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…”