Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
’Fraidy cats . . .
I shoved the tulip key into the slot. For a moment I feared that the key was stuck, but it engaged with unseen metal fixtures, and the wall suddenly seemed to give.
I stepped back, worried that the earthquake earlier that day had weakened the structure of the building. Carefully, I crept back up to the wall, put my hands against it, and gave it a nudge. A four-foot-wide section started to swing, and the outline of a door emerged from the pattern of bricks. Now, I gave it a proper shove. The whole thing creaked and swung open into the basement, rotating on a hidden, interior hinge.
I leveled my flashlight into a pitch-black corridor.
Isabella leaned into the tunnel, ears pricked, nose crinkling. She walked through the opening, and I fell in line behind her. Rupert sat on the basement floor, looking apprehensive. He wanted nothing to do with this murky, gaping hole in the wall.
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “You can stay here—in the cold, dark basement—without the flashlight.”
Rupert gave me a nasty look and cautiously followed us through the opening in the bricks.
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HOW TO WASH A CAT
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2008 by Rebecca M. Hale.
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For my grandfather, Bill
Prologue
I FOLLOWED A trail of paw prints, clumped up litter, and splattered flecks of soap up the stairs and down the hall to my bedroom. Sticky wet spots covered the floors, the walls, a rolltop desk, a wicker laundry basket, and a half dozen scattered books. A miserable wet lump of fur huddled in the middle of my bed.
“This is for your own good,” I said, stealthily creeping towards him as I clutched the corners of a large beach towel. The lump glared back at me incredulously.
“We’re almost done. We can’t turn back now,” I argued, slowly moving closer to the corner of the bed. The lump continued to stare at me suspiciously.
I glanced down at my arms and legs, grimly surveying the map of fresh scratches. Sighing, I gripped the towel and moved into position. The quivering lump dug his claws into the bedspread, anticipating my next move.
I lunged forward, the towel unfolding as my arms spread wide. My target tried to jump out of the way, but the billowing beach towel swallowed him whole. I felt a twinge of guilt as the sheet came down over his disappointed face; then I carried my struggling wet fugitive back downstairs to the kitchen sink.
THE DAY HAD begun with a sense of foreboding, filled with apprehension of the task that lay ahead of me. Yawning in a reluctant gulp of crisp spring air, I wiggled my toes to rouse the two slumbering cats entwined at the foot of the bed—a mass of white fur tinged with peachy, buff-colored highlights.
One of them stood up, her back arching in a full body stretch before her slender figure leapt nimbly to the floor. Isabella issued a commanding look in my direction and sauntered out of the bedroom.
I swung my feet down to the hardwood floor, unearthing the second of my feline foot warmers. The more portly of the pair, he hit the ground beside the bed with a squawking grunt and waddled sleepily across the room to his inclined scratching post.
I splashed a basin full of cold water on my face and plodded slowly down the flight of stairs to the kitchen. Isabella greeted me with an impatient chirp and looked pointedly at her empty food bowl. Her imperious gaze followed me through the dark kitchen as I groped for the light switch and stumbled towards the coffee machine. Together, we watched as the first promising drops of brew began to plink into the glass receptacle. Isabella sat down on the floor in front of me, her wand of a tail waving back and forth, while I siphoned off the first precious ounces of the dark, steaming liquid. Coffee in hand, I dribbled a cup of dry cat food into the small white bowls on the floor underneath the kitchen table.
Upstairs, heavy feet padded towards the litter box, creaking the floorboards above my head. Seconds later, the unmistakable sounds of spastic, frenzied digging shook the ce
iling, snowing the kitchen table with a light covering of dust. Isabella and I listened as the litter box—a shiny, red contraption complete with a covered hood—began to rock to a lively mambo beat. Thousands of sandy particles pattered against its plastic walls as the commotion above us increased in intensity.
I ran a caffeine-coated tongue over my top lip, waiting for the inevitable culmination of the boisterous goings-on inside the bouncing red igloo. Isabella trilled expectantly as a violent eruption launched the energetic digger out of the litter box and propelled him down the stairs. His fluffy, white blur careened around the corner and skidded through the entrance to the kitchen. He was covered from head to toe with a fine dusting of cat litter.
I greeted him casually. “Good morning, Rupert.”
He blinked innocently up at me, grains of litter scattering from his furry eyebrows to the kitchen floor.
As a species, cats are generally known for their cleanliness. For Rupert, however, that objective couldn’t quite compete with his love of litter box dancing. Despite his best efforts to remove it, stray pieces of litter clung to his white coat like persistent black fleas.
I had put this off as long as possible. A rank, unpleasant odor had begun to follow him around. It was time to give him a bath.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I strolled over to the sink and pulled out a couple of worn beach towels from a nearby drawer.
“Nothing special going on here,” I said breezily, discreetly reaching my hand up to the shelf that held the cat shampoo.
My fingers flailed about in an unexpected vacuum. I risked an obvious glance to the empty shelf, and then down to the smug, satisfied cat sitting on the kitchen floor, munching on his breakfast. He paused, sensing my stare, and beamed triumphantly up at me.
Twenty minutes later, I finally found the shampoo bottle—shoved into a crevice between the refrigerator and the wall, alongside several toy mice and a bouncing ball. Rupert monitored my search from a series of defensive positions in the hallway, under the table, and behind the kitchen curtains. He crept commando style through the kitchen, sliding across the floor on his furry, round belly, eying me warily as I gripped the bottle around its neck and tapped it on the palm of my hand.
“Clever,” I said, tapping furiously.
Rupert flashed me an impish grin and slowly began to back away. I reached out to grab him, but caught only air as he spun around and raced down the stairs that led to the first floor. That pudgy, white fur ball could be amazingly fast when motivated. The chase was on.
Rupert’s long, feathery tail popped up, bouncing like a pogo stick as he hopped down the steps. He rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, spinning out as his claws scrambled on the slick wood floor. I dashed down after him, and, seconds later, stood in the middle of the open room that spanned the commercial, street level of the building. Pivoting slowly, I scanned my dusty surroundings for a hint to his hiding spot.
I was standing in the middle of my Uncle Oscar’s antiques shop, the Green Vase. At least, I still thought of it as Uncle Oscar’s. I had recently inherited his antiques business along with the three-story building it occupied.
Rupert’s fuzzy, white reflection in the storefront glass revealed his location, hunched behind the edge of the adjacent counter that housed my uncle’s antique cash register. I didn’t want him to know that he had been discovered, so I continued the pretext of looking under cracked display cases and behind dusty bookshelves, gradually making my way over to the front door. I saw him tense up as I drew nearer.
Easing forward, I inched towards the counter and stepped surreptitiously into position. Rupert held his breath, trying to hold every hair perfectly still.
A small bird landed on the pavement outside. Overwhelmed by his feline instincts, Rupert couldn’t help but glance out the window at it. Seizing the opportunity, I swooped around the counter and caught him by the long hairs on the back of his neck. Rupert made a peeved, squelching sound as my fingers locked around his wide midsection, and I hoisted him up.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, lugging my captive back upstairs.
Isabella had watched the chase scene from a perch on the top of a bookcase in the showroom. She trailed a safe distance behind as I trudged up the stairs with my despondent cargo.
Rupert’s furry face looked up at me woefully.
“It’s not that bad,” I said soothingly. He shot me a livid look that conveyed his obvious disagreement.
Back in the kitchen, I scrambled to turn on the water and adjust the temperature without losing my grip on the increasingly agitated Rupert. When I finally managed to lower him into the sink, he splayed his back legs out, catching the rim. After a flurry of skin-gouging scratches, I succeeded in positioning him in front of the running faucet. Vengeful, vicious mutterings emitted from the basin as I dunked him under the stream of running water and began to lather him up.
To wash a large, uncooperative cat is to take on a seemingly impossible and sure to be thankless task. I was just about to start the rinse cycle when his slippery, struggling body broke free. With lightening speed, his soapy, white blur jumped out of the sink, streaked across the kitchen, and sprinted up the stairs. I heard him scamper through the litter box and dart into my bedroom, a shower of damp litter spraying out behind him.
Cursing under my breath, I grabbed a large beach towel and raced after him.
Chapter 1
THE QUIRKY LITTLE flat above my Uncle Oscar’s antiques shop had been subjected to over twenty years of his erratic remodeling efforts. The result was a series of irregularly shaped, mismatched rooms spliced together into a gerrymandered floor plan. To pass from the living room to the bedrooms above was like navigating a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.
The kitchen featured faded wallpaper that clung limply to its drywall with the improvised help of unconventional construction materials such as paperclips, staples, and sticky tape. It was also home to a temperamental dishwasher that was prone to sporadic, mid-cycle eruptions. A stray piece of food hidden on the backside of a plate or wedged between the tines of a fork could cause offense. The first sobbing bubbles of self-pity would quickly escalate into a heaving regurgitation of the machine’s entire liquid contents, sending several frothy gallons spewing down its front and out onto the mosaic of chipped and uneven floor tiles below.
But already, the Green Vase felt more like home than any place I’d ever lived. Uncle Oscar’s familiar spirit lingered around every cobbled-together corner. His haunting presence was warm and welcoming from the moment I carried my first box of belongings across the threshold downstairs.
At the time, all I knew was that I had traded in the quiet, predictable solitude of my previous life for an uncertain future in a vaguely defined self-employment. Fate had kicked open a door and punted me through. Dusting myself off on the other side, I had no inkling of the inscrutable eyes that were following my every move.
MY OLD APARTMENT had been a short drive away from Oscar’s antiques store. Stacked like a pancake into an art deco building on a busy street up in the center of San Francisco, my living quarters were economical, if not luxurious. After a week spent hunched over my desk, silently crunching numbers, I would load the cats into my trusty Corolla and escape down the hill for one of Oscar’s decadent, high calorie feasts.
Uncle Oscar loved to cook for us, and we loved his cooking. His specialty was fried chicken, a dish rarely prepared in this health-conscious city. You could always tell when Oscar was working in his kitchen; succulent smells wafted out the living room window and percolated down to the street below. My mouth would start watering as soon as I pulled up to the curb outside.
I can still remember our last visit. I let myself in through the store entrance on the ground level with my spare key and released the cats from their carriers. Rupert and Isabella bounded up the stairs to the kitchen, knowing they would find tasty appetizers waiting in their dinner bowls.
I brought up the rear, winding my way through
the labyrinth of Oscar’s store. It occupied a long, cavernous room that took up the entire first floor. Or at least it would have felt cavernous if it hadn’t been so completely jammed with Oscar’s collections.
The floor, where visible, was made up of dark, hardwood planks that made pleasant creaking sounds as I walked across them. Dusty molding trimmed the edges of the walls and gathered cobwebs on the ceiling.
I stumbled through the room, late afternoon sunlight flickering on the many gold-infused objects that cluttered the store. A stale, musty smell hung in the air, mixing with the fried chicken fragrances coming from the kitchen above.
When I finally reached the stairs at the back of the room, they were partially blocked by a massive wooden crate propped up against the stairwell. Each time I visited, it seemed more and more shipping containers were stacked inside the store.
My sweater snagged on the rough exterior of the crate as I squeezed through the narrow opening between it and the wall. By the time I untangled myself and ascended the rest of the way to the kitchen, both cats were smacking up chunks of sautéed chicken liver from saucers underneath the table. Rupert gave me a reproachful look for my tardiness.
“You’ve spoiled them,” I complained, giving my uncle a hug. “They refuse to eat regular cat food now.”
He was a scruffy old guy. He had thick, bushy, gray eyebrows with several wild, straw-like quills poking out of them at odd angles. A couple of days’ stubble studded his rounded cheeks and scratched against me as I wrapped my arms around his short round shoulders. His navy blue collared shirt was spotted with ingredients from tonight’s menu.
“They told me you were starving them again,” my uncle responded with a wink towards Rupert, who was squirming at our feet anticipating the next course.
Uncle Oscar’s antiques store was called the Green Vase, although a passerby could be forgiven for failing to see the faded gold lettering on the front door announcing this information. The windows were dingy and cracked in places, and everything inside was coated with a thick layer of congealed dust. Items were randomly grouped together in piles or stuffed into deteriorating cardboard boxes, sometimes with no clear rationale for their association.
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