broke Becca’s reverie.

  “Maddy! Thank the goddess.”

  Becca took the phone into the kitchen, laying it on the counter as she fixed herself another cup of tea. Speaking softly, as if the departed woman might overhear, she filled friend in on the events of the day.

  “Poor dear, you’ve been through the mill.” Maddy’s soft voice came over the line as soothing as the smell of mint. “Tell me everything.”

  Becca did, running through the encounter at the shop and the horrible discovery of the body next door. By the time she had gotten up to the police interrogation, she had taken her mug to the sofa, where Clara joined her. Becca was shivering slightly, even as she cupped her tea in her hands. Shock, Clara realized. But even as she leaned in, doing her best to provide soft comfort, Clara felt the heat returning in waves as soft as velvet. Was this Laurel’s doing? Carefully, so as not to disturb Becca, the calico craned her head around, but her sister was nowhere to be seen.

  “It just gets worse.” Becca was too caught up in her recollections to take much notice of her pet. With an anxious glance at the front door, Becca told her friend about the intrusive neighbor. “I’ll tell you, Maddy. I was almost afraid to answer the door.”

  “That’s horrible.” Maddy sounded suitably appalled. “Didn’t she even care that another tenant in your building had been killed?’

  “Well, that’s just it.” Between the warmth, the tea, and the conversation with her friend Becca sounded like she was recovering – and gathering her thoughts. “The victim wasn’t even my neighbor.”

  “Wait.” Maddy stopped her. “You just said you – that girl – found that man, the one next door?”

  “Yeah.” Becca swallowed, turning deathly pale at the recollection. Watching her, Clara worried that her person was going to be ill. “And it – he – was the man I’d just met. Only it turns out he wasn’t my neighbor.”

  Maddy waited, while Becca took a few deep breaths. “So, I thought he was my new neighbor,” she explained after a pause. “I swear, he said he was. Maybe he misunderstood what I was asking? Or maybe he was embarrassed to just be a caretaker.”

  “Becs, I don’t care if he was the new janitor.” Maddy’s tone had changed from outrage to concern. “A man was killed in the apartment next to yours. This is bad.”

  “It’s not his fault. He seemed nice.” Becca was still pale, but her voice
had grown more thoughtful. “Poor guy.”

  “Nice.” Maddy sounded exasperated. “Becca, I don’t want to sound like that harridan downstairs. Really, I don’t. But she might have a point here. You’d just met the man. He led you to believe he was your neighbor. Who knows what else was going on with him?”

  “What do you mean?” Becca sipped her tea.

  “Sometimes people bring trouble on themselves, Becca. Maybe he was dealing drugs out of the apartment. Or…” She paused, searching for an alternative. “I don’t know. Something else.”

  “You make it sound like he deserved to be killed.” Becca’s voice sounded as frayed as her temper. “It’s true that the poor guy – whoever he was – said something about friends coming over. He asked if he’d been any bother. Oh, Maddy, if I’d been home earlier – or if that poor girl had opened the door only a little sooner…”

  Becca shivered, and Clara stretched herself along her side, the better to comfort her.

  “Do you want me to come over? As soon as I get off work, I can come over.” Her friend clearly had the same instinct. “Even better, say the word, and I’ll help you pack.”

  “You don’t have to, honest. I’m so wiped out anyway, I’ll probably hit the sack early.” Becca had rarely sounded so downcast, even as she slumped on the couch. When Maddy began to protest, she cut her off. “And I don’t want to move, Maddy. If I could, I’d buy this place, I would. But maybe all this…” She waved a hand in the general direction of the wall, “will mean I have more time. I’ve been meaning to make an appointment at Cambridge legal services. I think it’s pretty hard to evict a long-time tenant.”

  “I don’t know. I know you love Cambridge, but, Becca, it’s not just that person downstairs. Whatever he was and whatever he was into, a man was killed right next door.”

  “I know.” Becca looked around that apartment, tears glinting in her eyes. “But this is my home.”

  The phone fell silent then, until Maddy spoke up once again, her voice loud with forced cheer. “Well, maybe this will drive the price down. And if you can borrow enough for a down payment I bet old Rogers would co-sign your mortgage.” Maddy’s boss owed Becca for helping him out of a jam. “And if you needed to show more of a steady income…”

  “Thanks, Maddy, but no thanks.” Becca seemed to be rousing, as she shook off her friend’s half-spoken offer with a smile. “I know it’s only retail, but I like working at Charm and Cherish. Besides, it gives me time to pursue detecting.”

  Maddy had no response to that, although both Becca and Clara could clearly hear her sharp intake of breath. They could also hear a male voice booming in the background.

  “I’m sorry, Becca. Roberts is having his four o’clock crisis.”

  Becca chuckled. “And you really want me to come work with you?”

  “Hey, old Roberts never killed–” She caught herself short. “Sorry.”

  “No apologies necessary, Maddy.”

  A soft thud broke the silence that followed, and Clara jumped down to investigate, following the sound to the front door, where Becca’s parka lay puddled on the floor, right by the violin case that Becca had abandoned there. From the glint in Laurel’s eye, Clara didn’t think the coat had fallen of its own accord.

  “What are you doing, kitty?” Becca clearly had similar suspicions. As she hung it back on the coat tree, she turned toward the sealpoint, who stretched to claw at the case’s cloth covering.

  “No, no, Laurel.” Becca lifted the case away from her and brought it over to the kitchen table, where Harriet lay sprawled out sleeping.

  “Excuse me, Harriet.” The big marmalade blinked up as Becca switched on the overhead lights, the winter dusk having thrown the apartment in shadow. As those white mitts reached out in a yawn, Becca unzipped the outer covering and flicked the catches to open the case. “I almost forgot I still had this.”

  As Clara watched, Laurel approached, sniffing at the case and delicately pawed the corner of the velvet. “Be careful, Laurel.” Becca gently removed her pet’s paw. “This isn’t ours, and, no, it isn’t a cat toy.”

  As she lifted the slim cat, placing her on the ground, Clara decided to investigate. Laurel, she knew, was intrigued by pretty things and shiny things, and the old violin in its battered case was neither. Leaning forward, she took a sniff, taking in the sharp pine smells of rosin and old wood, warm and almost live. The result of centuries of human touch, she figured. Maybe this violin was as old as–

  “Clara, not you too.” The calico drew back, coiling her tail primly around her paws as Becca lifted the instrument, which seemed to hum as she moved it.

  “It looks ancient, doesn’t it?” Becca must have been talking to herself, rather than following up on Clara’s musing, but her cat looked up as she spoke. “I wish I knew more about it. I wonder ...”

  “Quick, take a bite!” Harriet’s hiss made Clara jump, and she looked over in time to see Laurel land silently back on the table. As she watched, her sister crept up on the case, fangs bared. “See what you can–”

  “Laurel, no!” With her free hand, Becca did the unthinkable, pushing the slender sealpoint off the table. In the process, she nearly dropped the violin.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you three.” Becca tutted as she replaced the instrument and closed the case, flipping the catches closed and zipping the cloth covering for good measure. Clara hung her head. “It’s almost like you don’t like it. But it’s not another cat. It’s precious to someone, and for better or worse, I’ve got to take care of it until I can get it back to that poor girl. Speaking of...”

  An hour later, calm had been restored. Becca had taken her laptop to the sofa, and – with the silence of the careful feline – Laurel had jumped back up on the table to lie, stretched against the violin as if measuring herself against the case. Making the leap by way of a chair, Harriet landed with a huff beside her, stretching her furry back against the instrument’s other side.

  Clara, watching from the sofa, pondered her sisters’ apparent attraction to the curved case and the instrument inside. It couldn’t simply be that intriguing mix of odors – age and resin combining for a heady concoction – that made the thing appealing. Maybe, Clara thought, her own eyes growing heavy after the day’s adventures, it was that the violin was roughly cat sized, and, even silent, seemed to glow with a warmth of its own.

  It made perfect sense for Becca to rescue it, Clara decided as she curled up beside Becca. After all, she believed she had rescued them. As her eyes closed, Clara found her mind drifting back to those early days. They’d been kittens when Becca had taken them home from the shelter, but even then she had understood her mission. A mission she wanted to learn more about.

  “If there’s a message board…” Becca tapped away at the keyboard, pausing only once to glance over at the table, where Laurel and Harriet lay sprawled on either side of the case, as if it, rather than Clara, were their third sister.

  “Cats.” Becca muttered to herself as she absently stroked Clara’s orange and black back. The warmth of her hand was soothing, and so much more real than Laurel’s odd conjuring, and Clara sighed, leaning her furry weight against Becca’s thigh. This, the contented calico told herself, as her head drooped once more to rest on her white paws, was how Becca should spend her time. In that, Clara agreed with Maddy. Becca should avoid trouble, and anything involving dead bodies, Although her tutorial from Harriet had been interrupted, Clara didn’t need a history lesson to understand that problems like this one were bad for Becca.

  Still, as Clara drifted off, a contrary thought crept, almost mouse like, into her consciousness, nibbling away at her conviction. That dark-haired girl in the duffel coat had seemed quite lost, and as a small creature in a big city, Clara knew she should feel sympathy with that. Plus, the fact that this girl had come to Becca endeared her further to the cat. If only Clara didn’t already know as well as her sisters that their person didn’t really posse
ss any particular magical powers at all.

  Chapter 9.

  Clara didn’t what time it was, in human terms, when Becca’s voice woke her. She knew it had to be close to dinner, however. Not only from the rumbling in her belly but from the way her person was apologizing.

  “I’m sorry to call after business hours. I appreciate you picking up. Could you tell me if the conservatory has a lost instrument department? Or maybe someone who can identify an instrument?” Becca paused, and Clara looked on as she tried to explain. “No, I didn’t lose anything. But someone left an instrument – a violin – at the shop where I work, and I think she’s a student.”

  Despite her acute hearing, Clara couldn’t make sense out of the reply, even as she concentrated like Laurel had instructed her. That concentration paid off indirectly, though, she heard her middle sister leap up and, yawning, settle beside her.

  “I don’t understand what she’s thinking about. Something with numbers or registration?” She looked to Laurel for confirmation.

  Her sister’s dark ears twitched as she concentrated. “Like those tags some cats wear, maybe.”

  Laurel didn’t like to admit when she didn’t understand something, especially when it came to her ability to read their person’s thoughts, and after their earlier tussle Clara didn’t press her. Besides, Becca had moved on, taking her phone over to where the violin lay in its case.

  “Where did you say to look?” More noise, as she lifted the violin by its neck and held it close to her face, one eye peeking through the curved f-hole in its dark-stained surface. “No, I can see some kind of mark. Shaped like a diamond, or, I don’t know, a coat of arms. Maybe it’s just a water stain? And I don’t see any numbers. Is there any other way of identifying it?”

  “Hang on.” Reaching past the violin in its bed, Becca opened the pocket that held the rosin and released the bow from where it was held. “No,” she added a moment later. “It’s pretty beaten up. Wait, there is one mark.” Becca kept talking, but to Clara what was more interesting was how she let her fingertips slide over the worn velvet and circle the glass dial inset into its surface. Inside the dial, a black needle bobbed slightly, pointing to a faint imprint – a circle with two points. “Almost like a child’s drawing of a cat.”