A Spell of Murder

A Spell of Murder

A Spell of Murder

A Witch Cats Mystery

Clea Simon

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Clea Simon

Cover and jacket design by Mimi Bark

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-947993-32-7

eISBN: 978-1-947993-49-5

Library of Congress Catalog Number: tk

First hardcover publication:

December 2018 by Polis Books LLC

1201 Hudson Street

Hoboken, NJ 07030

www.PolisBooks.com

For Jon

Chapter 1

It was Harriet’s fault. It’s always her fault, not that she’ll ever admit it.

That was Clara’s first thought as she tried to settle on the sofa, flicking her long, grey tail with annoyance. As a cat, Clara wouldn’t usually have any trouble getting comfortable. That’s one special skill that all felines share. But even as she tried to calm her restive tail, curling it neatly around her snowy front paws, Clara, a petite, if plump, calico, couldn’t stop fretting.

Harriet was her oldest sister, a creamsicle-colored longhair with more fur than common sense. Still, despite the fluffy feline’s typical self-absorption, she and Clara and their middle sister, Laurel, had cohabited with a nice enough human for almost two years without any problems, until now. Until Harriet.

Yes, Becca, their human, had begun to believe she had psychic powers. Becca, who at twenty-six usually had more sense, was training to be a witch, as if that were something one could learn from books. But to the calico cat who now fumed quietly on the sofa, the petite brunette had always seemed a harmless soul—good with a can opener. Warm. Generous with her lap. And then, last week, Harriet—who cared only for her own comfort—conjured up a pillow.

“I was tired,” Harriet said, in that petulant mew that Clara knew so well, when asked why in the name of Bast she’d be so stupid. “Becca wasn’t even looking.”

“You could have moved!” her younger sibling hissed back, the grey whorls on her sides heaving with annoyance. “And she was!”

Harriet was taking up the sunny spot on the windowsill, as she always did that time of the morning, and Clara narrowed her mysterious green eyes to glare at her sister. Harriet was more than fluffy, she was immense, a pale orange marshmallow of a feline, whose furry bulk and predictable habits prevented her youngest sister from enjoying any of the solar bounty. Still, she probably shouldn’t have hissed. Harriet was Clara’s elder, if merely by a few minutes. As it was, the orange and white cat just shuffled a bit and turned her rounded back on her sister rather than responding.

Clara didn’t know why she even bothered asking. She already knew the answer: Harriet didn’t move unless she had to, and on a warm spring day it was easier to conjure a cushion than make the leap from the sun-warmed sill to the sofa, where Clara now fumed. The sofa where, it turned out, Becca had been trying out a summoning spell. And so now, of course, their hapless human believed she had pulled that pillow out of the ether.

Which was a problem because Becca belonged to a coven. Had for about three months, ever since she saw a flier in the laundromat advertising an opening for “Witches: New and In Training.” That was the kind of thing that happened here, in Cambridge, where the hippies never really went away. Since then, they’d met every week to drink a foul-smelling herbal concoction and try out various spells. None of which ever produced any magic, of course. None of the humans had the basic powers of a day-old kitten, and certainly nothing like Clara and her sisters shared as the descendants of an old and royal feline line. But now, Clara feared, Becca had become obsessed, spending every waking moment trying to reproduce that one spell, while Harriet, Laurel, and Clara looked on.

“Don’t you dare…” Clara muttered in a soft mew as Laurel sashayed into the room, taking in her two sisters with one sweeping gaze. Laurel was the middle one, a troublemaker and as vain as can be. Not simply of her own glossy coat—the cream touched with brown, or, as she called it, café au lait—but of her powers. That she was plotting something, Clara was certain. As Laurel glanced from Harriet back to Clara again, her tail started lashing and her ears stuck out sideways like an owl’s.

“Why not?” Laurel had a streak of Siamese in her. It made her chatty, as well as giving her neat dark chocolate booties. “It’ll be fun.”

“It’ll bring more people!” Clara felt her fur begin to rise. The idea of her middle sister meddling—and possibly adding more magic to the mix—made her frantic. “Don’t you get it? They’ll never let up.”

The black, grey, and orange cat—the smallest of the three sisters—didn’t have to explain who “they” were. That night, Becca’s coven would be meeting again at their place, which, to the three felines, was bad enough. Strangers, six of them, would soon be sitting in all the good seats, with their odd smells and loud voices. What was worse was that Becca would think she had to feed them, as well as brew that horrible tea. And as the cats well knew, Becca had no money, not since she lost her job as a researcher for the local historical society.

“Redundant,” her boss had told her. “What with the budget cutbacks and the advances in technology.”

“That means they can get an intern to do a Google search.” Becca had sniffled into Clara’s parti-colored fur the day she’d gotten the news. Harriet might be the fluffiest and Laurel the sleekest, but Clara was the one Becca talked to. The one she had confided in months earlier when she found the book that had started her on this whole witchcraft obsession, a spark of excitement lighting up her face. She’d been researching land deeds, the scutwork of history, when she had stumbled on it, her eye caught by a familiar name—some old relative of hers who had been caught up in a witch trial back in the bad old days in Salem. Then, when she’d seen the flier by the coin machine at the Wash ‘N Dry, she’d been so exhilarated, she’d raced back to tell Clara, leaving her sheets in the drier. And now, without the distraction of her job, Becca had thrown herself into the study of magic and sorcery, spending her days in the library or on her computer, trying to track down the full story of that great-great whatever, and sharing her fears and, increasingly, her hopes with Clara.

Maybe it was because Clara was a calico that Becca whispered into the black-tipped ears of her littlest cat. Calicos had a reputation for being more intelligent and curious than other felines. Plus, that uneven look—a gray patch over one eye and an orange one over the other—made her appear approachable. Inquisitive. Becca couldn’t know that her youngest cat was often teased for her markings. “Goofy,” her sister Laurel said in her distinctive yowl. “Clara the calico? Clara the clown!” Recently, Harriet had taken up calling her that too.

Clara didn’t mind, as long as Becca kept confiding in her. The young woman didn’t really think her cats understood about her being laid off, but, in truth, they were all quite aware of the straitened circumstances. Not that Laurel and Harriet always sympathized. There was that one time three weeks ago that Becca tried cutting back on the cats’ food, getting the generic cans from the market instead of the tiny ones with the pretty labels. After wolfing down hers, Harriet had barfed all over the sofa. She didn’t have to. She was just making a point about what she considered an affront to her dignity.

Tonight, when Becca took credit for conjuring that cushion, Clara didn’t know what her haughty sister would do. Interrupt, most likely. Jump onto the table and begin bathing, if she had to, to be the center of attention. If she tried anything further—like pulling more pillows out of the ether—or if Laurel got up to her own tricks, Clara would have to get involved, she vowed with a final flick of the tail. And that, she knew, just wouldn’t end well.

Chapter 2

“Bad Clara!” Becca called softly as she clapped her hands at the calico cat. “Bad girl.”

The cat glanced up from her perch on the counter and blinked, the picture of innocence except for the pink petal that hung from one fang. Her harsh words softened by a gentle smile, Becca reached over and scooped up the multi-colored feline, depositing her on the floor. “Now, you know better than that!”

“Is anything wrong?” Trent appeared in the doorway, a slight frown pulling his goatee into a pout.

“It’s Clara.” Becca sighed, shaking her head. “She’s eating the flowers.”

“You have another cat?” Trent’s voice was neutral, but Becca knew he’d been disconcerted to find Harriet, her largest feline, stretched out over most of the sofa.

“Three, actually,” Becca admitted. “They were littermates, and I didn’t want to separate them.”

“Of course.” He nodded, his voice as warm as his dark brown eyes. “Besides, they’re your familiars.”

Becca turned to hide her flustered smile, as well as the blush that was creeping up from her chest. Trent was a self-professed warlock, the leader of the coven, the small group of would-be witches she had joined a few months before. More to the point, he was devastatingly handsome, with those flashing eyes and a devilish smile played up by that goatee. And he had brought over the bouquet that her cat, Clara, had begun to nibble.

Willing her color back to normal, Becca reached into the cabinet for her one good vase. Officially, the flowers were for the table—a touch of nature to bless the May full moon, the “Flower Moon,” Trent had said—but the dark-eyed warlock hadn’t had to arrive early to give them to her, she knew. Besides, Becca had felt a slight charge when Trent had handed them to her, a certain warmth behind that smile.

Still, she had to get ahold of herself. Any minute now, the doorbell would ring again. The group was meeting at her place this week, as it had the last four. Partly because her apartment was central, a Cambridgeport walk-up not too far from the T. But the main reason the coven was gathering here tonight was in the hope that Becca could replicate the group’s one successful act of magic thus far: the conjuring of a pillow out of thin air. She was going to have to concentrate.

“Do you feel your power?” Trent nearly purred, coming up close behind her.

“I don’t…I don’t know.” Becca almost stuttered. “I hope so.” In truth, she was beginning to despair. She had tried countless times since that day—donning the same jeans and sweater, letting her mint tea cool in the same mug beside her—as she read over the words of the spell. But she had been unable to make the magic work again. Now, Harriet was lying on the gold velvet pillow, one paw idly batting at its fringes, as if it were just another bit of home furnishing. “Maybe one pillow is the limit of my power,” she said, voicing her deepest fear.

“Nonsense.” Trent sounded confident—and so close she could feel his warm breath. Maybe, she thought, magic of another sort was brewing. But just then she heard the unmistakable hiss and squeal of a cat fight beginning in the other room.

“Clara!” Becca ducked around her guest, clapping her hands again to get the cats’ attention. “Harriet!”

The smaller of the two felines glanced up at her, wide-eyed, and Harriet used the distraction to push Clara off the couch.

“It’s the pillow,” Becca said, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice. Trent had followed her into the other room with—she was glad to see—an amused half smile on his lips. “They’ve been fighting over it since it appeared.”

“They sense its power.” He sounded serious and reached down absently to stroke Laurel, who had begun to twine around his ankles. Clara, meanwhile, peered up into Becca’s face, as if willing her to respond. But just then, the doorbell rang and Trent stepped back, neatly disengaging himself from Laurel, and gave Becca a gentle pat on the arm.

“Go,” he said, the smile carrying through to his voice. “I’ll finish up in the kitchen.”

Maybe it was that pat—or the man’s apparent preference for Laurel—but Clara decided to watch him and took up a position by the kitchen counter from which to observe this strange, dark-haired man who had made his way into their private space.

Sure enough, as soon as Becca had left the kitchen—with an affronted Laurel in tow—Trent began opening drawers. Aha! Clara thought. I’ve got you. But all he did was fish out a pair of shears and cut the blossoms loose from their wrapping. After he trimmed their stems and placed them in the vase Becca had set out, he even cleaned up after himself, and the cat began to wonder if, perhaps, her suspicions were unfounded.

“You’re so naïve.” Harriet sauntered in, and although she immediately buried her face in her food dish, she must have seen how her youngest sister was watching the newcomer. “You’re not used to male attention.”

“It’s not that…” her calico sibling started to argue as Harriet swiped her plume of a tail. “It’s that I don’t want Becca to be hurt again.” Another swipe. Harriet didn’t seem to care that their person had had her heart broken a scant two months ago. To the older cat, it was a plus when Becca began spending every night at home again. And when she lost her job, that was even better—until the incident with the store brand cans. “We don’t know this new man,” Clara said, blinking those green eyes.

“Jealous.” Even with her mouth full, Harriet couldn’t stand not having the last word. But by then, other voices had joined Becca’s in the living room, and so Clara followed Trent as he carried out the ever-so-tasty bouquet.

“Suzanne, Kathy, merry meet.” He nodded at the two women who’d come in together, each as unlike as Clara and Laurel, whose almond-shaped blue eyes gazed up in frank, feline appraisal. Tall and slender, Suzanne had a nervous habit of running her hands over her long blonde hair that made Clara think she wanted to groom. Tonight, though, they were occupied, holding a covered loaf pan, which had Laurel sniffing delicately, dark brown nose in the air.

“Lemon poppy seed,” the willowy woman was saying as she handed the pan to Becca. “To celebrate the full moon tonight, as well as our triumph.”

“Oh, I didn’t think to bring anything.” Kathy, on the other hand, was short and as plump as Harriet, although her curly hair was penny-bright auburn and not nearly as silky as the cat’s. The youngest member of the coven, she was generally considered the pet, a designation that she appeared to enjoy even as it annoyed Harriet, perhaps because of the similarity in their shape and coloring. “I mean, merry meeting,” Kathy corrected herself with a giggle. “Are you sure that’s okay? We all chip in for the tea and the crystals and everything.”

“We have more than enough,” said Becca, taking the pan and the serrated knife that her guest had wrapped in a tea towel beneath it. “But this is lovely. Thank you, Suzanne.”

Kathy had already turned away. “Trent!” She chirped with a happy smile. “Now we can get started.” But her progress back into the living room was stopped as she noticed the flowers.

“Oh,” she recoiled, taking in the collection of pink daisies and chrysanthemums that surrounded one red rose. “A bouquet?”

“A celebration of the Flower Moon,” Trent corrected her with a warm smile as he placed the vase on Becca’s all-purpose table. “As well as a hostess gift. After all, we’ve been meeting at Becca’s every week for a month now.”

Before Kathy could respond, the doorbell rang again.

“Please,” said Trent, nodding at Becca. “Let me.”

“Thanks.” She looked relieved, as Kathy trotted after him. “I forgot to put the kettle on.”

Clara followed Becca back into the kitchen, trying to read her expression and understand this strange nervousness of hers.

“Becca, I can’t believe you did it. I mean, I’m really impressed.” Suzanne had come up behind the cat, who sidestepped quickly to protect her tail. “In fact, I’m wondering if now maybe you can help me with something.”

“I’d love to. Can you grab those mugs first?” Becca asked, filling the kettle. “I got a little behind this afternoon.”

“Tea can wait.” Suzanne stepped closer, as the cat scooted back to the counter. The skinny woman didn’t seem like much of a threat—Harriet could probably knock her over—but she was wearing hard-soled shoes. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do about something, Becca. It’s…well, it’s kind of private, only, it might affect all of us.”

“Really?” Becca wasn’t listening, as her cat could tell. Instead, she was counting spoonfuls of that foul tea into her big teapot, and so the calico emerged to brush against her, willing her to pay attention. “Oh, Clara.” She paused to look down at that grey and orange face. “Did Harriet eat your dinner again too? Hang on.”

Leaving off her counting, she fetched the bag of kibble from beneath the sink and poured some into the now-empty dish. But while the smallest of her pets appreciated her concern, that wasn’t what she’d been on about. Nor, it seemed, was it what had preoccupied Suzanne.

“I’m serious, Becca.” She leaned in, speaking softly as she toyed nervously with the crystal teardrop pendant she wore. “Especially if you can—”

“Becca, darling!” An exaggerated theatrical voice interrupted them as Larissa swanned into the kitchen, scarves trailing behind her and a plate of cookies in her outstretched, be-ringed hand. “Oh, that’s a pretty piece.” She reared back as she eyed Suzanne’s necklace. “Is that new?”

Suzanne glanced down at the pendant, as if she’d forgotten what she held. “I’ve had it for a while,” she said with a nervous smile, and tucked it beneath her collar.

With a sniff, Larissa turned, once more, to their host.

“What’s this I’ve been hearing about a summoning spell?”

“A summoning?” Kathy had appeared, as if flagged down by those colorful scarves.

“It was…I’ll tell you all about it.” Becca looked down at the kettle, as if the burgeoning steam could explain her own reddening cheeks. “I’m not sure what exactly happened.”

Turning off the heat, Becca went back to scooping tea leaves as Ande, tall and elegant with a complexion like milk caramel, entered the kitchen. The other new arrival, Marcia, must have caught her on the way in.

“Luz got a new client today.” Petite Marcia had to look up to address Ande, whose dark curls added an inch to her height. “Going into private practice was the best thing she ever did, for so many reasons.”

As she always did when Marcia—a paralegal with startlingly large, dark eyes—brought up her pretty Latina roommate, Larissa rolled her own eyes, heavy with mascara. “I’m sure, darling,” she drawled. “But we were talking about Becca’s remarkable success.”

“I wasn’t talking to—oh, never mind.” Marcia shook her head, as if to free her dark pageboy, and shoved her ever-present Red Sox cap in the pocket of her overalls. “But, yeah, I want to hear about the spell.”

“What spell?” Ande asked in a stage whisper before someone Clara couldn’t see—Marcia?—shushed her.

“I’ve been trying to reproduce my results,” Becca explained. “That’s why I don’t have anything set up, and the tea…”

“Darling Becca,” Larissa’s voice dripped with her usual condescension. “Magic isn’t an exact science, you know. You can’t expect to use the same techniques.” She waved one hand and set her bangles clanking, and Clara retreated to the corner. It wasn’t just the noise, though. Larissa was the oldest member of the coven, by a good ten years, and too vain to wear glasses. Thinking of this, the cautious calico pulled her tail in closer.

“Here, let me.” Becca turned to take the plate and place it safely on the counter, just as a low, sleek shadow slipped in. If this crew left the kitchen without taking those cookies, Laurel would be on them in a second. The seal-point cat was as omnivorous as Harriet, only she was a better jumper.

“She’s right, you know.” The women all turned, making room for Trent. “We can’t account for factors beyond our perception—cosmic vibrations, or even atmospheric pressure. But your instincts were dead on.” His smile provoked a low murmur, almost a purr, from all of the women except Marcia. Becca’s blush had deepened, and she turned away as if to hide it.

“Bother,” she said, looking at the pot in her hands. “I’ve lost count. Now I’ve got to start all over again.”

Chapter 3

Harriet and Laurel had already grabbed the prime seating in the living room—Laurel on Becca’s overstuffed armchair and Harriet stretched out on the sofa where everyone could admire her coat. And so, Clara followed Becca once the tea was steeping and hunkered down beneath the table. It wasn’t as comfy there, but she liked being close to her person. More importantly, from this vantage point, she could keep an eye on Harriet.

“So Becca has had a momentous breakthrough,” Trent began once the customary invocation had been recited. “I don’t know if everyone has heard.”

“How could we help it?” Kathy’s voice wasn’t as soft as she thought it was, and from where Clara sat, she could see one of the other women—Marcia, probably, considering the high-tops—surreptitiously kick her. “I mean, it sounds so exciting.” Kathy didn’t sound convinced. “Oh, cool necklace, Suzanne.”

“Thanks.” The nervous hands suddenly appeared in the thin woman’s lap, as if she’d forced them down.

“Well, I want to hear the details,” Marcia piped up. “Shall I pour?”

“I rather think that’s Becca’s prerogative tonight, don’t you?” Larissa, in her grand dame role. “By the way, Becca, did you call my friend about the position?”

“I don’t have a master’s, Larissa.” Becca, standing, seemed to be struggling with the full pot. “And it sounds like your friend is looking for a PhD.”

“Bosh.” Even from under the table, Clara could picture the dismissive wave.

“I might have a lead for you.” Kathy was trying to make up for her, well, cattiness. Clara lashed her tail. “What are you looking for again?”

“I did online and library research.” Becca sounded tired, though it wasn’t clear if that was because of the heavy teapot or the subject. “I’ve been hoping to finish my library sciences degree, but…” A sigh and the thud. At least the pouring was done. “I can type too, but I’m hoping to find something in my field before unemployment runs out.”

“We should talk.” Clara could almost hear Kathy nodding, but when she tried to poke her head up to catch Becca’s reaction, she found herself blocked by a foot.

“These are good.” Trent again. “Did you make these, Larissa?”

Over on the sofa, Harriet’s head jerked up as if she’d been shocked. The crunch, as Trent bit again into one of the cookies, had brought her to her feet. Harriet, like most cats, could summon food, as she did with that pillow. But like that pillow, it would be pulled from the ether—with about as much flavor. And Harriet had a particular weakness for sweets. That, Clara knew, could mean trouble.

“So, this spell…” Larissa’s foot swung under the table. She had those pointy-toed heels on, but Clara scooted out of the way in time, losing sight of Harriet. “I want to hear the details.”

“I’m not sure exactly what I did—or did differently.” Becca had tucked her red sneakers under her chair, as she did when she was nervous. Looking at all the shoes around her, Clara didn’t blame the tender human. This was scary territory. And Harriet wasn’t likely to make it any easier. The calico crept forward while Becca explained. “I was reciting the Ars Advocabit—the summoning spell—from the book, just like we’ve all done. And then—there it was.”

“There what was?” Larissa’s tone matched those shoes.

“A pillow.” Becca’s voice went soft. “I’d summoned a pillow. And before you say anything, yes, it really was a new pillow. Not anything I had in the house before. It was gold velvet and very soft.”

From her new vantage point, Clara could see Harriet stretch with satisfaction, and she relaxed a little. “And it has tassels!” Her oldest sister was purring with pride.

“Can we see it?” Ande, ignoring the cat as people usually do, sounded skeptical.

“Yes.” Becca pushed her chair back. “I left it where it was. I thought, maybe, the placement was important.”

More purrs from Harriet, although when Becca slid the pillow from beneath her warm bulk, the contented rumble faded. If Becca truly had any sensitivities, supernatural or otherwise, she would have been burned by the intensity of Harriet’s stare as she brought the pillow back to the table.

“It is very soft.” Ande kneaded it with her long fingers.

“Let me.” Harriet sat up as the pillow was passed to Suzanne and then Marcia, and finally Kathy, the cat’s yellow eyes focused like lasers as it moved from hand to hand.

“Why did you summon something so tacky?” Kathy’s freckled nose wrinkled as she flicked a tassel.

Harriet’s ears went flat, a low growl beginning deep in her cream-colored chest as her back began to arch.

“Becca!” Suzanne sounded alarmed. “Is something wrong with your cat?”

“What?” Becca’s chair scraped the floor. “Oh, Harriet! I’m afraid she’s adopted that pillow as her own. It does kind of match her fur. Doesn’t it?”

The murmured responses didn’t sound that convinced, but Harriet seemed to accept them. At any rate, once Kathy had relinquished the pillow, she sank back down on the sofa and her ears resumed their natural perkiness.

“The problem,” Becca continued, stroking the plush object, “is that I haven’t been able to duplicate it. I was wondering if there was something about the moon last Thursday? Or maybe an astral projection?”

“Let me consult the chart.” Trent’s low voice calmed the assembled women like a warm hand on fur, and as the gathering fell back into its usual rhythms, Clara closed her eyes. Even Harriet seemed to calm down once the pillow was returned to its rightful place on the sofa. And although Becca tried reading the summoning spell several times, no further furnishings appeared, which Clara found a relief—and which left Harriet feeling rather smug.

“Oh, please…” Laurel extended one paw, the better to admire her claws, as the meeting droned on. “If these humans don’t move on soon…”

Clara glared, but just then a familiar chant broke in.

“And by the rule of three, blessed be.” And with that, the chairs scraped back and the coven members began to rise. Out of habit, the calico accompanied Becca into the kitchen, the now empty teapot in hand. Suzanne followed with the mugs.

“Becca.” Suzanne deposited the mugs on the counter. “What I wanted to ask you about—”

Before she could finish, Larissa walked in and Suzanne turned to face her.

“Do you have something I can put the leftover cookies in?” The older woman opened one of the cabinets without waiting for an answer. “I want my plate back.”

“Sure.” Becca looked around. “I’ve got a clean Tupperware here somewhere.”

“Can’t you just summon one?” Marcia had crowded in too.

“I wish.” Becca’s smile was beginning to look forced. Clara, meanwhile, wrapped her tail around her forepaws. Lashing it would have fit her mood better, but with this many feet in the kitchen, she wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Marcia, please.” Trent, standing in the doorway, came to the rescue. “You know Becca did her best.”

“She wasn’t—” Ande, playing peacemaker again. “She was just teasing. You know that, don’t you, Becca?”

“Of course.” Becca’s voice was close to cracking as she wiped off Suzanne’s cake knife, taking extra care over its inlaid handle. “Oh, thanks.” Ande had found the errant plastic container and was passing it over.

“Silly.” A low hiss—Harriet had waddled up behind her sister. “You could’ve tripped her.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Clara turned to face her, confused.

“Cookies!” Harriet’s yellow eyes flashed as she crowded in. “There were some left. It’s too late now.” True enough, the plastic lid snapped shut.

“Would you like a ride too?” Trent was herding the women out. “I’ve got room.”

“No, thanks.” Not all. Suzanne was hanging back, the loaf pan and her knife clasped close. “I’ll walk,” she said.

“If you’re sure…” Trent’s voice sounded like a purr, and Clara leaned forward, eager to catch more.

“There are crumbs on the table.” Laurel sauntered in, licking her chops. “What?” She looked at her sisters, who had both turned on her.

“I was trying to hear what they were saying,” Clara nearly hissed.

“The clown was eavesdropping,” said Harriet as she peered around the corner. She was peeved, it was obvious. Not only that her youngest sister had failed to trip the cookie carrier but that Laurel had found the crumbs before she could.

“I’m concerned about Becca.” Clara’s mew was too soft for their person to hear, she was pretty sure, but still she looked up in concern. Laurel sniffed and began to wash, removing the last trace of baked goods from her sleek tan fur, while Harriet waddled back into the living room in the obvious hope that her fastidious sister had left something behind.

“So, Suzanne, what’s going on?” Becca was looking at her guest. From the living room, she could hear Trent’s deep, warm voice and an answering torrent of giggles. “I should see them out.”

“They’re fine.” Suzanne’s voice had an edge it hadn’t before. Shaking her head, she wiped the few remaining crumbs from the cake plate into the sink before sliding it and the inlaid server into her bag.

“Suzanne!” a voice, half laughing, called. “You promised!”

“Ande.” Suzanne sighed. “I forgot. Look, Becca. I need to talk to you.”

“Train’s leaving the station!” More laughter, and this time it was Larissa who called. “Zany, come on!”

“Coming!” Suzanne called, loud enough that Clara flicked her ears—only to be momentarily distracted by the snuffling of Harriet as she hoovered up the last remaining crumbs.

“—not where they can hear.” Suzanne had lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. “Look, I’ll explain more—Saturday at my place. Noonish? Please, Becca. It’s important.”

“Saturday at your place.” Becca sounded tired. “But if it involves the entire coven…”

“Just trust me, Becca.” Suzanne turned back one final time, her face drawn. “This is—this could be—big. And, please, for the Goddess’s sake, be careful.”

Chapter 4

The following two days passed with no more magic, but no catastrophes either, whether feline or human. Saturday dawned with all the sunny promise of the season, and the intoxicating scent of flowers and damp new grass through the open window had all three cats’ whiskers bristling. Only Clara noticed that Becca didn’t seem pleased by the beauty of the day. It was hours until Becca was due to meet Suzanne, but clearly, something was on her mind. Not that she forgot to feed the cats—she’d never do that—but she did almost mix up their bowls, putting the lion’s—or the lioness’—portion in Clara’s multicolored dish instead of Harriet’s before she caught her error. And when she committed the cardinal sin of laying down Clara’s dish ahead of Harriet’s, the calico stepped back before her big sister could even turn to glare, knowing that the first bites of breakfast were worth sacrificing for peace.

Once her own dish, with both her name and a golden crown motif, was set down, Harriet moved over. But Clara had barely gotten a few bites of what remained of her own breakfast before Becca set out. Worried as she was about the young woman, her pet knew she had to follow.

It wasn’t hard. While an otherwise intelligent and observant human, Becca was limited—Clara knew—by the preconceptions of her species. In particular, that meant she considered the cats with whom she cohabited to be house pets, unconscious of their real powers. Being indoors was fine for most felines, especially during what had been a rainy April, and Harriet particularly enjoyed being catered to. But although Clara observed the feline rule about hiding this ability, the fact is that without too much effort, she, like all her kind, could pass through most solid objects, at least if she could get a good focus on them.

And so as soon as Becca had locked the apartment door behind her, the multicolored kitty had hunkered down and stared at the closed door. Distracted as she was, the pretty brunette was just vaguely aware of the calico’s appearance as she passed through the door and manifested on the street behind her. Half in the shadows of that early spring morning and half a shadow herself, her mottled coloring adding an extra layer of camouflage, the little cat found it easy to trail Becca in her somewhat ethereal fashion. And although Clara did stop to nibble on an intriguing green—it was spring, after all—she easily caught up with her person by the time she had snagged a table at the local coffee house and settled in with a muffin and mug of something steamy.

“Maddy, over here!” Becca rose and waved, and Clara ducked beneath the table before she could be spotted.

“Becca!” A pleasantly large woman made her way over from the counter, her own mug in one hand, a slab of coffee cake in the other. “What’s up? You look good. Did you find a new job?”

“No, but…” Something akin to a purr warmed Becca’s voice as her friend took the seat opposite.

“Pity,” Maddy mumbled, her mouth full of cake. In some ways, Clara thought, Becca’s old friend resembled Harriet. “’Cause if you find something good, I’m going to follow you. Work stress is making me eat.”

Becca nodded. She’d been hearing about Maddy’s work troubles for as long as her friend had been at Reynolds and Associates, a market research firm in Cambridge’s Central Square.

“Reynolds has been in a mood recently. It’s enough to make me start smoking again too.” She took another bite of cake, as if in response. “Oh, you know it all.” Her friend didn’t have to be psychic to note how Becca’s focus had drifted. “Wait, did Jeff call you?”

“No.” The purr was gone. Becca’s voice had gone flat and lifeless. “He’s…that’s over, Maddy. He’s got some new girlfriend now.”

“I don’t know, Becca. I’ve heard that his new thing didn’t work out.” In the silence, Clara could almost see Becca pushing her pastry around her plate. Maddy didn’t wait long for a response. “I ran into him on the bus a few days ago,” she said, her tone oddly remote. “He was asking about you.”

“He was?” Becca caught herself before her friend could answer. “No, it doesn’t matter. It’s too late. You know I couldn’t take him back, even if he wanted me to.”

“Good girl.” The clink of a mug, and Becca’s friend washed the cake down with enthusiastic approval. “He’s no good for you. I was worried, because you’ve been so preoccupied lately.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Becca shifted in her seat, scattering a few intriguing crumbs. Cranberry, Clara thought. “I’ve really been trying to be mindful. To be present. But it isn’t Jeff, it’s the coven.”

“Oh, please.” Maddy’s chair squeaked as she sat back. “You don’t actually believe in that. Do you?”

“That’s just it.” Becca leaned in, excitement audible even as she kept her voice low. “Maddy, I did…something. I cast a spell. A summoning spell, and it worked.”

“Becca, please. How long have we known each other? You were the best researcher in Professor Humphries’ seminar, and now you’re saying you believe in magic?”

“There’s a lot about the natural world that we don’t know.” Becca’s enthusiasm wasn’t going to be that easily shut down.

“So become a scientist, for crying out loud!” More squeaking of chairs put Clara on alert. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think you should get back into spending your days in the library. At least then you were doing real research.”

“Maddy…” Becca began to protest.

“It’s those people, Becca.” Her friend wouldn’t let her. “They’re crackpots—or worse.”

“Maddy, please. They’re my friends, and, well, they rely on me. They respect me.”

A noise like a furball in the works caused Clara’s ears to perk up. But, no, it was simply Maddy laughing.

“Besides,” Becca sounded hurt, “one of them asked for my help on something.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to get involved.” Maddy had lowered her voice, even as it ramped up in urgency. “Those women are conspiracy theorists of the highest order.”

“They’re not all women.” Becca’s own voice grew quieter. “In fact, one member of the coven is a warlock, and he really believes in my abilities.”

“Oh, Becca.” Her friend’s tone softened. “I know you’re lonely, honey. But, please. Give it time.”

“I am, Maddy.” Becca with a confidence that made her cat proud. “And I’m exploring new interests and expanding my horizon. Just as you’ve always advised me to do. So, what’s up with you?”

A lot, it seemed. And as Becca’s buddy went on about some conflict in an office with a co-worker who sounded like a horror, the cat at their feet nodded off. Spectral travel was tiring. Besides, Becca had a busy day planned. As her cat, Clara was going to need her energy for the mysterious meeting ahead.

Chapter 5

Suzanne, it turned out, lived farther away than Becca had thought. Although still technically in Cambridgeport, her apartment was down by the river, in one of those old triple-deckers the city is known for, and Becca got well and truly lost—taking a shortcut that led her into a blind alley and then another that turned into a construction site—before she retraced her steps almost to the café and started over.

As it was, she was running late by the time she found the right street. She was tempted to blame Maddy. Her friend had kept her, going on about that nasty colleague—some woman her friend had a grudge against that she never fully explained. But Becca knew the delay was her own fault and was preparing to own up to it when she finally located the right address painted on a mailbox out front.

The bright morning had turned into a surprisingly warm day by then, and Becca was sweating slightly—her cheeks a healthy pink—as she jogged up the front steps. Someone cared for the building. In addition to that neat mailbox, the tiny front yard was neatly raked, with low blue flowers edging a lilac that had just begun to bloom, although the smell of fresh paint nearly overwhelmed that lovely, peppery scent. Somewhere, a radio was playing salsa. But the latch on the front door was old and resisted Becca’s jiggling and pushing.

“Here, let me help you.” A hand reached around Becca, dark with the sun, and she turned. The sandy-haired man who had come up so quietly behind her wasn’t much taller than she was, but he pulled the door open easily with one hand. The other was holding a bucket full of rags that smelled strongly of turpentine.

“You’re going in?” he asked, his voice soft.

She looked up. The dash of white paint on his right cheekbone made his skin look darker. Bronzed almost, with a slight glaze of sweat that added a warm and subtly spicy scent to the mix.

“What?” She blinked. “Yes, thanks. I’m looking for Suzanne Liddle. She’s in unit three?”

“The buzzer should be working.” He nodded into the foyer. “The electricians finished up last week.”

“Thanks,” said Becca, a little too breathlessly, and then turned and hurried in. Clara, who had been examining the flowers, slipped in behind Becca as the door closed. Luckily, both humans were too distracted to notice the calico, even if she hadn’t cloaked her brighter orange patch in a shadow summoning that made her as grey as a Grimalkin. But though she was on her guard not to be noticed, the cat pressed close to Becca as the young woman climbed the stairs. There was something off about this building—something that even the stinging odor of that solvent couldn’t explain—and although the compact cat certainly didn’t want to trip her person, she did want her to be wary. Especially when her phone rang before she had even reached the first landing.

“Oh!” She paused, looking at the number, and then, taking a deep breath, took the call. “Hi.”

Like the rest of her family, Clara was a witch cat, endowed with magical abilities above and beyond the usual feline mysticism. But that didn’t mean she had unlimited powers. Sure, she could pass through solid objects like doors and walls. Those powers were sort of related to how she could summon things, like Harriet did that pillow. And she could make herself more or less invisible, as all cats—even the non-magical ones—can, which is why humans trip over them so often. But although her ears were naturally more sensitive than any human’s, she couldn’t hear everything.

That’s why she was a tad alarmed when Becca stopped walking to listen, one hand over her ear to block out the music from outside. Something about the way her brows bunched together and her teeth came down on her lower lip made the little calico’s ears prick up, reminding her of those bad days two months ago. The days when all Becca had done—besides feed her cats, of course—was cry.

“Uh-huh,” she said at last. Her lip still showed the marks of her teeth, but at least she’d begun walking again, slowly mounting step after step. “Yes, she told me,” she said.

“No, I’m not home right now.” Becca had reached the third floor. The door was slightly ajar, and she turned away for privacy. “Look, I can come by your place,” she said. And then, taking another deep breath, she went on. “Okay, then what if I meet you someplace else in an hour, some place down by the river? I’m—no, really, it’s fine. I’m visiting a friend on Putnam. In fact, I’m at her door now. A new friend. Her name’s Suzanne. Suzanne Liddle.”

At that, she straightened up, and for a moment, Clara relaxed, thinking that her person was, in fact, doing better. But then her brows came together again and she shook her head. “What do you mean, Jeff? You don’t even know her. Look.” One hand went up to push the hair from her brow. “I’ll call you when I’m leaving, okay? Jeff?”

The hand wiped over her face and through her soft brown curls, and with a sigh big enough to deflate her, she shoved the phone back into her pocket. And with that she turned toward the slightly opened door.

“Suzanne?” she called. “It’s Becca.”

She rapped softly on the door, which creaked open further. Calling a little louder, to be heard over the salsa beat, she said again, “Suzanne? Are you there?”

As a cat, Clara didn’t require permission to enter any room. And while she could pass through a locked door, an unlatched one—especially one so temptingly ajar—read like a gilt-edged invitation. Only there was something about this room, this door. Something beyond the intense smell of the paint and the metallic rattle of the ladder outside.

“Suzanne?” Becca pushed the door further open and stepped inside. And so, despite an overwhelming sense of trepidation that had her guard hairs standing on end, Clara followed into a sunny room. As the door swung shut behind them and the latch caught with a click, she took in the warmth. The light from the big bay window. Two overstuffed chairs that Harriet would love crowded together on a deep plush rug, while a velvet-covered sofa, too big for the space, was pushed back against a bay window that stood slightly ajar. It was from here that the smell of the paint came in as well as the dust and the scrapings that had dappled the burgundy velvet with white.

It was also that sofa—more of a love seat actually—that had set all the cat’s instinctive alarms ringing. For reclining on the dark velvet, one arm hanging low toward the floor, lay Suzanne Liddle, the inlaid handle of her serrated cake knife extending straight up from bare white flesh of her throat.

Becca froze, leaving Clara to take in the sight of the woman on the sofa, the pooled blood from the awful wound collecting at her collarbone, where it was already darkening to almost match the burgundy of the upholstery. Time stopped—for a moment—and then jarred into movement with the clang of a ladder being collapsed. A boom box cut off in mid-song.

Somewhere, outside—in a different world—work was done for the morning. And then another sound, closer, made Becca turn. A key clicked in the door. The brass knob rotated, and Clara could hear her frightened gasp, as Trent—the handsome warlock—stepped in.

Chapter 6

A purr can mean many different things. Cats purr to express happiness, of course. But they also purr to comfort themselves or others, and that’s what Clara was trying to do an hour later—once the police let Becca go.

“Oh, kitties, it was horrible.” Clara would have thought, after all the questions, that her poor person would have been all talked out. But as she staggered into her apartment and collapsed onto her own lovely, clean, and beautifully unbloodied sofa, she began to rehash everything that had happened.

“I had just seen her Wednesday, three days ago. She was here. She was…alive.” Becca lay back with a sigh, one forearm thrown over her eyes, as the three sisters converged. Clara was a little breathless from having raced home—feline invisibility aside, she didn’t think hitching a ride in a police cruiser was a good idea. “I keep thinking of her…her throat and all that blood. And that knife. I’d cut cake with that knife…” Becca repeated as she kicked her shoes off.

Clara ducked the falling footwear and jumped up to claim her place on the sofa. Laurel and Harriet were already there, Laurel cozying up to Becca’s side and Harriet down by her stocking feet—and the pillow. They both turned to stare at their youngest sister, as if she were an interloper, and so she carefully mounted the back of the sofa and waited for an opening.

“I…once I realized what I was seeing, I just wanted to get away…” Becca was saying. The repetition seemed to soothe her, as a purr would, but Clara remained concerned. “They had all these questions…”

“Of course they did.” Laurel reached one velvet paw up toward Becca’s arm, as if she were petting her. Clara knew better. Laurel wanted to see Becca’s eyes as she spoke. Even her purr had an edge to it. “A body and all. Dead.”

“Cut it out.” Clara batted down at her. Unlike her seal-point sister, Clara was trying to listen to the poor girl who lay beside them. She’d missed something in that awful room, what with her worry over Becca and the sudden appearance of the warlock, just as she’d missed the beginning of Suzanne’s explanation for why she needed Becca to come visit, and she was hoping that if she paid attention, she’d figure it out.

“Oh, Clara.” The movement had caught Becca’s attention, and the distraught young woman reached up for the little calico. At that, Clara’s prime directive—to be Becca’s pet—overwhelmed any other concerns, and she tumbled onto her prostrate person and began to purr in earnest.

“Oh, great.” Harriet looked up and tilted her ears back. “Now you’ve pinned her down. She came back to feed us, obviously.”

“She’s upset.” Clara glared, but her oldest sister turned her back, fluffing out her creamsicle coat as she settled down again at Becca’s feet. Laurel, meanwhile, had stretched to her full length and started to doze. If Becca wasn’t going to share grisly details, the brown-tipped cat wasn’t interested. Clara, however, began to gently knead Becca’s belly. Making sure to keep her claws sheathed, she kept the motion even and light, the rhythm in sync with the rumble of her purr, until she felt the tension begin to leave the girl’s slim frame. Until she heard an answering purr as Becca slipped into sleep.

Only then did Clara relax and let her own eyes begin to close. She wasn’t sleepy. The feline propensity toward napping aside, there were too many thoughts racing through her brain for her to give over to a catnap. No, she simply needed to focus on what she had seen and heard out in the bright world, in that walkup apartment. To figure out what had happened—and why—and how she could get Becca through it without any further complications.

A soft snort startled her, and Clara looked up to see Harriet twitching, restless in her sleep. As she watched, the larger cat muttered “cream” and her pink tongue darted out to moisten her nose. Then she lay still again, having satisfied her dream appetite. Laurel, as well, napped peacefully, her dark paws stretched luxuriantly along Becca’s side. The two were deep in feline slumber, untroubled by anything outside their small world.

Clara watched them, willing them to stay quiet. Becca needed her rest. There was no way to explain the chaos that had exploded in that upstairs apartment. How Becca had been roused from her stupor by Trent entering the room, and how, when he’d tried to hold her, she had pulled away screaming as he sputtered some kind of explanation about retrieving something the dead girl had borrowed and a key from a house-sitting stint. How her coven leader had wrapped his arms around her then, turning her from the bloody sight until he had finally gotten her calmed down enough to call for help. And how that had backfired as the cops had hustled the two of them out to the street and pulled Becca away from the dark-eyed warlock. How she had tried to answer all their questions until it all got to be too much and she had suddenly felt dizzy. How she had woken with an oxygen mask over her face and someone yelling. No, she had been the one yelling—it had just taken her a few moments to realize it.

“The poor girl,” Clara muttered in a soft chirrup. Surely, her sisters could understand. “It was a shock.”

“Shock shlock.” Laurel yawned and stretched. Her claws caught the afternoon light, and she began to groom. “I want to hear more. A body is meat,” she said as she bit the tip of one claw. There had definitely been an edge to her purr. “And that blood…did you taste it? Did she?”

“No!” Clara swiveled her one black ear to check. Becca’s breathing remained even and calm. “Can’t you think of anything beyond your appetite?”

“Huh.” Another bite and the seal point closed her eyes. Clara watched, unsure if her nearest sister was sleeping or simply ignoring her, then closed hers too. Whatever Laurel was up to, the little calico needed to think.

It was all because of that stupid pillow. Clara didn’t know for sure why Suzanne had cornered Becca, but it had to be because of her supposed success with the summoning spell. She’d seen the way the other coven members had looked at her person. They’d all be wanting something from her now, and not just cans and cream.

As if on cue, Becca’s phone rang, startling her from sleep.

“Hang on.” Becca sat up, and Clara slid in a rather inelegant move down to her lap. “Maddy?”

“Are you all right?” Even from her new perch, Clara could hear the big woman’s panicked tone.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Becca closed her eyes as she spoke and shook her head.

Maddy must have heard the lie in her voice. “I’m coming over,” she said, loud enough to earn a harsh look from Laurel. Harriet, of course, slept on.

“You don’t have to.” Becca’s complaint was barely a mew. Clara jumped to the floor. If company was coming over, she didn’t want to be caught unawares.

“Is it time for dinner?” Harriet looked up as Becca reached for her shoes.

“No,” Clara rumbled softly. “A visitor.”

“Visitors aren’t bad.” Harriet yawned. “Visitors mean treats.”

“This isn’t about you—” Clara broke off. Becca was heading to the kitchen, closely trailed by their middle sister. As they walked by, Harriet and Laurel exchanged a glance, and when Harriet flicked her tail, Clara cringed, wrapping her own tail around her forepaws. More magic was on the way, and that meant more trouble. With an audible thud, Harriet plopped to the floor to join Becca and Laurel in the kitchen. With a sigh, Clara followed.

“Oh, kitties! What would I do without you?” Becca sniffled as she spoke, but at least she was sounding a bit more like herself again. Clara began to relax, and then, out of nowhere, “Would you like some treats?”

Laurel turned toward her sisters with what Clara thought of as her Siamese smirk. Mind control was such simple magic, her tilted whiskers seemed to say, even though what Laurel did was more like implanting a suggestion than an actual direction. Harriet, of course, was too mesmerized by Becca to even bother to gloat.

Chapter 7

The tea Becca served her old friend was a lot kinder on the nose than what she brewed for her coven, and the almond cookies Maddy had brought were Clara’s favorites. Their delicious aroma—nutty and sweet—announced her presence even before the doorbell rang.

That wasn’t why the agile calico jumped up on the table, though when she sauntered over to sniff at the pot, nobody shooed her off. The day was too topsy-turvy for that, the sunny afternoon already forgotten.

Becca had begun crying again, retelling the story having brought back all the fear and the horror from earlier in the day, and Clara had wanted to check on her. Maddy, in her motherly way, was doing her bit even beyond the cookies, leaning over and patting her friend in a rather hearty manner that none of the resident felines would have appreciated.

“There, there,” she kept repeating, though it didn’t seem to be doing any good. “Let it out.”

“What’s up there? I can’t see!” Harriet’s plaintive meow—as close to a whimper as she got—reached Clara on the tabletop. She had thought both her siblings were napping post snack, but Harriet’s gluttony knew no bounds. “Is it cookies?”

“Shh,” Clara hissed back, and immediately regretted it. Harriet was not only her oldest sister, she could cause trouble when she wanted to—and even when she didn’t, as the whole fiasco with the pillow had proved. Clara needed to stay on her good side, and so the calico leaned over the table’s side to call to her, in a gentler tone. “Come on up, if you want.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Harriet turned away with a disdainful sniff. “I don’t jump on tables.”

Clara winced at her own mistake. Of course, the big creamsicle of a cat had never been what anyone would call athletic, and what was an easy leap for the compact calico would have been unduly strenuous for her sister. To make amends, Clara knocked one of the cookies off its plate with a swift paw strike. It flew off the table and landed with a soft thud, although that could have been Harriet pouncing on her “prey.” Becca was crying too hard to notice, and if her friend saw anything, she knew better than to comment. Nobody likes to be told their pets have poor manners, especially when they’ve just encountered a dead body.

“So you didn’t get to talk to her?” Becca was blowing her nose and looked up at Maddy’s question. “Suzanne, I mean?”

“No, she was—” Becca sat up, curiosity overcoming her grief. “Why?”

“Nothing.” Suddenly, Maddy was interested in the cookies too.

“No, there’s something on your mind.” Becca blinked, clearing her eyes, as she focused on her friend—and missed Clara taking a furtive lick at the nearest cookie.

“I was curious.” Maddy reached out, picking the very cookie the cat had just tasted. “I wanted to get a sense of the chronology.”

“I told you.” Becca also took a cookie, but left it on her napkin. “I had trouble with the door, and the painter let me in. Then I—oh, I did forget something. Jeff called as I was climbing the stairs. I was supposed to call him back.” She started to stand, but her friend put out a hand to restrain her.

“Jeff can wait.” Maddy put her cookie down after one bite. A first for her, and Clara craned to see if the chubby visitor had eaten the side the calico had licked. She hadn’t. “In fact…what did he say?”

“Jeff? Oh, nothing.” Becca picked up her cookie again, but it was obvious she wasn’t really interested in its sugary goodness. “He said he wanted to get together.”

“To get together or to talk?” Her friend’s voice had gone strangely low and even.

“To get together.” Becca paused. “I think the whole thing was so fast—and so strange. And did I tell you Trent came in?”

“Yes.” Maddy sounded strained. “Yes, you did.”

“He said he was picking up something. That he had a key because he’d house sat for Suzanne before, though since she has no cats…”

“Never mind Trent.” Maddy was definitely impatient. “I mean, the police spoke with him, right?” Becca nodded. “Good, let them sort him out. It’s you I’m worried about, Becca.”

“Me?” That cookie wasn’t going to eat itself, but Clara restrained herself. Something was going on here, something that even with all her magic she couldn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you and Jeff didn’t really get to talk, right?”

Becca nodded. “In fact, I should call him. I said I would—”

Maddy cut her off. “And you haven’t spoken to your ex in, what, weeks? A month?”

“Close to a month.” Becca’s eyes were free of tears now, but her dark eyebrows were knit in confusion. “Maddy, what are you getting at?”

Maddy looked from her friend down at her plate, and Clara shifted to the table’s edge. If the visitor said anything about that cookie, the compact calico would make a break for it.

“Did he know where you were?”

Becca nodded.

“Who you were visiting?” Another nod as Becca waited for her friend to explain.

“I ran into Jeff in Harvard Square a while ago—and he was with a woman.” The words rushed out of Maddy in a monotone. “A tall blonde whom I’d met before, and so I was trying to place her. I didn’t think she was another programmer. He introduced her as Suzanne, and I realized that she was in your…your group.”

“Coven,” Becca corrected her in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Whatever,” said her chubby friend as she leaned forward to take Becca’s hand, pushing the plate toward the cat.

But even though the two women were definitely distracted, the feline ignored the almond treats. Instead, both her green eyes—the one in the black patch and the one in the orange—were focused on her person, on the way the color had drained from her cheeks. On the way her eyes were widening and filling with tears once again.

“You don’t mean…” Becca’s whispered. “With with?” Now it was her friend’s turn to nod. “Jeff is—Jeff was—seeing Suzanne?” Her question was softer than a kitten’s mewl, with a little catch in it that made Clara’s whiskers droop.

“That’s not something you should be worried about now.” Maddy patted Becca’s hand once more. “What you should be concerned about is that the police don’t think you knew about it. Because, frankly, if you did, you’d be a prime suspect for her murder.”

Chapter 8

“I’m trying to sleep.” Harriet whined, a long, drawn-out sound like air escaping from a balloon. “Go away!”

“Harriet, Laurel.” Clara looked around at her sisters. “Did you hear that? We’ve got to do something!”

The calico had jumped to the floor after Maddy had dropped her bombshell. The horrid scraping sound of Becca’s chair as she pushed it back had only precipitated her flight, and now she perched on the sofa where Harriet had settled.

“Yes, I did hear it.” Laurel licked her chops, her blue eyes lighting up. “Do you think she did it?”

“No.” Clara drew back, affronted. “Becca is a gentle soul. Besides, I was with her.”

“You could’ve been napping.” Laurel shrugged. She was no great hunter, but with her sleek lines, the seal-point sister fancied herself part panther. Harriet, meanwhile, was still sluggish from that almond cookie, which she’d devoured to the last crumb. Not even Becca’s voice raised in outrage could rouse her.

“That’s crazy!” Becca was standing. Shouting at her guest, and as much as Clara had wanted her to shake off her grief, she knew this wasn’t a healthy alternative. “Maddy, they can’t think that I…that Jeff…”

“Becca, please.” Her friend rushed around the table to comfort her.

“I’m calling Jeff. This is crazy.” Becca stepped back and pulled out her phone.

“No, you can’t.” Maddy reached for it, but Becca pulled away. “You can’t talk to him now.”

Becca paused, looking up. “Why not?” There was an edge to her voice that made Clara lash her tail.

“Because.” By comparison, Maddy sounded defeated. “The police might see that as evidence. Proof that you killed her to get him back. Or maybe that the two of you colluded.”

As if on cue, the device in Becca’s hand let out a chiming tone.

“Don’t!” Maddy reached for the phone.

“It’s okay.” Becca stepped back and was already looking at the device. The commotion had finally woken Harriet, who yawned wide enough to show all her teeth and then sat up. “It’s Larissa, from the group. She probably just heard.”

“Becca, you don’t have to­—”

“So annoying!” Beside her, Laurel stretched, unimpressed by Maddy’s soft pleading. “Maybe I should get rid of her.” She stood, her tail stiff at attention and her blue eyes beginning to cross.

“Don’t you dare!” Clara turned on her, a warning growl in her voice. She knew what that look meant: Laurel was concentrating. Hard. And that meant magic was brewing. Between the crazed look those crossed eyes gave her and that mental “suggestion” that cats were dangerous, the slim seal point had scared off several would-be adopters at the shelter before Clara could stop her. Clara didn’t even want to guess what other thoughts her sister could implant in a susceptible human’s mind.

“Settle down.” The middle sister sat and coiled her tail neatly around her cocoa paws. “You’re such a…scaredy-cat.”

“I’m practical.” Clara glared at her, ears still partly back. The little calico wasn’t sure what any of them could do with something the size of a person—and Maddy was a pretty big person at that. Nor did she particularly want to find out. “Besides, anything you did would get Becca in more trouble, and then where would we be?” Clara remembered the shelter, even if her sisters didn’t.

“We could eat her,” said Laurel with a flick of her own ears. That got Harriet’s attention, and she looked from Laurel to Clara.

“No.” Clara didn’t even bother trying to disguise the growl that had crept into her voice. Clara might be the youngest of the litter, but neither Laurel nor Harriet wanted to expend the energy for a fight.

“Hello, Larissa?” Becca turned away as she answered, her voice tentative. “Yes, I know, I was…I know.”

Maddy looked on, glum. From the sofa, the three cats watched, transfixed.

“I…yes, you’re right.” Becca seemed to be listening more than talking. She looked up at her guest and raised one finger. “Here’s fine. Okay, let me know. And, Larissa? I’m sorry.”

A moment later, she put the phone down. “It’s the coven,” she explained. “They think we should meet to talk about Suzanne. To mourn, I guess,” she said.

“Or because someone wants to strategize.” Maddy sounded so dour that Becca grimaced.

“Oh, come on,” she said in a tone rather like Laurel might use if cats spoke the way humans do. “You can’t think one of us…” She stopped and swallowed hard.

“I don’t know, Becca.” Maddy stepped forward again. “That’s the problem. I mean, someone killed your friend just as she was going to tell you something about your Wednesday witches, right? And didn’t you say the door was open?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Becca was shaking her head. Laurel, meanwhile, had tilted her blues eyes toward Clara, her whiskers raised inquisitively. This was a detail she’d forgotten to pass along.

“Later,” Clara murmured. She wanted to hear what their person had to say.

“We’re not—the coven isn’t like that. It’s more likely someone followed Suzanne home, or the door could have been forced.” Becca was enumerating possibilities, but there was something off about her voice. “Maybe she opened it for a delivery person, or she left it off the latch. I was running late, so it could have been that she thought it was me—” She stopped, the reality of the situation catching up to her.

“Or it could have been someone she knew.” Maddy finished the thought. “Maybe someone you know too, Becca. I’m just glad that you didn’t get there a few minutes earlier. They might have killed you too.”

Chapter 9

If Becca’s friend had meant to comfort her, she’d failed miserably. After she left, Becca was as agitated as, well, as a wet cat. Even when exhaustion drove her—and the cats—to bed, she tossed and turned to the point where the feline sisters had to abandon their usual post at their person’s feet.

“If she doesn’t settle down, I’m going to swat her.” Laurel watched from her perch atop the bureau as the morning sun crept around the bedroom blinds. “I bet she won’t even remember to feed us.”

“Really?” Harriet looked up in dismay as Becca yawned and roused. Weekends meant little to the felines—and little to Becca since she lost her job. But breakfast meant everything to Harriet. “She wouldn’t!”

“She’ll remember.” Clara jumped to the floor in her role as peacemaker, and began to weave around Becca’s ankles as she sought her slippers. “If not, you can sit on her, Harriet.”

“Huh.” Harriet turned away, insulted, but Laurel chortled in glee.

“Oh, no!” Becca ran over, catching Laurel around her café au lait torso. “Are you having a fur ball?”

Laurel’s laugh was, at best, disconcerting. But Becca’s misguided query did at least have the advantage of distracting Clara’s older sisters, and Laurel obligingly hacked up a nugget of felt, which she deposited on the floor at Becca’s feet. Furballs are the easiest summoning there is, which is why all cats do it, even when spring shedding doesn’t necessitate it.

“Disgusting…” Harriet sauntered into the kitchen, following Becca, who had gone for a paper towel. “But now that she’s here…”

Clara knew she should have interceded. Harriet had already been fed, hours before, when Becca had woken from a nightmare. They all had, but poor Becca was so distracted that when she saw Harriet sitting by her bowl, she succumbed—once she’d cleaned up Laurel’s mess. Clara didn’t know if her oldest sister had used any mind control tricks—that one was Laurel’s specialty. That pleading look in her round yellow eyes was probably all she needed.

One thing none of them had mastered, however, was that human device called the phone. Becca’s began buzzing almost as soon as the three had finished breakfast, long before what her ex-boyfriend would have called “a decent hour.” The first call was from Maddy, who sounded determined to try once again cheer up her friend. And while Becca had refused the other woman’s offer of brunch, hearing her old friend talking about something other than collusion seemed to do her good.

It was the other calls that began to weigh on her. Kathy had been her usual self—as bouncy as a rubber ball—when she called, acting for all the world as if the upcoming meeting were a treat. But Marcia had grown so teary that Becca had ended up putting aside her own complicated feelings to comfort her and ultimately found herself asking for Luz, Marcia’s roommate, to calm the distraught paralegal down.

Becca’s mother was next, and even from the other room, the cats could hear her insisting that Becca leave the city and “come home,” wherever that was. Of course, any mention of moving made the felines uneasy, and Laurel took it out on Clara, batting at her as she tried to nap. Larissa—Clara believed she could almost smell her perfume over the line—had gone on so long about some personal tangent that Becca had laid the phone down on the counter and begun to clean as she rattled on. After that, Becca had turned the device off to read, pulling her notes on that old history again, the one that named her great-great-something grandmother as part of some long-ago witch trial.

It was dinnertime when Becca peeked at her phone again, muttering in dismay. “Cousin Joan? Richie? Did Mom tell everyone?” She turned the device on then, and as it rang again, she paused—open can in hand—to answer it.

“Jeff!” she squeaked like a mouse, and dropped the phone.

“Becca, are you there?” Harriet sniffed at the device with disdain. Nothing good came from separating Harriet and her can. “You never called me back.” Even through the tiny speaker, the disembodied voice sounded hurt.

Becca reached for the device, only to be blocked by Harriet, who pressed her furry head into her person’s hand.

“Hang on.” Becca grabbed the phone and propped it on the counter before reaching for a dish. She’d been well trained—and not simply by her cats. “Sorry,” she called over to the phone. “I’ve just been—it’s been crazy.”

Clara could feel the fur begin to rise along her back as the tiny speaker emitted some small, beetle-ish response, and she readied for a leap to the counter. How Becca could even be talking to her ex was beyond the little calico. Sure, he was tall and had what the young woman had called a raffish smile, but if Clara could have knocked the phone all the way into the sink, she would have.

“Wait!” Harriet’s paw landed on her tail. “Not until she fills the dish.”

“But it’s Jeff.” Clara rounded on her. “He cheated on her and broke her heart. You remember!”

“Humans.” Laurel, washing her face, piped up from the corner. “They’re all like that. The males gallivant; the females accept it. Not like us.”

Clara could only stare, focusing her green eyes on her tawny sister. With her Siamese blood, Laurel affected a certain worldliness, but Clara knew that both Laurel and Harriet had to remember the bad times, after the faithless computer programmer had said his last goodbye and all Becca did was cry. There was no way they could be nonchalant about his reappearance. At least, not once Harriet got her dinner.

But Clara hadn’t counted on her sisters’ appetites. Once the dishes were placed on the mat, the two could not have cared less. And while their youngest sister hesitated—tempted like her siblings to bury her face in the savory pile—Becca picked up the phone again.

“Jeff.” At least the break had allowed her the opportunity to compose herself. “I’m so sorry.” She stopped there and bit her lip.

With a sigh, Clara turned from her dish and jumped to the counter. From here, she hoped to get a better handle on the situation, but all she heard from the other end of the line was a one-word query: “What?”

“About—” Becca swallowed. “About Suzanne.”

A spurt of sound followed, and went on for so long that the calico found herself looking longingly down at her bowl. If she didn’t get to her dinner quickly, Harriet would soon be scarfing it up.

“Don’t, Jeff.” Becca’s voice grabbed her attention back. “I know…and I’m sorry.” A pause as her brows knit. “You didn’t hear?”

Harriet was sitting back, demurely washing her face with those cream-colored mitts. Clara knew what was coming next and made her decision. As Becca delivered the news in halting tones—“I found her, Jeff,” she said. “She was, well, she was already gone”—the compact feline hit the floor and headed for her dish. Too late: a large, creamsicle-colored mass had moved into her path.

“Harriet!” Clara tried to push by. Yellow eyes blinked back at her over a well-rounded shoulder. “That’s mine.”

“I didn’t think you wanted it.” Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“Well, I do.” Clara managed to shove past her, and nudged Laurel out of the way as well. The middle sibling had already managed a few bites, but Clara managed to wolf down the rest, ears turned back to hear Becca, who was now in the awkward position of having to comfort her ex.

“Don’t use those ears with me, little sister.” Harriet was waiting when Clara finally came up for air. Not to reprimand her, she knew, but to see if she had left anything over. “I won’t stand for it.”

“Fine.” Clara licked her chops clean. “I’m out of here.”

Before the calico even landed back on the counter, her oldest sister was lapping up the few crumbs she’d overlooked, leaving Laurel to watch, a particularly peeved expression on her pointed face.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Becca was repeating for the umpteenth time. She looked over at the calico on the counter and, wonder of wonders, reached for the bag of treats. Putting the phone down on the counter, she poured several into her palm.

“I can’t—this doesn’t make sense.” The tinny voice seemed to be repeating itself as Clara gobbled down two treats. Take that, Harriet, she thought. “I didn’t think she was that upset.”

“What?” The hand jerked out from beneath Clara. The little calico mewed in protest and her person returned it, even as she again lifted the phone to her ear. “Jeff, what are you saying?”

Clara finished the treats and licked Becca’s palm before looking up with what she hoped was an endearing expression.

“No, she didn’t—it wasn’t suicide.” More treats were not going to be forthcoming. Not while this call lasted. “What made you think…that?”

A loud howl from the floor. Harriet had seen the treats. Seen that her sister had gotten them before she did too.

“Hang on.” Becca went for the bag again, putting the phone on speaker.

“I thought, maybe…” The words were breathy and hesitant, and Clara could almost connect the distant voice to the man she remembered. She had found his boyishness adorable at one point. A little rough with the belly rubs, but tolerant of the sisters’ squabbling and their insistence on sleeping on the bed. But that memory was now overshadowed by another, of the gawky young man pacing back and forth as he explained to their person why he couldn’t be with her anymore. Boyish—try puppy-ish—and not in a good way. It always took him forever to get to the point, as Clara recalled.

“You see,” she heard him say, and Clara realized she could. He’d be pushing his too-long hair back from his forehead, a strained look on his dog-like face. “It’s just that, well, you know I’d gone out with Suzanne a few times. I mean, it wasn’t anything serious. But, well, what makes this all so awful is that I had just told her that I couldn’t see her anymore. Becca, I’d told her I wanted to try to win you back.”

Chapter 10

Becca didn’t sleep much that night either. The image of Suzanne’s too-white skin streaked with darkening blood might have been stained on the inside of her eyelids. Clara picked up on her restlessness and did her best to calm her, staying as still by her human’s side as she could. Not that it mattered. Even when Becca finally drifted off into an uneasy rest, Harriet kept waking her youngest sister with her own grumbling complaints.

“So selfish,” the big cat muttered. “Doesn’t she know I need my beauty rest?”

Clara didn’t respond. Her oldest sister could sleep anywhere—and did. But since Clara had gotten on her case about summoning that pillow out of the ether, she had made a point about what she’d had to sacrifice to live by what she called the “silly” rules. As if she didn’t know full well that the number one rule of feline magic is that cats must keep their powers secret.

Despite Harriet’s complaints, all the sisters knew that wasn’t difficult to do. People attribute all sorts of qualities to cats. Even the most mundane of their kind is considered mysterious, as if being beautiful and incredibly limber were special skills. But while it is true that some basic physical attributes—like a feline’s excellent night vision—are common to all cats, and most felines can conjure up a few supernatural tricks—that disappearing through walls thing Clara had used to follow Becca—only a few are actual witch cats. And, therefore, it was incumbent upon the three sisters to be extra careful.

Harriet sometimes said that they were descended from feline royalty, from the great Queen of Cats herself, and Clara knew that often other cats did treat them with a certain respect. But whether the claim of royal lineage had any basis in fact or was merely another of Harriet’s ploys for getting the best treats, her youngest sibling couldn’t tell for sure. Clara’s one distinct memory of their mother was of being licked by a warm, rough tongue. However, her injunction against revealing their power had stayed with Clara, even if her sisters chose to ignore it. The loyal calico could still clearly recall their tabby mother purring it into her ear even as she sent them off to the shelter to be adopted by the young woman they now served.

“Serve indeed!” Laurel was wakeful too. Needless to say, her memories—and her understanding of the injunction—differed from Clara’s, much as her ease at reading her sister’s thoughts illustrated the range of their powers. “It was pure chance Becca picked us,” said the seal-point beauty as she leaped to the kitchen table, where Becca had abandoned her breakfast to peck away at her computer. “I knew I should have hissed at her. Then maybe some handsome banker would have taken us in.”

“Taken you, you mean.” Clara couldn’t help responding. “We were lucky to stay together.”

Laurel blinked her blue eyes demurely, which was as close to an acknowledgment as she would give, and leaned forward to sniff at Becca’s cereal bowl.

Becca, too intent on her computer, didn’t notice, not even when Laurel extended her pink tongue and began to lap up the leftover milk. Harriet did, though, and after a grunt of effort, landed with a thud by Clara’s side.

“Is that the Fruit Loops?” She nudged Laurel aside. Some things were worth the effort. “Are there any left?”

“What do you mean, ‘blocked’? ” Becca’s question didn’t even merit a tail flick from the sisters, seeing as how it wasn’t accompanied by any move to unseat them. Instead, her hands went to work on the keyboard in front of her. “I’ll show you ‘blocked,’” she muttered, typing furiously.

With her sisters occupied finishing Becca’s breakfast, Clara was free to study her face. For a human, Becca was almost cat-like. Although she was significantly larger than they were, she was small for her kind, and her short, brown hair lay close to her head, much like their fur did. It was the expression on her face, however, that held Clara this morning. When she focused, as she was doing, her lips pursed slightly. If she’d had whiskers, they’d be bristling, the calico thought. Pointing forward, almost. And as if she were truly one of their litter, her intense stare made it evident that she was on the prowl—though how she could trace anything through her computer was beyond the feline who watched her so closely. True, it was warm and at times it purred, but Clara didn’t think that even Becca’s constant stroking and murmuring could make the silver machine give forth the kind of prey that would interest one of her own kind.

“There!” With a final, triumphant slap at the keyboard, Becca sat back, and realization dawned on Clara. Whatever kind of hunt the young woman before her had managed, using this device and her own rather closely cropped claws, she had made a successful pounce.

“So much for wanting me back, Jeff Blakey. So much for nothing serious…” A few more keystrokes followed and then a sudden intake of breath. “Oh!” Her voice was soft. “Oh.”

“What?” Laurel looked up, a rime of milk around her brown snout. “Is she okay?”

“Like you care.” Clara rubbed up against Becca’s hand, partly to comfort her and partly to gain access. As Laurel licked her chops and began to bathe, Clara focused in on the picture in front of her. Sure enough, up on the screen was Becca’s ex-boyfriend, posed in front of the software startup where he spent his days. Even in this flat miniature, with none of the reassuring confirmation of scent, the calico cat recognized those floppy bangs, the broad, easy grin that her person had thought so charming. With a slow blink of her round, green eyes, Clara also realized that she recognized the woman in the picture—the one he had his arm around. Tall, blonde, slim. Suzanne.

“Oh, Clara.” An arm swept the cat off the table before she could see more, and Becca held her close, burying her face in the multicolored fur. “Maddy was right. It wasn’t just a few dates. Jeff even changed his status to ‘in a relationship.’ It was Suzanne, and I didn’t even know.”

Clara felt the warm wet of tears begin to seep through her fur but held still. She knew her sisters scoffed at her sometimes, but the youngest cat saw comforting their person as much of a sacred duty as, well, keeping rodents away or kicking litter on the bathroom floor.

After a few minutes had passed, Becca’s sobs subsided, and she freed the cat to wipe her face. Clara stayed on her lap, though, aware of how her presence had helped. Besides, she had a great view of the computer from here, and she could see where the melancholy girl was now manipulating the image.

“April,” Becca read aloud. With a tingle in her whiskers, Clara could almost feel her thinking. April had been the bad month—the month on the sofa… “So this was from a month ago. Maybe he really did break up with her…”

A few more clicks, and his page was replaced by one that featured Becca’s slender blonde colleague, only in a lot better shape than when Becca had just seen her. Clara’s ears pricked up as Becca began to type some more, her fingers patting at the keys as if they were catnip mice.

“That’s strange.” She rested her chin on the top of Clara’s head, a sure sign that she was thinking. A flurry of typing followed, but the picture on the screen didn’t change. “How can someone on social media have no recent photos?” Clara swished her tail in the hope that Becca wasn’t talking to her. Because of all the mysteries to which the feline was privy, this was one question for which she had no answer.

***

Becca did not answer any of Jeff’s calls that morning, and there were enough of them that they had become annoying.

“I could break it.” Laurel sat atop the bookshelf, looking at the buzzing device. “Just a little push…” One dark chocolate paw rose in the air, ready to dab.

“You can’t,” Clara hissed. Sometimes, she felt like she was the oldest sister. “She needs it.”

“Needs it, huh?” Laurel turned and began licking her tail. She didn’t have to bathe, but she did like to show off her flexibility on the high, narrow shelf.

“You know what I mean.” Clara tried a conciliatory tone. “It’s how she reaches out without having to actually go outside.”

“I thought she was trying to learn how we do that,” the seal-point sister responded, her mew muffled by a mouthful of fur. “Get into people’s minds. Like old what’s his face is—at least now.”

True enough, Jeff had been calling since Becca had turned her phone back on. The voicemail kept piling up, though, and even Harriet could tell they were weighing on Becca. So, Clara at least was glad when Becca had ducked out for a run. She came back glowing and warm. And if her exuberance had been forced, at least she seemed to have an appetite finally, although Clara suspected that Laurel had a paw in that—implanting such an idea was kitten’s play for the seal point, at least with a person as open as Becca.

Whatever the initial impetus, Becca poured more cereal into that bowl and topped it off with more milk as the three felines looked on. That she held the bowl and began to eat before hitting “play all” on her message app did nothing to dissuade Laurel, who circled the young woman like a shark in shallow water.

“Hi, Becca—” She paused, spoon in mouth, to hit delete.

“Bec—” Another gone. “Wait—” Gone.

Two more and she was through, but by then the poor girl seemed to have lost her appetite. Leaving her bowl on the table—Harriet and Laurel eyed each other, waiting for the right moment—she headed for the coffee maker. Before she could even fill it with water, the phone rang again. Thumping the pot down hard enough to make the sisters scatter, Becca reached for the offending instrument, a look like thunder on her usually sweet face.

“Jeff Blakey!” Her voice was at a thunder pitch too. “If you think that I—oh.” She stopped so short that Laurel looked up. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. Yes, I understand,” she said, her righteous indignation replaced by something more like a soft worry. “The station house? Yes, I know where it is.”

Another pause. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I want to help. Suzanne is—” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Suzanne was my friend.”

Chapter 11

Disruption—even when it resulted in abandoned food—was not something any cat could enjoy. And this latest call, which sent Becca out of the kitchen in a rush, was too much flurry for any feline. But Laurel’s latest manipulation—following as it did on Harriet’s lazy summoning of that pillow—was giving Clara an idea. It started as a twitch in her tail and moved up to tickle her whiskers, before emerging as a full-fledged possibility. Since Clara and her sisters did indeed have the powers that Becca believed she possessed, was there any reason they couldn’t use their particular skills to help out the human who had taken them all in?

The sisters had a quick confab on the subject while Becca showered and changed. Or Laurel and Clara did. Harriet was too interested in Becca’s discarded cereal to contribute much.

“And here I thought you didn’t want us using magic in front of humans.” Laurel’s half-closed eyes could have denoted sleepiness, but Clara knew her too well. She was watching her baby sister, hoping to catch her in a contradiction.

“I wouldn’t let her see me—see us—doing anything, of course.” Clara spoke softly but with what she had hoped was a contagious urgency. “But maybe we could poke around a little. Listen in to on her friends and check out what they’re doing when they don’t think anyone is watching?”

Laurel’s ears angled forward, and Clara knew that she was intrigued. “Spy?”

“Well, maybe not that.” Clara had the classic feline sense of entitlement and knew she could enter any room at any time. That word, however, sounded a little nastier than what she had intended. “Just…see if we can help at all. See what we can find out. Becca needs us.”

“Seems to me she’s doing fine.” Laurel was quick to pick up on her sister’s distaste. And as the slender seal point regarded herself the most fastidious of the three felines, she decided to be insulted. Nose up in the air, she turned away from Clara—and then dipped it quickly down to lick Becca’s spoon. Harriet had knocked it out of the bowl when she dove in face first.

“She’s eating. We’re eating.” The slightest tilt of those fluffy white ears—visible above the breakfast bowl’s rim—gave the sole indication that the oldest sister was listening, as Laurel continued to lay out her case. “Am I right?” One dark paw swiped at Harriet’s broad and fluffy tail. “And now she’s rid of both her two-timing boyfriend and the little alley cat he was running around with.” Another swipe. “Hey!” Harriet sat up, licking her chops. “Stop that!”

“I was afraid you’d drowned,” purred Laurel, nudging Harriet aside.

“I hadn’t,” Harriet pouted, before beginning to wash. “Laurel’s right, though.” She hiccupped slightly as she chuckled at her sister’s joke. Cats do enjoy portraying humans as inferior felines. “Becca’s doing fine, and besides, you were so upset with me the last time…”

Clara sighed and felt her whiskers sagging. If only she weren’t the youngest—the baby, the “clown”—maybe her sisters would take her seriously. Sometimes, she thought, that was why she cared about Becca so much. The young woman was a small creature too, in her own way. And they both needed allies. Which was why the compact calico decided to make one more attempt to win over her siblings.

“I’m not talking about physically.” She worked to keep her voice even. Any hint of a growl and Harriet would be on her high horse about rank and birth order again. “I’m worried about her emotional well-being.”

Harriet blinked. Laurel didn’t even look up.

“Did you enjoy being kicked off the bed last night?” Clara was playing her last card, well aware of the reputation cats had for being selfish. In some cases, she was ashamed to admit, it was deserved. “If Becca keeps tossing and turning, then none of us will ever get to sleep on the nice comforter again.”

Harriet’s nose wrinkled up slightly in thought, making the Persian in her background even more obvious. For a moment, Clara dared to hope.

“Doesn’t matter.” Laurel glanced up from the bowl, her pink tongue wiping over a swath of fur. “We can sleep during the day. And this morning, she left two bowls of cereal unfinished. Two.”

“She has a point.” Harriet looked over at the bowl with longing, but Laurel had already licked it clean.

***

Neither actually refused to accompany Clara when she set out with Becca soon after. But, as if reflecting their person’s mood, the day had turned grey, and the threatened rain was enough to have Laurel up on top of the bookshelf, tail curled protectively around her neat booties. Harriet, at least, sounded conflicted, and for a few moments, her youngest sister had thought the big fluffball might join her.

“I am fond of the girl,” Harriet began as Becca laced up her sneakers. “Truly. But it’s so hard to dematerialize right after eating. Couldn’t we wait a half hour and then follow?”

“She’s going to the police station.” Clara tried to convey the urgency. “Where they lock people up—in cages!”

“Oh!” Harriet drew back, raising one paw as if to bat away the idea. “Well, then. As the head of this family, I don’t think any of us should be going there.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Clara agreed as she watched Becca head out the door. “But she is, and so I am too.”

Even though Clara had dismissed Harriet’s excuse as unworthy, she was grateful that she herself hadn’t indulged in any breakfast treats. It isn’t difficult for a cat to pass through a wall, not exactly, but they do have to shimmy and squeeze a bit—just as they do through a regular door as it closes—and the atoms of a solid structure do press in an unfortunate way on a full belly. As it was, the calico had to lope to catch up with her person, and she was pleased to see that the young woman had decided to walk, despite the slight drizzle, rather than catch the bus that stopped at the end of the street.

The Monday workday had begun in earnest, for those who had jobs, and it was all Clara could do to keep up with her person as she strode rather purposefully down the city sidewalk. The hat Becca had jammed on her head before she left the house—a wide-brimmed velvet number that kept the rain off her face—helped. But the cloaked cat still nearly tripped a bearded man in a suit when she stopped suddenly to take in the scents of the damp air. By good luck, her near victim was obsessed with his cell phone and only muttered something about the slippery sidewalk as the shadowy feline slipped by.

Nerves, Clara figured, rather than timing were pushing Becca. Because when she got to the police station, the young woman stopped short. She must have realized she was early to meet whoever it was who had called her.

“That’s all right,” she said to the older man at the front desk. He had enough wrinkles to be a Shar Pei, but his eyes were as sad as a basset hound’s. Clara hoped he’d be gentle with her poor person. “I’ll wait,” she said.

“You can have a seat over there.” His voice sounded doggish too, a low bark without much bite in it. “I’ll make sure he knows you’re here.”

She nodded and retreated to the bench he had pointed out. Before long, she was chewing on her thumbnail. If Clara had to bet, the dark-haired girl was thinking about Jeff and about what Maddy had said. At least, Clara hoped she was. Weighing whether or not to turn in your cheating ex-boyfriend certainly beat out fretting over his betrayal.

“Are you okay?”

Becca started at the voice. The man before her, neat in a pink-striped Oxford shirt and jeans, his damp, dark hair combed off his forehead, didn’t look familiar, and she blinked up at him. Clara, of course, recognized his scent—warm, slightly spicy, with a touch of turpentine.

“What? Oh, yes.” She forced a smile. “Thanks.”

Human senses may not be as acute as a cat’s, but even as Becca dismissed his query with a polite smile, Clara could see the realization dawning on her face.

“You’re the painter.” Her smile relaxed into something more natural. “From—” And then it disappeared. “Suzanne’s.”

“I am.” His voice was low and warm, and as he took a seat on the bench beside Becca, she looked away flustered. “Nathan,” he said, holding out a tanned and calloused hand. “Nathan Raposa.”

“Becca Colwin.” They shook, and Becca’s brows knit as the question begin to form. “Are you here because of…because of Suzanne?”

He nodded. “I let you in. Remember?” His voice sounded kindly, but its effect had worn off. Becca’s slight blush faded to something close to green. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded. “That was the first time I’ve seen—well, a body,” she said. “And you?”

“Oh, I didn’t go in!” He rejected the suggestion with a grimace. “But I was working there all day, and so I guess I’m as close to a witness as they’ve got.”

“Did you see who did it?”

He shook his head, freeing a lock of hair that, as it dried, was slowly returning to sun-bleached blond. “I was around back, probably. And with my music playing…well, I get into the zone. I told them that, but they kept insisting, like maybe there was something I’d overlooked.”

Becca waited.

“I told them all I could.” He paused, that grin was looking sheepish. “And that was that I was working there all morning, and I didn’t see or hear anything. At least, not until you came by.”

Chapter 12

Becca didn’t like the sound of that. Clara could tell by the way her forehead furrowed as she took in a quick breath. But before she could respond—or even let that breath out—her name was called by the man behind the desk.

“You’ll do fine.” Nathan reached over, as if to place one hand over hers, and pulled back just in time. “Just tell them what happened.”

“Rebecca Colwin?” An older man in a rumpled brown jacket was looking around.

“Here, before you go.” Nathan pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Why don’t you give me a call after,” he said, extracting a card. “It might help to talk about it. I’m not going to be able to work today anyway. And, besides, maybe we can salvage something good from the whole experience.”

“Ms. Colwin?” The man in the brown jacket was coming toward her.

“Here.” Nathan pressed the card into her hand as he rose. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Her voice cracked as she, too, stood and turned toward the disheveled man. “I’m Becca—Rebecca—Colwin.”

“Well, Becca Rebecca,” he said as the edges of his mouth twitched into a grin. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Becca turned back, but Nathan was already walking toward the door, and so, with a sigh that probably no one but Clara could hear, she followed the older man in.

***

Fifteen minutes later, she looked like herself again, neither too pale nor too pink. The older man—Detective Abrams—had gotten one of his staff to bring her coffee and take her sodden hat. But even without the extra fortification, she had done her best to recall everything she could from that morning. The detective’s questions had helped, prompting her along when she couldn’t seem to remember some of the details.

Although she’d been dreading it—her response to the handsome painter had made that obvious—the entire experience seemed to be doing her some good.

“Yes, that’s true.” She was nodding enthusiastically as the detective read back her description of the room. “That’s it exactly.”

He had seemed tentative, as if he didn’t trust his own note taking, and Becca was eager to help.

“The door was definitely unlocked when I came in.”

“Unlocked, but was it closed or open?”

She paused. “I am pretty sure it was slightly open. I mean, I knocked, but I wouldn’t have opened it unless it had been off the latch. That’s not me.”

“Of course not, Ms. Colwin.” The detective looked tired, his face as wrinkled as that jacket. But his manner was gentle and his voice soft. “So you heard a voice?”

“No.” Becca looked lost in her memory. “I just—the door opened, and I stepped in, calling for her.”

“Because you sensed something was off?” The detective sounded genuinely curious, his head tilting like Laurel’s did when she was listening to something she didn’t quite understand. “Because of your power—what did you call it, a sensitivity?”

“No, I don’t…” Becca looked flustered. “Oh, you mean the summoning? No, that was—I don’t know what that was.” She almost laughed as she shook her head. “I just wanted you to understand how Suzanne and I know each other. We’re not—we weren’t—friends, exactly, though maybe we could have been, if it weren’t for… Anyway, we know each other from our group. Knew each other.” She swallowed and fell silent.

“Your coven.” The rumpled man waited a moment before offering the word, pronounced so carefully, as if he had never heard it before. At least, thought Clara as she watched him, he was being respectful.

“Well, that’s what we call ourselves.” Becca looked down, slightly abashed. “I don’t even know if I believe in any of it. Only the last time we all got together, things were a little crazy because, well, because I think I did summon something.”

The man opposite her looked so confused Clara almost began to wonder about his intelligence.

“I thought I explained,” Becca said. Obviously, she was wondering too. “I was trying out these spells. And, well, I summoned a pillow out of the ether—out of nowhere.”

“Ah, of course.” A nod of understanding at last as a smile reconfigured those wrinkles. “So you do have power of some kind, and did Suzanne?”

“No, I don’t think so.” The memory made Becca stop and think. “I was the only one who had had any success. At least, thus far.”

“So you were special to the group.” He was speaking slowly, as if he were trying very hard not to miss anything again. But something in his tone was beginning to make the fur along Clara’s back rise.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that…” Becca must have heard an off note too. She had turned away from the man, but Clara could see the hot dark splotches that now stained her cheeks.

“Still, it must have been very gratifying, to have a spell—a summoning spell—work. Especially when none of the other women in the coven had managed that.” He appeared to be reading his notes, but Clara could tell that he was watching Becca. Watching her color rise.

“We’re not all women.” Becca faced him again, eager to set the record straight. “We’re equal opportunity.”

“Ah.” The detective sat back, waiting. A broad grin began to spread across his worn face.

“Our coven leader, Trent, is a man,” she explained. “I mean, we’re very egalitarian. That’s one of the tenets of Wicca, of what we do. But it just so happens that Trent is the most experienced and, well, he’s a man.” She sounded like she’d run out of steam.

“One man in the coven.” The detective seemed to find that interesting. “But even he can’t do what you can. That must be extremely gratifying, especially since you’ve lost your job. Your boyfriend too, I believe. Having a power like that must have made you feel special—especially to this man, this Trent.”

“No.” Becca’s voice was full of scorn. Too full, Clara thought, remembering those flowers. “It’s not like that.”

“No, of course not.” The kind, fatherly face beamed right back at her.

“So tell me, how long were you stalking the victim?”

Chapter 13

Despite her sisters’ reservations, Clara knew that they would have responded. Laurel would have attacked that detective, claws out. Harriet would have bristled, at least, fluffing up her bulk to ottoman-like proportions. Clara simply wanted to get Becca out of there as soon as possible. Luckily, the young woman seemed to be on the same wavelength.

“What? Are you kidding me?” She stood up, her voice rising along with her. “Stalking?”

“Now, now.” The seated man raised his hand as if to stop her, his tired face looking just as gentle as it had all along. “Please, miss. We understand how emotions can run high. Your boyfriend was stepping out…”

“But you don’t understand.” She hesitated, and Clara feared she was going to sit again. “I wasn’t stalking anyone.”

“You knew that the victim was seeing your ex-boyfriend? You’ve said that you were to meet her at noon. He tells us he spoke to you at half past, which leaves a half hour unaccounted for. We’ve also heard that you were quite upset.”

“Jeff?” Her voice ratcheted up again. “He said that?”

“We’ve had several people in to talk with us,” the detective continued.

“What about Trent?” Even as Becca said the name, a look of horror came over her. “Wait, he had a key…”

“We’re speaking to several people,” the detective repeated.

“But you think I…” She reached for the back of the chair, this time to steady herself as she suddenly went pale. “That I could…?”

The tired-looking man did not answer. Instead, he pushed his own chair back with a scraping sound that made Clara—her fur already on edge—jump. “This is an ongoing investigation, but I’m sure all questions will be answered in time,” he said as he rose with a tired sigh. “In the meantime, we’d appreciate it if you remained available to answer any further questions.”

***

Clara had to hold back as Becca left the suddenly airless room. As much as she wanted to brush up against her person—to give her the feline equivalent of a hug with her soft fur and the gentle pressure of her warm body—the little cat had to keep in mind that she was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to Becca. If she showed up here, she’d be as likely to startle her as comfort her. Besides, the young woman was so distracted that even if Clara were as big as Harriet, she’d be at risk of tripping her person as the detective escorted her down the hall and out.

“Becca!” At the sound of her name, the flustered young woman looked up. The day had cleared, but she didn’t appear to feel the warm sun. Instead, she blinked, blind as a new kitten, as a man approached. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” She stopped and focused. It was the painter, only he had rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal sinewy forearms and his hair had dried. “I’m sorry—Nathan?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, his teeth white against his tan. “I thought I’d wait around. And, well, I’m glad I did. You look a little out of it. They didn’t make you look at photos, did they?”

Becca shuddered. “No. No way. We just…talked.”

“Ah.” Nathan nodded, comprehension dawning. “That can be worse. Hey, would you want to get something to eat? I know I could use some coffee and a muffin.”

“Yeah.” She sounded tentative, but then repeated with more resolve. “Yes, I would. I think they think…I think that maybe…” She swallowed hard. “I need to talk this all over with somebody.”

As Clara followed them to the coffee house, she grew increasingly grateful that her sisters hadn’t come along. For starters, Harriet would have gotten so excited by the idea of a muffin that she might have materialized right there, which would have caused no shortage of confusion. Laurel, meanwhile, would have been so intrigued by the sun-kissed painter with his spicy scent that she’d be twining around his ankles as he walked—unless she’d have already rejected him as competition for Becca’s time and attention, in which case, who knew what havoc she would wreak. Although the housecat in Clara understood both impulses, she had more discipline than either of her siblings and prided herself on her calico ability to hang back and weigh a situation before acting.

As she slipped in the closing door and waited by the one empty table, Clara tried to focus on what Becca needed—and what one small feline could do for a beleaguered human.

“Here, drink this.” Nathan had insisted that Becca sit—choosing the same table Clara had picked out—and returned a minute later with a large, froth-topped mug. “You’ve had a shock.”

“Thanks.” A sound rather like a purr emanated from Becca’s mouth, and she licked away a foam moustache with a gesture Laurel would have been proud of. “I really need—what is this?”

“Mocha cappuccino.” Nathan put his own mug down and went back to the counter. By the time he returned, with muffins, Becca had begun to look more like herself, the warmth, milk, and sugar augmenting the caffeine in her recovery.

“I figure you’ve been through an ordeal.” He raised his own mug to drink, but Clara could see he was watching the young woman who sat opposite him. “Were they brutal?”

“It was one man—a detective—and he was, well, full of questions,” Becca said, reaching for the closest muffin. “Though he seemed to know a lot.” She broke off a piece and nibbled at it absently. Clara, who enjoyed her food almost as much as her sisters did, thought she wasn’t really tasting it. “What did you tell them about me?”

“About you?” Nathan’s eyebrows rose. “Just that I let you in.”

“Did you tell them what time?” But the man seated opposite was shaking his head.

“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really keeping track.” He had the decency to look abashed. “And they asked, and so I had to tell them that you looked distracted. But, then, I went around the back again, until, well, until you started screaming.”

“Did you at least tell them how brief my visit was?” Becca broke off another piece, but only crumbled it between her fingers. “I mean, you must have only gotten back to work.”

It was not to be. “Sorry. I had my music playing, and I was really done with the painting for the day. It being Saturday and all, I’d only come by to do another coat on the trim. But, well, I’d noticed you.” He looked down at his mug and thus missed seeing the blush climbing into her cheeks. “I’d seen you coming up the street and I’d been kind of hoping you’d come out soon, and so I was taking my time, cleaning up, until I heard—well, you know. And then I ran around front and saw that other guy holding you, hustling you out of the building. I was ready to jump in. But just then, I heard sirens and the cops were pulling up, and I realized I should stay out of the way.”

Becca blinked up at him.

“Until you’d been taken care of, of course.” The painter’s eyes opened wide. They were blue, Clara noted, but a more grey-blue than Laurel’s. “By the EMT, that is. Then I came forward—anyway, I’m sorry. Finding your friend like that must have been awful.”

“Yeah, it was. Thanks.” Becca held her mug close as color drained from her face to leave her sickly pale. “But Suzanne and I weren’t friends. Not exactly.”

“Ah.” Now it was his turn to look thoughtful. “Work colleagues?”

“We’re in a cov—a group. A discussion group. We were,” she corrected herself as her color returned to something like normal. “We had just had our weekly meeting a few days before, and she’d asked me to come by.”

“And she called you that morning, right?” He bit into his own muffin while he waited for her answer.

“No.” Becca shook her head. “She’d asked me when we last met. Why?”

“Huh.” Another bite, and his face grew thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “That’s strange. I heard her on the phone earlier that morning—maybe an hour or two before you showed up. She sounded like something was on her mind. Honestly? Maybe even angry.”

Becca nodded. Clara didn’t have to be as psychic as Laurel to know she was thinking of Jeff and of what he’d told her. “So you did hear some things,” she said, and Clara looked up with pride. Cats don’t tend to think of their humans as successful hunters. They know the average biped is far too inept. But this girl was sharp.

“I was working right outside her apartment at that point.” Nathan spoke as if it were no big deal, but Becca was on it like a kitten on a catnip mouse.

“And I assume you told the police that her living room window was open?”

Clara held her breath, every guard hair on alert.

“I’m sure they know.” Now it was his turn to look away, flustered. “And they had people all over that apartment. I haven’t been allowed back to finish, or even get my gear.”

“You haven’t—” Becca tilted her head, as if she’d heard a whistle far away. Maybe, Clara thought, she was thinking of keys—and access to a young woman’s apartment. “How well did you know Suzanne?”

“Me? Not at all.” He shook his head. “We said hi a few times.” His sadness seemed genuine, but Becca pushed on. “I didn’t know any of the tenants.”

“So then who hired you, Nathan?”

“Some management company.” He was staring at the door, like Harriet at a cabinet full of treats. “I get referrals. Why are you asking—you don’t think that I...”

“I don’t know what to think.” Becca said, speaking slowly. “I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before.”

Chapter 14

Becca was on her phone as soon as she left the coffee house.

“Maddy, I’ve had the weirdest morning, you wouldn’t believe who I just had coffee with.” She sounded breathless, and Clara didn’t think that was due to her pace. Nor did she give her friend a chance to answer. “That painter I told you about?”

Late morning, and it was easy for the shadowing feline to keep up, the rush hour crowds she’d battled earlier having all dispersed to their various daytime destinations. As Becca walked, holding her phone to her ear, Clara realized that her friend was one of those office drones. That would explain why her person was sharing her news over the phone rather than at one of their customary confabs. It might also have explained the friend’s mood, which—from Becca’s face—was not improved by the news that Becca had shared a snack with this particular young man, no matter how solicitous he might have seemed.

“Maddy…Maddy, wait.” Becca actually stopped, raising her hand as if her friend could see her. “This wasn’t a date. I know he was there. We ran into each other at the police station. Look, we talked about it. I asked him a bunch of questions, and they did too. No, he’s not a suspect.” She lowered her voice on that last word, but Clara’s ears pitched forward to catch it all. “I was down there answering questions too, Maddy.”

After she hung up, Becca walked the rest of the way in silence. That gave her pet a chance to mull over what she’d learned—and what she could infer. This Nathan, for example, was not previously known, not even to Becca’s more gossipy friend. That he seemed to like Becca was obvious, even without that rather flattering admission.

To her cat, this made perfect sense. Clara knew Becca was an attractive young woman. Her coat was smooth and glossy, and she always smelled nice to the little feline. Plus, as her pet well knew, Becca hadn’t had any suitors since Jeff had broken her heart. And while Trent had seemed promising—those flowers had been good enough to eat—he hadn’t made any moves that a friend wouldn’t. Well, if you bought his line about the bouquet being a hostess gift, that is. It didn’t take any magic to see that Becca liked the painter as well, perhaps because of his pleasant pine-y aroma. And while Becca had been appropriately skeptical, asking some good questions, Clara had witnessed that blush.

But the conversation had taken a dark turn once Becca had brought up the ongoing investigation. For all that the cute painter had claimed not to have kept track of the time, he did seem to keep adding details to his recollections—details that might implicate Becca. And when Becca had asked about his work—about who owned or managed Suzanne’s apartment—he’d become as skittish as a kitchen mouse. Clara could tell that Becca was disconcerted when the handsome painter had excused himself rather suddenly and left. What she didn’t know was whether her human had been more upset by the questions he had left unanswered—or the ones that he had failed to ask her.

Perhaps it was too much to expect some peace in which to ponder all these variables. Too much to expect a quiet afternoon once the two got home. Not when they’d left Laurel and Harriet behind. After all, Clara had tried to get them involved, and she should have known that both her sisters took a while to get started in the morning. But Becca and Clara returned to find the apartment a wreck—all the cushions off the couch and the mauled remains of Trent’s bouquet spread across the floor.

“Oh, kitties!” Becca immediately began gathering the scattered blossoms, most of which were broken or shredded past recognition. They had been fading anyway. Now, however, they were beyond recall.

“What were you thinking?” Clara found Laurel and Harriet on the sill, reclining in the sun. For once, Harriet wasn’t hogging all the space, and their calico sister jumped up to join them, squeezing in between the two. “Isn’t she having a hard enough time without this?”

“We were…investigating,” said Laurel with a faint purr. “I’m not sure I trust that Trent fellow.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” Clara had to admit. Men, she was beginning to realize, were often a complication. “But…”

“I thought about cleaning it all up.” Harriet looked up, blinking, and Clara realized her oldest sister had been asleep. “But you threw such a hissy fit last time.”

“That was diff–” Clara caught herself. No good ever came out of arguing with Harriet.

“Besides,” the oldest sister said as she began to bathe, “Jeff wouldn’t want to see some other man’s flowers here.”

“Jeff?” Clara turned her head and caught it. The vibration. Someone was coming to the door. With a thud, Harriet landed first and waddled off, but Laurel and Clara quickly caught up as she headed toward the door.

“What the—kitties?” Becca looked up, broken stems in her hand, just in time to hear the buzzer. “Jeff!” She opened the door, reaching up reflexively to smooth her hair, and only succeeded in dropping some pale pink petals in her brown curls.

“Here, let me.” In lieu of a more traditional greeting, Jeff leaned over and picked out a few blossoms as Becca sputtered. “Cats got at the flowers again?”

“Yeah, they can’t seem to resist.” Becca turned toward the kitchen, where she dumped the ruined bouquet rather unceremoniously in the trash.

“I don’t know why you bother.” Her ex followed, stopping only when he saw the vase, where the one rose had somehow survived. “Oh,” he said, the reality dawning. “You didn’t…”

“A friend brought them.” Becca focused on cleaning up the rest of the debris. “Just a thank you gesture.”

“Silly girl,” Laurel mewed as she leaned her tan side against Jeff’s shin. “We got him to notice them, didn’t we?”

“Becca doesn’t play those kinds of games.” If looks had claws, Laurel would have felt Clara’s. “So that’s why you trashed the place.”

“Huh.” Harriet sat staring up at Becca. To her, a human in the kitchen meant only one thing: food. “She just attacked them because she could.” Of course, the bouquet had been on a high shelf. Becca has grown rather used to the cats’ tricks, at least, the non-magical ones.

“With everything going on, I took the day off,” Jeff explained as he extricated himself from Laurel and reached out to Becca. “I wanted to see you. I mean, that—it—must have been so awful for you.”

“Yeah, it was.” Becca fussed a bit more with the dustpan, chasing the last few petals with the brush as they skittered away like so many moths, before giving up. Standing, she turned to face her ex. “Saturday was possibly the worst day of my life, but today hasn’t been great either.”

“Oh, honey.” He reached to embrace her.

“Don’t!” Her raised hand stopped him short. “Jeff, you can’t—I didn’t even know about you and Suzanne before…before Saturday. You can’t just waltz back in. Not now, that she’s…”

“Becca, it’s not like that.” His arms had dropped to his sides, but he showed no sign of retreating. “I told you. I’d broken it off with Suzanne. We were over.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not what the cops think.” Her voice had an edge that set Clara’s ears back.

He shook his head as if bewildered.

“They accused me of stalking her,” Becca said.

“Oh.” That one syllable was enough.

“Jeff?” It was the warning voice. The one Becca used with the cats when they got too close to a candle.

“It’s just—” He paused and his boyish face assumed a hangdog look. “They came by to talk to me this morning. They had a lot of questions, and they seemed to know we’d, uh, gone out a few times. They seemed to think it was somebody Suzanne knew and, so, well… Anyway, I’d told them that Suzanne had been freaked out recently. That she was worried that someone was following her. I didn’t know that they’d think it was you.”

“So that’s why you took the day off. I think you’d better start at the beginning, Jeff Blakey.” Becca nodded toward the living room, but from the way she was standing, arms crossed, she wasn’t thinking of her guest’s comfort. “And this time, don’t leave anything out.”

***

“I didn’t mean to get you in any trouble.” Twenty minutes later, they had moved to the couch, though Becca was keeping a cushion—the cushion—between them. At some point during Becca’s retelling of what had happened and Jeff’s apologies for what he’d said, Harriet and Laurel had given up and gone to seek out real moths, leaving only Clara to listen in. “It was all that stupid group—your witch group.” His voice dripped with contempt. “The coven she was so proud to be part of.”

Becca held her tongue, but a more sensible man would’ve noted her expression.

“I mean, who believes in magic in this day and age?” He was digging himself in deeper.

“What do you mean?” Clara saw the effort it took for Becca to keep her voice level. Maybe Jeff did too, because he sighed and pushed his hair back before trying to explain.

“Well, like, Suzanne told me there were some issues. I guess she’d gone out a few times with someone in the group? Anyway, he’d given her this necklace. You know, that glass thing she always wore?”

“The crystal teardrop?” Becca had only seen it briefly, but she could visualize it. Her hand moved up and she touched the hollow of her own throat.

“Yeah.” Jeff nodded as he watched the movement of Becca’s hand. “That’s the one. She was really careful about taking it off before you guys met, though. Said it would bring down bad juju or something. What kind of craziness is that?”

“Really.” Clara knew there was more to this. Becca did too, from the way she stared at her ex. “Bad juju?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe it was a jealousy thing. You know, ’cause she’d dumped the guy. Then I thought, well, maybe it was some other ex. But the group is mostly women, right?”

She nodded. “So you told the cops that I was stalking your new girlfriend. Making me the prime suspect for her murder.”

“Oh, Becs, I’m sorry.” His arm went up on the sofa back, so Clara jumped to the space between them and settled in. One couldn’t be too careful. “It was just the first thing I thought of—I never meant for them to suspect you.”

Becca shot him a look Laurel would have been proud of but held her tongue.

“Really,” he said, leaning over Clara. The cat yawned and stretched to her full length. “I meant what I told her. I’ve really missed you.”

“So you keep saying.” Becca stood and walked to the door, arms once again crossed across her body. She didn’t need Laurel to suggest that it was time for Jeff to leave. “And maybe it’s even true. But all that means is that maybe you had reasons of your own to get rid of Suzanne.”

Chapter 15

“And I left my hat at the police station too!”

Becca was leaning on the door, having just ushered Jeff out. But all her resolve seemed to crumble once her ex was gone, and she collapsed on the sofa with a wail that brought her three pets running.

It wasn’t just the hat, of course. Even Harriet recognized that, as much as she had liked to sit on the velvet topper—when it was dry—and who now offered her bulk as comfort. It’s hard when your heart has been broken, Clara figured as she rubbed her head against the prone girl. It’s harder still when your ex suggests you have a motive for murder—and you realize he might have done it himself.

But the Becca who sat up, dislodging Harriet, and wiped her face seemed more clear-eyed than the love-struck girl of only a few minutes before. And after she blew her nose, she pulled her laptop computer toward her and began typing.

“I don’t know if Jeff meant to get me in trouble,” she said, glancing over at the calico cat who had sat beside her, grey tail coiled neatly around her white paws. “But he’s forgotten that I’m a researcher. If someone really was stalking Suzanne, I bet I can find out who.”

Her typing was interrupted by the phone. Not that she answered it—not right away—but she did reach for the device. The observant feline watching her could tell by the way she bit her lip that she was considering letting it go to voice mail—yes, cats know about such things—before, on the sixth ring, she picked up.

“Hey, Kathy. I mean, merry, uh, meet?” She made the effort to put some cheer in her voice. “What’s up?”

In the pause that followed, her shoulders sagged.

“No, no news.” Her assumed cheer was drooping as well. “I answered some questions for them, and I guess they talked to—well, they’re talking to some other people as well. Look, Kathy, I was in the middle of trying to research something—” A pause, and she sat back up. “You do? Wow, that would be great. With everything going on, I could use some good news. Thanks.”

An hour or so later, the bell rang and Becca jumped to answer it. Despite having hosted the coven only five days earlier, she’d spent much of the time since the phone call cleaning up—as if the tufts of fur her pets had placed so carefully in the interim were something to be ashamed of.

“Kathy, come in!” Becca ushered in her guest. “I guess I should say merry meet, but…”

“Darling, don’t worry about it,” said the redhead, whose all-black outfit seemed somewhat at odds with what had become a bright spring afternoon.

“Thanks. Is that…” Becca hesitated. “Are you in mourning?”

“Of course,” said Kathy, who plumped down on the sofa right in Harriet’s spot. Clara looked around for her oldest sister, but she and Laurel had made themselves scarce, which was odd. Laurel, in particular, usually relished a chance to adorn black clothing with her lightest brown body fur. “Oh, you mean—all black?”

Becca nodded and took her usual seat, while Clara made herself comfortable on the arm rest.

“I just came from work.” Kathy shooed the word off like a pesky fly. “I want them to respect me there.”

Becca nodded again, as if this made sense to her.

“Do you have, like, a glass of wine or something?” Kathy leaned forward, her voice becoming conspiratorially soft. By force of habit, Clara looked around. Laurel had appeared in the doorway, tail up inquisitively.

“Oh, sure!” Becca retreated to rummage in the kitchen, while Clara leaped to the floor to fill her sister in.

“Something about a job,” she mewed, ever so softly, in her brown-tipped ear. “Though I think this one wants to gossip.”

“I know that.” Laurel glanced sideways at her sister, her blue eyes looking deceptively innocent.

“Oh, look at your cats!” Kathy called into the kitchen. “They’re head-butting each other.”

“They are?” Becca appeared with the glasses and the bottle of Chardonnay she’d opened on a whim two weeks before. “Usually, they fight.”

“Cats.” The redhead reached up to take the bottle with an exaggerated shrug. “Who can tell? Anyway, I’ve been meaning to stop by and see how you were doing. I’ve been thinking about you. How awful that must have been—finding her and then being interrogated by the police.”

“Told you,” Clara whiskered to Laurel as the guest shivered dramatically.

“Well, not interrogated, actually.” Becca stared into her wine. “They just asked me about what I saw and how I know her, and everything.”

“Horrible.” Kathy shook her head. Her mouth was pursed in concern but her eyes were wide with interest. “What you must have seen…”

In response Becca only nodded and took a swallow. When she started to choke, the other woman jumped up to pat her back.

“Sorry.” Becca wiped away the tears from her coughing fit. “Yeah, it just brought it all back.”

“I can only imagine.” Kathy eyed her own glass, then appeared to think better of it. “They don’t have any suspects yet…do they?”

“I hope not.” As her guest blinked, Becca rushed in to explain. “I mean—I don’t think so. Only I’m worried they might think I was involved.”

“Oh, they can’t!” Kathy protested, reaching for Becca’s hand.

“They called me back in this morning to answer more questions.” Becca sounded glum, even as Kathy held onto her. “And they said they might have more.”

“Well, we know there’s nothing in that—and we’re all here for you. Here.” Kathy topped off her glass, and lifted her own in solidarity. “Interesting.” She examined the bottle.

“It’s been in the fridge for a while.” Becca admitted.

“It’s fine.” Kathy waved her off and took another swallow, wrinkling her freckled nose at the taste. “After all, you’ve had quite a shock. But anyway, that’s not why I came over.” She raised her glass in a salute. “I’ve got a job for you!”

“Yes?” Becca actually shifted to the edge of her seat. Kathy grinned and almost shimmied with satisfaction as she took another sip.

“She’s toying with her.” Laurel’s tone made her sister turn. She was staring at Kathy as she choked down the wine. The expression on the feline’s face was a little hostile but also a bit respectful, and Clara didn’t think it was because of their visitor’s ability to drink.

“How dare she!” Clara could feel her ears going back.

“No, it’s okay.” Laurel raised one dark chocolate paw, ready to bat her younger sibling. She was leaning in and listening—using her skills to hear the thoughts behind the words. “She’s dragging it out to make it last. She wants to bond. Like we do.”

Clara lashed her tail, unsure of that, and Laurel wisely lowered her paw.

“It’s not a glamorous position,” Kathy was saying. “And maybe you wouldn’t even want it. Only, well, I know how tough it is out there.” Now it was her turn to lean in, and her voice got softer. “You know what a hard time I had after Joey and I broke up,” she said. “How I fell into a depression.”

“I don’t think I knew you then.” Becca’s voice was gentle, and when her guest didn’t respond, she kept talking. “I’m sorry it was hard for you.”

“Thanks.” Her friend looked down into her glass, her voice unusually quiet. “The coven really saved me. We witches have to stick together.”

“Definitely.” Becca smiled, though Clara could see the uncertainty around the corners of her mouth. “If only I could be sure we’re really witches.”

“You’re not?” The redhead’s eyes went wide in surprise. “I thought you, of all people…”

“Well, I’m hoping.” A faraway look came over Becca. “You know, I did some research on my own family, and it does look like there was at least one wise woman—a ‘wyrd sister’—in my family tree, back in the 1760s. In fact—”

“Well, don’t tell Eric that when you speak to him!” Kathy interrupted.

“Eric?”

The brassy curls bounced as she nodded. “Eric Marshfield, my supervisor. They’re looking for someone to handle data entry. They want to modernize the system, make it so you can see comparables. I think that’s not your thing exactly, but the company’s growing…”

“I’ll call him tomorrow.” Becca grabbed a pad and began making notes. “I can do systems, and, frankly, I need a job. Thanks, Kathy. After all that’s happened…”

“I know.” Kathy tried the wine again, with only a small wince this time. “It’s just unbelievable, isn’t it?”

Becca swallowed, going slightly green. Clara made a mental note to knock the wine bottle over if she got the chance. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t hear what the trouble was with her and Ande, did you?” Kathy seemed not to notice Becca’s discomfort. Then again, she’d finished her own glass.

“No.” Becca shook her head. “Suzanne said she wanted to talk to me about something, but I never got to hear about what.”

“Trent gave us all a ride, and there was definitely something going on with those two. Larissa noticed it too. You know,” Kathy leaned close. Clara’s ears pricked up. Laurel might be right about the desire to bond. That didn’t mean the calico wanted to miss out on anything. “I hear they were both into the same guy. I wonder if the police know about that.”

“The same—” Becca recoiled, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Ande was seeing Jeff too?”

“Who’s Jeff?” Kathy tipped her head to the side. “I’m talking about Trent.”

Chapter 16

“I knew that man was up to no good.” It was all Clara could do to keep from spitting.

Laurel stared at her sister with her blue eyes wide, the feline equivalent of raised brows. “Really, Clara?” Her normal mew sank to a near purr as her whiskers perked up—more a result, Clara had to believe, of her being right than in glee over Becca’s disappointment. “You are such a kitten.”

“But you were the one who suspected him…” Clara closed her eyes, thinking of the ruined bouquet. Laurel always did try to misdirect attention from her appetites.

When she opened them, her sister was still there. As was that Kathy. Though, to do the shorter woman credit, she looked just as upset as Becca.

“You didn’t know?” Her mouth made an O of concern.

“Someone may have suggested…a while ago.” Becca shook off the exaggerated response. “But I’d heard that Suzanne was seeing my ex, Jeff.”

“Oh.” Kathy sat back and seemed to take that in, her round face growing serious. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about that.”

“But you’re sure about Suzanne—and about Ande?”

A shrug. “No, I’m not sure sure. Not really. But that’s what I heard.”

“Where’d you hear it?” Clara tilted her ears forward. This seemed a legitimate question to her, the kind an inquisitive cat would pose.

“I don’t really remember.” Kathy looked at her wine glass, but then seemed to think better of it. “Maybe from Larissa? Anyway, it probably doesn’t mean anything—Trent’s, well, you know.” A shy smile brought out her freckles. “He’s Trent. Anyway, I should get going. Get in touch with Eric, though, and let me know what happens, okay?”

Becca walked her guest to the door in a daze and stood, her forehead leaning on the doorframe, for several minutes after she left. Clara circled her ankles in solidarity and allowed the young woman to heft her to her shoulder.

“How undignified!” The calico looked down to see Laurel staring up at her.

Harriet joined her seal-point sister a moment later. “Does this mean we’ll get treats?” she asked, before Laurel swatted her, and she plodded off. Becca, meanwhile, had collapsed back on the sofa, her lids closing in exhaustion.

“I need to talk to Ande. If only I could just summon her.” Becca was talking to herself; Clara knew that. Still, she glared down at her sister in alarm. Had Laurel suggested this stupid idea somehow?

But the slim feline flicked her tail and turned away dismissively. She didn’t have to be psychic to read the angle of Clara’s ears, but, clearly, she was having none of it. Clara didn’t think either of her sisters could actually implant a totally new thought in a person’s mind, only suggest a direction. Then again, she was the youngest and not at all sure of just how much power they each had. As it was, Becca had let her smallest cat slide to her lap, and with a deep sigh, reached for her phone. “I should just call her,” she said, her voice flat with fatigue. “Tomorrow.” She put the phone down. Just then, a yowl sounded. Harriet—from the kitchen.

That roused Becca as nothing else could, and Clara jumped to the floor. Laurel was already on her way to see what their oldest sister was up to.

“I’m hungry!” Harriet complained once her audience had assembled, her yellow eyes wide with pleading. Of course, her request sounded like a plaintive mew to Becca, but because the chubby creamsicle of a cat was standing by her empty dish, it wasn’t hard to figure out her meaning.

“Oh, kitty! I’m sorry.” Becca reached for the cabinet where she kept the cans. “It is your dinner time, isn’t it? Only—” She paused, and it hit Clara: she knew why Harriet had disappeared moments before.

“You didn’t!” She hissed. Partly out of surprise. Harriet never let anything get in the way of her creature comforts. “But why?”

“Yow.” It was a non-answer as she turned her round eyes on her youngest sibling, her whiskers spreading into a supremely self-satisfied smirk.

“I could’ve sworn I had…” Becca paused, staring at the empty shelf and shaking her head. Seeing her dismay and evident fatigue, Clara concentrated, trying hard to will the young woman to keep looking. The little calico knew that while her sister could summon items out of the ether, it was harder to send them back. Besides, odds were that those cans had simply been moved to another shelf. Clara couldn’t imagine Harriet would ever really risk having no food in the house.

But any feline’s magical power has its limits, and Clara lacked Laurel’s particular ease with human thoughts. And so instead of doing a thorough search for those missing cans, within a minute Becca was cursing her own carelessness and muttering promises to her pets that she would return soon—with provisions.

“I wouldn’t let my girls starve!” She sounded so earnest it hurt Clara to hear her. “I know you depend on me.”

Harriet’s low, self-congratulatory “thrrup” was the only response. Clara didn’t even make eye contact with her sisters as she followed their person out the door. She knew they were up to something, but it was more important to the compact calico that she watch out for Becca than she grill her siblings. Besides, being the youngest as well as the smallest, she didn’t have much leverage. She wasn’t a tail biter like Laurel. And the one time Clara had tried to actually push Harriet, as opposed to reasoning with her, her big sister had responded by sitting on her. Her whiskers weren’t right for months.

Taking advantage of the deepening dusk, the little calico was virtually invisible even without a masking, her stripes and splotches blending in with the shadows as the after-work crowd filled the sidewalks. And as Becca made her way to the local grocery, Clara began to wonder if she’d made the wrong choice. Maybe Laurel and Harriet had merely wanted to get her out of the apartment. It didn’t take much to imagine what they might be up to, back there alone, and she was just about to turn around when Becca stopped short.

“Ande!” Clara looked up to see a tall, slim figure about to enter the store. The woman paused on hearing her name, and Clara could hear Becca whisper to herself: “Did I summon her?”

“Becca, blessed be.” The dark-haired woman managed a smile as she walked back toward her coven mate. But it was a weak one and didn’t touch her eyes. “What’s up? You headed to the Superette?”

Before their person could answer, Clara turned with a hiss. “Harriet!” Only instead of her fluffy sister, she saw a pair of almond-shaped blue eyes. “Laurel?” Clara corrected herself as the other cat took shape. “Don’t you see that Becca is going to think she made Ande appear? You knew she wanted to question her. How could you?”

“I was curious,” her sister purred. “Weren’t you?”

“No!” Clara stopped. “Well, yes, but…” It was too late. First, Laurel’s brown ears and tail faded into the shadows, and then her tan torso, until finally she closed those mischievous blue eyes and disappeared entirely.

Clara still sensed her sister’s presence and knew she’d be lurking somewhere, listening. But the youngest cat was in damage-control mode now. Drawing closer, she focused on the conversation between the two young women.

“I know, it’s just so horrible. I can’t imagine…” Ande spoke softly as the stream of post-work shoppers flowed past them. As she did, she shook her head, as if she could rid her mind of the last few days.

“You don’t want to.” Becca’s voice was somber, and Clara had to fight the urge to go to her. As much as the little cat wanted to comfort her person, she knew that materializing in front of the Superette would not have the desired effect.

“Ugh.” Ande put her hand over her mouth, as if she could block the image. “That’s right. Are you okay?”

Becca shrugged, staring off into space as if she were a cat or simply done with the conversation. And then, just as Clara had begun to hope that maybe this would be it—that her friend’s sympathy would stir in Becca a desire to talk about anything but the events of the previous Saturday—Becca took a deep breath and turned to face her elegant friend.

“In fact, I was wondering.” Becca was holding her voice steady, but Clara could hear the tension vibrating within her. “I gather you and Suzanne were chatting about something—after the coven meeting?”

“Oh, it wasn’t important.” Another wave, as if the question were a pesky fly. “Not in light of what’s happened.”

Becca’s voice dropped. “Ande, are you dating Trent?”

The other woman flushed, a deep red infusing her caramel-colored cheeks, and her long, dark lashes sank to shield her eyes. “I went out with him a few times. But I wouldn’t say we’re dating.”

“So that wasn’t what you wanted to talk to Suzanne about? I remember you calling to her—that she’d ‘promised’ you something?” Becca’s voice was gentle, but there was something in her expression that her cat recognized. It was the look she got when she was hunting down an elusive reference—as intense as what Clara had seen on Laurel’s face that one time a mouse had gotten into the apartment.

Ande didn’t take refuge under a nearby refrigerator, however, or even duck inside the store. Instead, she stood straighter, emphasizing the good six inches she had on Becca. She had an imposing presence anyway, and as she squared her shoulders, two separate shoppers held their grocery bags closer as they made their way around her.

“What? No.” She dismissed the question before launching her own. “Is that what Larissa is saying?”

“I—never mind.” Becca tended to look down when she was embarrassed, and she began to stare at the sidewalk, as if unsure whether the gathering dusk would soon obscure whatever she found so fascinating there. “I just…”

“You can’t think I…over a man…” Ande’s face froze in horror as the implication of Becca’s question hit home. “No, he and I—it was never serious. In fact—”

She stopped so short, Clara peered around to see if either of her siblings had grabbed her tongue.

“In fact?” Becca dared a glance up, as curious as a cat waiting to hear what the taller woman was about to say.

“In fact, Suzanne and I were kind of working on something together.”

Becca nodded, waiting for the other woman to continue.

“Okay, this is going to sound crazy.” Ande crossed her arms and leaned in. “You know I’m an accountant, right?”

Becca’s curls bobbed as she nodded.

“Well, the coven actually has a bank account. Silly, I know, but that’s how Larissa set it up, back when we started, for our monthly tithing and anything else that came up. And a few weeks ago, she asked me look into something. I think she got whacked on taxes this year. Anyway, she wanted to know if we could apply for nonprofit status.” Ande rolled her eyes. “I mean, she has a point. We probably should come under the religious exemption, as practicing Wiccans, but that requires a whole lot of paperwork that I’m not sure we want to get into—or that I want to do gratis.” A wave of one of those elegant hands, as if she were summoning the seafood department to come out to greet her.

“But anyway, when I was looking at the statements, it was pretty obvious that some money has gone missing. We don’t have a lot, but it’s added up over the years, and even with Larissa’s carelessness—her bookkeeping is positively reckless—we’re down a couple of thousand dollars.”

Becca didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Even in the fading light, her confusion showed on her face.

“Crazy, right?” Ande chuckled. “When Larissa started it, I think it was more like a personal account—a way for her to put some money aside. She provided the seed money for expenses—you know, the fliers and the tea. And, well, she has the bucks, so why not? But the balance is definitely not what it should be, especially since we’ve all been ponying up our five bucks a month. Though it could just be that awful tea is more expensive than any of us knew.”

Becca’s lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “The witches’ tea?”

“Awful,” Ande repeated. “But anyway, I told Larissa that it would be really complicated to apply for a change in our status and that if she wanted to pursue it, I was going to have to find out what was going on with the accounting, you know? Larissa told me to forget about it. Said it didn’t matter, she’d make up the difference, and went on about how the cohesion of the coven was what really mattered. Our trust is our power, and all that. She’s got more money than the queen, so I’m fine with that. It was Suzanne who wanted to pursue it.”

“How’d she know about it?”

Ande had the grace to look sheepish. “I might have mentioned it when we were all getting our coats a week or two ago. She said she’d found something—and that she thought more of us should know—and promised to tell me. Only I never got to find out what it was. I thought she’d tell me on the ride home, but no luck.”

“And you didn’t follow up?”

A sad smile as she shook her head. “Frankly, I didn’t think it was a big deal, though it seemed to matter to Suzanne. I mean, we’re kind of Larissa’s pet project, and so if she didn’t care about making up the difference, why should I, right?”

“I guess.” Becca sighed. “I wasn’t aware of any of this.”

“Well, you’ve been dealing with your own stuff.” Ande’s voice was gentle. “We all know about the breakup and your job…” She didn’t have to say more. Becca’s eyes had already begun to fill again.

She blinked back the tears as Ande kept talking.

“Besides, it probably wasn’t anything,” she was saying. “Larissa thought Suzanne was just being paranoid. She’d taken to calling her ‘zany Zane,’ like she had gone utterly nuts. I thought that was a bit harsh. Honestly, it made me wonder if maybe Larissa had it in for poor Suzanne.”

As soon as the words were out of Ande’s mouth, she tried to backtrack.

“I don’t mean it like that,” she said, waving her hands again, as if she could clear the air. “Larissa wouldn’t. She’s not a killer. But she is a drama queen, and I thought maybe she was embarrassed that I saw how sloppy her bookkeeping was—or even that she was enjoying, well, pitting us against each other.”

“She does like to be the center of attention.” Becca looked thoughtful. “And when I found Suzanne, her door was open.”

“Her door?” Ande sounded confused and gasped as the import of Becca’s statement hit her. “You mean, like she opened it for someone? Oh, you can’t mean…Becca, no.”

“Did the police talk to you?” Becca answered Ande’s question with her own, a curious look on her face. “Because they should really know about this.”

“No.” Ande started backing away. “They haven’t. And why should they? I mean, all I can really say for sure is that Larissa is careless with her bank balance and she doesn’t want anyone to know it.”

“I don’t know what to think.” Becca laughed softly. “Because I told the police that Suzanne was my friend too, and they’re still asking questions about me, Ande. They think I might have done it.”

Chapter 17

“That’s ridiculous!” Ande rejected the idea that Becca could be considered a suspect. “It had to be a stranger. She must have just opened her door to someone she didn’t know.”

Clara watched Becca as she listened to her colleague’s increasingly heated protest. Ande’s words echoed what Becca herself had said, her pet knew, and yet the focus visible on her person’s face suggested that her own dear person wasn’t accepting her own answer so readily from the other woman.

That focus seemed to grow sharper—and almost catlike—as Becca narrowed her eyes and pressed for more detail about the coven finances. If Becca had whiskers, Clara thought, they would have been bristling as Ande continued to stonewall.

“It’s silly, really.” The accountant fluttered those elegant hands as if she could dispel the thought. “Larissa doesn’t care, so I don’t even know why Suzanne bothered. Larissa is the one putting the money up.” But when Becca pressed her about what else might have been worrying the dead woman, Ande only shook her head.

“She and I weren’t that close,” she kept repeating. “I mean, she asked about my work—she had only recently started some new job herself, something Larissa helped set her up with, so I think it was just conversation, you know?”

Knowing how limited human senses could be, Clara snuck up to the other woman at that point, sniffing at the accountant’s chic boots to see if she could pick up on anything more than general distress. This close to a grocery store, such a task could be a challenge: the aromas of meat and fish, herbs and produce were as distracting as fireworks to acute feline senses. Before she could get a good take, Becca appeared to give up on the financial thread and instead began insisting that Ande inform the police about her conversations with Larissa. At that, Ande grew so distraught that she abandoned her errand, leaving before she had even begun her shopping.

But although the calico briefly wondered if Becca’s mission would be similarly derailed, she soon realized she hadn’t counted on her person’s loyalty and focus. No matter what else was on her mind, Becca wasn’t going to come home empty-handed. Of course, the flicker of fur Clara caught out of the corner of her eye as they entered the grocery might have had something to do with that. Clara didn’t think either Harriet or Laurel could influence Becca’s thoughts that much, but she was pretty sure they had found a way to keep both “cat” and “food” in the consciousness of their impressionable person.

“Don’t you have any of the turkey treat?” Becca was evidently under Harriet’s influence. The fluffy marmalade adored poultry flavors, and the shelf in front of her was fully stocked with Clara’s favorite tuna feast.

“I’ll check, miss.” The harried-looking clerk took off, leaving Becca standing there. Clara did her best to concentrate.

“I wonder if the missing funds were really what was bothering Suzanne?” She reached and—yes!—took two of the tuna cans from the display as she mused. “But if there was something else going on, why wouldn’t Ande tell me about it?” She absently reached out, putting two more cans in her basket, and Clara began to reevaluate her own powers of psychic suggestion. “Just because they both dated Trent…”

By the time the clerk re-appeared, a case of the horrid turkey treat in his arms, she’d loaded up on Clara’s preferred flavor. “Here you go.” His smile looked a bit forced as he held the opened case out to Becca.

“Oh.” She looked into her basket and back up at him. “Thank you,” she said, taking two cans. Clara was grateful her distracted human couldn’t see his expression as she turned toward the checkout.

“Maybe I should reach out to Larissa.” Becca might have thought she was talking to herself as she paid for the cans, but Clara wondered if her person sensed her presence nearby. After all, she was missing an important element—the cat’s concern over the direction her thoughts were headed.

“I mean, the police would never understand about the coven and why it matters,” Becca mused as she loaded up her bag. “They’ll just think she’s a Cambridge flake, starting up a coven of witches in this day and age. But if there is something hinky with that bank account, and Suzanne found out, that could be something. As it is, they’re only looking at Suzanne and Jeff, and if they find out Ande had gone out with Trent too, and Jeff tells them about Suzanne’s necklace—”

Almost out the door, she stopped short, causing a businessman on his cell to bump into her. “Watch it, lady!”

She let him walk by in silence, a look of horror on her face. “If they look at my search history and see I was trying to find out about her…” Hiking her bag higher on her shoulder, she began to walk again, faster than before.

Chapter 18

Even if looks couldn’t kill, Clara knew that by rights she should be singed hairless. Harriet was not happy with the selection that Becca unpacked, and from the way she glared at her baby sister, Clara knew her creamsicle sibling had sussed out that the little calico had made her preference felt.

“Honest, I was only listening.” Clara protested in vain. “I only wanted to keep her out of trouble.”

“Like you want to be the only one who can use her power,” Harriet grumbled even as she played up to Becca, rubbing against her shins like she hadn’t seen her in a week. “Like you’re the only one with any magic.”

“I didn’t use any—” Clara stopped herself. “I only passed through the door.” The little calico was fundamentally honest, but she knew better than to add that Laurel had been there too. Harriet was angry enough as it was. “And I did remind her why she had gone shopping. She was getting distracted.”

“Right.” Harriet grunted when she ate, which she did as soon as the first dish was placed on the mat. She might not like the tuna feast, but that didn’t mean she was going to pass up a meal.

“You can make the other cans re-appear tomorrow.” Clara tried to make nice. “Besides, I’m worried about Becca. She thinks she needs to help the police solve Suzanne’s murder.”

“Not a bad idea.” Laurel appeared with a yawn, as if from a nap in some other dimension. “And she may have a chance to do some hunting tonight too.”

“Hunting?” Clara glanced up at Becca. She was listening to a phone message, a furrow appearing in her brow. “But she’s just come in. She’s exhausted.”

Laurel only lashed her tail in dismissal, and so Clara turned back to their person. Becca was standing and staring at the phone, as if it had just bitten her. When it began to ring again, she jumped.

“Hello?” She sounded as breathless as if she’d just come in from a run. “Oh, Trent.” She sagged against the wall. “I’m sorry, I just got your message. All of this with Suzanne, and now the police…” She paused. “It’s a long story. I’m sure I can clear it up. You haven’t spoken to them today, have you?

“Well, that would have been too easy.” Even her voice was weary. “But how can I help you?”

Clara’s hearing was as acute as any cat’s, and the magic helped. Still, even with her black-tipped ears tilted forward to catch every sound, she couldn’t hear more than a tinny voice saying something about “dinner.”

“Tonight?” Becca winced. “Well, to be honest, I’m kind of wiped out. And Larissa said we’re going to have our regular coven meeting on Wednesday.” More talk that the cat couldn’t hear. “Of course, you’re right, Trent. I do have to eat.”

Clara listened with rising panic as Becca’s voice went softer and lighter both. “The River Café? Sure. That would be nice.”

Beside her, Laurel purred and licked her chops as Harriet scarfed up the last few crumbs of food in her dish and began to eye Clara’s. But the youngest of the three cats blocked her sister out of habit, barely noticing as the orange and white fluffball flounced off. Because Becca had hung up, and turned toward the two cats who remained in the kitchen. For a moment, Clara almost thought Becca could see her concern.

“Well, kitties, I’m going out to dinner with the man who seems to be in the middle of this mess,” she said, her voice growing thoughtful. “So now maybe I’ll be able to get some answers.” Clara knew then that her person hadn’t understood her at all, and she looked at her sister in alarm. But Laurel only turned in that dismissive way that all Siamese have and began to bathe.

“I wonder what I should wear.” Becca wandered out of the kitchen, not even noticing that Clara’s dinner had barely been touched. “And if there’s a spell that might help me decide.”

Chapter 19

The hissing commenced as soon as Becca opened her closet.

“I cannot believe you want her to dress like that.” Clara’s fur had expanded in her rage. She was a small cat, but fluffed out like this, she could have covered the stretch velvet mini that lay on the bed. “He might be dangerous.”

“Silly little girl!” Laurel spat back, her dark ears flat on her head. “Don’t you see? She could control the situation, looking so slinky.” Her blue eyes took in the velvet frock, although whether she wanted to scratch it or roll on it, her sister couldn’t tell. “If she brought him back here, we could question him. Only you—you—” Her rage devolved into wordless spatter, and she turned her back on her sibling and proceeded to wash.

“You!” With one last exhalation, more sigh than hiss, Clara began to calm down. At least she had stopped her sister, slapping her on her chocolate nose just as Laurel had begun to work on Becca. Clara didn’t know if it was because Laurel’s powers were limited or her sister was simply lazy, but she did know that the other cat’s ability to implant suggestions in others’ minds was vague at best. If Becca hadn’t already been considering her upcoming dinner a sort of date, Laurel might not have been able to steer her toward that short velvet number. Still, it was a close call, and Clara wasn’t able to relax until her person left the house in a flowered frock that fit her—and the occasion—more comfortably. If it were not for that well-placed bonk, Becca might have wiggled into that stretchy dress—and into more trouble.

“Spoil sport.” Laurel muttered as she bathed. “Now we’re both going to miss the fun.”

Clara deflated, her fur settling in despair. It was true, her squabble with her sister had kept her in the bedroom too long. Without any idea where Becca had gone, she was at a loss—unable to follow. And so with one bound, she leaped to the windowsill. Nudging aside Harriet, who was napping again, she settled in to watch and wait for Becca to return.

***

“Merry meet, Becca. How are you doing?” Even giving the coven’s ritual greeting, Trent’s voice rumbled deep and confidential, and as his questions turned personal, Becca felt her color rising in response. “I’ve been so worried about you. I didn’t want to wait until Wednesday.”

Despite the melancholy motive for this get together, the setting felt distinctly intimate. Maybe it was because the waitress had led her to a booth in the back, rather than the open seats at the counter. Maybe it was the nice shirt the warlock was wearing, open just enough for her to see the glint of gold nestled in the dark hair of his chest. As he leaned forward, it bobbed, and she found herself staring—and wondering once more if she should have gone with the sexier outfit. She blamed her slight buzz. She should probably have objected when he’d ordered the pitcher of margaritas. She definitely shouldn’t have taken such a big swallow, even if it was the house special, strawberry, her personal favorite.

“Thanks.” She bent once more over the menu, hoping to hide her face, which felt as rosy as that drink. She was having trouble concentrating, and she didn’t think it was just the alcohol. “I’m okay. It’s just been exhausting.”

“Of course,” he said, his voice warm with understanding, and Becca relaxed. It would have been too odd to try to explain that she kept thinking about her cats. They were home, safe, and she was the one out. But even though she was sitting here—at the River Café with Trent—she kind of wished she was with them. At home. Snuggled up on the sofa. Trent, however, was doing his best to be solicitous. “You’ve probably spent way too much time with the police these last few days.”

She nodded. “I know they’re doing their job—and I want them to. Only they had me come in this morning, and it was, well, weird.”

“I can imagine.” His voice as soft as a purr. “They must have had a lot of questions.”

She nodded. “They did.” The margarita had been a bad idea. But he was waiting, his dark eyes full of concern. “They were asking about the coven and, well, about the man she was dating.”

“Suzanne was seeing someone?” A note of excitement—or could it have been regret?—tightened his voice.

The effect must have been contagious, because all of a sudden Becca found it hard to swallow. “My ex.” She choked out the words. “But I think that was over.”

Thoughts of Jeff and of that last phone call on the stairs of Suzanne’s apartment, and suddenly it all came back. Her voice caught in a sob, and Trent leaned forward, reaching across the table as if to embrace her. It was too much. Becca felt like a fool and drew back, embarrassed, even as she found herself staring once more at his chest—and at the gold medallion that had swung forward from inside his shirt.

“Is that…?” Becca stopped herself from stretching out her hand for it, silently blaming the margarita once more.

“A witches’ knot.” To her relief, he glanced down and grasped the gold medallion himself, holding it still to allow Becca to see the intricate looped design on its front. “You have a good eye.”

His own eyes twinkled as he smiled, but Becca only shook her head, confused.

“It has charms on it, and not everyone would see it right away.” His voice was low and conspiratorial. “But we already knew you have power.”

“I guess.” Becca turned away. Bad enough that she was out alone with Trent—a member of the coven who had romanced several of their colleagues already—she’d been caught staring at his chest. They were supposedly going to talk about the death of one of their own too.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. Though if he meant in general or for reaching for her, Becca didn’t know.

“Me too.” She looked up into eyes that were shadowed and deep set. Could those be tears as well? Now it was her turn to reach out for his hand. “Were you and Suzanne close?”

A slow, sad shake of the head. “Not anymore,” he said. “She’d been going through something, I think.”

Becca nodded, her last conversation with the dead woman coming back to her mind. “I know she had questions.” She bit her lip, unsure of how much she wanted to reveal. Trent was a friend, but still… “I think she was worried about money.”

“Money?” Trent pursed his lips in thought. “Do you know why?”

Becca considered. “I’m not sure. You don’t think that’s why she was…” She swallowed. Hard.

“No, no.” Trent rushed to correct himself. “I mean, I don’t know. But, well, Suzanne had been acting odd for a while now. And you saw how skinny she was.”

“Skinny?” She was sounding like a parrot. That margarita.

“Not an ounce of flesh on her.” He had her hand now. His thumb brushed over hers. It was all too confusing. “Speaking of—should we order?”

Only then did Becca notice the waitress standing beside them, pad in hand. From the smile she suddenly dropped to the way she straightened, she must have been there for a while.

“Oh, sorry.” Becca was too flustered to consult the menu. “I’ll have a salad?”

“How about nachos for the table?” Trent leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. After that comment about Suzanne being skinny, his suggestion sounded flirtatious.

“Sure.” Becca pushed her menu at the waiting server and eyed the margarita glass. “And, uh, a Diet Coke?”

She pretended not to hear the waitress’s snicker as she walked off, instead steeling herself for the task at hand. “So, what have you heard?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She wasn’t after gossip.

“Nothing concrete.” Trent leaned forward again. “Just enough so that I was worried about her.”

“Oh?” The server plunked down her new drink with a thud as Becca took a few moments to reorganize her thoughts. Jeff had hinted that Suzanne and the warlock had had a brief romance, and Kathy had confirmed it. Trent seemed to be denying this. Or was he? Pushing the sticky strawberry glass aside, she took a swallow of the soft drink. More caffeine—that’s what she needed.

“Poor Suzanne.” When she put the glass down, she saw that Trent was shaking his head slowly. “I’m sorry I didn’t pursue it.”

Now she was getting somewhere. “Pursue it?” She waited.

“She was troubled.” Another slow sad dismissal as the waitress slid a plate of nachos onto the table. “I should have—well, I knew something was bothering her. It was selfish of me not to get involved.”

“Selfish?” That parrot again.

Trent didn’t seem to notice as he pulled a chip free of the sticky cheese. “Her being so skinny and all. I don’t know anything for sure.” He looked up, his dark eyes as melting as that cheese. “But I was wondering if she was on drugs.”

Their entrees arrived before Becca could respond. And while she tried to focus on her salad, the nachos were as tempting as all the unanswered questions that kept popping up.

“Drugs?” With her mouth full of cheese and chili, that was the best she could manage. “Did you tell the police that?”

“I didn’t want to, how do they say, muddy the waters.” Trent took a bite of his veggie burger and waited for her to answer. “You didn’t notice anything?”

Becca thought back. “Only that something was bothering her.”

“You see? I knew it.”

That wasn’t what she had meant. Only now, sitting here, she had to wonder. Had Suzanne wanted to confess to a problem? Is that why she wanted to get Becca alone?

“Poor girl.” Trent chewed thoughtfully. “I knew she was hard up for money too. So that might all be connected. I mean, I don’t think she’d have asked you because we all know about your job and all.”

Becca began to respond—to share what Ande had said—and then caught herself. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected that the tall accountant had told her about the missing funds in confidence.

“What?” Trent’s question caught her in mid-thought.

“Suzanne did want to speak with me, alone,” Becca confessed, reaching for the nachos. “That’s why I went over to her place on Saturday. You know, when I found her?”

“That’s so sad.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you should bring this up when the coven gathers. Let her have her dignity.”

Becca started to protest—Trent was the one who was suggesting the dead woman had a drug problem. But another thought interrupted. “And the police didn’t ask you about any of this?”

“Nope.” Trent’s answer was cut short as he bit into a nacho. She didn’t want to tell him about the string of cheese that had just caught in his beard. “Why muddy—”

He must have noticed her gaze, as he paused to fish out the cheese. “Sorry.” His smile was charming.

“So what did the police ask you?” The caffeine was definitely kicking in.

“The usual.” He waved the question off. “You know, how I knew her. Why I had her key. I gave them the parking receipt from the city meter, so they knew I’d only pulled up to her street after you arrived, so…”

His explanation ended in a grin. A guilty grin, Becca realized, as it seemed to focus suspicion back on her. “I was only there a few minutes earlier.” She didn’t like how defensive she sounded.

“I’m glad!” Those eyebrows again. “Maybe you got lucky. I mean, in the grand scheme of things.”

Becca swallowed hard, the chip stuck in her throat. “Lucky?” The word came out as a croak.

“I mean blessed, of course. Beloved of the goddess. Think about it, Becca. We don’t know if it was her dealer or just some random crazy off the street.” Trent leaned in, his dark eyes aglow. “But if you’d been there a little earlier, Becca, it might have been you.”

Chapter 20

“I can’t believe you went out with him!” Clara’s powers tended to accentuate her hearing, but even an ordinary cat could have heard the yelling over the phone. Becca’s ex, Jeff, sounded like a tomcat whose tail had been stepped on. “He’s a person of interest. Becca, are you nuts?”

Despite her own annoyance—she couldn’t help but agree with the angry man on the phone—the calico was doing her best to soothe her person. Becca had slept badly again, even with her obvious exhaustion. And although Jeff’s call had woken her from an early nap, she’d been plagued by scary dreams. That—and his apparent concern—had prompted her to tell her ex about her outing the evening before. At least, that’s what Clara hoped had brought about the confession. As the little calico began to knead, working on Becca’s shoulder as her person slouched on the couch, she looked around for Laurel. Her sister was definitely capable of using anything to provoke some interesting jealousy.

“Jeff, I was just telling you where I was.” Becca’s eyes were closing again. Clara could feel her fatigue and increased the pressure of her massage, hoping to relieve some of Becca’s tension. “Ow, wait—”

She sat up, moving away from the calico. Across her lap, Clara caught a glimpse of Laurel’s smirk as her seal-point sister settled down beside their human. Drawing her own paws under her creamy chest, Clara considered. She didn’t know if her sister was simply enjoying the drama or had an ulterior motive. Jeff had always been quite complimentary about Laurel’s sleek markings. Clara glared at her sister, and felt her ears begin to flatten in anger. But then Becca began talking again, and Clara turned to listen in.

“It wasn’t a date.” Becca was using a particularly flat tone of voice that Clara recognized. It was the same tone that she used when she was pretending she didn’t have any more treats. The man on the other end of the line seemed to recognize it too. Even before he began to speak again, she felt as much as heard the intake of breath that presaged an argument.

“Look.” Becca must have heard it too, as she cut him off. “I’m involved in this. Suzanne and I were friends. Besides,” her voice dropped to a near whisper, “she wanted my help, Jeff. That’s why I went over there.”

Laurel’s ears pricked up as Jeff answered. Laurel always did have an instinct for scandal.

“This had nothing to do with you, Jeff.” Becca, on the other hand, preferred her life to be straightforward, whether it really was or not. It was one of the reasons that Clara felt protective of her. “At least, I don’t think so. Trent said—” The young woman paused, clearly gathering her thoughts. Across her lap, Laurel’s eyes closed in pleasure. “Trent agreed that something else was bothering her. So if there’s anything that we can tell the police—”

Another burst of noise from the phone. Clara was leaning in, but lost the thread as her oldest sister landed hard beside her.

“Are we having treats?” Harriet pushed by Clara on her way to Becca’s lap. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?”

“I was here first.” A hint of a growl from Laurel, but Becca was too distracted to notice. To the cats’ dismay, she stood up and began pacing. And while Laurel and Harriet stared at each other from opposite ends of the sofa, Clara jumped down to follow their person around the apartment.

“Yes, I know what you told the police, Jeff.” The note of tension made Clara’s spine stiffen. “But that just made them suspect me, and I know I didn’t want to hurt her. She is—was—a friend, and I found her. So, yeah, I want to help.”

She stopped so quickly that Clara nearly bumped into her. It was only the round little calico’s feline grace that allowed her to swerve in time to brush by her person’s ankles instead.

“What are you talking about, Jeff?” Becca’s voice had gone cold, and Clara peered up, trying to see her face. “Why would I need a lawyer?”

***

“You’re not the one who needs a lawyer.” Maddy showed up soon after, bearing scones and sympathy. Although Clara wasn’t sure exactly how it worked, it was obvious that Becca’s furious typing on her laptop had communicated the latest. Still, it was Harriet who had first spotted Becca’s old friend—or at least the bakery box she carried—and jumped heavily from her window seat to greet the plump young woman with a purr. “Oh, what a nice cat!”

Maddy bent to stroke the fluffy marmalade’s back as Harriet reached up to nose the cardboard box.

“You can’t think that Jeff…” Becca turned back toward the kitchen. After a night tossing and turning, she trod as heavily as Harriet. “That he would…”

“I don’t know what to think.” Maddy stood, to Harriet’s dismay, and followed her friend into the apartment. “But they had been seeing each other, and Suzanne wanted to talk to you. And now he seems to be keeping tabs on you awfully closely.” She placed the box on the table and pulled up a chair.

“Maybe she found out something about him. Maybe he’s lying about breaking up with her. Maybe she dumped him, and he didn’t want it to end.”

Becca winced, and even Harriet looked up. Although that, Clara realized, could have been because her fluffy sibling was hoping the shock would result in a dropped scone.

“Maddy.” Becca slumped into her own seat.

“I’m just saying…” Maddy opened the box and suddenly, Harriet was staring daggers at her. “I never really liked him.”

“Drop one. Come on!” Harriet was muttering, a low rumbling that could almost be mistaken for a purr. “You’re feeling clumsy…”

“Hush, I’m listening,” Laurel responded, appearing under the table. Becca would say “out of nowhere,” Clara knew. But that was Clara’s special skill. Laurel simply had an appetite for gossip that matched her older sister’s taste for sweets.

“You didn’t?” Becca stopped, plate in hand. “Really?”

“He always thought he was too good for you.” Maddy took the plate and opened the box. Two scones. Harriet’s ample bottom began to twitch as she readied for a jump.

“No!” Clara’s paw came down on her sister’s tail, and Harriet turned, too affronted to protest. “Sorry.” Clara pulled her paw back. “I want to hear. I’ll owe you,” she hastened to add.

“You sure will.” Harriet flicked her tail out of reach, secretly grateful—Clara suspected—that she didn’t have to try for the tabletop.

“He didn’t.” The hurt in Becca’s voice made both cats look up.

“I wouldn’t have said anything if you’d stayed together.” Maddy broke off a piece of one scone, and Harriet licked her chops. “And, hey, maybe I was wrong.”

Becca was slumped in her seat. “No, Jeff never wanted us to be serious.” The accent she put on the last word made Clara’s fur bristle. “He said we weren’t ready.”

“Good riddance.” Maddy kept eating. “Because if ‘being serious’ is what happened to that other woman? I’d say you’re better off.”

Becca nodded, not even objecting to the circular logic of her friend’s argument. “I guess,” she said. “I mean, no, Maddy. Jeff’s not a…a killer.”

“There’s a lot about that man you don’t know.” Her friend popped the last bit of pastry into her mouth and glanced up at the clock. “Hey, I should be getting to work.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Becca reached for her friend’s arm. “What aren’t you telling me, Maddy?”

“Oh, honey.” Maddy bit her lip. “Let him go, okay?”

“Maddy.” Becca was growing more insistent.

“Look at the facts.” Her friend leaned on the table. “This is a man who would throw you to the wolves. Why else is he keeping such close tabs on you?”

“Because he wants to get back together?” Becca’s voice faded out even before she finished—and brought her friend in for a hug.

“That makes no sense. I’m sorry, Becca. I really am, and I feel awful about leaving you like this. My boss…well, you’ve heard it all.” She said it apologetically, though whether that was because she was leaving her friend in no better mood than she’d found or because she still had a job, Clara couldn’t tell. “Do you mind?”

Harriet began to whine, and Clara turned in dismay. But her sister’s golden eyes were riveted on the table above them. Maddy had stood and was reaching for the box. Becca hadn’t touched her scone and pushed the plate toward her.

“No, you take it.” Becca forced a smile. Beneath the table, Harriet lashed her tail. Clara was going to have a lot to make up for.

***

After her friend left, Becca fetched her laptop, settling on the sofa with the same resigned posture Clara was growing accustomed to. Torn between jumping up beside her—she didn’t think her person was beyond distraction—and trying to find out more, Clara turned toward her sisters and blinked, the feline version of an invitation to chat. But, whether because they were her older sisters or simply because of the nature of cats, they resisted.

“Why?” Harriet was still staring at the kitchen table, the lost treat a personal affront.

“So we can figure out how to help Becca,” Clara explained. “I think she’s worried about Jeff, and you know how she is. Even if he did try to set her up, she’s going to want to clear his name.”

“By looking into a murder?” Laurel was intrigued, but Harriet simply glowered. In this state, she’d likely pin it on Maddy.

“She is our charge.” Clara hoped the appeal to Harriet’s vanity would ease the way.

“I should just make a knife like that one she used on the cake, and let Becca find it,” the long-haired sister grumbled. “Only I’d want to put it in that scone stealer’s back. Who brings treats and then takes them away again?”

Clara held her tongue. Harriet had a point, but Laurel came to the rescue.

“The calico clown is right.” She rolled the R as if she were purring. “The way she’s going, Becca’s not going to be good for much soon. And besides”—the Siamese paused to lick her paw, a purely dramatic move—“if we can get her out of this slump, she’s more likely to bring home a new man. A new man who wants to win our approval.”

The way she stretched out that last word made her intentions unmissable. Laurel wouldn’t stop at using her powers of suggestion, but Clara couldn’t argue this time. Especially since Harriet had come trotting over.

“Maybe I should make a knife appear—someplace convenient, like in the kitchen.” She tilted her head to better take in their person, who was still typing away. “That might make her do a thorough search. Pull things out of cupboards, and the like.”

“No, please.” Clara turned from one sister to another. “The police probably have the real one and any others will just confuse things.”

“Suit yourself.” Harriet began to bathe, working on one fluffy hind leg as if it were a drumstick. “But you said…”

“I know.” Clara sighed. “But I worry that anything so…creative will only make things worse for her. Becca is so down already.”

“If I could’ve gotten her into that outfit…”

“That wouldn’t have solved anything.” Clara cut her sister off. It was time for drastic measures. “Hang on. I want to see what she’s searching for with that machine.”

Leaping up beside the seated girl, Clara willed herself to be if not invisible then at least not easily detected. That went against the grain for a cat, and she could feel her two sisters eying her with curiosity. But unlike the usual morning, when Clara would be the first to rub her head against the young woman’s arm and try to cheer her up with a rousing purr, right now, Clara wanted to pass unnoticed. Better that Becca should keep on with whatever she was typing, so Clara could figure out what to do next. Clara knew that cats can’t read, per se, but they can get a lot from the images on a screen—even without psychic powers. But just as Clara crept close enough to focus, Becca closed the laptop and reached for her phone.

“I’m just being silly,” she said, turning toward the cat. “And I’ve got you kitties depending on me.”

Clara looked on in mute sympathy as Becca dialed. “I’m calling for Eric Marshfield.” As she spoke, she sat up, her posture as crisp as her diction. “Mr. Marshfield,” she said a moment later. “Thank you for taking my call. I’m contacting you about the open position? I couldn’t see a way to submit a resumé on your site.” The voice on the other end caught her up short. “I gather it’s data entry, but I can promise you that I—” Another pause. “I’m sorry, a friend told me about it. I gather it hasn’t been posted yet. Shall I send you my resumé anyway?” This time, Becca was holding her breath. “Well, then, thank you again for your time, and I’m—”

She stared at the phone as if the device had bitten her.

***

“Nexus?” Clara muttered to herself, sounding out the word she had heard her person mutter only moments before. Then the screen changed, and she understood. Becca still had the library access she had used in her last job. Good, the calico thought. Becca was good at research, and it made her feel better about herself. But the next screen that came up only made the little cat’s whiskers sag. Becca wasn’t reading up on criminal law or even the forensics of a stabbing. No, as the branching chart materialized in the screen in front of her person, Clara knew the situation was dire. Becca was once again tracing her own lineage in the futile search to uncover the magical roots that, in truth, led to Clara and her littermates.

“This is worse than I thought.” Clara jumped down as soundlessly as she had ascended, ready to address her sisters.

“Oh?” Laurel flicked her tail. Harriet, Clara noted, was already curling for her mid-morning nap.

“Becca thinks she can do this by herself..” Clara turned back. No, the young woman was still at it. “She thinks she can do it with magic.”

“Fine, let her.” Harriet wasn’t going to forget that missing scone. “What do we care?”

This time it was Laurel who swiped at her. Though whether that was out of sympathy with Clara or simply because she enjoyed provoking her fluffy sister Clara didn’t know for sure.

What she did know was that Becca needed her. Needed them all, actually. That was why they’d been placed with her. And although her sisters seemed to believe that such placement was random—much as Becca voiced the opinion that she’d “adopted” all three cats of her own free will—Clara knew better.

“Hecate, come to me!” While still seated on the couch, Becca had raised her hands from the keyboard. Head back, she opened her arms, as if readying for an embrace.

“Oh! That’s my cue!” Harriet wiggled her plump bottom, readying to jump.

“No!” Once again, it fell to Clara to restrain her oldest sister.

“What’s the matter?” The marmalade cat turned, her pique evident in her flattened ears. “You don’t want me to materialize anything? You said it yourself, Becca needs help.”

“I don’t want you to encourage her.” Clara’s voice sank to a hiss. “She’s not a witch. We’ve got to stop her from thinking she is.”

“Huh.” Harriet turned and began to groom. It was a dismissal, but Clara was grateful that her sister wasn’t going to put up a fight. “We could end this once and for all,” Harriet muttered, her mouth full of fur. “I could summon a knife and place it at that scone stealer’s apartment, and Laurel could get the police to go look for it, I bet.”

“That wouldn’t solve anything.” Clara had given up arguing with Harriet and simply stared at their person. She was trying desperately to think, and her sister’s interruption wasn’t helping.

“She’s right, of course.” Almost soundlessly, Laurel had joined them on the rug. “The clown, that is. We send Becca after the wrong person and, if we’re not careful, she’ll get killed too.”

The Siamese didn’t seem too distressed by that thought, but Clara turned to stare at her, her own fur standing up along her spine.

“What?” One syllable was all she could manage.

“Someone is out hunting.” Laurel looked up, her blue eyes cool and inscrutable. “Who’s to say that our little Becca wouldn’t be next?”

Chapter 21

That question was only one of the many Clara was still mulling over when Becca finally gave up, forty minutes later. By then, she’d tried a scrying spell, an incantation supposed to make the hidden known, and fifteen words of power guaranteed to grant wisdom.

As Clara or any of her sisters could have told her, none of them had a chance of working. Human tongues are simply unable to give the spells the proper feline pronunciation. As it was, the calico had gradually grown grateful for her person’s distraction. As she sat on the sofa, entranced by Becca’s gestures and strange pronouncements, she had had time to run through her own list of possibilities—many of a more mundane kind—searching for an answer.

“I should just implant the idea that she drop the whole thing.” Laurel had woken from her nap and now stretched, extending her claws dangerously close to Becca’s leg. “This obsession is becoming quite dull.”

“No.” Clara resisted the urge to bat at her sister. It wouldn’t do to provoke her. “You were right, what you said. I’m worried that she’s in danger.”

Laurel tipped her head, regarding her baby sister anew. “Really?” Her voice dripped with something akin to skepticism. “You care about her that much?”

“Of course!” Clara’s response was automatic, and then she caught herself. “You do too. Don’t you?”

Laurel gave the feline equivalent of a shrug, the velvet fur of her shoulders twitching as she rearranged herself on the cushion. She would never, Clara knew, admit to having bonded with a human. Still, she had to love Becca, didn’t she? Becca had taken them in. She was their person.

“She’s competent,” Laurel said, a bit begrudgingly, and Clara bit back her own reply. From her sister, this was high praise. Besides, Becca was finishing up.

“It’s no use, Clara.” She addressed the little cat with a sad smile. “Maybe all the magic I have was used up on that one pillow. Only, you’d think…” She closed her laptop and stood with a sigh. “I mean, this is important.”

Clara butted her head against Becca’s thigh. Her jeans were soft and warm, and the hand that came down to fondle her ears gentle. “You guys probably just see me as a walking dispenser of treats,” she said. Across the room, Harriet’s ears pricked up. “But I know what happened. I have power, and I should be able to use it. I mean, someone killed Suzanne, and I’d like to think it wasn’t someone in the coven…”

The hand on Clara’s head froze, and before she knew what was happening, Becca was typing once more. “Maybe, it wasn’t us. Ande said something about a new job…” The hopeful tone had the calico purring, only to stop as suddenly as Becca did. “No!” One word, exhaled in a start.

Before Clara could even figure out what had happened, Becca had risen once more. Grabbing her phone, she began pacing. “Come on. Pick up!”

But the young woman’s invocations to the cell gods had no more power than any of her other spells, and soon she had dropped onto the couch again, the phone still and silent in her hand.

“I can’t,” she said, turning to the cat beside her. “There’s no way to leave a question like that in a message.”

Clara stared up, feeling as blind and powerless as most mere mortals must. All she could do was blink in support, but Becca didn’t even seem to notice. In fact, the young woman was staring into space with such intensity that Clara found herself compelled to follow her gaze. No, nothing there. Nothing one small cat could see, at any rate.

“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.