“If only…”
Her thought was interrupted by another crash and muted cursing as Becca reached down to caress her shin. But even as she did, hopping a bit as she rubbed the sore spot, she reached out her other hand for balance and soon found herself leaning on the open doorframe. As if a light had gone on in her mind, she stood, closed the door, and, running her hand along the doorframe, found the light switch. The light that flooded the room was almost too bright for Clara, who squinted as she ducked back into the shadow of the shelving. To Becca, though, it must have seemed wondrous. Clara looked up to see her person beaming back up at the fixture, like it had come to her aid by itself.
Newly empowered, Becca began a search in earnest. Working her way around the store room, she looked inside boxes and behind shelves. She opened canisters to check out their contents, and even though she sniffed some of the more pungent ones—Clara could smell ginseng and ginger, before the stench of asafetida filled the room—she was careful enough not to taste any.
When she moved on to the small kitchen area, Clara crept closer. Becca was concentrating too hard to notice the slight shadow she still cast, and the little cat wanted to observe her person at work. Becca was methodical, moving slowly through the items on top of the tiny fridge one by one and replacing them with care. Opening the fridge, she made a point of sniffing at various jars and bottles, even when the rancid nature of some long-forgotten takeout nearly knocked her head back. For Clara, this was enlightening. She’d only seen Becca research in books or on her computer. Here she could witness for herself the disciplined and thorough nature of her work.
It wasn’t quick, though, and Clara was aware of the passage of time as her person made her way around the room. Although it wasn’t spacious, taking up maybe half as much footage as the tiny shop out front, the room was packed. And the lounge area that had been carved out of one corner, with that overstuffed couch and the coffee table, the tiny kitchenette and the bathroom, were the only areas not lined with shelving and boxes and paper. Clara didn’t know much about inventory, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Margaret was as disorganized a record keeper as she was an employer. Missing funds indeed, the little cat thought with a disdainful sniff.
As she watched, Clara grew increasingly aware of the daylight fading outside—and increasingly alarmed that Becca was not. Becca still had not closed the bathroom door, and while the indoor light would not be that noticeable during the afternoon, as twilight descended, the illuminated window would certainly call attention to itself. Even if Margaret or Elizabeth came by to turn off a forgotten light, Becca could get in trouble, she realized with growing concern. If only her person would notice and shut that door. If only she had Laurel’s power of implanting a suggestion in a human’s brain. If only her sealpoint sister was here with her now.
Clara did her best, concentrating on the window, the light, trying to visualize the portal from Becca’s viewpoint, only showing it as brighter and more obvious. When she failed at transmitting that image to her human, she pictured it instead as it might seem from outside, glowing in the growing dark like a beacon. A clear indicator, if anyone was looking, that someone was inside.
It was no use. Becca was oblivious. And as her cat, all Clara could do was wait, which she did, with an impatience more akin to a hungry Harriet than her usual forgiving self. By then, Becca was working her way down the shelving behind the lounge area, and Clara could only hope she would soon turn and notice the bathroom light. Indeed, when Becca stopped and stared for a moment at the open door, her feline heart leaped. Either her thoughts were finally getting through to her person, or Becca had realized her error.
“The windowsill!” Becca exclaimed out loud, confusing her cat. “Of course!”
Following her person back to the small bathroom, Clara soon had her hopes dashed. Instead of flicking off the light, Becca simply stopped in the doorway and studied the long, high window. Open on one side, where Becca had made her way in, the window had a deep sill that ran along the top of the wall. Sure enough, down at the other end, three potted plants enjoyed the fading glow of the back room’s only natural light. Two were succulents, the closest, an aloe, showing signs of a recent trimming. The third, however, had glossy green leaves and a dying blossom, a sad bruised purple, still hanging from its stem. As Clara watched, Becca climbed up on the toilet seat and, reaching, broke off one of those leaves as well as the limp flower. Wrapping them in toilet tissue, she slipped them in her pocket and washed her hands. Smart moves, Clara knew, but steps that kept her pet from giving the plant material the thorough sniffing she would have liked.
The running water also covered a sound that immediately put Clara’s fur on edge. A sound that Becca’s less sensitive ears were likely to miss. The scrape of metal on metal, followed by the slide of a bolt.
Someone was unlocking the shop’s front door.
Clara whirled around as the door creaked ever so faintly, her tail fluffing as her multicolored fur spiked in alarm. She and Becca would make a run for it. They would fight. They would…but Becca did not react. Whoever was out there was being careful, opening the door carefully so as to not cause the bells to jingle. Was it possible that Becca really hadn’t heard anything? How could she not be aware, as the cat at her side was, of the slow footsteps making their way into the front room?
To Clara’s horror, Becca appeared lost in thought—or in contemplation of the paper towel she was using to dry her hands—and no amount of concentration on her cat’s part was getting her attention. To make matters worse, Becca had pulled her phone from her pocket and had begun fussing with it.
“This is no time to check your messages!” Clara’s urgent warning went unheeded. As the footsteps approached, the calico considered her meager options. Should she run to the front room? Perhaps if she dropped her shading, she could startle the intruder into making some sound. Or better yet, trip the person and also slow her—his?—approach.
If only Laurel were here…
“Move over!” The hiss startled Clara so badly, she nearly fell. But as she scrambled back, she was able to see a chocolate-tipped shadow leap to the sink. Blue eyes blazed down at her for a split second, then turned upward to focus on the pale and distracted face of their human.
“Becca! Listen! Someone’s coming!” Laurel’s thoughts were so loud, even Clara could hear them. “You’ve got to get out of here. Now!”
It wasn’t a tone Clara would ever take with Becca. Even as a silent suggestion, her sister’s distinctive Siamese yowl was sharp enough to pin Clara’s ears back. But whether it was that psychic caterwaul or Becca had finally come to her own senses, it broke through their person’s preoccupied daze. Suddenly alert, Becca started, staring wide-eyed at the open bathroom door.
“She’s going to close it.” Clara began to panic. “She’s going to try and hide!”
“No!” Laurel’s silent cry stretched out into three syllables, and Clara could have sworn she heard the rasp of claws. “Na-oh-wow!”
Becca turned at last back toward the window. From the toilet to the sill, she clambered, almost as graceful as a cat herself. And then through the window and out.
“Thank you!” Clara turned to her sister once Becca was safely through.
“No more sense than a kitten!” Those blue eyes flashed, and then Laurel, too, was gone.
Chapter 33
Clara didn’t even stop to smooth her fur before she leaped too, emerging in the lot behind the store in time to see Becca dashing for the dumpster. After a quick grooming—necessary for her nerves as well as comfort and appearance—Clara joined her, slipping behind the metal container to where her person was crouching.