Like the rest of her family, Clara was a witch cat, endowed with magical abilities above and beyond the usual feline mysticism. But that didn’t mean she had unlimited powers. Sure, she could pass through solid objects like doors and walls. Those powers were sort of related to how she could summon things, like Harriet did that pillow. And she could make herself more or less invisible, as all cats—even the non-magical ones—can, which is why humans trip over them so often. But although her ears were naturally more sensitive than any human’s, she couldn’t hear everything.
That’s why she was a tad alarmed when Becca stopped walking to listen, one hand over her ear to block out the music from outside. Something about the way her brows bunched together and her teeth came down on her lower lip made the little calico’s ears prick up, reminding her of those bad days two months ago. The days when all Becca had done—besides feed her cats, of course—was cry.
“Uh-huh,” she said at last. Her lip still showed the marks of her teeth, but at least she’d begun walking again, slowly mounting step after step. “Yes, she told me,” she said.
“No, I’m not home right now.” Becca had reached the third floor. The door was slightly ajar, and she turned away for privacy. “Look, I can come by your place,” she said. And then, taking another deep breath, she went on. “Okay, then what if I meet you someplace else in an hour, some place down by the river? I’m—no, really, it’s fine. I’m visiting a friend on Putnam. In fact, I’m at her door now. A new friend. Her name’s Suzanne. Suzanne Liddle.”
At that, she straightened up, and for a moment, Clara relaxed, thinking that her person was, in fact, doing better. But then her brows came together again and she shook her head.“What do you mean, Jeff? You don’t even know her. Look.” One hand went up to push the hair from her brow. “I’ll call you when I’m leaving, okay? Jeff?”
The hand wiped over her face and through her soft brown curls, and with a sigh big enough to deflate her, she shoved the phone back into her pocket. And with that she turned toward the slightly opened door.
“Suzanne?” she called. “It’s Becca.”
She rapped softly on the door, which creaked open further. Calling a little louder, to be heard over the salsa beat, she said again,“Suzanne? Are you there?”
As a cat, Clara didn’t require permission to enter any room. And while she could pass through a locked door, an unlatched one—especially one so temptingly ajar—read like a gilt-edged invitation. Only there was something about this room, this door. Something beyond the intense smell of the paint and the metallic rattle of the ladder outside.
“Suzanne?” Becca pushed the door further open and stepped inside. And so, despite an overwhelming sense of trepidation that had her guard hairs standing on end, Clara followed into a sunny room. As the door swung shut behind them and the latch caught with a click, she took in the warmth. The light from the big bay window. Two overstuffed chairs that Harriet would love crowded together on a deep plush rug, while a velvet-covered sofa, too big for the space, was pushed back against a bay window that stood slightly ajar. It was from here that the smell of the paint came in as well as the dust and the scrapings that had dappled the burgundy velvet with white.
It was also that sofa—more of a love seat actually—that had set all the cat’s instinctive alarms ringing. For reclining on the dark velvet, one arm hanging low toward the floor, lay Suzanne Liddle, the inlaid handle of her serrated cake knife extending straight up from bare white flesh of her throat.
Becca froze, leaving Clara to take in the sight of the woman on the sofa, the pooled blood from the awful wound collecting at her collarbone, where it was already darkening to almost match the burgundy of the upholstery. Time stopped—for a moment—and then jarred into movement with the clang of a ladder being collapsed. A boom box cut off in mid-song.
Somewhere, outside—in a different world—work was done for the morning. And then another sound, closer, made Becca turn. A key clicked in the door. The brass knob rotated, and Clara could hear her frightened gasp, as Trent—the handsome warlock—stepped in.
Chapter 6
A purr can mean many different things. Cats purr to express happiness, of course. But they also purr to comfort themselves or others, and that’s what Clara was trying to do an hour later—once the police let Becca go.
“Oh, kitties, it was horrible.” Clara would have thought, after all the questions, that her poor person would have been all talked out. But as she staggered into her apartment and collapsed onto her own lovely, clean, and beautifully unbloodied sofa, she began to rehash everything that had happened.
“I had just seen her Wednesday, three days ago. She was here. She was…alive.” Becca lay back with a sigh, one forearm thrown over her eyes, as the three sisters converged. Clara was a little breathless from having raced home—feline invisibility aside, she didn’t think hitching a ride in apolice cruiser was a good idea. “I keep thinking of her…her throat and all that blood. And that knife. I’d cut cake with that knife…” Becca repeated as she kicked her shoes off.
Clara ducked the falling footwear and jumped up to claim her place on the sofa. Laurel and Harriet were already there, Laurel cozying up to Becca’s side and Harriet down by her stocking feet—and the pillow. They both turned to stare at their youngest sister, as if she were an interloper, and so she carefully mounted the back of the sofa and waited for an opening.
“I…once I realized what I was seeing, I just wanted to get away…” Becca was saying. The repetition seemed to soothe her, as a purr would, but Clara remained concerned. “They had all these questions…”
“Of course they did.” Laurel reached one velvet paw up toward Becca’s arm, as if she were petting her. Clara knew better. Laurel wanted to see Becca’s eyes as she spoke. Even her purr had an edge to it.“A body and all. Dead.”
“Cut it out.”Clara batted down at her. Unlike her sealpoint sister, Clara was trying to listen to the poor girl who lay beside them. She’d missed something in that awful room, what with her worry over Becca and the sudden appearance of the warlock, just as she’d missed the beginning of Suzanne’s explanation for why she needed Becca to come visit, and she was hoping that if she paid attention, she’d figure it out.
“Oh, Clara.” The movement had caught Becca’s attention, and the distraught young woman reached up for the little calico. At that, Clara’s prime directive—to be Becca’s pet—overwhelmed any other concerns, and she tumbled onto her prostrate person and began to purr in earnest.
“Oh, great.” Harriet looked up and tilted her ears back.“Now you’ve pinned her down. She came back to feed us, obviously.”
“She’s upset.” Clara glared, but her oldest sister turned her back, fluffing out her creamsicle coat as she settled down again at Becca’s feet. Laurel, meanwhile, had stretched to her full length and started to doze. If Becca wasn’t going to share grisly details, the brown-tipped cat wasn’t interested. Clara, however, began to gently knead Becca’s belly. Making sure to keep her claws sheathed, she kept the motion even andlight, the rhythm in sync with the rumble of her purr, until she felt the tension begin to leave the girl’s slim frame. Until she heard an answering purr as Becca slipped into sleep.
Only then did Clara relax and let her own eyes begin to close. She wasn’t sleepy. The feline propensity toward napping aside, there were too many thoughts racing through her brain for her to give over to a catnap. No, she simply needed to focus on what she had seen and heard out in the bright world, in that walkup apartment. To figure out what had happened—and why—and how she could get Becca through it without any further complications.
A soft snort startled her, and Clara looked up to see Harriet twitching, restless in her sleep. As she watched, the larger cat muttered“cream” and her pink tongue darted out to moisten her nose. Then she lay still again, having satisfied her dream appetite. Laurel, as well, napped peacefully, her dark paws stretched luxuriantly along Becca’s side. The two were deep in feline slumber, untroubled by anything outside their small world.