He had seemed tentative, as if he didn’t trust his own note taking, and Becca was eager to help.
“The door was definitely unlocked when I came in.”
“Unlocked, but was it closed or open?”
She paused.“I am pretty sure it was slightly open. I mean, I knocked, but I wouldn’t have opened it unless it had been off the latch. That’s not me.”
“Of course not, Ms. Colwin.” The detective looked tired, his face as wrinkled as that jacket. But his manner was gentle and his voice soft. “So you heard a voice?”
“No.” Becca looked lost in her memory. “I just—the door opened, and I stepped in, calling for her.”
“Because you sensed something was off?” The detective sounded genuinely curious, his head tilting like Laurel’s did when she was listening to something she didn’t quite understand. “Because of your power—what did you call it, a sensitivity?”
“No, I don’t…” Becca looked flustered. “Oh, you mean the summoning? No, that was—I don’t know what that was.” She almost laughed as she shook her head. “I just wanted you to understand how Suzanne and I know each other. We’re not—we weren’t—friends, exactly, though maybe we could have been, if it weren’t for… Anyway, we know each other from our group.Kneweach other.” She swallowed and fell silent.
“Your coven.” The rumpled man waited a moment before offering the word, pronounced so carefully, as if he had never heard it before. At least, thought Clara as she watched him, he was being respectful.
“Well, that’s what we call ourselves.” Becca looked down, slightly abashed. “I don’t even know if I believe in any of it. Only the last time we all got together, things were a little crazy because, well, because I think I did summon something.”
The man opposite her looked so confused Clara almost began to wonder about his intelligence.
“I thought I explained,” Becca said. Obviously, she was wondering too. “I was trying out these spells. And, well, I summoned a pillow out of the ether—out of nowhere.”
“Ah, of course.” A nod of understanding at last as a smile reconfigured those wrinkles. “So you do have power of some kind, and did Suzanne?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The memory made Becca stop and think. “I was the only one who had had any success. At least, thus far.”
“So you were special to the group.” He was speaking slowly, as if he were trying very hard not to miss anything again. But something in his tone was beginning to make the fur along Clara’s back rise.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that…” Becca must have heard an off note too. She had turned away from the man, but Clara could see the hot dark splotches that now stained her cheeks.
“Still, it must have been very gratifying, to have a spell—a summoning spell—work. Especially when none of the other women in the coven had managed that.” He appeared to be reading his notes, but Clara could tell that he was watching Becca. Watching her color rise.
“We’re not all women.” Becca faced him again, eager to set the record straight. “We’re equal opportunity.”
“Ah.” The detective sat back, waiting. A broad grin began to spread across his worn face.
“Our coven leader, Trent, is a man,” she explained. “I mean, we’re very egalitarian. That’s one of the tenets of Wicca, of what we do. But it just so happens that Trent is the most experienced and, well, he’s a man.” She sounded like she’d run out of steam.
“One man in the coven.” The detective seemed to find that interesting. “But even he can’t do what you can. That must be extremely gratifying, especially since you’ve lost your job. Your boyfriend too, I believe. Having a power like that must have made you feel special—especially to thisman, this Trent.”
“No.” Becca’s voice was full of scorn. Too full, Clara thought, remembering those flowers. “It’s not like that.”
“No, of course not.” The kind, fatherly face beamed right back at her.
“So tell me, how long were you stalking the victim?”
Chapter 13
Despite her sisters’ reservations, Clara knew that they would have responded. Laurel would have attacked that detective, claws out. Harriet would have bristled, at least, fluffing up her bulk to ottoman-like proportions. Clara simply wanted to get Becca out of there as soon as possible. Luckily, the young woman seemed to be on the same wavelength.
“What? Are you kidding me?” She stood up, her voice rising along with her. “Stalking?”
“Now, now.” The seated man raised his hand as if to stop her, his tired face looking just as gentle as it had all along. “Please, miss. We understand how emotions can run high. Your boyfriend was stepping out…”
“But you don’t understand.” She hesitated, and Clara feared she was going to sit again. “I wasn’t stalking anyone.”
“You knew that the victim was seeing your ex-boyfriend? You’ve said that you were to meet her at noon. He tells us he spoke to you at half past, which leaves a half hour unaccounted for. We’ve also heard that you were quite upset.”
“Jeff?” Her voice ratcheted up again. “He said that?”
“We’ve had several people in to talk with us,” the detective continued.
“What about Trent?” Even as Becca said the name, a look of horror came over her. “Wait, he had a key…”
“We’re speaking to several people,” the detective repeated.
“But you think I…” She reached for the back of the chair, this time to steady herself as she suddenly went pale. “That I could…?”
The tired-looking man did not answer. Instead, he pushed his own chair back with a scraping sound that made Clara—her fur already on edge—jump. “This is an ongoing investigation, but I’m sure all questions will be answered in time,” he said as he rose with a tired sigh. “In the meantime, we’d appreciate it if you remained available to answer any further questions.”
***
Clara had to hold back as Becca left the suddenly airless room. As much as she wanted to brush up against her person—to give her the feline equivalent of a hug with her soft fur and the gentle pressure of her warm body—the little cat had to keep in mind that she was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to Becca. If she showed up here, she’d be as likely to startle her as comfort her. Besides, the youngwoman was so distracted that even if Clara were as big as Harriet, she’d be at risk of tripping her person as the detective escorted her down the hall and out.
“Becca!” At the sound of her name, the flustered young woman looked up. The day had cleared, but she didn’t appear to feel the warm sun. Instead, she blinked, blind as a new kitten, as a man approached. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.” She stopped and focused. It was the painter, only he had rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal sinewy forearms and his hair had dried. “I’m sorry—Nathan?”
“Yeah.” He smiled, his teeth white against his tan. “I thought I’d wait around. And, well, I’m glad I did. You look a little out of it. They didn’t make you look at photos, did they?”
Becca shuddered.“No. No way. We just…talked.”
“Ah.” Nathan nodded, comprehension dawning. “That can be worse. Hey, would you want to get something to eat? I know I could use some coffee and a muffin.”
“Yeah.” She sounded tentative, but then repeated with more resolve. “Yes, I would. I think they think…I think that maybe…” She swallowed hard. “I need to talk this all over with somebody.”
As Clara followed them to the coffee house, she grew increasingly grateful that her sisters hadn’t come along. For starters, Harriet would have gotten so excited by the idea of a muffin that she might have materialized right there, which would have caused no shortage of confusion. Laurel, meanwhile, would have been so intrigued by the sun-kissed painter with his spicy scent that she’d be twining around his ankles as he walked—unless she’d have already rejected him as competition for Becca’s time and attention, in which case, who knew what havoc she would wreak. Although the housecat in Clara understood both impulses, she had more discipline than either of her siblings and prided herself on her calico ability to hang back and weigh a situation before acting.