“Larissa.” Becca mouthed the name of the coven’s oldest member and then bit her own lip as she read the images she had summoned. “Could she know?”
Clara was itching to understand. If the older woman knew more about the murder, wouldn’t she have shared it? As she watched, wide-eyed, Becca stood once more and reached for her phone.
“Larissa?” Becca’s voice sounded too light, like she was forcing herself to sound happy. “I’m so glad I caught you. I know we’re meeting tomorrow, only I was wondering if I could talk to you privately first. What about? Oh, that position you mentioned to me, and some other things. Would that be okay?” She paused, and appeared to hold her breath. “Great!” The word rushed out as if in relief. “I’ll be over in a few.”
Clara watched as Becca grabbed her jacket and threw her laptop into her bag. The calico followed her gaze as she took in Harriet, dozing on the windowsill, and Laurel, whose complete unconsciousness was revealed by her most undignified sprawl. Just to be sure, Clara dabbed at her tail, one leather paw pad gently brushing the guard hairs along its edge. In response, the appendage flicked, and its owner shifted, one dark foot extending up into the air, as she rolled onto her back. Out cold, good.
“Bye, kitties.” Over by the door, Becca called softly. A plaintive note in her voice alerted Clara to her slight unease. No, this wasn’t a social call. Her person was going hunting, or some version of the same. Using her real down-to-earth skills, Clara realized Becca was trying to uncover the truth. And once more, Clara was going with her.
***
Becca didn’t take the T, and for that her cat was grateful. Using her powers and the mottling of her coat to fade into the few shadows of the bright spring day, Clara could have followed her person anywhere—even down into the subway and beyond. But like all cats, Clara detested loud noises, and even as Becca strode past the station entrance—the shaded calico hard on her heels—she could hear the roar of the steel beast below. As Becca kept walking, Clara felt herself relaxing, her open-mouthed pant subsiding once more and her tail perking up, as the roar of the city gave way to the quieter streets down by the river. This was better, she thought. Almost as if Becca were a cat herself.
That thought faded as the young woman approached a gleaming tower as threatening as a trap and as out of place in the quiet neighborhood as a dog in a cattery. Becca herself seemed to have a moment of doubt. She stood, head back, examining the looming modern structure that reflected the glare off the river, her hands knotted together in what Clara recognized as the human equivalent of a self-calming groom. Then, as if the caress had indeed given her courage, she strode down the concrete approach, pulling open a steel-and-glass door so heavy it nearly swung shut before Clara could slip inside.
“Larissa Fox.” A doorman blinked at her, his face impassive. “17 F, I think?” Becca added, and he shoved a book toward her to sign. While she did, Clara scoped out the lobby. Two plants, in the corner, wouldn’t offer much in the way of protection. She lowered her head, willing herself to become more deeply cloaked, and then trotted along behind the young woman as she headed toward the elevator.
***
“Becca, you poor dear! Blessed be!” Larissa ushered the younger woman into her apartment so quickly, Clara barely had time to follow. Once she did, however, she found plenty of cover. The lobby of the high-rise might be modern and spare, yet Larissa’s space inside it was anything but. Potted plants clustered around a freestanding bookshelf that served to separate the entranceway from a large living room. Hanging lamps inset with stained glass cast colored shapes on the rugs, which overlapped, almost tripping Becca as her host led her to a wide, low-set couch covered with bright, patterned throws. More lamps at either end were dimmed by shawls, their fringe so enticing that Clara forced herself to turn away.
By then, Becca was seated, her slight form almost disappearing in deep, plush upholstery. An image of Harriet kneading those pillows sprang into Clara’s mind, and she willfully dismissed it. As much as she knew her sister would adore a setup like this, Clara had more important concerns right now.
“Please.” Larissa was handing Becca a saucer, on which stood more colored glass. Green this time, with a filigree pattern. Clara’s discerning nose sniffed at the steam that rose from its gold-rimmed edge. This wasn’t the usual foul brew. “You must be distraught.”
“Thanks.” Becca took a tentative sip. “Peppermint!”
“It’s healing.” Larissa settled next to her, one hand brushing her long, dark locks out against the cushions in an almost feline fashion. “How have you been, my dear? Not taxing yourself emotionally?”
“I don’t think so.” Becca had to struggle a bit to lean forward but managed to place her glass on a brass tray that rested on the nearby footstool. “Thanks for seeing me. I mean, alone.” She made another attempt to sit up and only succeeded in sinking deeper. “I was hoping you could tell me more about that position?”
“The job with Graham? My old friend—mentor, really—he’s so much older than me, of course. But are you really ready to talk about this, my dear? It’s been such a trying week! I was thinking we should gather and do a cleansing circle for you. For dear Suzanne too, of course.”
“Of course.” The smile on Becca’s face was as strained as that tea. “And, well, that’s part of what I wanted to ask you about.”
“Oh?” Larissa’s hands fluttered like busy moths, rearranging the throw on the back of the sofa.
“I gather Suzanne was concerned about the coven’s finances.” Becca stopped at that, though by the way she was biting her lip, Clara could tell she wanted to say more.
“Dear Suzanne.” Larissa’s musical laugh sounded a bit forced. “She worried so, and about nothing. And you’re so sweet to ask. You know, I do believe there’s a reason you found dear Suzanne. You’ve always been the most gifted of our little coven. You and Trent, of course. But then, he’s special in so many ways.”
“Trent?” Even Becca’s all-too-human ears must have picked up the off note in the older woman’s voice. “How do you mean?”
“Well he’s our very own warlock, of course.” Larissa’s kohl-lined eyes cast down, as if following the pattern in the throw, before darting up again. “And, of course, he does like to do a little outreach, doesn’t he? You must know something of that, my dear.”
Becca was too unworldly not to flinch, although in the dim light the color rising to her cheeks was probably not immediately apparent. “He’s been concerned about me after…after Saturday. And, well, he cared for Suzanne too.”
“Of course.” Larissa sat back. “We all did. Now, would you like me to talk to Graham for you?”
“I was hoping you could give me an introduction.” Becca managed to sit up straight finally, propping herself up on the pillows. “Just to get me in the door. I’m guessing that’s what you did for Suzanne, because she’d recently started a job that you’d referred her to as well—a position at Reynolds and Associates. Didn’t she? And it turns out my friend Maddy works there too.”
Chapter 22
“Come on, Maddy, pick up.” Becca was back on the sidewalk less than an hour later. Her visit with Larissa had raised more questions than answers. The older woman had laughed off her earlier referral—“Graham does run through his worker bees!”—despite Becca’s attempt to shock her into any kind of revelation. And despite three more distinct attempts to raise the issue of the coven finances, she’d been unable to get any kind of proper response to those questions either. In truth, the older woman’s defense—that their accounts mattered little and had no impact on the coven’s weekly functioning—had begun to sound increasingly sensible, supporting Ande’s assertion and leading Becca to wonder if Suzanne had indeed wanted to speak to her about something else entirely.