An Incantation of Cats

“How did you…?” Clara twisted around to face her sister.

“Quiet, silly! Listen and learn.”

“Elizabeth!” Becca was banging on the door.

“Calm down, child.” The older sister was opening it, still in her cleaning clothes. “I knew you’d be back. All of you.”

“All? Never mind, I’m here to warn you. A plant, a poisonous plant, has been planted…I mean, someone is trying to frame…”

“Ah, Ms. Colwin.” She stopped talking as a large, familiar man stepped out of the back room. “Why am I not surprised to see you again?”

“I left a message that I’d meet you here.” Becca sounded a bit defensive. “I had to make a stop first.”

“And you thought you’d warn Ms. Elizabeth?” His voice rumbled like a growl. “Tell her to get rid of evidence?”

“It’s a plant.” Becca caught herself. “In both senses. I don’t think Elizabeth took it. I think Tiger, or whatever his real name is, did. He’s had it all along. The real Tiger said he’d seen someone hanging around. He must have stolen it from the shop after hearing Elizabeth lecture Gaia. He thought it might come in handy while he was keeping an eye on Frank Cross. Maybe he knew Elizabeth did some gardening—she had an aloe plant. Maybe he’d seen that and it gave him the idea, and when questions came up about Frank’s death, he tried to frame Margaret and Elizabeth.”

“I think you’re forgetting someone.”

“Gaia? She was an afterthought. Part of his ‘cleanup,’ in case she knew anything. Though I guess he might have wanted it to look like a guilt-ridden suicide attempt.”

Abrams was shaking his head. “No, Becca. You.”

“Me?” Becca blanched, and her hand went to her bag.

But the detective only smiled. “An over-eager amateur poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong could get in trouble, you know.”

Becca’s color turned from pale to pink. “You wouldn’t have known about the license plate without me. Or the wolf’s bane, for that matter.”

“We have Frank Cross’s financial records,” he said gently. “We have a description of the car. We knew he was in over his head.”

“But I gave you Tiger.”

“And I’m not going to prosecute you for soliciting as a private investigator without a license.”

Becca didn’t need Laurel’s suggestion to let the detective have the last word.

Chapter 39

The next few days were crazy, with phone calls and visits from Detective Abrams and his colleagues. Harriet was permanently fluffed with annoyance, and Laurel had taken to sleeping on her perch on the bookshelf, what with all the interruptions. Clara, however, kept closer to her person than ever. She’d seen the hat and remembered all too well how close she’d been to losing her. The plump calico was on the back of the sofa, nuzzling up to Becca’s neck, when Maddy came by with the news.

“They’ve found him. Tiger, that is.” Maddy held out her phone. “Your Tiger, I mean. That’s him, right?”

“Yeah.” Becca’s voice went soft as she read out loud. “That’s him—Thomas O’Hara. ‘A onetime bicycle racer, O’Hara had been disqualified for betting on his own races.’”

On the small screen, Clara could see that wide grin and the jet-black hair that fell over his eyes. Before she could examine the photo more closely, Becca let out a small cry.

“He’s dead,” she said. “Found unresponsive and later pronounced dead. Traces of the same toxic substance that have been linked to both an earlier homicide and an attempted poisoning of a potential witness were found on the victim.’” Becca looked at her friend, eyes wide. “The wolf’s bane.”

“Read on.” Maddy’s voice was grim. “They’re calling it an apparent suicide.”

“Suicide?” Becca didn’t sound convinced. “I remember what he said about his bosses. ‘Men you don’t want to cross.’”

“Either way, good riddance.”

Becca didn’t respond to that, but Clara could see how sad she was, even if her friend chose not to, and leaned in, purring. Sometimes, all you can offer is love.

***

When the carrier came out later that same day, Clara stared at it, confused. Surely, Becca didn’t think that her attentiveness, those extra cuddles and purrs, signaled something wrong. But before Clara could object, she was bundled inside the box-like contraption.

“Have fun!” Laurel looked at her through the metal grid. “Remember to howl like you’re suffering.”

“Maybe they’ll give you treats.” Harriet pushed her sister aside to stare into the case. “Maybe I should come, too.”

“Too late, Fatso.” Laurel ducked as Harriet’s big paw came swinging.

“Kitties! Cut it out!” Becca was putting on her coat. “I promise, your little sister will be back soon.”

“Like we care,” said Laurel. But Laurel, Clara was beginning to understand, talked a very different game than what she felt.

***

That realization, as well as the growing idea that perhaps her sisters were less useless than she had once thought, kept Clara distracted during the bumpy T ride that followed. Accustomed to moving freely, the little cat found the so-called cat carrier particularly uncomfortable. She knew, however, that sidling through its plastic sides to take a seat beside her person would cause more trouble than it was worth, and so she settled in as best she could, thinking about her strange deliverance as the subway rumbled along.

“Look after each other.” The voice, so warm and strangely familiar, didn’t belong to Becca. Even as her eyes closed in thought, Clara felt that to be true. Felt, as well, that Becca was part of the larger story, one that was only now being revealed. “You must all help each other to learn and to be strong.”

“Hello.” The deep male voice that broke into Clara’s reverie sounded vaguely familiar, as did the plain but friendly face that looked through the carrier’s grill.

“What happened to you, Miss Kitty?”

“Her name’s Clara.” Becca’s voice was tight with concern. “And I’m not exactly sure. I thought I saw, well…I thought maybe she had an accident, and then she was limping, so I thought I should bring her in.”

“Always better to check.” Warm hands lifted Clara out of the case and deposited her on a metal surface. “You know, if it’s an emergency, you can come in right away.”

“I know. I thought about it.” Clara glanced up, concerned. She had never meant to worry her person. To her surprise, Becca looked slightly flushed. “But I heard the hospital had a new feline specialist, and I really wanted you to see her.”

“Well, we can do some X-rays.” Those warm hands ran gently down her leg, which, by this point, barely ached. “Though she isn’t reacting like a cat ordinarily would to a break.”

“She’s very special.” The catch in her voice made Clara look up. The vet, too, apparently.

“Of course she is.” That deep voice sounded sympathetic, the brown eyes wide with concern. “Ms. Colwin? Didn’t we run into each other…I’m sorry, bad turn of phrase.”

Becca summoned a flash of a smile. “Yes, you pulled me out from under a cyclist. You told me to be careful, not that I listened. Wait…” She blinked, looking rather cat-like, Clara thought. “You’re the one—the vet who helped the homeless man.”

That smile at last, with the dimples. “Yeah, I guess I should be glad that all emergency medicine is pretty much the same.”

“They said a vet, but I figured…never mind. I spoke with him, you know. I guess he’s going to be okay.”

“I’m glad.” Silence fell as their eyes met over the cat. “I gather he was living rough,” said the vet as the moment passed. “Maybe now he’ll get some support. Speaking of which…”

While the two humans had been speaking, Clara had stood and begun to explore the metal table. Sure enough, her leg now took her weight without any pain at all. Tail up and ears erect, she stood at the table’s end, looking from the vet to her person.

“Mew,” she ventured.

Chapter 40

“Frank Cross was mobbed up.” Becca’s bombshell elicited the expected gasp from Marcia, who sat back and stared, wide-eyed, at her host.

Ande, however, seemed unnaturally involved with the tea, fussing with the measurements as if they were rocket science.

“Ande, you knew?” Becca reached out to still her friend’s hands.

“I told you what I could.” She looked up, her face sad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know for sure, and I didn’t want any trouble. I told you I wasn’t doing his books anymore.”

“I thought that was because he acted inappropriately.” Becca bit her lip. “Gaia said he was in league with some sleazy guys, and all the while Margaret kept insisting he worked alone. I should have figured it out.”

“You’re not psychic.” A trace of a smile lit up her dark eyes. “Even if you are a fine witch detective.”

“Yeah, but I thought…” Becca fondled the lapis pendant. “I guess I should trust my instincts more, and the magic less.”

“Man, this doesn’t look good for Charm and Cherish.” Marcia had recovered, though her eyes were still saucer-wide.

“No.” Ande’s voice was firm. “I made very sure that the store’s accounts were not involved with Frank’s. Money went out to him for his allowance, but that was it.”

“That’s good news.” Becca looked from one friend to the other, a grin spread across her face. “Because I’ve taken a part-time job there. Elizabeth insisted, and, honestly, I can use a regular income. She seems to think I have real potential—as a sales girl at least.”

Becca shrugged, and Clara looked from her to her sisters. The gray-haired woman had implied more than that, she knew. And for once, the little cat wanted her person to believe. Becca was good at what she did. She had figured out that Tiger was involved before her pet had. More to the point, there was more to their shared history than Clara had ever before considered.

Maybe some of that cautious optimism got through to Becca. Or maybe, the calico realized, there were other powers at work, because Becca looked around and then down at her favorite pet.

“Besides,” she said as her grin grew wider, “Charm and Cherish is a great resource—and I’ll get an employee discount.”

Chapter 41

“Dear Becca.”

Laurel was right! If she concentrated, she could “hear” Becca’s thoughts.

“How lovely to hear from you. I’ve been hoping you would contact me. I have so much to tell you, but, of course, I had to wait for you to ask…”

Clara’s eavesdropping was interrupted by Harriet.

“What’s going on?”

“She’s reading.” Clara tried to step around her sister. Contact, it seemed, was necessary for her to exercise this particular skill. “Something about her family.”

“Huh.” Harriet plopped down and began grooming her snowy belly fur, blocking her calico sibling.

“What’s up with you two?” Becca turned to look. “You’d think you want to read over my shoulder.” She paused and looked back at the screen. “Aunt Tabby does say I should pay attention to my cats. Funny, Elizabeth says that, too.”

“What are we doing?” Laurel appeared on Becca’s other side and stepped over her lap.

“Watch the…” Becca grabbed up the laptop. “Well, I guess that’s the universe giving me a clue.”

She set the computer aside and reached to rub Clara’s ear, even as the two older cats nudged her for a position.

“Laurel, it worked.” Clara looked up, excited. “I wonder if I could try…”

“I know what you three want.” Becca extricated herself from the fur pile. “Treats, coming up.”

“Wait.” Clara looked from Laurel to Harriet. “Did one of you do that?”

“Family meeting.” Laurel lashed her tail and then, distracted by the movement, began to lick it. Hours later, the treats had all been eaten and Becca gone to bed. All three cats had accompanied her, of course, and now lounged around their person in various stages of repose. “It’s time!”

“Ahem.” Harriet, who had been napping, puffed herself up. Turning from Laurel to Clara, she pulled her large head back into her considerable marmalade ruff and began. “It has come to my attention that perhaps we have been lax in our lessons. Granted, we’ve had other concerns.”

“Like the pursuit of treats.” Laurel’s muttered aside was nearly muffled as she dug into one brown bootie.

Clara, who lay by Becca’s side, felt her whiskers twitch. Harriet didn’t often speak of anything at such length—anything but food, that is. Something was up.

“While we have been hoping that your natural feline intelligence would clue you in, it has become increasingly obvious that you have missed our role in your adventures.” Harriet’s voice rumbled with an almost growl-like solemnity that alarmed her baby sister.

“Your role? I’ve seen Laurel, but…” Clara turned to her littermate, but Laurel only shrugged, her café au lait fur shimmering in the moonlight.

“Our role,” Harriet repeated, slowly closing her round gold eyes for emphasis. “While you certainly have incipient powers, Laurel and I have been doing our best to boost those powers. Partly to aid you in your work, and partly to foster your independence.”

“My independence?”

A true growl, or it could have been the start of a furball, cut her off.

“Clearly, our person has chosen you as her familiar. For reasons of history and heritage, this makes sense. However, you must understand that the care of a human is a serious obligation, and all three of us must do our bit. So, while we’ve tried to encourage your strengths and your independence, it will not do for you to disparage or try to disown your family. We are your family, Clara, for good or ill. Your sisters.”

“So… you’ve been helping me?” Clara nearly squeaked. So much began to make sense—the failures of her shading, Laurel’s aid. Even Harriet’s magical grooming, which had healed her wounds. A warmth that could not be attributed only to her sleeping person’s proximity began to fill her, and she could feel the purr begin to start, deep in her chest. “Both of you?”

“Of course we’ve been helping you.” Laurel focused on her bootie and refusing to meet Clara’s eye, even as Becca sighed in a dream and nestled closer. Harriet, by her feet, was once more sound asleep. “We’re family.” Laurel’s distinctive yowl, softer now. “And that means we love you, Clown.”

Acknowledgments

It may take three cats to help one witch detective, but many more are required to get a book out. Readers like Karen Schlosberg, Brett Milano, Lisa Susser, and Chris Mesarch; editor and Polis publisher Jason Pinter, who took a chance on my quirky cats; Frank Garelick, Lisa Jones, and our beloved Sophie Garelick for boundless support and encouragement; the Sisters in Crime/Mystery Writers of America community, and all the readers who have reached out over the years. Gratitude and love as well to my friend and longtime agent Colleen Mohyde and her wonderful spouse John McDonough, himself a source for all things police procedural, for your continued, sustaining belief. And always, always my beloved Jon S. Garelick, without whom none of this would be any fun, if it were even possible at all.

About the Author

A former journalist and music critic, Clea Simon wrote three nonfiction books, including the Boston Globe bestseller The Feline Mystique, before turning to a life of crime (fiction). Her more than two dozen mysterious usually involve cats or rock and roll, or some combination thereof, including the first Witch Cats of Cambridge mystery, A Spell of Murder.

A native of New York, she moved to Massachussetts to attend Harvard and now lives nearby in Somerville.

Visit her at www.CleaSimon.com or at @CleaSimon.