“They probably didn’t know about arson then.” Becca’s fingers floated about the keyboard. “But it can’t hurt…” With a few strokes, she sent off the query. Maddy might scoff at Becca’s interest in Wicca, but surely, she’d help her friend dig into what looked like a particularly interesting bit of family history.
“I wonder if I can make this into a screensaver?” With a tap-tap-tap, she’d enlarged it. “Wow, look at that, Clara.” The little cat raised her head to see. “Doesn’t that kitty look just like you?”
Laurel stared down as Clara debated her answer. No, she couldn’t actually tell their person that, yes, the “famous mouser” in the photo was a foremother of Clara and her two sisters. Nor could she explain Becca’s mistake to her—that it wasn’t the woman in the photo whose magic had saved her life and her cat’s. It was the woman’s calico familiar who had managed to extract them both when that earlier Rebecca Colwin’s attempts at a warming spell had gone so badly astray during one chilly New England night. That didn’t mean she wasn’t tempted to try.
“Don’t you dare.” Laurel reached down, claws extended. Even as the sisters squabbled over how they could use their powers—and both Laurel and Harriet did tend to favor relaxation over rigor—they all were well aware of the cardinal rule: no cat could reveal the basic truth about magic to a human. “If you think you’ll get a pass just because she has the same stupid markings…”
“I won’t.” Clara ducked her head and resumed her position, curled against Becca’s leg. As much as she wished she could communicate with her person, it was neither possible nor advisable. Still, if she could only get Becca to stop trying out spells, it would be something. As the three cats knew, magic was for felines. And once again, Clara regretted that her oldest sister had not taken more care with her particular skill.
“I wonder…” Becca was looking at the pillow Harriet had summoned. For once, the fat marmalade wasn’t sleeping on it. She’d dropped off while sunning on the sill, instead. But it didn’t take magic to understand the import of that glance. Between the clipping and that soft apparition, Becca was thinking of trying a spell again.
When the phone rang, Clara looked up at Laurel. Her sister’s blue eyes blinked back, blameless. “Not me,” she purred beneath her breath, not that Clara was sure she believed her.
“Becca, it’s me.” Maddy sounded frazzled. “We’ve got to talk.”
“You know, I was just thinking of you.” Becca, on the other hand, seemed inordinately pleased. “In fact, I was wishing you would call. I wonder if perhaps the key to a summoning is—”
“Becca!” Her friend cut her off. “You didn’t ‘summon’ me. I’ve been meaning to call you, all right? Even before you emailed. I keep thinking of you going out with that painter guy tonight. You’re not still thinking of doing that, are you?”
“Yeah, I am. But not—wait, Maddy.” Her friend had started to sputter. “Maddy, I should explain: it’s not really a date date. I have questions for him. Questions that the police might not know to ask.”
***
Only after Becca promised that she would meet the cute painter in a public place, and would check in immediately after, did her friend calm down. But whether it was because the cats’ determined person was planning some high-level sleuthing or some other reason that Clara couldn’t discern, Becca seemed unable to concentrate after her conversation with her friend. Instead, she spent the rest of the afternoon fussing as she hadn’t in months, redoing her hair and picking over her clothes, before settling on a perfectly fine outfit that Clara hadn’t seen before.
“Don’t look at me.” Laurel sat beside her younger sister in the bedroom doorway, watching their person get dressed. She flicked her tail in the feline equivalent of a shrug and began to bathe.
“Don’t tell me she’s going out again.” Harriet had joined them on the bedroom rug, having woken from her nap hungry.
“I’m sure she’ll remember to feed us,” said Clara, who had her own mixed feelings about the evening. “Besides, she won’t be out late.” She’d gathered that much from the phone conversation.
“No matter.” Harriet turned. “I’ve got things to keep me busy too, you know.”
As Clara watched her stump off, fluffy tail sweeping the air as she walked, she couldn’t avoid a niggling tickle of fear. Harriet never had anything more important on her mind than food. Nothing that didn’t immediately gratify, at any rate.
But when her sister’s exit was followed by the soft thud that indicated she’d landed on the sofa, Clara did her best to turn her focus elsewhere. Harriet wasn’t likely to get them into any trouble in one of her favorite napping spots, no more than she already had anyway. It was Becca who was going off to meet a strange man. Never mind that he smelled pleasant—Clara thought of the trees by the river—the painter had been there, at Suzanne’s apartment, the day she had met her violent end. And nothing about that scene had ended well for anyone.
Still, Becca had a bounce in her step as she bid the kitties farewell and headed down to the street. Harriet was still nestled into the sofa as she left, but even Laurel didn’t try to stop Clara from following her.
“If it were a little darker, I’d join you,” said the older cat, licking her cream-colored belly. “You know I would.”
“Of course,” lied Clara, touched by her sister’s concern, and then leaped into the growing dusk.
Becca was, as she’d promised, careful. She circled the block twice before entering the little café. Still, Nathan had gotten there before her. Clara heard her sharp intake of breath as he stood and waved with a smile.
“I got here a few minutes early.” He reached to pull out Becca’s chair, only bumping it into her. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem.” Becca arranged herself and looked around. “Did you order?”
“I thought I’d wait. Shall I get?” He stood again, but she held out her hand to stop him.
“No, I will.” Good girl! Clara thought, silently thanking Maddy for her warning. As nice as this man smelled and as harmless as he’d proved to be at that first coffee date, it never paid to take chances. Besides, in five minutes, the pair were seated again, heads together over mugs of mocha.
“I know it’s supposed to be a winter drink, but…” Nathan sipped, then licked the foam moustache.
“I know, right?” Becca agreed, appearing to relax. But when he reached forward, as if to place his hand over hers, Becca drew back. “Hey, Nathan, may I ask you about that day?”
“The day your friend was killed?” His voice had gotten serious.
Becca nodded. “I was talking to my ex.” Her words sounded rehearsed, and Clara realized that in fact the young woman had been practicing her approach that afternoon. “And he told me that the police seem to suspect my—well, the group of friends that I know Suzanne from.”
It wasn’t the best explanation, but Nathan appeared to accept it. Clearly, there was more coming.
“I was wondering if you could tell me again in detail what you heard that day. What you saw.”