An Incantation of Cats

An Incantation of Cats

A Witch Cats of Cambridge Mystery

Clea Simon

An Incantation of Cats

A Witch Cats of Cambridge Mystery

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

ISBN: 978-1-947993-80-8

eISBN: 978-1-951709-01-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019953160

First hardcover edition January 2020 by Polis Books, LLC

221 River St., 9th Fl., #9070

Hoboken, NJ 07030

www.PolisBooks.com

For Jon

Chapter 1

Laurel always did like to pretend she knew best.

“Something’s not right with this girl,” the slender sealpoint sniffed, her chocolate brown nose quivering over the new client’s glitter-flecked sneakers. Keds high-tops that still smelled of glue, they provided the only touch of light in the visitor’s otherwise all-black outfit. “She’s trouble. I can tell.”

The newcomer, whose ragged raven bob matched her goth-style skinny jeans and oversized shirt, didn’t seem to notice the curious feline inspecting her sparkly feet as she sprawled on the sofa. Instead, she remained absorbed in her phone as she waited for Becca, the apartment’s human resident, to return.

Laurel’s two siblings, who had toys of their own, were not as oblivious.

“Well, of course!” Harriet, Laurel’s creamsicle older sister, didn’t even look up from her post on the windowsill, where she lay preening her lush coat. “If something wasn’t wrong, she wouldn’t be here.” The self-satisfied half-purr in her voice was barely muted as she reached to groom the orange patch that spread across her broad back. “That’s our Becca’s job, after all.”

“Hush, please.” Clara mewed softly from her seat on the dining table at the big room’s far end. The youngest of the three littermates, the plump calico was loath to interrupt her siblings. Although they were only minutes older, both Laurel, whose coloring revealed her paternal Siamese heritage, and the long-haired Harriet liked to assert their precedence.

As the felines murmured quietly among themselves, their conversation taking place in tones beneath those of human hearing, Becca had reappeared, balancing a loaded tray. The sweet-faced young woman was settling the tray on the low table by the comfy, if worn, sofa, and the little calico didn’t want to miss a thing.

“Here we go.” Becca, whose own brown curls most resembled Harriet’s lush fur, unloaded two mugs, a teapot, and a plate of cookies. “Peppermint tea,” she said, placing one mug before her distracted visitor. “It settles the nerves. And besides, it smells nice.”

“Thanks.” The black-clad newcomer didn’t look up as Becca poured the fragrant tea. “No, thanks,” she added, face down, as her host held out the cookies.

“Something is wrong with her!” Never one to turn down a treat of any kind, Harriet lumbered to her feet and launched herself onto the sofa, just as Becca replaced the untouched plate on the tray. “If she doesn’t want cookies, I don’t know if Becca can help her.”

“Sorry.” The thud of the marmalade cat landing next to her got the funereal newcomer’s attention, and she had the grace to apologize as she tucked her phone into her jeans, a sheepish grin making her look suddenly younger. Close to Becca’s own age of twenty-six—or about two-and-a-half cat years—thought Clara as she made her own, more subtle approach and sniffed the air. Something did smell off about the newcomer, something besides her somber attire on what was otherwise a bright autumn morning. As much as Clara didn’t want to admit it, Laurel might be right.

“No problem.” Unaware of her pet’s concern, Becca perched on the armchair that faced the couch, notepad open and pencil poised. “Gaia, you said? Gaia Linquist?”

A quick nod, her lips drawing in.

“Why don’t we start with what has brought you here today?”

The visitor exhaled noisily, staring down at the plate, eyes heavy with liner. Perhaps the cookies were to blame, Clara mused. Maybe the black-bedecked girl had an eating disorder she hoped Becca could help her with. Or maybe she was in mourning, the inky coloring all over her face signaling some kind of enchantment. Becca, the cat’s person, had started advertising her services as a witch detective only a few months prior, but what that actually meant was open to interpretation. Does she think Becca can counter a spell? Clara pondered this with growing alarm as her oldest sister edged closer to the tray. I hope Becca hasn’t promised that she can cast one.

Harriet licked the nearest cookie, her tongue darting out as quick as could be, but still the visitor didn’t react. When she finally looked up at Becca, the unpainted parts of her face were deadly pale. “I think someone wants to use the craft against me,” she said.

Even Harriet paused, pink tongue slightly visible as she and her sisters watched to see how their person would respond. Becca was a normal young woman, after all, despite Clara’s secret belief that her person’s diminutive stature hid a great spirit. But the good-natured brunette who opened their cans didn’t respond with the promise of remedial witchcraft, to the calico’s relief. Nor did she react with the kind of shock or horror or even disbelief that many of her peers would. Although her eyebrows rose slightly, she continued to write.

“Very well,” she said to herself, before addressing her visitor once more. “And would you tell me how someone is attempting to use magic against you?”

With another nod, the young woman reached into another pocket, extracting a plastic bag that she held up for display. “This,” she said. “I found it in my mug.”

All three cats recoiled as the musty scent spread, and Laurel positively smirked. Becca, being more visually oriented than her pets, reached for the baggie and held it up to the light, examining the knobby root within.

“Do you know what this is?” Becca turned it around, examining it, as Clara forced herself to move closer. “It looks like ginger—or possibly ginseng?”

“I wish,” the visitor said with a dismissive snort. “It’s wolf’s bane. You know, monk’s hood? Aconite?”

“You’re sure?” Becca took in her visitor, though whether her eyes had widened in skepticism or alarm, her cat couldn’t tell.

“Of course. I’m studying to be an herbalist, and I know a poison when I see one.” The visitor clicked her tongue as if her profession were too obvious for words, showing off the glint of a tongue stud in the process. “I work at Charm and Cherish.”

“Of course.” Becca mused. Clara knew her person had visited the little shop outside Central Square. Most recently, she had emerged with the pretty blue stone pendant she wore now. But even though the little calico often tagged along after her person on her errands she rarely accompanied her inside. Packed to the rafters, literally, with “all things Wiccan,” the tiny storefront always smelled too strongly of strange dried plants and scented candles for the sensitive feline’s comfort. “I knew I recognized you…”

“That’s how I got your number,” her visitor went on. “I saw your notice on our community board. The one about ‘Witch Detective.’ I figure, if someone’s coming after me using the craft, you’re the one who can help.”

Becca took a deep breath, and Clara, who loved her, could see the play of conflicting emotions across her face. “I understand,” she said at last. She spoke slowly, as she searched for just the right words. “And I have worked on several cases already. But this is serious. And this is more than a simple spell or hex. If you really think someone is trying to poison you, you really should talk to the police.”

“And tell them what? That someone put a root in my mug?” The visitor shook her jet-black bob, revealing more metal up the side of her ears. “No, someone is trying to use my own craft against me. I need another witch to help me find out who. I mean, I know wolf’s bane is supposed to have medicinal uses. I was reading up on it. But a whole root? If I’d swallowed any part of that, I’d be gone fast.”

Chapter 2

“I don’t know about this case,” Clara mewed softly, whiskers drooping with worry. Even after the new client had left, Becca remained hunched over her notepad, scribbling away as her cats looked on. Every now and then she’d look over at the root and turn it over once or twice. Still in its plastic bag, the knobby piece’s odd, musty smell was a source of discomfort to the assembled cats. “It could be dangerous.”

“How dangerous? The stench of that…thing would put off a dog.” Laurel put her ears back dismissively as she glared at the source of the offensive odor. “Only a human would be in danger of drinking anything it had been anywhere near.”

“I don’t see why Becca has to let strangers in here at all.” Harriet lay on the sofa sulking. The cookies had been brought back into the kitchen once the visitor had left. To make matters worse, Harriet’s special pillow—velvet with gold tassels—had been shoved to one side. “Just when I had the cushions arranged so perfectly, too.”

“Well, she does have to earn her living.” Clara wasn’t sure about this new person—or the strange object she had left behind—but at least she understood Becca’s motivation. Sometimes, her sisters could be so shortsighted. “She needs to buy our cans, after all.”

A slight feline shrug ruffled Harriet’s luxuriant creamsicle-colored fur, as Laurel turned away to wash one dark brown paw. Neither would openly admit that their baby sister was right, and Clara knew better than to push her point. That didn’t help them in their current dilemma, however.

“She should be able to do that without bringing such filth into the house.” Laurel bit at a recalcitrant claw, revealing a sharp white fang. Whether she was referring to the goth-y girl who had recently visited or the smelly baggie she had left behind wasn’t clear, and Clara decided the better course was to not inquire.

“Don’t expect me to do something about it.” Harriet huffed. She didn’t look at her youngest sister. She didn’t have to. While the large longhair had dispensed with unwanted items in the past simply by eating them, the odor coming off the baggie as well as its size made her draw up her already blunt snout in disgust. Besides, they all remembered how much trouble the fluffy orange and white cat had caused the last time she had used her magic.

“Nobody’s expecting you to sacrifice yourself, Harriet.” Clara, the peacemaker, decided to put the best slant on Harriet’s earlier efforts as she silently leaped up beside Becca to get a better look at the foul root. “But I do wish that strange-looking girl hadn’t brought it. If only we could get rid of this somehow…”

The idea wasn’t entirely far-fetched. The sisters had come to their person’s aid before. It was, of course, the feline way—cats always help their people, using techniques their humans rarely understood—and these three cats had an edge. Although they might not look related, through their mother they were descendants of a long line of magical cats. As different as they appeared, all three had specific skills beyond the scope of even the usual feline magic. They also, as they all knew, were expressly forbidden by the laws of their kind from revealing their powers to their human companions.

“We don’t have to be blatant about it.” Thanks to the Siamese in her background, Laurel tended to be chatty. “I could put it in her mind that that Miss Glitter Shoes was full of it, and that she should simply toss that disgusting thing.” Her distinctive yowl was muffled by fur as she reached around to lick her café au lait back. Not, Clara suspected, because her sleek torso needed grooming, but to show off how agile she was. Laurel was the slimmest of the three siblings and as proud of her figure as she was of her ability to “suggest” ideas into the minds of susceptible humans. “It wouldn’t be too difficult.”

“I don’t know if that will do any good.” Clara’s skills ran more toward invisibility, as well as the ability to pass through closed doors. Her distinguishing characteristic, though, was her deep loyalty to the young woman who had taken them all in. “She thinks her new blue necklace lets her spot a liar when she’s wearing it. She thinks she’ll hear them or they’ll make her ears itch of something.”

Loyalty didn’t mean that Clara fooled herself about her person’s abilities. “Besides,” she added, “she has to take on clients.”

“She wouldn’t have to if you let me give her some better ideas.” Laurel had railed at the restrictions on feline interference. “Like letting some nice young man take care of her.”

“Laurel, please, no,” Clara pleaded. After having her heart broken the previous spring, Becca had gone on a few dates, but she was, to the calico, understandably reluctant to rush into anything. “She’s just beginning to date again. We don’t want her to settle down with someone who isn’t right for her.”

“Humph!” Laurel spit out a tuft of fur, expression enough of her disgust.

Harriet, by then, had fallen asleep, but Clara continued to watch their person. Becca, as she often did, had opened her laptop. Jumping soundlessly to the back of the sofa, Clara could see that she had opened the homepage of Charm and Cherish, the shop the new client had mentioned as her workplace. More New Age boutique than old-fashioned botanica, the shop sold everything from magic kits to pricey amulets. Becca’s computer also confirmed what Clara remembered, that the shop had a wide selection of various plant products as well, though without the aid of scent, Clara was hard pressed to distinguish one saw-toothed leaf from another.

“Enough of that.” Becca closed the laptop before Clara could examine further. It didn’t matter. Her cats knew what came next. Ever since Becca had started working as a witch detective three months before, she’d developed a ritual. She’d light some sage to clear the air and then sit, cross-legged, on the floor. Usually, the fragrant smoke sent Harriet and Laurel off to the bedroom, but Clara, who always wanted to help, had learned not to try to climb into her lap during these moments. This was her “clarifying time,” she’d explained to her pet, lifting the plump calico off and depositing her on the floor. That really meant she was gathering her thoughts, Clara suspected. Although if she knew that her three pets were the ones who had the magical powers that she so desired, Becca might have felt differently about rejecting Clara’s help during her ritual.

As it was, both Laurel and Harriet trotted off as Becca reverently removed the bundle of twigs from its earthenware container—a splurge from Charm and Cherish, Clara knew. The sisters could be heard tussling in the bedroom by the time Becca got it lit and began making sweeping motions through the living room.

“Clarity, come to me…” Becca murmured to herself, before dousing the bundle. She’d learned the hard way how sensitive her smoke alarm could be. The faint incense that remained didn’t quite mask the stench of that root, not to a cat, and Clara considered joining her sisters in the bedroom. But when Becca settled into her meditative pose, Clara’s whiskers perked up. Her person couldn’t tell—not yet—but her brief break was about to be interrupted.

Not thirty seconds later, the doorbell rang. “What the…?” A startled Becca exclaimed, rising to her feet. “Hello?” She opened the door to a short, stout woman, old enough to be her mother, dressed in what looked like a vintage double-knit suit.

“You’re the witch detective, right?” The woman, whose wiry black hair came up to Becca’s nose, pushed in. “That’s what your flier says, right?”

“Yes. I’m Becca Colwin.” She stepped back, blinking. “May I help you?”

“I hope so.” The woman deposited two full shopping bags on the floor and turned to face her host. “I need your services—and fast! Someone has been stealing from me, and I have a good idea who the nasty little thief is.”

“Okay…” Becca drew out the word, a furrow of concern creasing her forehead. “Please, why don’t you have a seat and we’ll start at the beginning.”

“The beginning? I don’t even know when that was.” Despite her exasperation, the woman plopped onto the sofa, right in Harriet’s favorite spot.

“Would you like some tea?” Becca responded. “I find that it helps me think things through .”

A loud sigh was her only answer, and so under her calico’s watchful eye Becca began her usual routine, retreating to the kitchen to make tea as well as to give her visitor—and herself—a chance to gather her wits. If she took a bit longer brewing the tea—Becca didn’t always warm the teapot with boiling water before adding the mint blend she preferred—her pet approved. While neither Clara nor her sisters believed in training pets, they all understood that humans could be encouraged into more civil behavior with a few simple tricks.

Sure enough, by the time Becca had re-entered the living room, tray in hand, her latest visitor had settled down. Her mood, however, had not improved.

“What’s that?” She squinted at the pot, which Becca had left to steep.

“My special mixture.” Becca smiled as she answered, but then, seeing the scowl on the older woman’s face, tried again. “It’s a mint blend,” she explained. “Peppermint, mostly. All organic, and it has no caffeine.”

“Huh.” The visitor sniffed as she reached for a sugar cookie.

“So, I don’t believe you told me your name.” Becca pulled her yellow legal pad toward her. She hadn’t had a chance to put it away, so she flipped over to a fresh page as she took up her pencil.

“Margaret.” The woman looked at the cookie and then, apparently thinking better of it, put it down. “Margaret Cross.”

“Margaret Cross.” As Becca repeated the name, her pencil scratched across the paper with an intriguing noise that drew Laurel back into the living room.

“What’s going on?” She nuzzled her younger sibling. Becca, meanwhile, was asking her visitor to detail her complaint.

“Another client,” Clara murmured. “But something’s weird about her, too. Can you hear what’s on her mind?”

It was risky, asking Laurel to use her special powers. Vain about her own lustrous coat, the middle sister tended to focus on Becca’s looks—and her romantic prospects. Clara wasn’t sure what she’d make of another female, and an older, rather unkempt one at that.

Laurel must have picked up on some of her sister’s anxiety, because she turned to glare at the little calico and even showed a bit of fang. “Of course I can,” she growled.

“Sorry.” Clara dipped her head in a gesture of submission. Laurel, even more than Harriet, could be a stickler about status.

“What’s going on with your cats?” The wiry-haired woman was staring down at them, brows like angry caterpillars butting heads over her pronounced nose.

Becca bit her lip. “They’re littermates,” she said. “Sisters. They fight sometimes.”

“Sisters.” Her laugh sounded like a bark. “Tell me about it. Where were we?”

“You were telling me what you brought you here today.” Becca spoke with an exaggerated formality. It didn’t take Laurel’s sensitivity to know she felt somewhat uncomfortable with this newcomer and her singularly ungracious attitude. “I’d asked you to start at the beginning.”

“You could say my sister is behind it. Behind everything, usually.” The client, Margaret, shuffled slightly in her seat. Rather like Harriet did, thought Clara, when she was getting comfortable. “Or when she’s ready to tell a lie,” Laurel hissed, her voice barely audible even to her sister’s sensitive ears.

“A lie?” Clara turned toward her sister, intrigued, if a little disconcerted. Had her sister just read the calico’s own thoughts? But a brown paw batted away her question, as just then, the newcomer began to tell her tale.

“She’s the one who wanted to open the shop. She’s the one with the interest, but then she unloaded it on me.”

She glared at Becca as if her host were responsible. Becca, Clara was pleased to see, sat still and waited, much as she or her sisters would when stalking a mouse.

“She’s flighty like that,” the visitor started talking again. “I should’ve known it was a stupid idea. When she said ‘hire this girl,’ I should’ve known something was up, like maybe they’re in on it. But that makes no sense.” She paused, lips pursing like she’d bit into a lemon.

“Anyway, at first, I thought it was an error.” As she spoke, she picked up her mug. Becca had filled it with the fragrant tea, which would surely rinse the bad taste out of her mouth, her cat thought. But the sour-faced woman didn’t appear to even taste it. “You know, in retail, there’s always a little loss. The silver dollar given out instead of a quarter. The odd mistake in math.”

The mug went back down to the tray as she leaned forward. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m no pushover. I can’t afford the latest equipment, but I keep a calculator right by the register, and everyone is supposed to double-check their totals, especially if it’s a large order.”

Becca murmured something that could have been agreement. If she had other thoughts about busy clerks being asked to do the same tasks twice, she kept them to herself.

“I told the girl that she had to be careful. That I was going to start deducting from her paycheck if it kept up.” Another scowl, one not even a cookie could have sweetened. “Usually, that brings them back in line.”

Laurel tilted her head at that, but Clara was busy watching her person. Becca clearly wanted to respond to her visitor—or, at least, to her visitor’s ideas about management—but she kept quiet. Only her cat could see the strain in the skin around her lips. If she had whiskers they would be bristling.

“Then I realized it was following a pattern.” The client leaned forward again, but not for a cookie. “Every day, it was a little more. But it was never more than twenty bucks. Until this weekend, that is. Last night, Friday, when we closed, the total was fifty bucks off.”

“Fifty...” Becca jotted down the number. “And this has been going on for how long?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t put up with it for that long. Three weeks, I’ve been aware of it.” The woman nodded to herself, setting her wiry hair bobbing. “So nearly five hundred bucks. Five hundred bucks!”

Becca’s eyes widened in surprise, though whether because of the older woman’s sudden vehemence or some other factor, her cat couldn’t tell.

In response, the woman scowled again. “That’s a lot to a small business owner like me.”

“I’m sure it is.” Becca rushed to reassure her potential client. “Do you have evidence you could share with me? Account books or surveillance tape?”

A huff of dismissal. “What do you think I am? The Pentagon? No, we’re a small business. I just know what I’m spending and what’s in the cash register at the end of the day.”

Becca took that in. “And you believe you know who the suspect is?”

“I do.” The woman sat back with a satisfied smirk. “It’s got to be the girl I hired. Gail—Gail Linquist.”

Becca jotted down the name and paused. But the question she asked wasn’t the one Clara expected. “And did you say you suspect your sister of collusion?”

“What? No.” Margaret waved her be-ringed hands like she was fanning away an odor. “Elizabeth’s nutty, but, no. I’m sure she’s not involved.”

Becca paused, pen in the air and a quizzical expression worthy of a cat on her face. “Then, Ms. Cross, may I ask what services you want from me?”

It was a reasonable question, but when Clara looked at her sealpoint sister in satisfaction, she saw Laurel’s nose quivering in concentration.

“I need you to catch her, of course.” The older woman spoke as if her objective was plain to see, her gruff voice ratcheting up in both tone and volume. “I want her punished, and I need you to figure out how she’s doing it and get the evidence. If you can catch her in the act, so much the better.”

Clara looked from her person to her sister. Surely, it wasn’t just the visitor’s volume that had set Laurel’s chocolate-brown ears back on her head.

“I understand that.” Becca spoke in that calming voice she used when the cats were upset, but Clara didn’t think she’d even noticed her pet’s distress. Indeed, she was looking down at her notes as she spoke, biting her lip like she was peeved at herself.

“And, believe me, I appreciate your interest, but I’m not sure I understand. You’re a small business owner and you believe one of your employees is, as they say, skimming off the top. This sounds like a matter for the police. Why did you come to me?”

“To you?” Finally unburdened, the visitor reached for a cookie. “I thought it would be obvious,” she said, taking a bite.

Becca waited, but Clara could feel her rising impatience.

“I figure you’ll blend in better than any fat old cop who comes snooping around,” the old woman said at last. “I own Charm and Cherish, where you hung your notice about being a witch detective. How do you think I found you?”

Chapter 3

“This is just too much of a coincidence,” Becca said as she washed her latest visitor’s mug. “Two clients, both with questionable cases, and they both know each other through Charm and Cherish?”

Clara, who sat at her feet, didn’t answer, but she was listening. Becca might not think her pets understood everything she said. Still, she’d gotten in the habit of talking to them. To Clara especially, the little cat knew. Which was why the calico remained in the kitchen, even after Laurel had retired for a nap and Harriet had harrumphed off in disgust once the cookies had been placed back in their tin. Something about her mixed-up coloring—the black patch over one eye, orange over the other—made her look approachable, Clara surmised as she gazed up at her person, green eyes wide.

“What do you think, Clara? Do you think something else is going on here? Some kind of personal vendetta? I swear you’d answer me if you could.”

The cat blinked, warmed by the acknowledgement.

Becca couldn’t know that her smallest cat was teased for her coloring—“Clara the calico? Clara the clown!” her sisters mocked—but if it made her person feel more comfortable confiding in her, she was content. Besides, her spotted coat, especially that whorl of gray on her side, made it easier for Clara to shade herself into near invisibility. This is the simplest cat magic, as anyone who has cohabited with a feline knows. But it was a skill at which Clara excelled, and one that proved particularly useful as Becca finished cleaning up and prepared to go out.

Although Becca had packed up her notes and slid her laptop into the messenger bag she usually carried, Clara knew she wasn’t heading to the library, her usual haunt, or even the city’s hall of records, where she did so much of her research. She had heard her call Maddy, her best friend, as soon as her second visitor had left. Clarification rituals were all well and good, but sometimes one needed to mull things over with a real person, she had explained to Clara as she donned her hat and coat. Saturday midday, that meant coffee and sweets at her favorite café.

Not that her friend was always as ready a listener as her cat. Or as prompt.

“Those people are crazy.” Maddy had been flustered when she’d finally burst into the crowded café a half hour after Becca had claimed a table. As if making up for lost time, she barely let Becca get to the end of her story before chiming in. “You don’t even have to finish. Let me guess. You took both cases?”

“Are you okay, Maddy?” Becca answered her friend with a question of her own.

“I’m fine.” Becca’s longtime friend pushed her normally neat-as-a-pin dark hair back from her round face. “Just bothered. There was some kind of an accident last night, and they’ve closed a lane on the bridge. I don’t know what they were looking for, but I was stuck on the number one bus forever.”

“I’m sorry.” Becca began to commiserate but her friend waved her off.

“It’s nothing—but it did give me time to think about what you told me on the phone. I really hope you told that Cross lady to get lost.” Maddy returned to her theme, still clearly aggravated. Clara, who had hunkered down beneath their table, kept a careful eye on her swinging foot. “Cross—appropriate name, huh? And that other one, too. What was her name?”

“Gaia. Gaia Linquist,” Becca answered, hoping to calm her friend. But not even the oversized chocolate chip cookie she had resisted breaking into while she waited for Maddy seemed to placate her longtime buddy, nor was the extra caffeine helping to clear the questions that kept rattling around her own head. “Or Gail, as her boss called her.”

She ate a piece of that cookie finally and pushed the plate toward her friend.

“Gaia?” Maddy only shook her head. “Crazy.”

“At first, I thought it was a coincidence.” Breaking off another piece of cookie, Becca circled back to the older woman’s visit. Maddy might have reached her own conclusions, but to Becca there were still loose ends. “I mean, okay, they both got my number from the card I put on the bulletin board at Charm and Cherish. That didn’t mean anything. After all, it makes sense that the clientele and the staff of a magic shop would be the most likely to hire a witch detective.”

Maddy’s raised eyebrows said it all, but as a true friend, she kept her skepticism silent. Becca, who had already heard tons from her old buddy about her new vocation, ignored it and moved on.

“And then, when the owner, Margaret, said she suspected her employee, I didn’t question it. I mean, I don’t know how many people work for her. But then when she started telling me about her sales associate Gail, I had to ask—”

“You had to know Gaia wasn’t her real name.” Maddy sipped her latte, but her eyes were on her friend.

“I assumed it was a name she chose.” Becca had a more generous attitude toward self-re-creation. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Maddy.”

“It’s pretentious.” With that, her friend succumbed, taking a Harriet-sized chunk of the cookie. “And silly. But enough about her name.”

This time, Becca ignored the interruption. “Anyway, when I realized that the woman Margaret suspected of stealing from her was the same woman who had come in to see me earlier, I had to wonder. And there’s that thing with the sister, too. Ms. Cross—Margaret—didn’t want to talk about it, but she brought it up. Something about how her sister urged her to hire Gaia. Only then she told me not to follow up with her sister, Elizabeth. But how can I not? I mean, it almost sounds like a setup, doesn’t it?”

“Either that, or the sisters have some kind of feud going on and they’re dragging the poor shop girl into it. They’d probably drag any bystander into it, too.” Maddy scanned the nearby tables, but none of the bleary-eyed occupants—students, probably, another sign of fall—looked up. “Anyway, you don’t need to get caught up in that.”

“No, I don’t.” Becca took another piece of the giant cookie and nibbled on it. But even Maddy must have been able to see that her friend was barely tasting its buttery goodness. “The thing is, I do need clients.” She paused to wipe a crumb from her lip. “And if I can help two members of the Wiccan community, well, those are my people, Maddy.”

“Don’t.” Her friend held up one hand to stop her. “Please, Becca. I’m your people. Researchers are your people. Academics are your people, and historians. I know you’ve gotten into this whole witch thing since you lost your job with the historical society, but please don’t go overboard.”

“I’ve solved some cases, Maddy.” Her friend cared for her, Becca knew that, but her lack of faith was clearly beginning to smart. “You know I have.”

“I know.” Maddy nodded, resignation sneaking a sigh into her voice. In truth, Becca had solved the murder of a member of her own small coven. Since then, she’d used her considerable powers of observation and skill as a researcher to help others as well. The fact that her three cats had assisted was something neither of the two friends could know. “I’m sorry. Getting stuck in traffic must have gotten to me. But, really, two clients in one day—and one of them is accusing the other?”

“It is odd.” Becca’s hand went up to her necklace. “But I think they were both being honest in their fashion.” Her brows knotted together in a way that her friend knew, from long experience, meant she was about to reach a conclusion.

“Please, Becca.” Maddy made one more last-ditch attempt. “You’re going to call these two back, right? Tell them you can’t take their so-called cases?”

“I think I have to call Margaret Cross.” Becca ignored her. “I have to tell her that I can’t accept her case. I should have as soon as I heard her employee’s name, but it took me a minute to put it all together. All I have to do is tell her I have a conflict because of an existing client. After all, I took Gail’s—Gaia’s—case before her boss walked in.”

Maddy slouched in her seat. “So you’re going to keep Ms. Glitter Goth?”

Becca shot her a look. “I should never have told you about her sneakers. They were really cute, and Laurel couldn’t get enough of them. But that’s not why—no, I’m not going to drop Gaia Linquist as a client.”

“Please, don’t say it.” Becca had seen Maddy put her mug down in preparation for launching into a speech. “I know I could get a job with you at Reynolds and Associates. But I need to give this a chance—I need to give myself a chance, Maddy. I’m good at detecting, even if the witchcraft part is still kind of iffy.”

A true friend, Maddy bit her lip and waited for Becca to go on.

“And this is serious. Wolf’s bane can kill you.”

“So don’t you think this is a matter for the police?”

Becca shook her head sadly. “It’s a root in a coffee mug. And the complainant is a young girl with dyed-black hair and sparkly sneakers, whose boss may be trying to get rid of her. You didn’t believe her, Maddy. Why would they?”

Chapter 4

Clara slipped through the door only seconds ahead of Becca, after a last breathless dash. Her person couldn’t have known the little calico had followed her out. Had, in fact, been napping beneath her feet as the conversation had turned to Maddy’s job and her ongoing campaign to get Becca to join her, and had trotted alongside her most of the eight blocks home. But she didn’t want Becca to worry, in case she called her cats together for a consult upon returning home and Clara had been slow to appear.

“What did you find out?” Laurel was at the door and reached her brown nose down to touch her little sister’s bi-colored one. “Was I right about that sneak?”

“Is she bringing home any treats?” Harriet ambled over. Neither of Clara’s older sisters had quite the facility that the little calico had with passing through physical barriers, like doors. And neither could quite so easily mask themselves into near invisibility—Clara suspected that skill had to do with her multicolor markings. But Harriet in particular was made of solid stuff. Her own special skill—making physical objects appear—might have been an extension of her corporeality. It wasn’t always helpful. In the recent past, she had caused a golden amulet and, at one especially troublesome juncture, a pillow to appear, each time causing havoc in Becca’s world.

In addition, because the objects Harriet summoned from the ether were either conjured out of air itself or crafted around some small, pre-existing item, they were never quite as good as the real thing. Which was why the always hungry longhair had given up on summoning treats. Especially since their person was usually so good about indulging them.

“No…I don’t know.” Clara answered Harriet first, as she panted to catch her breath. As the oldest, the marmalade longhair would expect that. “I ran out as she got up to leave.” In truth, the two friends had left most of that cookie, which was unlike them. A sign, Clara knew, of Maddy’s distress at her friend’s decision—and Becca’s determination to get started on the case.

“And, no, she doesn’t seem to realize that that first woman was lying.” She turned to Laurel, whose blue eyes were so much more clear than that stone.

“Humans!” A delicate sniff bristled Laurel’s whiskers. “So silly.” But despite her assuming a worldly-wise pose, Clara could see that chocolate-tipped tail lashing, a sure sign that her sister was as concerned as Clara herself. That was one of the other reasons Clara had rushed to get home.

“In fact, she’s going to keep that girl Gaia’s case.” That got even Harriet’s attention, and the little calico hastily filled her sisters in, even as her sharp ears swiveled, searching for the sound of familiar footsteps on the stairs.

“I could make this all go away.” Harriet batted idly at a toy mouse as she spoke. A sure sign, Clara knew, that her oldest sister was up to something. “If you’d let me.”

Clara held her tongue. In the past, she’d done her best to enforce the number one rule of magical cats, that they never let their humans know about their powers. It had led to tension, at the very least.

“What could you do?” The hint of scorn in Laurel’s Siamese-type yowl hinted at her skepticism.

“Well, something’s missing, right?” Either Harriet didn’t hear it, or she didn’t care. “You two are so proud of what you can do. But you know that I can summon just about anything as easily as I’d twitch my tail.”

Laurel sat back on her café au lait haunches and seemed to consider the marmalade’s proposal. It fell to Clara to break it to them.

“It wouldn’t work,” she said, her mew softened with regret. “That lady didn’t lose a ‘thing,’ per se. Someone took money—altered the accounts somehow—and nothing any of us could conjure up would change her bank balance.”

“Balance?” Laurel, the most athletic of the three, drew out the word, one hind leg stretched out balletically behind her.

“It’s not…” Clara paused. Cats may be philosophers, but abstract concepts are difficult for everyone. Still, she did her best to explain about bookkeeping and the crime of embezzling from what she had heard. “Anyway,” she concluded, “that’s why the older lady thinks that girl did it, because she works for her and could have changed the numbers.”

“Maybe she tried to poison the girl.” Laurel’s tail lashed like she was remembering a hunt. “And when it didn’t work, she came to Becca.”

It was an interesting idea, and the three cats were busy considering it, tails twitching in contemplation, when the front door opened.

“Hello, you three.” Becca looked down at her pets, beaming. “I’m glad to see you’re not fighting anymore.”

“We don’t fight. We’re sisters!” Laurel twined around Becca’s legs as she removed her jacket. “We sometimes have heated discussions.”

“Don’t distract her.” Clara looked on with concern. From the way Laurel’s whiskers were bristling, her sister knew she was working hard to implant an idea in their person’s mind. “She needs to think clearly before she gets any deeper into this.”

“I don’t see any treats.” Harriet had stood up on her hind legs to sniff the air around Becca, in the hope that a bag of cookies might be hidden on her person. “Didn’t you say she was eating treats?”

“You three.” Becca shook her head. “You’d think I’d been gone all day instead of just an hour. I bet you’re hungry. Am I right?”

Laurel turned to Clara with a smirk, letting her baby sister know just who had suggested that thought. Harriet, meanwhile, ran ahead, laser focused on being the first to the kitchen.

“You’re not going to distract her from the case forever.” Clara took up the rear.

“Bought us time, though, didn’t I?” Laurel wrapped her chocolate-tipped tail around her feet as she waited. Harriet was brazenly begging, her wide bottom making it easy for her to sit up in a fashion that her youngest sister privately thought was rather dog-like. “Time for us to look into the whole poison thing.”

“There you go, girls.” Becca laid down Harriet’s bowl first, knowing the orange cat would push aside her sisters to take it in any case. Then Laurel’s and then Clara’s, before washing her hands. Despite the talk of poison, all three dived in. “And now, kitties, I’ve got to get to work. I’ve got to call that Margaret Cross and tell her I can’t take her case.”

For a moment, Clara dared hope. Even the glint of triumph in Laurel’s blue eyes didn’t bother her. If only… But then Becca turned and wiped her hands dry.

“And then,” she said, returning the dish cloth to its hook, “I have to start figuring out how I can help poor Gaia.”

She returned to the living room, and Clara lifted her head. Her person seemed to be fussing, her movements growing more frantic.

“You done?” Harriet’s fuzzy snout pushed into her dish.

“No!” Clara raised a paw, peeved at the interruption, but she stopped herself from going further. It wouldn’t do to smack Harriet. Besides, the big marmalade did need more food than the petite calico, and Clara was aware of her own well-padded form. Any more poundage, and she might have trouble passing through closed doors. “Well, okay.” She backed away, ceding the dish, even as Laurel looked at her quizzically.

“I want to hear what Becca is doing,” Clara explained. Harriet, oblivious, kept eating. But even by the time the big cat had joined her two siblings in the living room, nothing had been resolved.

“What’s going on?” Harriet asked as she began to wash her face.

“A lot of fuss about nothing.” Laurel yawned as she stretched along the back of the sofa. “Becca needs to nap more.”

“No, it’s not that.” Clara knew better than her sisters what Becca’s increasingly frenzied activity meant. “I mean, I don’t think so,” she added, in deference to her sister.

As the three cats looked on, Becca knelt down beside the couch. Reaching, she retrieved two toy mice and a pencil that Clara hadn’t been able to resist batting around the week prior from underneath, but still she did not appear sated. If anything, she looked increasingly distraught.

“You three didn’t…” She sat on the rug and addressed the cats. “No, you have too much sense. Even you, Harriet.”

The big longhair blinked.

“It must have been when she gathered her bags up to leave.” Becca rose to her feet, talking to herself as much as the three felines. “I can’t…”

She stopped talking as she bolted into the kitchen, but a thorough examination of the trash, the teapot, and the dirty mugs didn’t seem to appease her. When she came back into the living room, she plopped down on the sofa, a dazed expression on her face.

“Well, if this doesn’t beat all,” she said, one hand absently reaching out for Clara, who had jumped up beside her. “I’ve got one client who worries she’s being poisoned, and another who thinks that the first client is a thief. Only, unless I am very much mistaken, the second client just stole the evidence that the first client brought me.”

Chapter 5

“I didn’t want to go down to the store.” Becca addressed Clara’s wordless query. Becca’s smallest cat had followed her to the front door, where she was donning her coat. “I mean, I really didn’t want Margaret and Gaia to know that I’d taken cases from them both. Not when I realized they worked together. But Margaret’s not answering her phone. For all I know, she only came by here to steal that root back.

“I should have known.” She paused, mid-button, to rest her hand on the lapis pendant. “Maybe I’m not using this right.”

Looking on, Clara thought of her sisters. She couldn’t tell for sure if Laurel had helped plant the idea the three cats had shared about the root—and the possibility that that nasty older woman had been behind the attempted poisoning. For a moment, Clara even toyed with asking Harriet to get rid of that stupid necklace, which Becca seemed to trust so much. They all had complementary powers, she mused. Maybe that was for a reason.

But for any of that to be effective, the three would have to work together. And while Clara knew her sisters loved her—at least, she assumed they did—she’d been teased for too long and too often to trust them to follow her guidance. “Clara the clown,” she could hear the echo of Laurel’s distinctive Siamese yowl. If anything, they’d do the opposite, just to mess with her, not realizing how their actions affected the human they loved. No, the plump calico realized, in this, she and Becca were alone.

Her person seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

“Well, nothing for it.” Becca had added a hat to her ensemble. A new addition to her wardrobe, the maroon velvet cloche sported a feather that only Laurel’s sense of style had kept intact. “Don’t worry, kitties. I won’t be out too late!”

“Cute.” Clara turned to see that Laurel had come up silently beside her. “That hat. Don’t you think?”

“I guess.” In truth, the little calico hadn’t paid much attention to her person’s outfit. She’d been focused on her own concerns, as well as the undercurrent of concern in Becca’s voice. “That feather will make it easier to follow her. But I won’t touch it!”

That was to Harriet, who had ambled up beside her, as much as to Laurel. Harriet considered all toys hers by right, and Clara knew she had her golden eyes on the perky plume. With a satisfied blink, Harriet accepted her little sister’s capitulation, sprawling in a fur mess on the floor. Laurel, meanwhile, had twisted around to lick the base of her tail, secure in the knowledge that neither would nab the tempting feather without her consent and seemingly unconcerned about anything else her baby sister might do. And so with a shimmy of her hindquarters, as if she were readying to jump, the calico slipped through the molecules that made up the closed door.

This is a trick many cats can do. It’s why humans can never find their pets when they first come home, and why those pets always look so pleased as they come out to meet their people. As the descendent of a long line of magical cats, however, Clara had a facility that surpassed most other felines. Inhaling a deep breath and taking a supernatural leap, she made quick work of the apartment stairs and the building’s front door to catch up with her person on the pavement outside.

Becca must have felt something—a breeze or the lightest brush of whiskers—because she paused and looked down at the sidewalk, where Clara had landed. Just in time, the calico shaded herself so that her orange spots looked like the splashes of the afternoon sun and the grey whorl on her side its growing shadows. Shaking her head, Becca began walking once more, and if her pace could have been in response to the hour or the growing chill of autumn, the grim set of her mouth revealed both her discomfort and her determination.

Despite the risk of discovery, Clara stayed close to her person as she made her way along the city streets to Charm and Cherish. The Wiccan-themed shop had opened a few months ago to the delight of Becca’s coven. Clara had first heard of it during one of their weekly gatherings around Becca’s table. The group, which had shrunk to just a few close friends, had been overjoyed to have a nearby source for the candles and incense they so enjoyed. But even though the little shop was convenient, its placement in the heart of busy Central Square made it problematic for a feline, even one who could shade herself into near invisibility when she needed.

As it was, she had several close calls. Becca was walking quickly, and in her effort to keep up, Clara had to weave through the busy weekend crowd. Twice she saw feet only seconds before they came her way, avoiding a nasty, if unintentional, kick only by the kind of agile leaps Laurel would be proud of. After the second time, she even considered dropping her shading. She was a good ten feet behind Becca at this point. Only when she looked up did she realize that being visible would have done her no good. The pedestrian whose boot had nearly caught her in the ribs was so glued to her phone it was amazing she hadn’t walked into a lamp post.

Dashing to catch up, she saw that even Becca wasn’t immune. At the blast of a car horn, a bicyclist dashed up on the sidewalk, nearly colliding with her person. As Becca stumbled backward, the cyclist, his face hidden beneath a black helmet, reared up on one tire and turned back into the street.

“They’re a menace.” Becca jumped as another pedestrian took her elbow to steady her. “Are you okay?”

Becca turned to look into warm brown eyes set in a plain, kind face. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You be careful.” A warm voice, too. Becca glimpsed down as the plain man quickly withdrew his hand. “Sorry. I’m a bit spooked.” As he apologized, an awkward smile brought out a dimple in his long, pale face. “There was an accident last night, only a few blocks from here. It was pretty awful.”

“I’m sorry. I’d heard something about that.” Becca must have recognized something in his face, because she softened her tone. “You were there?”

“Right after.” He closed his eyes remembering, and the dimple disappeared. “An older man, a homeless vet, I think, was hurt. The driver had disappeared—just left him. I think he’ll be okay, but it was touch and go.”

“How awful. I hope you’re right.” To cement her good wishes, Becca managed a smile, and for a moment Clara thought she was going to take the man’s hand. “Thanks.”

He reached for hers then and gave it a quick squeeze. “My pleasure. Only, please, I deal with enough accidents,” he said. “Be alert.”

Becca murmured her assent, but to Clara it seemed her person was even more distracted after that, barely registering the street around her as she started to walk again, her eyes following the stranger as he crossed and turned away. So it was with a sigh of relief that Clara saw Becca came to a halt before a glass storefront in the middle of a commercial block, set between a dry cleaner and a convenience store. Even without being able to read the signage, Clara could have distinguished the magic shop by the colorful zodiac symbols painted on its windows, as well as the funky herbal scent that leaked out despite the closed door.

“Nothing for it,” Becca murmured to herself, peering between a bright red lion and a blue crab that appeared to be dancing over an unevenly drawn star. Clara looked up with concern as her person took a deep breath before pulling open the front door. Braving the nasty smells she knew would only intensify, Clara followed her inside as a tinkling bell announced their arrival.

“Hello!” a voice called out from somewhere unseen. “I’m in the back. I’ll be right out.”

As Becca walked over to the glass-topped counter, loosening her coat, Clara took in her surroundings. Despite its small size, the shop was packed. Below that colorful front window, piles of newsletters—notices of circles and classes—yellowed in the afternoon sun beside a gold-painted Ganesh. Bookshelves along the wall reached to the ceiling, packed with a variety of multicolored bindings. A rack that ran down the center held candles and more books, along with a few strange metal objects—balances and weights, Clara realized, having seen something like that in Becca’s kitchen—along with some knives that looked more ceremonial than functional.

Ducking around a table with some small figures—another version of the elephant-headed god, a fat bald man, and, rather to Clara’s surprise, a series of felines—she saw Becca leaning over the glass counter. She seemed to be examining the shelves on the wall behind it, where a row of glass jars were displayed. These, one sniff confirmed, were the source of those odd odors, their tight-fitting lids not quite containing the strange and spicy aromas of the leaves and twigs and, yes, roots within.

“Hello, oh!” Becca and Clara both turned to see a familiar black-clad figure—Gaia—step into the room. “Becca, I didn’t expect you.” She came forward, pulling a door closed behind her. “Did you want to speak with me again about my case?” Even though there was nobody else in the store, her voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. Her black-lined eyes darted back and forth. “You don’t have anything yet, do you?”

“No.” Becca gathered herself up. “Why? Has anything else happened?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I’ve been extra careful, lately. My boyfriend—well, he’s really just a friend—said he thought he saw someone hanging around the shop.”

“He did?” Becca seemed to slide right over Gaia’s redefinition of the relationship. Among humans, it could be hard to tell. Clara knew that. Still, she’d heard her person’s quick intake of breath. “Maybe I should speak with him?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Gaia stepped back behind the counter. “Tiger wouldn’t want to be involved in any of this. I know him.”

“Oh.” Becca tilted her head, looking amazingly like Laurel as she pondered. “But if this Tiger saw someone suspicious and can describe him…or her… What’s Tiger’s full name?”

“Look, I shouldn’t have mentioned him. He’s just being protective. I mean, there’s never anyone in here.” With that, she turned to examine the shelves of jars behind her, shutting Becca out. But the young woman Clara knew and loved was not without her resources. “Hardly ever. It’s safe as a tomb.”

Becca’s silence acted like catnip on the black-clad shop girl.

“Okay, a few things have gone missing.” The goth girl shrugged and turned once more to eye her visitor. “Not that we have any big-ticket items here. I mean, unless you count the gong.”

“Shoplifters?”

A tilt of her head made those ear studs flash. “Someone grabbed something out of the window. I think that’s what happened, anyway.”

“I see.” Becca’s tone was soft, but Clara was heartened to hear the suspicion underlying those two words. “Someone took something?”

Another shrug. “I think. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Becca paused, cataloging the theft—or the other woman’s sudden reluctance to discuss it—and moved on, her hand creeping to the pendant in the hollow of her throat. “Well, then, if you don’t think anyone has been in here, I have to ask. Looking at all those jars…is there any chance that maybe…I mean, so many of those roots look alike…”

“You think I nearly poisoned myself?” The other woman’s eyes went wide. “You mean, by accident, right?”

Becca didn’t respond, and Clara knew she was weighing the possibilities. The cat couldn’t imagine why a human would choose to make herself sick. Then again, Laurel had eaten a moth once, with disturbing results, and Harriet had no problem coughing up furballs with amazing regularity.

“People make mistakes.” Becca’s response, when it finally came, was phrased to sound perfectly noncommittal.

“Not possible. I know what wolf’s bane looks like.” The woman behind the counter turned again, taking in the various botanicals. “We don’t even have it here. I mean, why would we?”

“Wolf’s bane does have medicinal uses,” Becca pointed out. “You said so yourself.”

“And it can also be used for harm,” Gaia shot back. “You know the rule.”

A nod from Becca. “An ye harm none, do what ye will,” she recited. “But that doesn’t mean botanicas and purveyors to the craft don’t stock it.”

“We don’t.” Gaia was firm. “I do all the buying. Well, with Margaret, Margaret Cross. She’s the owner.”

Becca’s face fell and Clara knew why. The kind-hearted girl didn’t want to think that the older woman was behind the attempted poisoning—or the attempted cover up. Still, she rallied as she recalled the initial reason for her visit. Finally, she had her opening.

“Of course,” she said, and leaned forward, as if about to impart a secret. “Actually, I’m really here to see Margaret. Is she available?”

“You know Margaret?” A quizzical lift of one pierced brow. But as Becca fumbled for an answer, Gaia provided her own. “Oh, yeah, you must have gotten her okay to post your notice. She’s not—I haven’t seen her or her crazy sister at all today. But is there something I can help you with?”

“No.” Becca bit her lip, which she always did when she was thinking. Clara did her best to still her tail, which threatened to lash in anticipation, and watched, waiting to see what her person would do. “It’s personal, to be honest. Do you know how I can reach her?”

“I have her cell number.” Gaia pulled open a drawer beneath the register.

“So do I,” Becca admitted. “She’s not answering.”

“That’s curious.” Gaia leaned back, her hands still on the drawer. “Usually, she’s on top of everything. In everything, I should say. The woman has no boundaries.”

Something about Becca’s expression must have given her thoughts away, because Gaia’s eyes went wide. “You don’t think she’s…the wolf’s bane,” she said, her voice growing breathless.

“You mean that maybe she got her hands on some? And that maybe somehow, by mistake maybe…” Becca’s voice went high and tight, as Clara knew it did when she was about to lie, or almost lie. “Would you have any reason to suspect her?”

“Any reason, such as that she has accused you of embezzling.” Clara provided the missing words. “Accused you of stealing from the register you have your hands on?”

“Suspect?” Gaia tilted her head, looking for all the world like Laurel at her most quizzical. “Why would she…no, that’s not what I meant.”

Becca and Clara both waited as the other woman shook her head. “I just mean, well, if she’s not answering, and she’s not here. Maybe it wasn’t just me. Maybe someone has tried to poison her, too.”

Chapter 6

“Let’s not panic.” Becca put out her hands in a calming gesture as Gaia tensed, ready to run from behind the counter. “There’s no reason to jump to conclusions here.”

“But you don’t know.” The counter girl sounded breathless, gulping her words like air. “I mean, we share mugs. I brew a big pot of tea first thing in the day…maybe it wasn’t meant for me. Maybe Margaret…”

“Please calm down.” Becca spoke softly but firmly, like one would to a panicked kitten. She couldn’t be about to share her suspicions, could she? Clara wondered, when Becca responded with a question of her own. “What was your last interaction with her?”

“Like I said, I spoke to her this morning. She called right before I took my break. She wanted to confirm my schedule.”

Becca listened without comment, and Clara didn’t need Laurel’s powers to know why. The older woman had probably checked in to make sure her staffer was going to be in the store before she visited Becca. That didn’t seem to be information Becca was ready to share with her younger client, though. “And you haven’t heard from her since?”

“No.” Gaia sucked her lips. “But, well, you know I took a kind of long-ish break to go see you. And then, well, I was so upset that I felt a bit light-headed and I thought, maybe, some lunch…”

“Who covered the shop while you were out?” Becca interrupted what was clearly going to be a chain of excuses.

“Nobody,” the woman said, like it should have been obvious. “It’s not like we have this huge staff or anything. In fact, it’s pretty much just me and Margaret’s nutty sister Elizabeth. But she just flits in and out. I don’t think Margaret pays her. She’s always complaining about money, and I know she pays me little enough. That’s why I figured, well, if I needed to take some time off…”

“So, Elizabeth didn’t cover for you?” Becca tilted her head, looking for all the world like Laurel when the Siamese was trying to figure something out.

“No, I put up a sign, saying that we’d be open again in an hour. I mean, maybe it was closer to two hours. But, you know, who knows when anyone came by? Because if they came by an hour after I left, then it was only…”

“So the shop was closed.” Becca might have been thinking out loud, but her words cut the other woman off.

“Uh-huh.” She acknowledged. “You think maybe she came by?”

“I don’t know.” Becca turned, taking in the crowded shelves, with their books and bric-a-brac. “Did it look like anything had changed when you came back?”

A slow shake of that jet-black bob showed the other woman’s confusion. “Do you think someone broke in?”

“I’m not sure.” Becca spoke slowly. “I was trying to reach Margaret because, well, something was bothering her.” As she spoke, she began to walk around the store. She picked up a candle and turned it toward her, noting its blackened wick. “Do you usually light these?”

“Me? No.” The idea was met with a grimace. “I don’t want to have to shell out eighteen bucks for that.”

Becca flicked the darkened wick, her finger settling on the shallow cavity surrounding it. “Someone has.”

She moved on to the display of Tarot cards. “Was this pack open?” She turned back to Gaia. “Maybe as a display model?”

“What?” Gaia was by her side faster than Clara could pounce, scooping up the open cards. “No, well, maybe. We do let customers look at the cards. I mean, if they seem serious. In fact, maybe that candle…”

Becca was watching her, a puzzled look on her face. Clearly, something was bothering the black-haired girl. Something beyond her concern about being poisoned. “Does anyone else have the keys to the shop?”

A shrug. “Frank—Mr. Cross, that is.” Her pretty mouth pouted in annoyance. “But he never comes down here. He’s got his own office, and I don’t think he thinks much of this place. In fact, I’m pretty sure he wishes she’d fail so he could get another tenant.”

“Another—wait, he’s the landlord?”

A shrug, as Gaia brushed her bangs out of her eyes, revealing another piercing. “Well, yeah. I can’t imagine she’d have this place otherwise. Didn’t I tell you? They live upstairs.”

Even Gaia must have heard Becca sigh. To Clara, it was a roar of annoyance. “How do I get up there?” She made to go behind the counter, and Clara could tell she was heading for the back door.

“That’s just the store room.” Gaia headed her off. “And our little break area.”

She took Becca’s arm and led her toward the front door. “The building entrance is past the cleaners. Hang on.” She fished a ring of keys from her pocket, like she was about to lock up.

“Oh, there’s no need. I can find it.” Becca reached for the door. “Is there an apartment number?”

“It’s the fourth floor. They call it the penthouse.” An exaggerated widening of her kohl-rimmed eyes showed what she thought of that. “You sure you don’t want me to come along?”

“No, thanks.” Becca glanced toward the counter. “I feel like I’ve kept you from your job for long enough today.”

This time, Gaia didn’t even try to hide it when she rolled her eyes.

***

“There’s something odd going on with that store.” Becca couldn’t have known that Clara was right beside her as she walked past the dry cleaners, its lights glowing in the growing dusk. But maybe she sensed her pet’s presence, the little calico thought. Her warmth as the afternoon sun began to fade. And maybe the companionship of the devoted feline was helping her process. “That candle—it made Gaia uncomfortable for some reason. And the way she grabbed at those cards, laid out like that? It was almost like she didn’t want me to see something.”

Becca had reached a nondescript metal door, marked only with the street number and a grimy inset window. While Clara waited, Becca leaned forward to spy through the dirty glass. Clara could pass through doors but there were limits to her abilities. She could jump, but not high enough to see through the inset window—just as she couldn’t read the labels on those jars and bottles. If only she had thought to climb up while Becca was questioning that other woman.

Any regrets had to wait, however, as Becca pulled open the door and entered a small foyer that smelled of dust and rot, undoubtedly from the pile of takeout menus that lay moldering in the corner.

“Penthouse, there it is.” Becca examined a directory and pressed a button by the mailboxes. After a pause, she tried again, as the dust settled in silence. Clara, careful not to stir it back up, nosed the interior door, held ajar by a rubber wedge.

She might not have Laurel’s power of suggestion, but then again, she might not need it. The foyer was small enough that Becca soon noticed and let herself into the stairwell. As she started up, she pulled out her cell.

“Third time’s the charm,” she said as she punched in the number. But even before the call could go once more to voicemail, the ringtone was drowned out by a clattering on the stairs as first a pair of clogs and then striped tights appeared.

“You’re here!” a tall stork of a woman announced as she reached the bottom stair. Examining Becca over her hawk-like nose, she nodded, her shoulder-length gray hair as wild as unraveled yarn. “Finally!”

“Is it that nasty girl?” The unmistakable caw of Margaret Cross filtered down from above. “Has she come to gloat?”

“Excuse me?” Becca addressed the woman on the stairs as she pocketed her phone. “You must be…”

“Elizabeth Sherman.” The gray-haired woman extended a hand. “Margaret’s big sister. Come on up.”

“I’ve been trying to reach Margaret.” Becca had to step quickly to keep up. Elizabeth nearly sprang up the stairs, despite clogs and the smock-like dress that might have tripped a shorter woman. “And I might have some news she doesn’t like but I need to tell her…”

Before she could finish, they’d reached the top, where Margaret, still in her suit, was waiting. “It’s the wrong girl,” said the more formally dressed woman with a scowl as she turned back into the apartment. “I meant the other one.”

Becca’s head swiveled between the two women, considering the similarities in the sisters’ wild hair, which played so differently with Elizabeth’s height and rather hippie-ish attire and Margaret’s double-knit suit. For Clara, the main distinction was a faint difference in scent, almost as if the store owner’s sour attitude—or maybe her hair dye—had curdled something inside her.

“Mrs. Cross.” Becca followed the shorter woman into a large, well-lit living room decorated in wood and earth tones. A shelf that ran the length of the window was lined with potted plants. Without turning to acknowledge her guest, the storeowner plopped down on a nubbly brown couch.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve been trying to reach you.” Becca hesitated, standing on the other side of a cherry-stained coffee table. “I need to talk to you about your case.”

She stopped there, looking up at the taller sister, who had clomped past her into the adjoining kitchen, turning on a tap and humming tunelessly as she knocked dishes about. But before Becca could ask Margaret if she wanted to move the conversation to a more private venue, she was startled by a sob. The store owner had doubled over, her face in her hands.

“Mrs. Cross—Margaret, are you okay?” Becca raced to her side, and, shuffling onto the sofa beside her, tentatively reached one arm around the older woman’s broad back, patting her shoulders as they heaved up and down with tears.

“She’ll be fine.” Elizabeth stepped back through the open doorway holding a tray with a teapot and three mugs. “Did you meet him yet? The man?”

Becca looked up. She seemed about to answer, when Margaret broke in.

“There is no other man. Only my Frank.” The woman on the sofa sobbed once, with what might have seemed like dramatic emphasis. “He’s gone.”

Becca patted her back again as she looked to the sister for clarification.

The other woman only shook her grey curls as she placed the tray on the table. “Sugar?”

“No, please don’t bother.”

Elizabeth disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Becca with the distraught Margaret—and a confused cat. Becca liked her tea sweet.

“Margaret…” Becca focused on the woman beside her. “Mrs. Cross, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Was it sudden?”

“Was it…?” A bleary face turned up to Becca, trails of mascara mirroring the wild black hair. “Frank’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.”

“Frank’s been unfaithful.” Elizabeth, returning, put down a silver sugar bowl and three spoons. “I warned you, Margaret.”

“Oh.” Becca paused, the possibilities sinking in. “And you think that…”

“I know!” Another glare as Margaret pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and wiped her face. “That black-haired minx downstairs.”

Elizabeth took this in stride as she sat and poured the tea. If she’d looked up, she’d have seen the play of emotion over Becca’s face. At first, Clara thought her person would use this very reasonable excuse to leave. But, no. Although Becca was kind, she was also determined. Taking a deep breath, she began to speak.

“Ms. Cross, I’ve got to ask…” Another breath to get the words out. “If you thought Gaia—Gail—was involved with your husband, well, it would be understandable, if you were angry… If you wanted to… I mean, if you had suspicions…”

“Suspicions?” Becca didn’t get a chance to finish. “I’ve known something was going on for a while. Late nights at that dead-end car lot of his. Like he was really sitting there all alone. I have my sensitivities too!” This was directed toward her sister, who only nodded.

“Car lot?” Becca’s face brightened. “Oh, is he—are you the Crosses of Cross Cars, the used car lot down by the river?”

“Don’t tell me you ever bought a car from him?” She barked out a laugh. “No, of course not. I’d know if he’d sold any.”

The older woman’s glare didn’t invite an answer.

“Well, anyway.” Becca cleared her throat. “I mean, it would be only human if you wanted to implicate the other woman in a less personal crime. Or perhaps scare her…”

“Scare her? I’m the one who’s bereft.” The tears had stopped. Margaret’s mood, however, had not improved. “He was out late again last night, and when I came home today, he was gone. He’s cleaned everything out.”

“Everything?” Becca craned her head around, confused. Although she appeared to be taking in the reasonably full bookshelf, the shelf of plants, and what looked like a high-end sound system, Clara knew she was looking for a particularly stinky baggie.

“What?” The bark of the question pulled her back to Margaret’s scowl, which creased her lipstick alarmingly. “This? This is all mine. But his rings, his watches—they’re all gone! All the little presents I gave him.”

A sudden intake of breath as she jumped up, racing to a door at the far end of the room. “I knew it!”

With a quizzical glance toward Elizabeth, Becca rose. She followed the voice and found Margaret in what was clearly the master bedroom. Leaning over a low vanity, she was staring into an opened jewelry box, whose gold satin lining matched both the curtains and the fluffy duvet behind her.

“He took mother’s pearls, Bitsy,” she called out, and then pulled a lower drawer open. “And my diamond earrings as well.”

With that, she turned, fixing Becca with dark eyes sparking with rage. “If he gave my sparklers to that little hussy, I swear, I’m going to kill them both.”

***

“I think we should alert the police.” Ten minutes later, and the three were sitting in the living room again. On Becca’s urging, Margaret had made an inventory of her valuables. Sure enough, although the electronics were all untouched, everything small and pocketable had been taken. “This might have been the work of a professional.”

“It’s the work of that little hussy.” Margaret had gone from tears to anger and back again, and now slurped her tea. “Believe me, I know.”

“I’m sorry, Margaret. But how can you be sure?” Becca turned to the other sister for confirmation, but Elizabeth was pouring the last of the tea into Margaret’s mug. When that was done, she rose without a word and retreated to the kitchen. “Have you spoken with your husband?”

“I’ve been trying him all day. He’s not answering his phone.”

“You haven’t been either.” The words slipped out. “I’m sorry, but I was trying to reach you.”

“I wasn’t in any shape to talk to anyone else.” Margaret sniffed. “Besides, I wanted to leave the line free. I don’t trust those things.”

There was no easy answer to that, so Becca changed the subject. “Maybe he lost his phone? Maybe he’s been busy?”

Margaret shook off the idea. “I’ve had an idea for a while now. I just thought I could catch them before it came to this.”

“Ah.” Becca turned thoughtful. “Is that why you hired me?”

“What? No.” A glare like a hawk. “Someone has been stealing from me, and this just makes me even surer it’s that girl. Gail—Gaia—whatever she calls herself. I’m sure that once you start looking into it—”

“That’s just it. I can’t,” Becca interrupted her. “That’s why I was trying to reach you earlier today, Mrs. Cross. I have a conflict of interest. That’s only one reason I think you really need to talk to—”

“It’s that girl.” Her gaze was piercing, and Becca squirmed a little, even as she spooned sugar into her tea. “She’s hired you, too. Hasn’t she?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Becca tried to sound firm. In truth, she wasn’t sure of the etiquette of the situation. Did hiring a witch detective automatically convey confidentiality? It seemed like it ought to.

“She’s outsmarted me every step of the way.” Margaret looked angry now, rather than sad. Her cracked lipstick set in a tight red line until she started speaking again, and this time her fury seemed directed at Becca. “You do realize what she’s doing, don’t you? She’s playing you. Playing you to get to me. She knew I was going to talk to you. She saw me taking down your number, only she got to you first. What did she say? Did she accuse me of something? Financial malfeasance? Spousal cruelty? I bet Frank spun her some stories about me…”

Becca swallowed, her eyes darting to the kitchen, but Elizabeth did not re-emerge. “I’m sorry,” she said one more time. Only this time, her voice sounded a little more resolute. “I understand that this all very difficult, but if you won’t let me call the police about the jewelry theft, I don’t see what else I can do here. This seems to be a domestic matter that I really don’t want to be a part of.”

“Oh, you’re part of it, young lady. In fact, I’m wondering if you two came up with this together.” The scowl deepened into something truly scary.

Becca put her mug down, frustrated. She no longer wanted to drink anything in this house. What she wanted to do was leave. “Wait a minute. You came to me. I have not conspired with anyone. I don’t do that,” she said. “In fact, as a witch, you should know our basic rule—as long as ye harm none.”

“Tell that to Gail.” The woman across from her pushed her own mug away and slumped in her seat. Suddenly, she looked no more than an old woman, defeated and in mourning. “Frank wasn’t a great husband by any means, but he was the only one I had. Bitsy was right about that girl. She doesn’t care about the shop, about the craft. She’s just into whatever she can get.”

Becca, having witnessed the other girl’s lax attitude, bit her lip.

“I knew he was up to something with that lot of his. He never wanted me to come down there. Never mind that I paid for it. She was probably hoping for a free car or something. Wait till she discovers Frank has no money of his own,” she said, half to herself. “Then she’ll see who’s been taken for a ride. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets rid of him before long.”

***

When it became apparent that no amount of persuasion would get Margaret to call the cops, Becca stood to leave. “I’m sorry,” she said again, heading toward the door, though Clara inferred her regret had more to do with showing up at all than for the other woman’s sorrows. “I really have to go.”

It was near dark by the time she was out on the street again. Around her, the lights of the city were casting colors over the sidewalk, making it easy for Clara to sidle up to her person with care. Becca might have been oblivious even if her pet had made herself visible, the calico realized, as her person collapsed against the brick wall with a deep sigh.

“Becca?” At the sound of her name, she jumped. Elizabeth was standing beside her. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but I wanted to catch you.”

“It’s no problem.” Becca’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come down.”

The other woman only smiled. “I wanted to tell you how grateful I am for you coming here today. For your interest in Charm and Cherish.”

“But I’m not—” Becca shook her head. “I don’t know how much you heard, but I’m not taking your sister’s case. I think she should go to the police. Maybe you can work on her?”

“Maybe.” A noncommittal shrug. “But she’s right, you know. Her husband was stealing from her. Still, there are other reasons…”

“I get that she’s embarrassed.” Becca filled in the blank. “But she’ll have to file for insurance, especially if there are family heirlooms involved.”

“Of course, and we are family.” Elizabeth reached out, putting her cool hand on top of Becca’s. “Be careful, dear.”

Becca nodded, a million thoughts playing across her face. “Thanks,” she said, and turned away.

“And you, too.” Elizabeth whispered, her gaze directed to the shadowed calico at her feet.

Chapter 7

“I must have imagined that,” Clara told herself, frozen to the spot. “Could I have misheard?”

Fancy rarely got the better of the little calico. Cats in general are extremely practical. But recently Clara had realized that she’d been taking on some of Becca’s quirks, most likely because she loved her so—a trait her own two sisters never hesitated to point out. After all, nothing else made sense. So when the older woman turned, chuckling softly, back to the shadowed building entrance, Clara shook herself whiskers to tail, and looked around for Becca.

Her person had paused only a few yards away in front of that colorful Charm and Cherish window, now lit from within as the afternoon sun faded. But although Becca appeared to be considering her options, she didn’t pull open the door with its friendly bell. Instead, she stayed on the sidewalk, her round face drawn with concern, as she gazed in at the raven-haired salesgirl behind the counter who appeared utterly absorbed in her cell phone.

Was her person considering warning Gaia/Gail about her employer’s rage or interrogating her further about the identity of her not-a-boyfriend? Clara couldn’t tell, although the slight frown on her person’s face alerted her that some serious thinking was going on. And so when Becca shook her head and kept walking, her pet could only be relieved. It wasn’t that late. This time of year, dusk came early. Still, it was time for Becca and her pet to retire. Clara wanted to think through that odd final encounter with that strange Elizabeth. The two sisters might look alike, but Clara had the distinct impression that they were as different as, well, Clara and her siblings. And no matter how nasty that Margaret might be, Clara couldn’t help but think that she was the safer one for Becca—and for herself.

Clara was musing about how odd humans could be when she suddenly realized that she had lost her person in the growing dark. Panicked, she dropped her shading for a moment, her back arching like a Halloween cat.

“What the—!” A man in a business suit stopped just short of tripping over her, causing the bike messenger behind him to swerve. The cyclist nearly hit a tree, and while Clara looked up at the businessman in a silent, wide-eyed apology, he had turned to vent his rage elsewhere.

“You’re not supposed to ride on the sidewalk!” he screamed at the cyclist. “And you’re supposed to have a light.”

Hopping on one foot as he righted his bike, the cyclist eyed him coolly, blue eyes wide. Dressed in a black pullover and jeans dyed the same hue, he looked lean and fit, a creature of the growing dark, with a helmet to match and a scent that was vaguely familiar. If these two were to fight, Clara would have bet on the cyclist, despite the businessman’s obvious pique. That is, if cats were gambling animals. Which, the plump animal reminded herself, they were not.

Nor was the slender young man the type to take offense. “Sorry, man,” was all he said, but his voice wasn’t the one Clara was expecting. Her faint memory dissipated as, readjusting his helmet, the cyclist kicked off and was gone. By the time the pedestrian had turned back to Clara, she had shaded herself once again and dashed behind him, desperate to figure out where her person had gone.

Being a cat has some advantages. Small and agile, if not quite as lithe as Laurel, Clara was able to weave through the crowd emerging from the T. Shaded and nearly invisible, she had to be extra careful, especially when a young mother pushing a stroller lost her grip, for a moment, on the hand of her toddler, who stumbled right at the calico.

“Kitty!” The little girl chortled with glee as Clara scrambled up the trunk of a small maple.

Alerted by the cry, her frazzled-looking mother reached over and grabbed her hand. “There’s no kitty there, Lily,” she said.

Clara didn’t have time to puzzle out what had happened. Had she let her shading fade once again, startled by the oncoming stroller? Or did the child have power of some sort? She thought again of Elizabeth and her odd farewell. She’d bring it up to her sisters later, she decided as she craned around. The maple wasn’t tall, though its placement broke up the concrete cityscape nicely. And Clara had to maneuver around a squirrel who had already tucked himself in for the night in order to spy through a break in the scarlet leaves.

“I mean no harm,” she murmured as the fluffy rodent started in alarm, scrabbling at the tree’s smooth bark as he did. For a moment, she thought about uncloaking, then decided against it. From the look on that grey face, the sudden appearance of a cat might be enough to cause him to fall off the limb entirely.

The height didn’t help. Even though her feline vision barely acknowledged the growing dusk, Clara couldn’t see Becca’s curls or her silly velvet hat. Not even that perky feather showed itself above the crowd. That didn’t mean she should worry; Clara knew that. After all, maybe Becca had just stopped to pick up some dinner or a treat for later. But something was making the fur along her spine stiffen. Maybe it was the bitterness with which the older woman talked about her employee. Or maybe it was Gaia herself. Something was off with those two women, and every guard hair on her body was on alert. In desperation, she closed her eyes, raising her nose into the air.

Success! She got it—a slight scent of her person, faint but distinct. Over…where was it? Yes, toward the river. Scrambling down the tree in a rush that nearly upset the squirrel, she dashed down into the gutter, the better to make a beeline toward the young woman whose happiness and safety were Clara’s main responsibility.

By the time she reached her, the young woman was heading down a street Clara had never seen before. Though only a few blocks away, it felt like a different city. Clara was used to her own part of Cambridge. In their own neighborhood, even the larger red-brick buildings were softened by window boxes and a few stately beech trees. On the main drag they had just visited, at least the lights were colorful, as was that captive maple poking out of the sidewalk.

The street they had just turned down might as well have been on the moon. Treeless—grassless, even—all was hard and dry, and in the growing dark, the industrial buildings that climbed above the concrete sidewalks loomed like watchful giants. Sniffing the air, Clara caught traces of the river, and the reeds along its shore. Even with her superior night vision, however, she could see no sign of such greenery. Not through the high chain-link fence that Becca now approached, or in the cracked asphalt of the lot beyond.

Instead of grass or trees, Clara could see several cars that seemed to be frozen in time, judging from the fine layer of dust on all but one of them. Only minutes from the bustling city center, the strip felt foreign—and dangerous. Every instinct told the small cat not to go farther. But there was Becca, walking through that deserted lot, toward the cinder-block building at its center. The squat building, at least, showed signs of life. Its glass front shown with light, and from where she watched, Clara could see the glow from another opening in the back. And so, gathering up her courage, the little cat dashed over the open tarmac to catch up with her, just as Becca pushed the door open.

“Hello?” The room was dominated by an empty desk and the strong smell of burned coffee. Overhead, a fluorescent bulb buzzed. “Is there anyone here?”

Becca looked around. The window showed only the lot outside, still and dark, but a door to the right stood slightly ajar. More light and the smell of that coffee emanated from within. Raising her voice, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Hello?”

“Calm down!” a man’s voice called from behind the door.

“Mr. Cross?” Becca’s voice rose with tension as she took a step forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I—”

“Please!” The voice sounded agitated, and Becca stopped in her tracks. On the other side of the door, the man started speaking again, only this time his voice was quieter. Clara, whose hearing far surpassed her human’s, made sure to shade herself carefully and crept by Becca. Her person might want to respect Frank Cross’s privacy, but it was easy enough for the shadowy calico to slink by, even without additional magic, squeezing through the narrow opening without nudging it further.

The man in the small office might not have noticed her even if she had. Pudgy and sweating, with a skein of brown hair that ran across a glistening pate, he paced, oblivious to anything other than the beige phone squawking in his hand.

“Please, I promise.”

As Clara watched, he pushed his damp hair back farther on his head and patted it. If that hair had been Harriet, it would have bit back, the way he kept at it, flattening it out. He still might not have noticed, as focused as he was on the phone, which was pressed so tightly to his ear that only the faintest sound escaped.

“No, you’re wrong.” He licked dry lips and paused in his pacing. “No.” Leaning forward, he caught his desk chair with one hand, and Clara wondered if he was going to be sick. “Please!”

Something was wrong, horribly wrong, and Clara’s thoughts went to her person. Zipping through the nearly closed door, she found Becca still standing, caught in her uncertainty.

“Let’s leave!” the calico did her best to suggest, thinking of the brisk, fresh air outside. Of the nice warm apartment that awaited. But Clara didn’t have Laurel’s gift, and besides, Becca was caught up in this interaction, despite being unsure of what to do.

“Mr. Cross?” Her voice was so soft that even had he not been on the phone, Clara doubted he would have heard it.

“No!” So loud Becca started. “I didn’t…I wouldn’t ever…” A clatter as the balding man slammed down the receiver, and then a loud sigh. Becca gathered herself up to knock on the half-closed door when another sound broke the silence: wracking sobs, like a man overcome with grief or, possibly, shame. Letting her hand fall to her side, Becca stepped back, and then turned and left, as quietly as she had entered.

“Well,” she said, once she was again on the darkened street. “Maybe that’s settled. It sounds like she reached him!”

She might have thought she was speaking to herself, but the day’s curious interactions had Clara thinking. Perhaps she had misinterpreted Elizabeth’s odd farewell, or the woman had been disoriented by the dusk. Perhaps the toddler on the street had been confused by the squirrel, or simply liked to yell out “kitty!” Clara had little experience of human kittenhood. But, increasingly, she wondered about her own connection with Becca. The bond between them was so strong, wasn’t it likely that her person sensed her presence? At times like this, it was all the little calico could do to resist twining around her person’s ankles. Only the knowledge that her sudden appearance here, in this bleak industrial part of town, would give Becca a fright kept her from letting her presence be felt. As it was, Becca appeared more relaxed as she turned toward home.

“Maddy? I’ve got some good news for you.” Clara wasn’t crazy about Becca talking on her phone as she walked. Cambridge was her home, but it was still a big city, and the spotted cat wished her person would stay alert to her surroundings, especially now that the dusk had given way to night. Still, it was useful to eavesdrop on Becca’s conversation.

“Uh-huh, I’m still taking Gaia’s case,” she was saying to her friend. “But I’m free of the other one, her boss’s.” Clara couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but from the way Becca was nodding, she could guess that her friend was repeating her advice that Becca drop the whole thing.

“There might not even be a case,” she picked up once her friend fell silent. “I mean, Margaret, the boss, was saying that someone was embezzling, but I think she was just angry at Gaia. She thought her husband was having an affair with her. I think she was trying to frame Gaia. And maybe scare her, too.” Becca’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think maybe she saw the root that Gaia brought over and stole it.”

Slight squawks escaped from the phone.

“It’s—no, Maddy, I’m not getting involved in anything criminal. In fact, I’m walking away now. I had a hunch, when she wouldn’t let me call the police, even though she was wailing about jewelry being stolen. She was trying to convince me that her husband had taken it and run off. Sure enough, her husband is at work. To be honest, I think he was dodging her calls, but when I walked in, they were clearly having it out. Don’t worry, Maddy, I’m not getting between them. I don’t know what he did, and I don’t want to know. But I can tell you he feels super bad about it now.”

Becca paused. “Didn’t I tell you? I went to see him. She said something about his lot, and I realized that used car lot over on Putnam had to be his. We pass by it all the time. You know the place I mean—Cross Auto, with that big sign that says, ‘Ask Frank! Make a deal!’”

The sounds from the other line were quieter this time.

“No, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. Maybe, ‘Call your wife,’ or something. I just thought I should drop by. Confirm the facts. I may be a witch, but I’ve got to do the basic legwork, right? But it didn’t even come to that. I was waiting in the front room—I don’t know, maybe his receptionist had left already, if he has one—and I could hear him in his office. He must have finally picked up one of Margaret’s calls. He was apologizing like anything. To be honest, it sounded like he could barely get a word in.”

She was smiling and shaking her head even as she listened to Maddy’s reply.

“I don’t know, Maddy. I don’t think I’d want to be either one of them. I was with Margaret, so I know how angry she can get. Not that she didn’t have reason if what she suspected was true. But I figure whatever was going wrong has been put right. I have never heard someone trying to explain himself so fast,” Becca said. “I mean, he didn’t even sound apologetic so much as he sounded scared!”

Becca was small for a human, but as she relaxed, her stride lengthened and Clara had to trot to keep up. Still, she was grateful for this indication that her person was happier. Even the squawking from the other end of the line sounded quieter.

“Yeah, I know.” Becca nodded, as if her friend could see her. “Believe me, I don’t want to get between those two either.”

Becca broke into a grin as her friend responded, much to Clara’s relief. Still, she tilted an ear forward as her person lowered her voice once more.

“I’m going to stay on Gaia’s case, though. It’s not just that I could use the experience, Maddy. Even if she can’t pay me, I signed a contract.”

More noise.

“No, I’m sorry, but I have to, Maddy. Because what if I’m wrong about Margaret just trying to scare the girl? What if someone really did try to poison Gaia? And what if they try again?”

Chapter 8

Clara was exhausted by the time she got home, racing Becca the last few blocks. Not that this stopped her sisters from pestering her for news.

“What happened?” Laurel nudged her with one chocolate-dipped paw. “Did you find out anything about that girl Gaia?”

“Where has Becca been?” Harriet sat back, her flag-like tail flicking back and forth with anxiety. “Doesn’t she know how we worry?”

“She’s on her way.” Clara made sure to answer her oldest sister first and address her unspoken concern. “I’m sure she’ll feed us as soon as she gets in.”

“Humph,” Harriet snorted, pulling her tail around her toes. She wasn’t satisfied, Clara knew. She was, however, a little self-conscious about being so single-minded. “You think that’s all I care about.”

“Well?” Laurel pushed Harriet aside. “Did she meet anyone cute?”

The image of the brown-eyed stranger flitted through Clara’s mind, and Laurel purred in response. “He was just someone on the street,” Clara snapped.

The little calico wanted nothing so much as to bathe. The dust from the used car lot had gotten beneath her fur. Even her whiskers felt gritty. More than that, a good tongue bath would soothe the lingering concerns that had ruffled her fur. Still, Laurel would not be kept waiting.

“You were right about Gaia,” she said. “That girl is trouble.” Quickly, she told them about the visit to the shop. The fact that Gaia seemed lackadaisical, at best, about her job didn’t seem to concern Laurel much. If anything, that seemed quite reasonable to a cat. When Clara got to the storeowner’s accusations, however, both her sisters’ ears pricked up.

“She…collects men?” Laurel interrupted before Clara could get up to the strange interaction with Elizabeth, and the calico flicked her own tail in annoyance. The sealpoint sister had long wanted Becca to be more romantically adventurous, but Clara didn’t think this was the way to do it.

“Other women’s men,” cautioned the calico.

“Oh, that’s not good.” Laurel’s ears lay flat, and she turned toward Harriet.

“What?” Harriet turned toward the front door. “You told me that you wanted to let Becca do this by herself, and now…”

“Harriet, what did you do…?” But it was too late. Even before Clara could finish her thought, her sisters had raced ahead to stand at attention at the door. A moment later, they could hear the familiar footsteps slowly ascending the stairs and then the key in the lock.

“Hi, kitties.” Becca’s good cheer sounded intact, even if her voice was tired. “How nice of you to meet me like this.”

“You!” Harriet mewed plaintively. “Where were you?”

“I bet you want your dinner, don’t you?”

Laurel’s eyes closed in satisfaction. Not that she’d have had to work that hard to suggest the idea to their generous human.

“I’ll get right to it, as soon as I get my coat and hat off.”

“Thank you!” Clara twined around Becca’s legs, grateful to finally be able to express herself physically. Her person seemed to appreciate the contact, even as she almost tripped, laughing, over the plump cat. It was Harriet who put a stop to the fooling around.

“Stop that!” she hissed, cuffing her baby sister on the ear.

Hunger, Clara figured, and accepted the rebuke quietly. But even though her oldest sister made quick work of her can, Clara couldn’t help but wonder at her comparative lack of enthusiasm. For a change, it was Laurel who looked over, licking her chops, to see if Clara was going to leave anything behind. Harriet had already raced ahead to the living room.

“What’s with Harriet?” Clara asked. “Is she feeling all right?”

“Why don’t you go see?” Laurel eyed the crumbs in Clara’s dish, and after a moment’s hesitation, Clara backed off. Harriet might be a pain, but she was her sister. She trotted into the living room after her.

“Maddy? I’m home.” Becca spoke to her phone in much the tone of voice she used with her cats. “Sorry, I should have called you five minutes ago but I had to feed the kitties.”

A smile down at Clara warmed the little calico.

“No, I think I’m in for the night. It’s been a big day, but thank you.” Even as she spoke, Becca shed her shoes and settled on the sofa. “I haven’t had a chance to even look at my own work today. You know.” She reached to rub her foot, and Clara made a mental note to knead it later. “Those documents about my family.”

She was taking up a position near her person’s ankle as Maddy rambled on. Something about a party, Clara gathered. A man—or men—that Maddy wanted Becca to meet, and for a moment she found herself remembering the kind-faced stranger in the square.

“I think I’m just not ready yet.” Becca could have been talking to Clara, and so the calico bent to her task, kneading the stockinged foot. “I do not want a knight in shining armor, Maddy.” The foot withdrew. “I just…well, for tonight, I’m happy with my cats. Have a blast, Maddy. Tell me all about it tomorrow.”

With that, Clara got back to her work, albeit gentler than before. Becca opened her laptop and soon the machine was purring in her lap, as Laurel stretched her tawny length across the sofa’s back. Within minutes Harriet had joined them on the sofa and was lounging on her pillow, one paw flicking its golden tassels. Another perfect evening, as far as the calico was concerned.

But even as Clara focused on Becca’s foot, she picked up that something was off. It couldn’t be her kneading. She was very careful not to use any claw at all. Nor was it the laptop. Although Becca often reacted strangely to the images she’d summoned, tonight she was actually humming as she read, and Laurel, in an ostentatious show of self-restraint, wasn’t even trying to bat at its warm and enticing surface. No, it was Harriet. Although to all outward appearances, her oldest sister was as relaxed as usual, her impressive bulk spread out across the pillow, the oldest of the three cats was holding herself back.

She was not only tense, Clara realized, she was concentrating—on the edge of a small baggie peeking out from beneath the coffee table.

“You returned it?” Clara chirped softly. Harriet didn’t usually admit to mistakes. “How wise of you.”

The compliment earned a snort. “I had to dig it out of the litter.” Harriet’s head reared back in disgust. “But you were right. Becca seems to think this is important.”

“Shall I?” Clara didn’t want to interfere if Harriet had a plan.

“Go ahead!”

Clara jumped to the floor and with a well-aimed tap sent the plastic baggie spinning on the pivot of the lumpy root inside. Sure enough, a moment later, Becca was on her knees beside the sofa.

“Well, I’ll be…” She grabbed the baggie and examined its odoriferous contents. “I could’ve sworn I looked under here.”

Clara, who was licking her paw, didn’t comment. That musty smell carried even through the baggie.

“How do you feel?” Laurel peeked over the edge of the sofa, blue eyes wide.

“A little dirty,” Clara admitted, even as she dug in between her toes.

“No dizziness? Shortness of breath?”

Clara paused, mouth open. “You don’t think that the poison…”

The feline equivalent of a shrug. “Harriet’s got more mass, shall we say…”

“Hey!” A white mitt slapped Laurel’s chocolate ear. “Watch it!”

“Sorry.” Laurel’s face retreated, but Clara could imagine her sister’s head ducked in submission. Harriet’s largesse only extended so far.

“I think we’re fine,” the calico called up. “Only the smell lingers.”

“Good.” Laurel’s head appeared over the lip of the sofa again, her eyes slightly crossed. “’Cause I’m not so sure about Becca.”

Clara whipped around, alarmed. Sure enough, Becca was sitting on the floor beside her, frowning as she held the baggie up to the light.

“I don’t know about this,” she was saying. Clara looked up at Laurel, but her sister only shrugged. “And I’m glad I didn’t come right out and accuse her. But I do think I owe Margaret Cross an apology.”

Chapter 9

“Now you’ve done it!” Clara was struggling to keep her voice level. Her fur was already standing up along her spine and it was only by holding her tail down with one paw that she managed to keep that from turning into a bottle-brush of fright. “Becca was off that case, and now she’s going to talk to that crazy woman again.”

Her slinky sister eyed her, curious, but Clara turned away. Bad enough Laurel could read human minds. Clara wasn’t ready yet to share what had happened at the Cross apartment. That woman—Elizabeth—had unnerved her, as few human beings could, and the moment when she could have disclosed the odd interaction had passed. This left Clara feeling out of sorts, almost as if she were alone in a shelter. Or a trap.

If Becca ran out to confront that woman again, Clara wasn’t sure what she would do.

For the moment, though, her fear was allayed. After another examination of the bagged root, Becca set it aside and, after carefully washing her hands, prepared her own dinner, which involved too many plants to be of interest to her pets. More satisfying was the speed with which she finished and settled back on the sofa with her laptop.

“Of course she does that after eating. For her, that’s like grooming,” Laurel noted as she pretzeled herself around to lick her haunches. The part-Siamese didn’t quite understand Becca’s research—none of the cats did entirely—but Clara saw enough truth in her observation not to correct her. She might not understand Becca’s work in depth, but she did know that “doing research,” as her person put it, made her happy. Besides, she was too grateful for her person’s continued presence to object. For comfort, she joined Becca on the sofa. Harriet was already nestled by her side, her fluffy form stretched not only over her special velvet pillow but extending nearly to the arm rest. But Clara was still too agitated for a nap. Instead, she perched on the sofa’s upholstered back, from where she could peer over Becca’s shoulder at the screen.

If only Clara could feel as single-minded, or as calm, as her person.

“What is it?” Laurel had jumped up beside her, so silently that she startled her baby sister, whose nerves were already on edge.

“She’s looking at pictures.” Clara knew her sister had difficulty making sense of pixels. Laurel’s sense of smell might be better than hers, but her eyesight left something to be desired. “Pictures of plants.”

“How silly.” Laurel whipped her dark tail around her toes. “Why look at pictures when she could simply go outside.”

“But it’s dark out and we don’t want her to go…” Clara broke off.

With a sigh, Becca had closed the herbalism site and clicked open a news alert. “The accident,” she murmured. “No wonder the bridge was closed.”

She read a moment longer, then clicked and another page appeared, one Clara had seen before. Along with the writing, which might as well be sparrow tracks to the cats, it featured pictures, reproductions of old engravings. This was the genealogy project Becca had been telling Maddy about, Clara realized. The research she longed to resume. Although she had seen her person looking through these pages—what Becca called an “online historical database”—before, something about Becca’s silence, or maybe it was her own unsettled mood, showed the word in a new light. Becca was searching for her family. For the small cat, whose only memories of her own mother were few and fading, the search seemed impossibly sad. Yes, Becca spoke to her mother weekly, using one or another of her devices, but she was alone in this city. Alone, except for her cats, Clara reminded herself.

Besides, mused Clara, looking over at her snoozing siblings, blood relations weren’t necessarily a requirement for domestic happiness.

Silently vowing to be a better helpmate to her person, Clara pushed her own sibling issues aside and focused in on Becca. As she watched, Becca scrolled down through the database’s images until she settled on one that the calico had seen before. In it, a woman sat with a cat on her lap. Something about her face—the bright eyes, perhaps—looked like Becca, only with longer hair and any trace of Becca’s curls squashed under a cap. With one outstretched finger, Becca traced the outline of the woman’s round face. Did this strange, flat representation bring back memories of Becca’s mother? Of herself? Clara couldn’t tell. Besides, to the calico it was the feline on the woman’s lap who was the real focus of the picture. That cat, who even in the scratchy black-and-white image bore a striking resemblance to Clara, occupied the center of the composition, drawing the eye even as she stared out at the viewer.

Despite the centuries between them, Clara felt the connection—and felt reassured, as if the calico in the picture was somehow reaching out. An older generation keeping watch over Clara and her person. Maybe, Clara thought, there was something to Laurel’s gift—a psychic connection that went back generations. Or maybe she was just too tired to worry anymore, and what she took as comfort was simply gratitude that Becca had remained on the couch rather than run out into the night.

It had been a full day, even without that strange confrontation. Brief as it was—only three words—Clara knew that encounter with Elizabeth was at the root of her desire to keep Becca away from those women. Knew as well that she was hiding the truth from her own siblings. She told herself this was her sisters’ fault. Harriet and Laurel complained whenever their person did anything involving other humans or the outside world, or, truly, whenever she left them alone. To give them any more reason to grumble could only lead to further unpleasantness if not outright trouble.

“Why trouble?” Clara turned to see Laurel’s blue eyes staring into hers.

“Did you just read my thoughts?” Clara reared up, nearly falling off the sofa. Her sister had startled her—and invaded her privacy. “Please don’t do that!”

“Oh, please!” The Siamese licked at one dark paw. “It’s almost the same as suggesting thoughts, only, more like inhaling…”

Clara eyed her sister with curiosity, even as she tried to keep her own mind blank.

“And I did smell something off about that plant, you know. Something that Becca isn’t aware of. My nose is very good. I think you did too, only you never focus…”

Before Clara could respond, the woman seated in front of them jerked back and began to type. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” The two cats seated behind her exchanged a weighted glance.

“Dear Aunt Tabitha,” she murmured as she typed. “I’m not sure if you know, but I’m living in Cambridge now, and being in New England, I’ve started to research our family history…”

“Our family?” Laurel’s soft mew dripped with scorn. In her distinctive Siamese yowl, that first word dragged out into a wail.

“She means hers.” Clara translated as quickly and politely as she could. She didn’t want Becca to be disturbed, certainly not by the idea that one of her cats was in pain. But Becca had grown used to her cats’ strange sounds. With barely a glimpse at the felines behind her, she continued typing. And so, after a moment’s pause, Clara carried on, too. “She thinks that it was her ancestor who got them in trouble with the witch trials,” she said. Thanks to her particular gifts, Clara had accompanied Becca to both the library and the city’s archives, and considered herself well versed in that aspect of her work.

“Well, it was their fault.” Another sniff of that neat black velvet nose. Laurel claimed their family history as her own area of expertise. “Great Grandmama would never have been so careless.”

Clara didn’t comment. In part, because she agreed—cats had been caught up in witchcraft trials over the centuries almost always because of mistakes their people had made. In part, because she was also hoping to hear more of what Becca was trying to communicate to this aunt of hers. Although she vaguely understood the idea of writing, she couldn’t read. It was only because of her diligence staring at Becca’s keyboard that she even managed to make sense of the flat, scentless images that popped up there, seemingly at the coaxing of her person’s quick-moving fingers. Thanks to Laurel—even if she was loath to admit it—Clara knew the basics of her own family history. Knew about their ancient lineage and their bond with the special humans with whom they lived. Still, both her sisters had been frustratingly vague about the details of their royal duties. Clara was hoping for more.

So, it seemed, was Becca, from the hopeful lift in her voice. “If you have any information, would you let me know?”

A flourish and a final tap, and Becca sat back with a sigh that would have done Harriet proud. Of course, by then, Clara’s oldest sister was snoring gently once again on her special velvet pillow. In truth, Clara was starting to doze, too. But when Becca roused herself to head toward her bed soon after, her smallest cat joined her, knowing her sisters would be along soon.

Chapter 10

It seemed but a moment later that Becca’s phone began to buzz.

“Aunt Tabby?” Becca sat up, blinking, as if from a pleasant dream, unsettling the three felines who were stretched out alongside her. “No, wait,” she reached for the device, which had begun to skitter across the nightstand like a beetle on its back. “Of course not. Hey, Maddy, what’s up? How was the party?”

A few minutes later and Harriet was once again asleep. Laurel had jumped down in search of some more entertaining company, while Clara, eyes still closed, was doing her best to remember a particularly fascinating dream.

“A cute new feline specialist?” Her person’s voice reached her through her drowse, but even as she listened, she let herself continue to drift. Something about their mother…or was it their great-grandmother? Becca’s voice broke in once more. “Do you mean for me or for the cats?”

A pause, but the dream image was gone.

“Okay, not cute. Sweet. So, did you like him?”

As Becca rambled on, Clara stretched. She had slept through most of the night, which was unusual. The day’s adventures had clearly taken their toll, and she’d been grateful to have her person safe at home. If only she could count on a lazy Sunday, she thought, examining one white front paw, all would be well. However, a tingling of her long guard hairs alerted her that something was up, and she sheathed the claws she’d begun trimming. Becca might not realize it yet, but she was about to require her pet’s full attention.

“Wait, Maddy, you’re not making sense. He does emergency care? Oh, hang on.” Becca held the phone away from her ear and studied it with the intensity Laurel would give a bug. “I’ve got…I’ve got to take this.”

Perhaps to change her view, Becca stood and walked toward the window. “Hi, Mrs. Cross,” she said. The smile on her face must have been a little bit forced, but it lightened her voice regardless. “I was meaning to call you. I might have been a bit rude—uh, hasty in some things I said, but I’m afraid I really can’t reconsider. I understand that you’re upset, but my other client did approach me first. For what it’s worth, I did attempt to speak to your husband…”

Becca jumped down, accidentally nudging Harriet, who grunted. “What’s up?” She blinked up at Clara and then over at their person. “Why’s Becca so awake?”

“I think she’s upset,” answered Clara with concern.

“Wait, no. Mrs. Cross—Margaret, please slow down.” Becca put a hand out, as if she could physically contain the woman on the other end. “No, I didn’t see him. I went down to the lot, though, and I heard him. I thought you two were talking on the phone… What do you mean, did I talk to the police? Mrs. Cross, please—I’m sorry, what? But that’s impossible. I was just there. And I know that when I left, your husband was still alive.”

***

“What is she doing?” Even though Becca had hurriedly served her cats their breakfast, Harriet was fretting. And for once, Clara couldn’t blame her. Here it was, Sunday morning, and yet Becca had already grabbed her coat and was in the process of wrapping a scarf around her neck. The three cats circled her uneasily as she searched for her hat. “Doesn’t she know we need her here?”

“I’m sure she’ll be back in time for dinner.” Laurel had mastered the feline equivalent of side eye, quite a feat considering that her blue eyes tended to cross when she concentrated. “What I want to know is why she’s bundling up like some arctic explorer.”

“A what?” Harriet scrunched up her already abbreviated nose. “Oh, you mean the scarf?”

Becca had found the velvet cloche by then, on the floor behind the sofa. Its distinctive feather was missing.

“It was a fashion decision,” Laurel huffed a bit defensively. “But, no, I meant that awful puffy coat.”

“It must be getting cooler out.” Clara didn’t want to pick a fight, but she couldn’t help feeling protective. After all, her sisters rarely left the house. “And she doesn’t have lovely, thick fur like you do,” she added in an attempt to mollify her oldest sister.

“There are other ways to get warm.” Laurel rolled the last word into a suggestive purr. “And if she happens to meet someone…” Clara knew her sister was going to suggest something slinkier, but Clara didn’t linger to hear it. Becca had donned her hat and was heading out the door.

“I’m sorry, Maddy, you wouldn’t believe what happened.” Becca was walking so quickly, Clara had a hard time keeping pace. Only when she paused to call her friend back could the little calico catch up. “That was Margaret Cross on the other line. Her husband has been in some kind of an accident, I think. No, I don’t have any details. That’s why I’m on my way back there. Maddy, I have to go.” Another pause as Becca waited to cross the street. “I was just at his office, you know, that lot by the river, last night, and she wants to talk with me. She’s really upset.”

This didn’t seem to satisfy Becca’s friend any more than it did Clara. In the bright morning light, the calico deepened her shading to remain unseen. However, being virtually invisible brought its own dangers, and the little cat’s ears and whiskers were on high alert as Becca rushed heedlessly on, weaving between the churchgoers and the students out for Sunday brunch who seemed to congregate on every corner.

“No, you don’t have to.” Becca seemed to be talking her friend down from something as she race-walked into Central Square. “I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on. I promise.”

To Clara’s relief, the young woman shoved the phone in her pocket and actually looked around as she readied to cross Mass Ave. with its constant traffic. Down the block, Clara could see the red brick building that housed the magic shop and the Cross’s apartment, as well as the blue-and-white Cambridge police cruiser out front.

“Excuse me.” Becca began to work her way through the crowd of onlookers who blocked the store’s brightly painted window. “I’m trying to reach the apartments.”

A uniformed officer stood by the recessed entrance, blocking the building’s metal door. “Are you a resident?”

“No, but I know a woman—”

“Residents only.” He resumed his sentry position, staring over her head once more.

Becca stepped back as another couple pushed forward, either to try their luck or to pass through the crowd. Clara, who had hung back to avoid getting stepped on, saw Becca focus on Charm and Cherish. From this side, she could see the shop’s colorful glass window and the lights that signaled it was occupied, if not open for business. Those lights seemed to draw Becca, and Clara couldn’t help worrying as her person turned and began to make for the little shop’s door.

“Gaia!” Becca called, and waved, perching on her toes to be seen above the crowd. Inside, behind the zodiac symbols, Clara could now see the black-haired shop girl talking to a man in a trench coat. “Over here!”

In the shop, the man had stepped away, and Gaia resumed her customary slump back against the wall, with its shelves of leaves and roots. Seeing an opening, Becca stepped forward, until a hand reached out to stop her.

“I wouldn’t.” Tall and lean, with black bangs that hung over a pale and serious face, he smelled vaguely familiar to Clara. Something about him must have gotten Becca’s attention, too, the calico realized, as her person peered up at him.

“Excuse me?” She pulled her arm away as she spoke.

“I’m sorry.” The flash of a grin as he ducked his head in an apology that even Harriet would understand. “I just…I think maybe it’s better to stay out of this.”

“But I know Gaia,” Becca started to explain. “I mean, not well. I’ve been helping her. It’s complicated.” Becca turned back to the shop, which now appeared to be empty. Gaia and her interrogator had either stepped into the back or left through another exit.

“I get it.” That smile again. Almost wolfish, Clara thought, especially against that dark hair. “Things with Gaia can be complicated.” If he didn’t exactly roll his eyes, he came close, before covering by brushing his hair back from his face.

“You know her? Wait, you’re the bike messenger. The one who almost ran me over yesterday.”

“I did? Gee, I’m sorry.” His light blue eyes widened, dominating his pale face. “Really. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Now it was Becca’s turn to chuckle. “I guess neither of us were paying attention.” She paused to take in the man before her. That hair, which could have come from the same dye package Gaia used, tended to distract from his prominent cheekbones and a generous mouth set in a serious line. “You’re not Tiger, are you?”

He paused, regarding her with those icy blue eyes.

“I should explain,” Becca rushed ahead. “Gaia told me she had a friend who was concerned for her.” Clara noticed her use of the word “friend.” She also saw the smile that had returned to the young man’s pale face as he turned, once more, to take in the woman in front of him.

“Yeah, I guess I had reason to worry, huh?” As the import of his own words had hit him, the last of the grin disappeared. “Man, poor Gaia.” He shook his head as they both regarded the colorful shop window. “So, I think I’m missing something.” He turned away, and his face fell into shadow. “You said you were helping her?”

Becca nodded slowly, a contemplative look coming over her. “She hired me because she was worried about—about something. But she didn’t expect this.”

“No, she didn’t.” He must have seen the sadness there, because he reached out to gently brush her arm once more, and Clara saw long fingers with nails bitten down to the quick.

“I’m Becca, by the way.” She looked down at his hand, which dropped to his side. “She didn’t say anything about hiring me?”

“She…” He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.”

“She implied that maybe you two weren’t spending as much time together.”

An embarrassed laugh as he wiped that hand over his face. “Yeah, well, you know.”

“I do.” Becca’s voice grew soft, and Clara knew she was thinking of her own on-again-off-again ex, as well as the young man she had dated a few times last spring. Laurel always had a lot to say about human romances, but Clara thought their person was only being sensible to be so careful with her heart. “I’m glad you came over when you heard about Frank.”

Becca paused, as if listening to her own words. “Did she call you?”

“No.” That half-smile again as he shook off the idea. “I wish, but I was just in the area and saw all this.” One wave took in the police, as well as the crowd.

“You must have been worried.”

A shrug. “She told me he had a bad ticker. It’s too bad, though. Poor guy. I don’t think we’re going to get to see her. Not this morning, anyway.”

Becca scanned the crowd. The storefront remained as bright and still as a museum diorama, and although the crowd was beginning to disperse, the uniformed cop standing in front of the residential entrance seemed in no hurry to follow.

“No, I guess you’re right.” Becca sighed with frustration. “Though this seems like an awful lot of fuss if he simply had a heart attack.”

“You call 9-1-1, they send out all the emergency services. Especially if the caller isn’t clear.” He shrugged, then turned toward her, brightening with inspiration. “Hey, why I don’t take your number? If I hear something, I’ll give you a ring.”

“Thanks.” Becca smiled back automatically, though she forced her face back into something more somber as she punched her digits into his phone. “I don’t know how this will effect Gaia, but if you do get to speak with her, please let her know I’m on the case.”

Chapter 11

“Tiger, huh?” Laurel was at her slinkiest, weaving herself around Becca’s legs as soon as the young woman returned home. “I always liked tigers…”

“Please.” Clara sat back, restraining her tail by wrapping it around her paws. It was bad enough that her sister read her thoughts. To have Laurel interrupt her as she filled her sisters in on the strange encounter was unnerving, to say the least. “We don’t know this man, and he may still be involved with that other girl, the client.”

“Don’t be a kitten,” her sinuous sister purred. “He was interested in our Becca. I’m picking up traces of his interest still! He touched her, didn’t he?” Before Clara could even answer, Laurel continued. “That’s how they show their interest, silly! He wants to claim her as his own.”

“Nonsense!” As Becca stepped carefully over her furry welcoming committee, they were joined by Harriet, who was having none of this. “Becca is our person,” she huffed, lifting her foreshortened nose up to sniff Becca’s hand. “If this Tiger wants a person, he can very well get his own.”

Clara couldn’t have agreed more and stepped back to give Harriet pride of place as the small party proceeded into the kitchen. She remembered all too well how sad Becca had been when her last romance had ended. And although their person had gone out a few times with a local painter—Clara had enjoyed the tangy pine smell of the turpentine he used—Becca had cooled on him recently.

“What about the man who caught her arm? The one with the good teeth?”

Clara jumped and wheeled on her sister. “Don’t do that!” Her fur bristled when she was startled.

“Yes, she met someone with a nice smile, but they didn’t even talk, really,” Clara said, as much to settle her fur as to explain. “He was just being kind. He helped her when that cyclist nearly knocked her over.”

Laurel only flicked her tail, but the message was clear. Two men, both fighting over Becca, even slightly. That got the sealpoint’s interest.

“What’s gotten into you three?” Six eyes—green, blue, and gold—looked up in surprise. “I’d swear you’d think I’d been gone for weeks.”

“Now you’ve done it.” Harriet batted at Laurel. “Bad enough you destroyed her feather. She won’t want to give us treats now!”

“Shhh…” Laurel hissed. “She doesn’t know what happened to the feather.”

Clara wisely sat that one out. In truth, the cats had already had their breakfast, before Becca left. But to Harriet’s delight, she headed once more to the kitchen, as Laurel assumed a particularly self-satisfied smirk.

“No, I couldn’t speak to Gaia either.” Becca cradled the device against her shoulder as she scooped out the savory feast. “The cops were talking to her. I wonder if Margaret said something about her and, oh, never mind. Speaking of, Maddy, I meant to tell you. I met Gaia’s ex. He’s a bike messenger named Tiger.”

She paused then as she laid down the dishes for the three felines. But, looking up from her own second supper, Clara noted the strained expression on Becca’s face.

“You going to eat that?” Harriet’s face pushed close, distracting Clara just when she wanted to listen.

“Hush!” Clara pushed closer to her food, but kept her ears tipped.

“Yes, Maddy, a bike messenger…” Becca was leaning back against the counter, eyes back with exasperation. “No, you’ve got the wrong idea. I mean, sure, he’s cute. But what’s more important is that he might be helpful to the case. He might know who would want to hurt Gaia.”

The buzz coming from the phone sounded like a bee was trapped in there.

“They’re still friends,” Becca explained. “They talk. That’s good, right? I mean, it’s civilized. Anyway, she had told me that he was worried about her, so it was natural to start to chat with him. He’s my first lead.”

A pause so weighted that even Harriet looked up.

“I told you, I’m not interested, Maddy. And even I was, I wouldn’t be poaching. I happen to have it on good authority that Gaia was already seeing someone else. Someone she shouldn’t have been.” The three cats exchanged glances. Becca rarely used that particular tone. “Anyway, I have to go now. My coven is meeting here this afternoon. At least they believe in me!”

***

In truth, Becca had several hours before the coven’s circle—if the informal and somewhat reduced gathering could even be called that. The unsettling events of the previous spring had shaken the group, and in the wake of a summer wedding and an August break, attendance at the weekly meetings had become a bit irregular. Two of the coven, Trent and Larissa, were now such infrequent attendees that Becca hadn’t bothered to ask them about rescheduling their usual Tuesday night to a Sunday afternoon until the day before. Whether it was a fit of pique or a real conflict that caused Larissa to text back a curt excuse, Becca couldn’t tell. Maybe the wealthy older woman really was spiriting away her younger boyfriend for the weekend. The two remaining witches—women about Becca’s own age—were the ones she wanted to speak with anyway.

Besides preparing for her guests, Becca did have work to do. Despite what she’d told Maddy, the fledgling investigator was feeling a bit more desperate than defiant. Money was tight, and her unemployment was running out. If she wanted to make being a witch detective a going concern, now was the time.

Clara might not understand the details—finance being of little interest to a cat—but she picked up on her person’s intensity as she huddled over the laptop for the next few hours.

The first was spent on what Becca called “old-school research.”

“I can’t rely on my sensitivity for everything,” she had whispered to Clara. What that meant, as far as the cat could tell, was typing in people’s names and seeing what came up. Gaia/Gail Linquist seemed to have an awful lot of photos. With, Becca noticed, an awful lot of young men.

“Tiger can’t have been that serious,” she said, with what to her cat sounded like a happy upward lilt. Clara wasn’t sure how she felt about this development. A few clicks later, though, she did agree that the goth girl’s jet-black hair was a more striking look than her original mouse brown.

Margaret and Frank Cross seemed to have less of an online profile. “Makes sense,” Becca said. “Given their ages.”

Once again, Clara couldn’t make heads or tails of the comment, or of the few photos that popped up. One, back when the used car salesman had more hair and his wife’s mouth had been smiling rather than puckered, made her sad, though. She leaned on Becca, and the two sat quietly for a moment with that one the screen.

When Becca rose to fetch the smelly baggie, Clara became concerned. Her person had stuck it in the refrigerator, and her cat had hoped it would disappear there, never to be seen again, like that lettuce from last month. She was relieved to note that its smell had faded, somewhat, after its time in the chill—and even more so when she realized that Becca was only going to look at the thing, through the plastic, rather than touch or taste it. When she put it aside to return to her laptop, Clara considered her options. Harriet’s actions might have been troublesome, but her instincts were dead on, her calico sister realized. If only there was a way to get rid of the thing that didn’t draw attention to the feline sisters’ powers or otherwise break the rules against involving humans in their magic.

“I’m sure Harriet could bury it again.” Silent as a shadow, Laurel had jumped up to join Clara and Becca on the sofa. “She doesn’t have to make it look like anything. She could just dig.”

“Becca would worry.” Clara didn’t even want to admit the truth to herself. “She’d only turn the house upside down.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Laurel drew back in distaste, any kind of frenzied human activity, including housecleaning, being anathema to a cat.

Before they could decide on any other action, Becca had picked up the bag once more. Holding it close to her laptop, she seemed to be comparing it to one of the odorless images. Clara and Laurel could only trade worried glances as Becca typed madly and then stared long and hard at the screen.

After what seemed like an eternity to the cats, Becca finally put the specimen aside, and with a tantalizing dance of her fingers, the screen before her changed. That picture again—the woman and the cat—moved as Becca read. Although she didn’t have Laurel’s gift, Clara thought she could make out a few stray thoughts as she focused on her person. “Ancestor…” The little cat tried out the word. Yes, that was right. “With her familiar…”

Could Becca be close to understanding? To comprehending, at last, that her cats had a history of power and had protected their people as best they could? Clara closed her eyes to concentrate and found herself visualizing her own mother. Those last days at the shelter…

“Witch.” No, she wasn’t hearing Becca’s thoughts. Her person was whispering to herself, reading, Clara realized, the text on the screen. A story that seemed to dismay her, from the way she blinked and then closed her screen.

She rose, then, but her mood carried over from whatever she had seen. Although their person remained quiet, the set of her mouth indicated trouble, Clara thought, as did the way her brows had pulled together. When she went for the vacuum cleaner, pulling it from the back of a closet where Clara and her sisters had hoped it had gone to die, she and Laurel made themselves scarce. Even Harriet woke in the ensuing tumult, blinking and affronted as they all crowded beneath the bed in safety.

By the time they emerged, Becca had gone into full-on hostess mode, arranging her small apartment for the arrival of her friends. The three cats took refuge on the sofa, until an extra vigorous fluffing of pillows sent Laurel scampering once more, and an aggressive wiping down of the table had even Harriet hesitant to hover, no matter what tempting crumbs might have gone flying.

Only Clara remained, to show her support as her person fussed. She might as well have been invisible, however, as Becca nearly tripped over her in her frenzy.

“I’m sorry, kitty.” She reached down and scooped up her youngest cat. And although the embrace was a tad awkward—Clara’s foot stuck out and she could feel the bulk of her body already sliding through Becca’s arms—she began to purr. Clearly, Becca was still bothered. Whether that was because of her friend Maddy or because of what she’d found on her laptop, Clara couldn’t tell. Still, any opportunity the plump calico had to soothe her person was worth a little discomfort.

“Hang on!” At the sound of the doorbell, Becca shifted, and Clara managed a decent landing on the floor.

“Graceful,” Laurel snarled quietly from under the sofa.

“I just wanted to make her feel better.” Clara sat and began to groom the fur on her back, where Becca’s embrace had ruffled it.

“I thought you wanted her to give up all this witch silliness.” With Becca safely at the door, Laurel ventured from her hiding spot. “Give up the idea of being a detective, too. Too dangerous, you said. Too risky for a human to try. And that root…”

Clara paused, tongue hanging out between her discreet white fangs. It was true that she had hoped that Becca would go back to being a researcher. The idea that she, or any human, could have magical powers was silly. Any cat would agree.

The worst part, of course, was that Clara and her sisters were responsible for Becca’s obsession. It had been Harriet’s summoning of a pillow—the golden velvet pillow that had been plumped up so vigorously—that had started the trouble, when Becca had misread its appearance as the manifestation of her own attempt at a spell. But recently, she’d come around to the idea that her person might be more like, well, like her cats. And if there were humans who had powers, then their Becca should be one of them.

“You look like a dog, with your tongue out like that.” Harriet emerged from the sanctuary of the bedroom to saunter past. Clara quickly closed her mouth as her oldest sister began snuffling up the crumbs that had gone flying. “Not to mention the way you tag along after her,” the marmalade added as she licked up a particularly tasty morsel.

“It’s not like you need to.” Laurel appeared alongside her and, with a wiggle of her hindquarters, launched herself to the tabletop. “Together, we could—”

“Kitties! No!” A loud clapping made Harriet put her ears back and Laurel leap to the floor. Only Clara looked up to see the tall, slender woman who was laughing behind her hands. The first of the guests had arrived.

“Honestly, Becca, they’re fine.” Ande, a member of Becca’s self-styled coven, wiped tears of laughter from cheeks that were a shade darker than Laurel’s fur. “I mean, if you didn’t have cats, maybe you wouldn’t have your powers.”

All three cats stopped at that and stared up at the newcomer as she walked past them into the kitchen. Even Becca froze, mouth open as if about to phrase a life-altering question.

“That’s so funny you would say that,” Becca managed, her voice breathless. “I was just reading—”

“Yoo-hoo!” Before Becca could elaborate, another voice rang out. “Everything okay?”

“Marcia.” Becca turned to greet the petite newcomer who bounded in, dark eyes wide. “How’re you—I mean, merry meet!”

“Merry meet yourself, Becca. But you shouldn’t leave your door open like that!” Taking off her ever-present Red Sox cap, she ran a hand through her brunette pageboy. “I got scared there for a minute.”

“Why?” Ande stepped back into the apartment’s main room. She was holding the teapot that was always filled for the coven’s gatherings. “What’s up?”

“Don’t you come through Central Square?” Marcia looked from Ande to Becca in disbelief. “Something’s happening at Charm and Cherish.”

“Oh, yeah, I was down there this morning.” Becca took the teapot from Ande, who stood stock still, and proceeded back into the kitchen. “Are the police still there?”

“Yeah.” Marcia dragged the word out as she looked from Ande to Becca. “You okay?”

“Of course.” Ande managed a smile. Laurel, meanwhile, had re-emerged and began sniffing at Marcia’s high-top sneakers. “Becca, what were you saying?”

Marcia wasn’t waiting. “Did you hear anything?” She tagged after Becca, stepping over the cat. “Is it related to that hit and run? I got an alert that the police are on the lookout for a red sports car with out-of-state plates. I guess the poor guy is still critical. It’s a good thing there was a vet nearby.”

“Good thing he knew emergency medicine.” Becca raised her voice to be heard over the running water.

“Yeah, well, that’s part of the training, isn’t it?” Marcia looked at Ande. The taller woman simply shrugged. “They’re calling him the hero vet.”

“Isn’t that redundant?” Becca waved Marcia off as she reached for the kettle. “But, no, that was down by the river. The reason for all the fuss around the shop is because of Frank Cross, the owner’s husband. He’s…well, it seems he’s died.” Clara could hear the water reaching a boil. With her superior feline senses, she could also hear Ande’s startled gasp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I hear it might have been a coronary.”

“And you were there?” Ande’s voice was tense with dread. “At the shop?”

Becca shook her head as she counted out scoops of the fragrant mint tea. “Three. Four. Uh-huh,” she said. “No, not when it happened. I mean, I was at the shop earlier, but I think he was at his office when—oh, bother.”

“You’d gotten to five,” said Marcia. “And it’s just us three today.”

“Well, there’ll be seconds.” Becca shot her friend a grin as she poured the water into the teapot. “But, anyway, Margaret had wanted to hire me for a case—she had a problem with the shop. I told her I had a conflict and I couldn’t take it. But there was one thing I thought I could straighten out for her, just to put her mind at rest. It involved Frank, kind of, so I went down to his office—you know that car lot on Putnam? Anyway, he was alive then.”

“Well, this must be something different.” Marcia turned her Sox cap in her hands as she thought. “There were a ton of cops by the shop, not an ambulance or anything.”

“Margaret did tell me some valuables had gone missing,” Becca confided, her hand going up to the blue stone pendant. “She thought maybe Frank had taken them. That was…well, that was part of what I was looking into.”

“Speaking of, nice necklace.” Marcia reached over. “Lapis?”

“Thanks. It’s supposed to help discern truth from lies.”

“Interesting.” Marcia eyed the necklace as Ande stepped closer. “How’s it work?”

“When did you speak with Margaret?” Ande’s question saved Becca from having to confess her ignorance.

“Late this afternoon.” Becca reached for the mugs. “I went there right after talking with Margaret. She lives above the shop and—”

“Becca,” Ande interrupted her, her face serious. “Tell me you told the police about this.”

“I didn’t get a chance to,” her host said as she fit the mugs and the teapot onto a tray. “I was trying to get to Margaret, but the police wouldn’t let me in.”

“Of course they wouldn’t.” Ande took the tray from Becca and handed it off to Marcia.

“What are you talking about?” Becca turned from Ande to Marcia, who looked as puzzled as Becca did.

“I don’t know if it was just a coronary, Becca.” Ande’s brow furrowed. “And I am so glad you’re not working for her.”

Becca shook her head in confusion.

“You don’t get that many cop cars for a medical emergency.” Ande pulled Becca back into the living room and sat her on the sofa.

Marcia followed up before Becca could protest. “Ande’s right,” she said, setting the tray on the table. “You said there was some kind of a problem and that Margaret thought her husband was stealing from her? Maybe his heart didn’t simply give out. Or not by itself, anyway.”

Chapter 12

The three cats scurried as the three humans all began talking at once.

“That makes no sense.” Becca stared, wide-eyed, at Marcia. “She loved him. She was afraid he was leaving her.”

Marcia couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“Oh, goddess help me, you don’t think that my turning down her case drove her to do something—”

“Hold on. Is anyone saying that Frank Cross’s death wasn’t natural?” Ande turned from one to the other. “Anyone besides us, I mean?”

“No. This is pure speculation.” Becca was trying to be the voice of reason. “Besides, I was with her—”

“When he was still alive!” Marcia voice belied her size, and her exasperation along with it. “But it all fits. I saw a cop questioning Gaia—you know, the girl who works at the shop? And they took Mrs. Cross out the back.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Ande was only repeating what Becca had said, but the emphasis she put on the words made both her friends turn. “The way things were between them, she wouldn’t even necessarily know.”

That brought Becca up short. “Ande, what’s up?” she asked.

“Wait, you know them?” Marcia followed her friend as she moved over to the sofa. As she sat, the three cats emerged from under the table. The shouting, at least, seemed to be over.

“I’ve done some work for the Crosses.” Ande, who had settled beside Becca, was staring at her hands. Almost, Clara thought, like she wanted to groom. “And, yeah, I’ve gotten to know them a bit.”

“Work?” Marcia, who had settled in the easy chair, turned from Ande to Becca. “You mean, you’ve done their taxes or something?”

“I’ve done hers.” Ande glanced up, her hands unlicked. “And the store’s. Not his business, though there’s some overlap. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t say anymore.”

“That’s interesting.” Becca drew out the word. “So you didn’t do the books for his car lot?”

“No.” Ande shook her head, her dark face grave. “Becca, you’re not looking into anything at that lot, are you?”

“I’m not,” she answered, her voice still thoughtful. “Margaret Cross tried to hire me because she thought someone was embezzling. I couldn’t take her case because I had a conflict of interest, because something else came up—but when I went to tell her it all got mixed up with her husband.”

“Oh no.” Ande was shaking her head, as if this were worse. “You’re involved in that whole mess between Frank and Gaia, aren’t you?”

***

The flurry of questions and exclamations that followed sent Laurel leaping to the top of the bookcase again, while Harriet remained under the table. Only Clara, who had ventured out to the edge of the sofa, dared the torrent of voices.

“What are they on about?” Harriet was getting annoyed. “Are we going to have to stay here all night?”

“It’s about a man, isn’t it?” From her perch, Laurel’s blue eyes glowed. “I’m sure it’s about a man.”

“I think it’s about money.” Clara, like most cats, had only the vaguest ideas about finance and budgeting. She had learned a little, however. They all had when Becca had lost her last job as a researcher. Once she had set herself up as a witch detective, their person seemed less worried. At any rate, she spoke about it less frequently—at least until recently—and Clara didn’t think that was only because of the time she spent on the computer doing what her buddy Maddy called “freelance.”

“Money, huh!” Harriet snorted, and curled up on herself. Clara suspected that her older sister was even less clear on the topic than she herself was, but she didn’t try to explain. She also knew how grumpy Harriet could get when she was due for a nap. Instead, she turned her ears forward and tried to pick up the thread of the conversation.

“So, you don’t think Margaret Cross did something. Do you?” Marcia’s gaze swiveled between Ande and Becca.

“I know she was angry with him.” Becca’s voice was cautious, and Clara’s tail began to lash in sympathy. “But not that angry. She was worried about him. She thought he’d gone missing.”

“And that was in the afternoon, when she was home with her sister. But you found him easily enough. And you knew she was upset.” Marcia’s eyes fell on Becca’s necklace.

“Yeah, I did.” Becca reached for the stone. “But, honestly, I believe she just felt bad because he was cheating on her.”

“Like he was going to leave her. Only someone made it permanent.” Marcia turned back to Ande. “You knew something was up.”

“Yeah,” the tall accountant acknowledged, a rueful note creeping into her voice. “I know they were having…issues. But Frank would never leave Margaret. He couldn’t.” She bit down on her lower lip to stop herself from saying any more.

“It was her money.” Marcia put two and two together. “So even if he kept on fooling around—”

“Wait, you know about that?” Becca broke in. Her two friends looked at each other. “Did everybody know?”

“I made the mistake of going down to his lot once. Luz thought we could get a good deal on a car, but he had no inventory,” said Marcia. “What he had was a roving eye.”

“And roving hands,” Ande added. “I learned early on never to be in his office alone with him.”

“He’s lucky he hasn’t been sued,” Marcia piled on. “Then again, nobody would get much. Or it would be Margaret’s money. What?”

Ande had made a face. “He was talking with some other investors,” she said. “If you can call them that. Anyway, I stopped working with him.”

“Good for you.” This from Marcia.

“I didn’t realize he was so creepy. Still, this doesn’t look good for Margaret, does it?” Becca drew her knees up and hugged them to herself, prompting Clara to inch closer. “If only these other people would leave.”

“I think she was really upset when she couldn’t reach him.” Becca didn’t even look down as her calico nosed her toe. “But if he cheated on her and might have cost her money, too… I don’t know. Especially if…”

Now it was her turn to clam up. Her friends noticed and began prodding her.

“If what? Come on, Becca, it’s all in the coven.”

“I’ve probably told you more than I should have already, but this is all going to come out, most likely.” Becca’s forehead was creased, though if that was concern over breaking a confidence or worry about her client, Clara couldn’t tell. “The reason Gaia hired me is that she thought someone was trying to kill her. Or, maybe should I say, kill her, too.”

“And once the police hear that, they’ll wonder if they’re connected.” Marcia filled in the blanks.

“Why did she think that?” Ande, the voice of reason.

“Well, her ex-boyfriend told her that he’d seen someone hanging around, like a stalker. She said she didn’t think anything of it, but now she says she thinks someone put wolf’s bane in her tea.” Becca looked from one of her friends to the other. “An entire root. I know it sounds preposterous, but the tincture is really dangerous—a tablespoon or two can kill—and I don’t know how much would be in a raw root.”

“But who would put a root in someone’s tea?” Ande pinpointed one of the issues that Clara knew had been troubling Becca. “I mean, it’s kind of blatant. Like, wouldn’t you notice it when you lifted your mug? That sounds more like what you do to scare someone than to seriously hurt them.”

“Not only that, but I’m not convinced it’s actually wolf’s bane.” Becca looked around at her sister witches. When nobody spoke, she continued. “Gaia said it was, said she’s an herbalist. But I’ve been doing some research online. It doesn’t look right, and also, there’s something about the smell.”

“Wolf’s bane doesn’t smell,” Marcia said softly.

“Yeah, I mean, I didn’t want to taste it, obviously. Hang on.” Becca ducked into the kitchen and returned with the baggie. “Smell that.”

Ande opened the bag and recoiled.

“I should have left it buried,” Harriet muttered.

“That smells familiar.” Marcia wisely didn’t put her face too close.

“I know. Asafetida, right?” Becca looked around for confirmation. “So maybe Margaret wanted to scare her. I mean, she was really upset about Frank, and if she thought Gaia was the other woman…”

“What about this ex-boyfriend?” Ande tilted her head at a quizzical angle. “He might be the one trying to scare her. Convince her that her new romance is too risky and that she should come back.”

After a moment’s thought, Becca shook her head. “Could be, he is the one who’s been looking out for her. Maybe he’s playing both sides, scaring her and then offering to take care of her. But he’s been warning her about a stalker, not poison. Plus, I get the feeling that he’s over her. Of course, that doesn’t mean the crimes aren’t connected. Gaia really thought it was wolf’s bane. Maybe Frank did, too. Sometimes, accidents can be deadly.”

Neither of her friends had a response to that.

“The first thing I have to do is get this tested.” Becca put the bag on the table. “But after that, well, I think I’ve got to hand it over to the police.”

Ande and Marcia exchanged a look. “Becs, I think you should just hand the baggie over now.” Ande spoke in the conciliatory tones of someone breaking bad news. “I know she’s a client, but this is serious.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Becca sighed. Whether it was doubt or concern over a man they only tangentially knew, a pall hung over the rest of the gathering, even as the three friends settled down to their wiccan routine. When Ande suggested a purifying ritual, Becca appeared visibly relieved. Laurel fled to the bedroom and Harriet recoiled, drawing one mitten-like paw up to her sensitive nose as Marcia waved the smoldering sage and Becca sprinkled salt. Clara made herself watch, however. These humans had no real powers, she knew that. But something about their rituals was vaguely familiar, even if it was simply that their ancestors had witnessed similar foolery through the centuries, at times with a tragic result. Clara hadn’t heard of any such nonsense in Cambridge. Not this century, anyway. But she wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, the way the three women waved their hands was positively entrancing. Almost like one of them was about to throw a toy for her to fetch.

“Look at your cat, Becca.” Clara looked up to see Ande smiling down at her, brown eyes warm with—could it be?—humor. “I swear, she’s trying to learn the ritual.”

“There is something uncanny about her.” Becca sounded unusually thoughtful as she knelt to stroke Clara’s multicolored back. “Even more than her sisters, I feel like she’s an old soul.”

In response, Clara licked Becca’s hand. Salt might not have any magic powers, but it did taste good.

Chapter 13

The ritual did not have the desired effect. Becca slept badly, tossing and turning to the point that her cats fled their regular posts by her feet long before dawn to sleep instead on the sofa.

“I knew she shouldn’t go out!” Harriet kneaded her velvet pillow before settling down. Her complaining came more from concern for Becca than from any real discomfort. At least, that was Clara’s hope, as she nestled on a footstool. “That’s what started all of this.”

“She could at least bring a new man home.” Laurel stretched to her full length along the sofa’s back, a luxury she could rarely indulge in when the three shared their person’s bed. “Then things might get interesting.”

Clara, knowing how her sister could get when she was overtired, didn’t comment. Bad enough the sealpoint had sussed out Becca’s exchange with Tiger, Laurel’s imagination was already a tad overheated. Hoping to keep her sister from reading her mind for more, the plump calico jumped up to the windowsill and watched as the rising sun warmed the red brick across the street to a rosy glow. Not long after, Becca herself rose, a tad rumpled, and promptly provided breakfast. But even as she brewed her own coffee, her gentle face seemed to firm into resolve.

“What’s up with Becca?” Once she’d cleaned her bowl, even Harriet noticed.

“She’s deciding something.” Laurel lashed her tail. More out of habit, Clara suspected, than because it served any purpose of concentration. Laurel was good at suggesting ideas to people. Whether she could always accurately fish them out, however, was a subject of debate. At times, Clara suspected her middle sister of inflating her own skills so Clara and Harriet would take her more seriously.

Even if it was simply a good guess, Laurel purred with pride when Becca muttered something about “getting it done,” and went to get dressed. Hoping for a bit more insight, Clara hopped down from her perch to follow the young woman as she prepared for whatever was to follow. Her usual attire of jeans and a sweater offered little clue, and even Laurel seemed disappointed when she joined Clara to observe their person from the bedroom doorway.

“So it’s not that new man yet.” The Siamese’s rumbling purr began to slow.

“Her new what?” Clara turned toward her sister in alarm. “Laurel, you can’t know—please don’t push Becca into something. We don’t know this Tiger.”

“Tiger.” The purr was back at full volume, Laurel’s whiskers bristling as her eyes closed in delight.

“What?” Harriet ambled up beside them. But Laurel was enjoying her private musing and Clara was inwardly kicking herself for feeding her middle sister’s fantasy as Becca reached for her coat and hat and, stepping over her pets, set out on her mystery mission.

“See if you can steer her toward this Tiger.” Laurel didn’t even look up as Clara summoned up the power to shimmy through the front door. “I do like the sound of him!”

Harriet’s round yellow eyes were the last thing Clara saw as she passed through the door.

***

After their previous outing, Clara was careful to keep Becca in sight as she made her way down the brick Cambridge sidewalk. The scents and sounds of a city could be overwhelming, but the way the young woman walked—a happy bounce, most days—made her easy for the little feline to follow. Today, however, that bounce was almost gone, replaced by a more purposeful gait. Becca was heading to the Cambridge police headquarters, a multistory brick complex in the heart of Central Square.

Despite her best intentions, though, her steps slowed as she entered the busy commercial area—and not just because of the pedestrians. While Clara looked around for stray bicycles or anything else that might trip her person up, Becca’s pace had eased to an amble.

“She is my client.” Clara could hear Becca’s justification, as well as the sense of doubt—or was it guilt?—in her voice. “I should tell her first, so she can relax. Besides, the cops are going to want to talk to her.”

At that, Clara turned from the sidewalk to take in the storefronts. They were walking down the block that held the magic shop as well as the apartment where the murdered man had lived.

“Gaia?” To Clara’s relief, Becca opted for the former, turning in at Charm and Cherish and calling out for the sales girl even as the tinkling bells announced her arrival. “Are you here?”

“As always.” The raven-haired waif appeared from the back room, her smile softening the untruth. When she saw who her visitor was, she brightened further. “Becca! You missed all the excitement.”

“Excitement?” Although her voice had dropped, Becca’s distress could still be heard.

“Oh, I didn’t mean…” Gaia waved her hands, as if to clear the air. “Not poor Frank. Oh, that was a terrible shock. I gather you…well, you know about that?”

Becca nodded. “That’s why I came to see you, actually.”

“Me?” The other girl’s voice squeaked, rather like a mouse that had briefly gotten into the apartment. Unlike that tiny invader, Gaia didn’t immediately scurry beneath a counter, never to be seen again.

“Yes.” Becca began to sound more confident. “I have some good news. But in light of all that’s happened, I was wondering if you still wanted to continue your case.” A pause, and Clara could see the shadow of doubt crossing her face. “I took a moment to examine the root you dropped off, Gaia.”

The sales girl’s gaze dropped to the counter before her, as if she could hide behind those blue-black bangs.

“I’m not an herbalist, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t wolf’s bane.” Becca spoke gently, but with purpose, as she held the baggie up. “But I was thinking I should bring it over to the Cambridge police, just to be sure. Because even if it isn’t poisonous, somebody was trying to scare you, and that could be dangerous. Especially in light of what happened with Frank.”

Gaia didn’t look up, so Becca took a deep breath and continued talking. “I like to think no actual harm was intended. But sometimes a scare could cause someone to, well, you know…especially if that someone already has a health condition. Like a heart condition.” The more jumbled she got, the lower Gaia’s head hung. Clara waited, hoping her person would just come out and explain her theory—that Margaret, or maybe even Tiger, had planted the root to scare Gaia and had, in fact, planted something similar for Frank to find, but with more serious consequences.

“I’m sorry. I’m making a hash out of this. I just wanted to let you know that I don’t think you were ever in any actual danger. I guess I should just go tell the cops.”

“No.” Gaia raised her head finally, eyeing first the front window and then the back door, looking at everything, it seemed, except Becca. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“But if Marg—I mean, if someone accidentally provoked…”

Something in Gaia’s face stopped her short.

“You knew this wasn’t wolf’s bane?”

The slightest motion of that dark head indicated her assent, as Gaia turned back to the front of the shop, hoping perhaps that help would walk in the door. “Yeah.” Her voice as soft as a kitten’s. “It’s asafetida.”

“And you knew that because…” Breath escaped in one long, drawn-out “oh” as comprehension washed over Becca. She rested the bag on the counter and took in the young woman before her. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Well, when I said I’m learning about herbalism, I really meant it. I mean, I’m going to.” The shop girl exhaled noisily. “Okay, I bought a plant, right? I was at that Spirit of Change festival and it was really pretty. It had these blue flowers and spikey leaves, and I figured this place could use some livening up. So I brought it in. I mean, I knew it had power. The lady who sold it to me said it was a healing plant. I thought it looked nice in the window.”

Becca waited without comment.

“Then Elizabeth, you know, Margaret’s sister? She came in all furious, talking about how my new plant was poisonous and how could I leave it where a child could get at it, and blah-blah-blah. She showed it to me in one of those books.” A pointed look at the packed shelves. “Hey, there’s lots there. I can’t read everything. Anyway, I was going to take it home, only then it disappeared.”

“You said some things had gone missing.”

“Yeah, okay, one thing—my plant. Maybe someone took off with it. It was really pretty. But I can’t help but think Elizabeth, that old witch—I mean, in a bad way—took it. I’d told her I was going to take it home.”

“She may have seen it as a danger.”

“I guess.” Gaia didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, I got so mad and then, well, Margaret started sniffing around, and I thought I might need some leverage. I figured she’d found out about Frank, though we were already basically over and—”

“Hang on.” Becca reached into her bag for a pad. “When did this all this happen?”

Gaia rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe, like, five days ago? Yeah, I got it last weekend and that old—Elizabeth saw it, like, right away.”

“So you thought about it for a few days?”

Gaia winced. “It wasn’t like that. Only, it wasn’t until, like, Friday that Frank started wigging out on me. Talking about taking off for Mexico or someplace. I wasn’t going to go with him, but I figured something had happened.”

“So you saw him on Friday?”

“Barely.” The aggrieved girlfriend. “I mean, he said he had to go back to work. That’s usually what he tells her.”

Becca bit back her response.

“I mean, I’d made the place nice and everything.”

“The candle that I asked you about?”

A shrug. “Maybe. They all cost too much anyway. But he wasn’t into it. Just kept going on about having to take care of something. Told me to be ready to go.”

“And were you?”

“You kidding? I know about their arrangement. I figured he was just trying to scam some more money out of the old bag. I mean, he was just wigging. And his old lady was already all over me, so…” Another shrug, like the response was self-evident.

“So you came to see me, to put the blame on her.”

“Look, I was under a lot of pressure. But I’ll be okay now, I think.”

“You think you’ll be okay?” Becca tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t making it all up.” Gaia leaned in. “I mean, Tiger says he’s still worried about me, but really…after the latest?”

Becca waited. Clearly, the woman in front of her was drawing out her story for dramatic intent.

“Maybe you didn’t hear, but the neighbors are saying that the wife is always the obvious suspect.” When Becca still didn’t respond, Gaia went on. “Of course, they don’t even know about her sister, most of them. Everyone just knew Margaret and Frank weren’t getting along, and that she had a temper. Though they could’ve been in on it.”

“You think she—they made him have a heart attack? They brought it about?” Becca’s voice trailed off. Clara looked up, waiting. Surely, her person was going to bring up the previous night’s discussion. The subtleties of poisonings seemed inconsequential to a cat. The only real way to dispatch something was with a good, fast shake. But cats would never be so brutal to one of their own, anyway. And secretly, Clara had always been grateful for that one mouse’s speedy retreat.

“Some heart attack.” A dramatic eye roll dismissed that. “Tiger thinks there’s something else going on, maybe something with Frank’s business, such as it is. Some kind of conspiracy, even.”

Becca looked faintly green, but Gaia didn’t seem to notice.

“Makes me kind of glad her old witch of a sister got rid of my plant. Right? Because otherwise they might be looking at me.”

“I–I guess.” Becca’s brow furrowed, as it did when she was thinking.

“So, we can toss this, right?” Gaia poked at the baggie as if it were a hairball. “I mean, I’ll pay you for your time.”

“You don’t have to.” Becca sounded relieved. “Though maybe Tiger should talk to the police. I mean, if he’s seen someone suspicious hanging around…”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” With a shrug, the goth girl dismissed her sometime boyfriend’s concern. She seemed lighter now and was already turning toward the shelves behind her, ready to re-start her day. “He’s a bit of a drama king, anyway.”

Her own concerns dismissed, the young woman didn’t seem to think anything of it as Becca nodded and left the shop without another word. Clara, however, thought the behavior odd. As she watched, Becca strode, quickly but not breaking into a run, back toward the end of the block. Before Clara could catch up, however, she stopped cold, inches from a dark opening in the brick wall at the edge of the storefront. Carefully shading herself, Clara passed by and immediately saw what had caught Becca’s eye.

A shadow—no, a person had slipped into the yawning alley and was moving slowly along its wall. That had been what Becca spied outside the window while Gaia had been going on about the store’s owner, Clara realized. Someone walking too slowly and too close to the store to be an ordinary pedestrian.

Clara kicked herself for not paying attention. She could have easily slipped out and followed the figure in the shadows. Even if she couldn’t have passed along her findings to Becca, she might have prevailed on Laurel to convey some message. Only now, it was too late. There was no way that Clara was going to leave her person.

Instead, she stood by, guarding faithfully while her person waited, frozen in place, as the figure crept to the end of the alley. For a moment, he was caught in the sun—blond-tipped hair, denim jacket, and eyes wide with fright as he turned the corner and disappeared.

Chapter 14

“No!” Clara wailed as Becca took off down the alley. “Becca, don’t!” Of course, being a cat, her mewl of horror came out as a caterwaul—a faint one at that, her ordinary cat voice muted by the magic that helped her blend into the shadows around her. More like the wheeze of a passing bus or the squeak of a bicycle’s brakes than a cry of panic, her yowl blended in with the street noise of the busy Monday morning and died away, unnoticed.

Not that this mattered. Even if the young woman in the alley could have heard her terrified pet, she wouldn’t have understood her. Not unless Clara could suddenly assume Laurel’s gift of implanting ideas in a human’s mind, her pet thought with growing frustration.

But Clara had no time for envy or even the most natural sibling resentment. And so, although her own fur was standing on end with fear, Clara darted after Becca, determined to do what she could to aid the person she loved.

“Bother!” Unseen by Clara, Becca stopped short, and only by a quick leap sideways did the little cat manage to avoid colliding with her at the passage’s end. Panting, more from the stress than the exertion, the calico looked up as her person craned her head, peeking beyond the brick wall. The alley, Clara could now see, opened onto a paved lot, barely big enough for the two cars and the dumpster parked there. Unaware of the faithful feline nervously shadowing her every move, Becca slipped out to make a careful examination of the space. She started with the cars. As Clara watched, the young woman crouched beside the first, rising up so that only the maroon cloche and the few curls that escaped were visible as she peered through the windows. She needn’t have been so careful. These vehicles were empty; their passenger compartments gave off no vibrations, their engines cool and still. Clara could have saved Becca the effort—and the worry—of examining them so carefully had she been able to communicate with her person.

That lack continued to try the pet’s patience, but her own superior senses helped her keep her temper. By the time Becca had progressed to the dumpster, checking around the back before peeking inside, Clara had even begun to relax. Just as they hadn’t picked up any signs of life in those cars, her whiskers hadn’t picked up the vibrations of anything man-sized between the metal receptacle and the brick wall. Becca might not like the family of rodents who had made their home in the storm drain tucked in the corner, but Clara knew they were no real threat to her person, even if their presence might make her squeal.

If Clara was hoping that Becca would ignore the metal door that led out to the alley, however, she was disappointed. As she watched, the young woman strode up to it and tried the handle. Locked tight, the latch barely responded to her energetic pull; the dull gray door not at all. With a sigh of exasperation, she proceeded to examine the frame and then the wall. A frosted window to the right of the door was set too high for her to reach, and no bell or buzzer could be seen. Increasingly exasperated, Becca rapped on the door with her knuckle, but the thick metal only gave up a dull thud in return. Only after a few more tries did she finally give up. But instead of moving along, as her pet would have hoped, Becca began to backtrack. Perusing the little lot and the adjacent street one more time, she peered down the alley and then started the longer walk around the block back up to the store’s front.

“Her boyfriend was right.” Becca was speaking to herself, but Clara, trotting to keep up, heard her loud and clear. So clearly, in fact, that she found it a bit unnerving. Becca’s words could have been her own. “I need to reach her,” she was saying. “To warn her…”

But all the cat could do was tag along back to the brightly painted little shop, which was now locked tight.

“Gaia?” Becca called as she knocked on the glass door, and then leaned in, trying to peek through a green and yellow yin-and-yang symbol. “Are you there?”

Becca squinted. The morning sun reflected off the glass, making it difficult for her to see if her former client was inside or, indeed, if the little shop’s lights were even on. Clara could have told her that nothing was stirring, but the neatly lettered sign taped to the door—Back in Fifteen!—should have been enough. Still, Becca kept at it for at least that long before turning with a sigh and slumping back against the metal frame.

Clara waited with her, tail curled around her paws, willing herself to be grateful for the respite. But although she would have appeared the model of patience if her person could have seen her, the little cat fretted. The shop girl had made no attempt to hide her own erratic work habits. The fact that she had a sign to post should have reminded Becca of this. Besides, if something had happened—Clara’s ears flicked in search of any indication of a struggle that she might have somehow missed—there was little her person could do about it now. As Becca waited, one foot tapping in impatience, Clara found herself channeling her sister Harriet. Maybe it would be better if Becca never left the house.

Laurel would argue with that, of course, and as the minutes ticked past, Clara found herself wondering just what her slinky sister had been able to discern. Could her part-Siamese sibling have picked up traces of that young man, Tiger? Or had she somehow implanted a willingness to flirt in their person? Clara had long felt pretty sure of the extent of her own powers—the shading and the ability to pass through doors pretty much went paw in paw, as if her corporeality was tied in part to her visible self. What her sisters could do, though, she wasn’t completely sure. Harriet was so lazy, she rarely pressed her powers. Summoning up a pillow or a new toy was apparently all she was interested in. And while Clara had been reasonably confident that Laurel’s abilities extended only to implanting suggestions in the minds of humans, her middle sister’s recent brags had the ring of truth.

If only her siblings trusted her more, Clara thought, her ears beginning to sag. If only they shared more. Acted more like family. Then maybe she wouldn’t worry so much about the person they had all adopted. If only Laurel weren’t so obsessed with Becca’s love life. The tawny sister was awfully quick to incite interest in just about any possible suitor, Clara thought. Although there had been that one man…

Her musings were interrupted as Becca’s phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts.

“Hello?” She answered with something like suspicion. “Becca Colwin.”

She stood up straight as she spoke. A sign, Clara knew, that she might be addressing a potential client.

“Oh!” An outburst of surprise as her posture relaxed. “Tiger. Of course I remember you.”

Clara strained her ears forward, hoping to catch the other side of the conversation. From the faint color that rose to Becca’s cheeks, she suspected it wasn’t about business—or not completely. But as Becca put her shoulders back, clearing her throat, Clara realized that perhaps her person had made a decision. Whether it was going to be a good one, the little calico couldn’t tell.

“Why, yes, I’d like to get together.” With that, Becca began to walk, leaving the colorful storefront behind.

Clara’s ears flicked back in alarm. “This is Laurel’s doing!” A low growl rose beneath the white fur of her chest. “Not every man is good boyfriend material.”

Worse, Clara realized as she trotted along behind her person, Becca wasn’t going to the police station. Despite what she’d told her coven, what she’d promised Ande and Marcia, Becca was heading home. For the first time in Clara’s memory, the familiar path didn’t fill her with joy. Between the plans she was hearing and the direction Becca had chosen, it was clear her person was getting more deeply involved, just when they had all hoped she was pulling back from the investigation.

“Lunch sounds great,” Becca was saying. And there was nothing the little cat could do.

When Becca’s phone rang again, Clara dared to hope. But the young woman didn’t even slow down as she took the call.

“Hey, Maddy. What’s up?” Clara picked up her own pace, hoping to hear Becca’s friend talk some sense into her. “Yeah, I know. I was just at Charm and Cherish. No, wait…”

Becca rolled her eyes as her friend interrupted. It was a move Laurel had tried on occasion, with comic results. But while Harriet had chuckled, Clara kept her jaw firmly clenched. Laurel was trying to relate to their person, at least, and her youngest sister believed such an impulse should be encouraged.

“No, that’s just it.” Becca was speaking again. “I’d already told Margaret that I couldn’t take her on as a client, and I went to tell Gaia that she wasn’t in any real danger. Her case was, well, I can’t get into details, but let’s just say we both decided that I shouldn’t pursue it. Only, Maddy, now I’m not so sure.”

The faint squawking from the phone stopped her in her tracks.

“No, it’s not like that.” Becca started walking again, albeit slowly, her voice as thoughtful as her face. “I mean, yes, I don’t have clients to spare. I’d hoped to make this a going concern by the time the unemployment ran out. And, you know, I’ve done some good—”

Another burst of sound, a little softer, cut Becca off.

“Thanks, Maddy. I may need to pick up some freelance after all.” Becca sounded so down her cat was beginning to regret her own wishes. “But, you see, I can’t come down to the office today. No, I’m not going to the police—or not yet. I’m having lunch with Tiger, that bike messenger I told you about.”

From the sounds coming through the phone, Maddy was as surprised and upset as the calico.

“It’s not a date.” Becca emphasized the last word, even as her cheeks grew pink. “I mean, I do believe he and Gaia are over, but still, that would just be too awkward.”

Becca raised her hand, as if her friend could see her. “Maddy, listen. Gaia told me that she and Tiger still talk, and he told her that he thinks she’s still in danger. And when I went down to tell her about the root, I saw someone hanging around the shop. Lurking, actually. So I want to talk to Tiger, hear why he thinks Gaia’s in danger and if it has anything to do with whatever happened to Frank Cross. I gather he’s not keen to talk to the police, but maybe he’ll talk to me and then I can take it to the cops. Because this guy? He wasn’t doing anything criminal, but he was clearly watching the entrance. It was creepy.

“No, Maddy, I didn’t call 9-1-1. The guy disappeared as soon as he saw me watching him. And I couldn’t just tell Gaia. That’s the problem. I tried to, but when I went back to the store, it was all locked up. No, I think she just she took off. She has a habit of doing that. But just in case, or in case there is some connection to Frank, I want to hear what Tiger has to say. And I want someone who cares about her to know what I saw.”

Chapter 15

“We’ve got to do something.” As soon as Clara slipped into the apartment, she rounded up her sisters. Waking Harriet from a nap was never easy, but the sense of urgency that had set her fur on end had made the calico fierce. “Becca’s getting more involved with this Gaia girl, and there’s something weird going on!”

“I thought you didn’t want us using our powers?” Harriet wasn’t happy about having her nap interrupted. “Don’t let the human know, you always say. Your sister and I have been trying to give you some leeway on this, you know.”

“I know.” Clara dipped her head in a hasty feline apology. “But I’m worried. And if Becca gets in trouble, who knows what will happen to us?”

“Maybe we’ll find someplace better.” Laurel had been sleeping, as well but Clara knew better than to mention it. The slender Siamese liked to present herself as always watchful. “Someone who leads a more interesting life.”

Clara bit down on her initial response and took a deep breath through her bi-color nose instead. Laurel was always cranky when she woke up, she reminded herself. “Part of this trouble might involve a new man.” Clara offered up the half-truth like a small mouse, the kind likely to interest her flirtatious sister.

“I knew it.” Laurel stretched seductively, then began to groom, her customary calm returning. “And this is a problem, why?”

“It’s not the man,” Clara began to explain when Becca came into the room. “It’s something he told—”

“Look at you three.” Becca beamed down at them. “So nice to see you’re not fighting for once.”

“Don’t smirk.” Clara couldn’t help it. Laurel had a way of arching one eye that drove her mad. “Please,” she muted her criticism. “I’m trying to think of what we can do—what we ought to do. I mean, within the rules.”

“Good luck with that,” her middle sister purred and sauntered off, tail high, to the bedroom. Clara knew Laurel was going to get involved in Becca’s wardrobe choices. What she didn’t know was how to stop her.

“This isn’t a date.” She trotted after her sister, her mew softening with a slight pleading tone. “She wants to talk to him.”

“Exactly.” Laurel leaped to the bed without sparing her sister a glance. “And he’ll take her so much more seriously if she would only lose that chunky sweater. I mean, who doesn’t like Angora?”

“Angora?” Harriet lumbered in. “You mean that pink sweater?” She reached up to groom her wide face, revealing a few silky, pink strands stuck in her claws.

“You dragged it down from the shelf.” Clara closed her eyes, but not before she saw Harriet pull the fibers free and swallow them.

“Silly!” Laurel hissed. “I had plans for that sweater.”

“So did I.” Unruffled by either her sisters or the pink yarn, Harriet continued bathing, straining to lick what on any other cat would have been the small of her back and nearly toppling over in the process. “It was very soft.”

“You missed a spot.” Resigned, Clara reached over to hook a tuft of the super-fine wool in her claw.

“Clara! What have you gotten into?” The little calico gave a startled mew as hands reached around her middle, pulling her up in the air. “Is that from my new sweater?”

Unable to explain, Clara could only blink in silent apology. On the bed, Laurel’s blue eyes closed in a satisfied smile.

“I could let her know, you know. Point out that Harriet was the one to pull that sweater down from its shelf.” Laurel’s low feline muttering was too quiet for human ears. “I could also suggest to her that we’re more than she knows. That we are, in fact, royalty.”

“Please don’t.” Clara turned toward her sister in silent appeal. It was too late. Becca was carrying her to the bedroom doorway, and then she closed the door behind her.

With mounting frustration, she waited outside as Becca got ready for her lunchtime meet, knowing full well that Laurel, if not Harriet, would be turning the situation to their own ends. Pacing outside the shut door, and unable to pass through without alarming Becca, Clara fumed, and then began to blame herself. Of course Laurel had jumped on the romantic potential of lunch with a new man. Clara hadn’t explained the situation properly. In part, she had to admit, that was because of her own confusion over what was going on.

For starters, Becca had said that her meeting with the bike messenger wasn’t a date. But even without the astute feline hearing that picked up a quickening heartbeat and a slight shallowness in her breath, Clara knew her person well enough to sense that she was intrigued by the dark-haired man. More intrigued, the calico feared, than she had been by anyone since her longtime boyfriend had broken up with her the previous spring.

That had been touch and go for a while, too. Matt, Becca’s ex, had regretted their breakup, even though he had been the one to initiate it. The computer programmer had, in fact, tried to woo Becca back, and there had been moments when Clara had feared he would succeed. But the puppy-ish programmer had cheated on Becca, and, cute as he was, she knew he couldn’t be trusted. For a long while after that, Clara had worried that Becca would never again trust any man.

That didn’t mean she wanted her person to just jump into something with this Tiger. And despite what Laurel thought, that wasn’t simply because of his name. Clara knew she was more protective of Becca than her middle sister would like. But Laurel hadn’t been the one who had stayed by Becca’s side after Matt had broken up with her. Laurel and Harriet both knew the faithless Matt had done their person wrong, and they had taken the insult personally, as all good cats would. Still, it had been Clara the heartbroken girl had cried with, cuddling her close as if her soft fur were the only comfort she would ever find. Clara didn’t know if she could find a way to explain how sad that time had been. Laurel might be her sister, but sometimes she felt like she and her littermates were not only not a real family. They were like different species entirely.

Chapter 16

Tiger was waiting when Becca arrived at the coffeehouse forty minutes later. Clara smelled the bike messenger—that mix of sweat, gear grease, and sandalwood—even before she spotted him uncoiling a heavy chain from his bag.

“Tiger! Thanks for coming out.” Becca walked up to him as he squatted to weave the chain between the spokes of his front tire and the body of his pared-down bike. “Are you working?”

“What? Oh, the bike?” Tiger blinked up at her. “No, I ride everywhere.”

As he stood, she noticed a phone-like device attached to his belt. “Is that a pager?”

“You’ve got a good eye.” He tilted his head, looking rather like Laurel as he took her in. “Yeah, my boss is old school. But, hey,” he said, unclipping the device and tucking it into his pocket, “like I said, I’m not working.”

Becca inhaled, and Clara looked up in anticipation, not knowing if Becca had another question or was simply going to respond. But Tiger had already reached for the coffeehouse door, which he pulled open. “After you.”

“Thanks,” she said, even as Clara waited for more, and led the way to a butcher block table in the corner.

“Not a date.” Clara repeated Becca’s words, hoping to impress them back on her person.

The corner table offered a modicum of privacy, the better to discuss the case. Clara didn’t need any of Laurel’s powers to follow her person’s reasoning. But Clara had also seen her color rise as she walked by Tiger. The bike messenger was handsome in an outlaw way, with that dramatic dark hair and long, lean muscles sculpted by hours on the bike.

“Just a conversation,” the little cat murmured from the shadows as they placed their orders—a turkey sandwich for Becca, a veggie wrap for Tiger. Even as she settled in to observe while they ate, Clara found herself once again wishing that she had more of Laurel’s particular power.

“I wanted to talk because I gather you’re worried about Gaia.” Maybe it was simply that her part-Siamese sister was on her mind. Maybe it was the blue eyes, but as the bike messenger ferried their sandwiches over from the counter, it occurred to Clara that he really did look like Laurel. Maybe it was the way he tilted his head as he waited, silently, for her to continue. “Do you think she’s in danger? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but she and I were talking.”

A nod. “She told you what’s going on?” He raised his brows.

“She said that you two still talk…” This time, there was no mistaking the question behind Becca’s pause.

“Well, yeah.” The man sitting opposite her shrugged. “We’re friends.”

“I know how hard it is to stay friends with an ex.”

The deep sigh that followed turned into a chuckle. “Tell me about it,” he said, the relief giving his deep voice a lift. Then, seeing Becca’s wide-eyed response, he caught himself. “You don’t have to. I mean, I’m just glad you understand.”

“I do.” Becca lowered her eyes as Clara scrambled to her feet. There was nothing the little cat could do. Not here, where she was, for all intents and purposes, invisible, and suddenly appearing would only distress her person. Still, she couldn’t resist reaching up with one paw. Maybe she should touch her person. Distract her from the intense young man facing her. If she only reached out…

For a moment, Clara wondered if perhaps her ardent desire was enough. Or perhaps, she told herself, Becca had more resolve than her pet gave her credit for. Because, after taking a deep breath, Becca dove in. “Anyway, I am kind of still working with her, and I’m hoping you can share why you’re still worried about her.”

“Well, just because we broke up doesn’t mean…” He shrugged as he took a bite of his veggie wrap.

“No, I’m sorry. I meant if you had specific reasons to be concerned.” Becca leaned in, her own sandwich forgotten. “I’d like to know what they are.”

Silence while he chewed and took another bite.

“She said you saw someone hanging around?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head even as he tore into the wrap. “I don’t know if I should be talking about this.”

“If it helps, I think you may be on to something.” Becca spoke softly, although Clara’s sensitive ears had no trouble picking up the intensity of her tone. “And it worries me, because I don’t think Gaia is taking your concerns seriously.” No response. “I’ve heard that maybe Frank Cross didn’t die from natural causes.”

That got his attention. “Like an accident, or that he was killed?”

Becca shrugged. “There were an awful lot of cops around for what was supposed to be simply a medical emergency.” Her voice dropped to near a whisper. “Someone told me that Margaret Cross was taken in for questioning.”

Tiger leaned in with a speed that set Clara’s fur on edge. “You think she’s a suspect?”

To her pet’s relief, Becca sat back in her own chair, considering. “I don’t know,” she said, her focus on something Clara couldn’t see. “I wish I understood what was going on better. I don’t see Mrs. Cross as a…a dangerous person.”

“She might have had motive.” Tiger’s words got her attention back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say anything, but, well, it’s true.”

“I think I may know what you’re talking about.” Becca bit her lip. “But please, tell me what you mean.”

Now it was Tiger’s turn to stare off into space, as if he were gathering courage from the list of coffees available. When he turned back, he seemed to have made a resolution. “Frank was having a fling with Gaia.” He stated this as fact, although Clara knew how much this could hurt a human. “That wasn’t why we broke up,” he was quick to add, almost like he could hear her thoughts. “I mean, we were never that serious. But this thing with Frank? Well, I think he was kind of obsessed with her.”

“And you know this…how?” Clara could have leaped into her person’s lap and begun to knead, she was so happy. Becca’s question showed that she was being smart and careful.

Tiger dropped his gaze, but he didn’t seem to see the remainder of his lunch. “I’m not a stalker, okay? But my boss has had a lot of deliveries for Mr. Cross recently. I’ve been down at that car lot of his a fair amount, as well as around here most days. So I see when someone keeps showing up.”

Becca gestured for him to continue, waiting.

“And I heard some of the fights he had with his wife.” Tiger was talking to the table, one long finger tracing the wood grain. “‘Margaret, cut it out! Margaret, please stop!’ I heard him yell that a lot. And he wouldn’t think to protect himself from her.”