How to Wash a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Monty propped his feet up on the counter, crossing one on top of the other. “I searched the entire ground floor here for a hidden door—for any possible way to get into a tunnel.” He sighed heavily. “But there was nothing.”

  He pointed his finger at me. “You could have knocked me right over when I walked in the other day and saw that hatch wide open.” Monty crossed his arms in front of his chest. His pointy elbows jutted out on either side of his narrow frame.

  My gaze pored into the floor, thinking of the dusty room beneath and wondering if this was the reason Oscar had hidden its existence.

  “I went up and down the stairs at the back there,” Monty said, frustration in his voice. “Then, I headed up to the kitchen.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I thought—maybe you had to get to it from the second floor or something.”

  Monty skewed his face up as if sucking on a lemon. “That place was a mess! Dirty dishes in the sink. And that refrigerator—I saw something move in there.”

  Isabella chirped helpfully from her perch on top of the bookcase, her voice making a series of sharp clicks and trills.

  “My mouse catcher is on the case,” I said, interpreting for the rest of the room.

  “A mouse would be afraid of what’s living in there,” Monty shuddered. “I closed the door to the refrigerator, firmly.” He stretched out his right arm and waved it from right to left. “That’s when I saw the sketches on the table. I was studying them when Harold collared me from behind. That grungy little man is a lot stronger than he looks.”

  This explained the bitter exchange I had overheard between Monty and Harold, I thought.

  “I wonder what Harold was doing here?” Ivan asked, almost as if to himself.

  “Beats me—he was supposed to have been at the dominoes game!” Monty shook his head ruefully. “The next thing I knew I was taking a ride in the backseat of a police car with one of their slobbering dogs. I ended up in a holding cell in the courthouse until Oscar came to get me out the next morning. He didn’t press charges, so they had to let me go.”

  Monty twisted his right leg around to look at his foot. “I’ve still got some sort of goop stuck on the side of my shoe.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?” I asked, exasperated.

  His face reddened again. “Well, it seemed a bit much for our first meeting. And then I just got carried away with the remodel project. When we started talking about potential ideas, it only seemed natural that you should consider Oscar’s.”

  Ivan and I exchanged looks. Monty hopped off the stool and leaned over the counter towards me.

  “Don’t you think it’s kind of karmic that you picked the same design that he was considering? It’s almost like Oscar was communicating with you from beyond the grave.”

  I bit my lip, holding back my retort.

  “I had no idea that Ivan had done them,” Monty said defensively as he spun himself around the counter. “Of course, I knew Haroldcouldn’t have sketched them.”

  He leaned towards Ivan in a loud aside. “That man’s got no talent—none.”

  I picked up the page of sketches from the counter where Ivan had left them. The drawings were just like the ones Monty had sketched for me earlier in the week. The wide glass windows on the front of the store had been replaced with a matrix of one-foot squares. Inlays of a shaded vase repeated intermittently in the glass sections.

  Still staring at the sketches, I asked, “Did you talk to Oscar about the tunnel?”

  Monty shook his head. “Oscar wasn’t exactly chatty when he picked me up from the courthouse. I was afraid he might turn me back in to the police if I told him about the broom closet. . . .”

  The afternoon sun hit the gold foil detailing on the antique cash register, and I blinked to avoid the blinding flash of light. When my eyes refocused on the paper, I noticed a penciled squiggle in the bottom right hand corner. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing.

  Ivan took the paper from me and pulled it up close to his face. Then, he shrugged and handed it back to me. “Beats me. Oscar must have done that.”

  I held the paper up to the window. Doodled in the bottom right hand corner was a three-petaled tulip—the same design as the handle to the key.

  And suddenly it clicked.

  Chapter 10

  “WILLIAM LEIDESDORFF,” I murmured, staring at the tulip scrawled on the bottom of the paper.

  “Leidesdorff? Is that what you said?” Monty repeated the name slowly, tasting it on his tongue. “That name sounds familiar.”

  “Several months ago, Oscar told me a story about a William Leidesdorff,” I replied as I looked up from the page of sketches. “There’s a street a couple of blocks over named after him—in the financial area. It’s more of an alley, really. You’ve probably walked past it hundreds of times, but you wouldn’t realize it has a name unless you were looking for the street sign.”

  I paused for a moment, remembering that Saturday night’s story telling session. Oscar and I had been sitting at the kitchen table above the Green Vase showroom. The remnants of that evening’s meal still littered its surface.

  “Since the beginning,” Oscar had begun that night, “people have been coming here to start over—build a new life for themselves. San Francisco’s always been a beacon for second-, third-, and fourth-chancers. That’s who planted the seeds of this city—made her who she is today.” A far away look swept across his face. “That kind will always feel at home here.”

  Oscar reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pair of rod-shaped gold pieces, and set them on the table. “William Leidesdorff,” he said, signaling the start of that evening’s Gold Rush story.

  One hand dropped near the floor and discreetly passed Rupert a last morsel of chicken. There was a gulping sound from underneath the table as Oscar launched into the tale.

  “Leidesdorff left his home in the Virgin Islands when he was just a boy. He landed a job as a deckhand on a ship running the trade route between New York and New Orleans. That was in the early 1800s, before the railroads became king. Back then, everything moved on the water.”

  Oscar pushed his chair back from the table, wiping the last crumbs of dinner from his mouth. I picked up his plate and carried it over to the sink to rinse it off.

  “Leidesdorff slowly worked his way up in the shipping business, gradually acquiring boats, property. He set up his base in New Orleans, but his ships ran all the way up and down the East Coast.”

  I returned to the table with a jug of water, refilled Oscar’s glass, and slid into my seat.

  “He bought himself one of those big, antebellum mansions with the white columns across the front. It was the scene of some of the finest parties in New Orleans.” Oscar winked slyly at me. “Leidesdorff romanced the cream of the city’s crop of debutantes—wooing them with his guitar. He’d built up quite a playboy lifestyle for someone who started out penniless at sixteen.”

  Oscar wrapped his hand around the glass of water, rotating it back and forth on the scratched surface of the table.

  “Then, around 1840, at the height of his business success, Leidesdorff up and sold everything, packed it all in, and moved to California.”

  “Chasing the gold?” I guessed.

  “Nope,” Oscar said, leaning across the table towards me. “He came here long before they found those first nuggets up in the Sierras.” The bushy eyebrows scrunched together. “No, he came out here to start over.” Oscar leaned back in his chair and took a sip of water. “In a place where nobody back in New Orleans would know to find him.”

  Oscar set the glass back down on the table. “You see, he came out to the West Coast before San Francisco had even been born. At that time, this was just a small Mexican outpost called Yerba Buena. Few people even knew it existed—it wasn’t on many maps. It was just a scattering of homesteads and a Spanish Mission, cut off from the rest of the world, clinging to the edge of the continent.”

  “Why did he leave New Orleans?” I ask
ed.

  Oscar stroked his chin, his worn fingers brushing against the wiry stubble of his face. “The story at the time was that he’d been engaged to marry one of those high falutin’ debutantes—a young lady from an aristocratic French family. I believe her name was Hortense. But her parents found out about Leidesdorff’s family tree and called off the wedding.”

  Oscar rested his arms on the plump pillow of his distended stomach.

  “Leidesdorff had kind of a swarthy, tanned look about him. You’d expect that from someone who’d been exposed to the elements all of his life—like he had been on those ships. But it turned out his mother was a native of the islands—dark skinned, you see.”

  “Oh,” I mouthed. Such information would not have been well received in the social echelons of a pre-Civil War southern city.

  “According to local lore, Leidesdorff left New Orleans to soothe his broken heart.” Oscar gave me a sideways smile. “There’s a lot of people over the years that have been skeptical of that version of events.” The bushy eyebrows arched over Oscar’s face like foam on the crest of a wave.

  “In any event, all of a sudden Leidesdorff decided to move to a remote, lightly manned outpost in the far reaches of a Mexican territory. Over the years, he built up a nice trade business out here in the bush. He was on the town council, the school board, that sort of thing. The little town slowly grew—and at some point the United States annexed the California territory and changed the name from Yerba Buena to San Francisco.”

  Oscar grabbed a toothpick from a container in the center of the table and stuck it in his mouth. A piece of food had apparently wedged into the space between his dentures and gums.

  “There’s a plaque about him on an alley a couple of streets over—it’s got his picture on it. He had these enormous lamb chop sideburns. They were quite stylish in those days.”

  Oscar pulled the toothpick out but looked dissatisfied with the result.

  “By the time the first bits of gold were discovered, Leidesdorff had acquired several pieces of property here in Northern California.”

  Oscar gummed his dentures out then slid them back in.

  “There was a hotel and a warehouse. And he owned one of the nicest homes in the area—the only one with a flower garden. Whenever anybody important came to town, Leidesdorff would throw a dinner party for them—still suave and debonair even in his outback surroundings.”

  Oscar tossed the toothpick through the air to the open mouth of the kitchen trash can.

  “But the most important piece of property is what he got from the Mexican government. It came out of a land grant deal that closed just before California was transferred over to the United States. The land was up in the Sierra foothills, near where the Sacramento and American rivers meet.” Oscar paused, rubbing the side of his nose. “Leidesdorff’s property ran alongside John Sutter’s ranch—right next to his sawmill. You remember—it was one of Sutter’s ranch hands that plucked a nugget up off of the riverbed and ran into San Francisco with it, babbling about his find to anyone who would listen. That’s what set the whole thing off.”

  I had been standing in front of the cash register retelling my memory to Monty and Ivan. Monty burst in as I reached this part of the story. “I remember this Leidesdorff fellow now! He died right before the Gold Rush hit, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “Leidesdorff died in the spring of 1848—of encephalitis.”

  Ivan looked puzzled.

  “His brain swelled up,” I explained. “Probably from an infection. It came on suddenly. He was fine one day and on his deathbed the next.” I paused for a moment and lowered my voice. “Oscar thought there was something strange about his death.”

  “Strange? What kind of strange?” Monty asked, his voice edged with excitement.

  I shrugged noncommittally. “Most of the people who moved to Northern California in those early days were coming here to get a fresh start.” I leaned over the cash register towards my listeners to make the point. “Almost all of them had at least one skeleton in their closet.”

  Ivan shifted uncomfortably as I continued.

  “Here’s another odd tidbit. Even though he’d just sold off several pieces of land—the house with the flower garden and the warehouse—Leidesdorff was financially bankrupt when he died. The proceeds from those transactions were never accounted for. His remaining holding was the ranch up in the Sierras, land that would be at the focus of the Gold Rush just days after he died. The property mushroomed in value, almost overnight.”

  Monty stroked the side of the cash register contemplatively as I walked around the counter. “Oscar said that at least as early as January of that year, Leidesdorff had commissioned surveys of his land—assessing its potential mineral content. He and Sutter had probably known about the gold for quite some time.”

  Ivan sighed. “What’s the connection with the tulip? Why would Oscar have drawn it on the remodel sketches?”

  “He must have been thinking about the Leidesdorff story,” I replied as my mind drifted back to the memory in Oscar’s kitchen.

  Oscar reached across the table and picked up the two gold pieces. “I came across these items recently,” Oscar said, his eyes gleaming with an antiques dealer’s thrill of discovery. “I’m pretty sure they belonged to Leidesdorff—matches some I saw him wearing in an old daguerreotype. That man loved his flower garden, especially the tulips.”

  Oscar held out his hand so I could see. Poking out of his cracked, stubby fingers were two gold cufflinks cut in the form of three-petaled tulips.

  It was the same tulip shape as the doodle on the corner of Ivan’s sketches. The same shape as the handle of the key from the white envelope.

  Ivan spoke before I could reach into my pocket to pull the key out. “About those renovation discussions I had with Oscar,” he said, smiling apologetically. “I was going to tell you after we looked at the sketches. I didn’t want it to discourage your ideas, if they’d been different.”

  He sucked in his breath, as if anticipating his next words might ignite a blast. “Oscar had ordered a replacement for the front door of the Green Vase. I delivered it here last Sunday morning—the day he died.”

  Chapter 11

  “YOU WERE HIS Sunday morning appointment?” I asked, confused. I had assumed Oscar had been leaving to go to a construction site when he had the stroke.

  Ivan hesitated, a pained expression on his face as he glanced down at the reddish-brown shadow on the floor near our feet. “He seemed fine when I left,” he said softly. “I had no idea—I wish I’d been here when it happened. I could have called a doctor.”

  The scar lining Ivan’s jaw pulsed. “Oscar had me carry the new door down to the basement,” he said gently. “Can I show you where we stored it? I think you’ll be interested to see what Oscar ordered.”

  “I know I’d like to see it,” Monty piped in, popping his right hand up enthusiastically, eager for a chance to prowl around the basement.

  “All right,” I said, giving Monty a surly stare as I walked across the room towards the hidden hatch. I leaned over, stuck my finger in the hole in the floorboard and removed the cover.

  “I can’t believe I missed this,” Monty muttered to himself.

  I pulled up on the handle, and the door swung open, creaking loudly as the steps cranked down below. I grabbed the flashlight and led the way down, my flat footsteps echoing dully on the wobbling staircase before being drowned out by Ivan’s tromping construction boots and Monty’s flapping dress shoes.

  The basement was just as dark and dismal the second time around. The mustiness of the room clamped down on my chest as I moved forward. I played the light against the brick walls and stacks of shipping crates.

  “Over there.” Ivan motioned towards the back wall.

  I pressed forward, stepping around numerous wooden shipping crates, deteriorating furniture, and odd-shaped objects covered in drop cloths. Ivan stayed close behind me, navigating off the light from my flash
light.

  Monty, on the other hand, kept stopping to peek behind crates and snoop under drop cloths. He let out a whimpering screech of pain as he tripped headlong over a short wooden stool.

  I swung the flashlight back towards Monty, training the beam on the spastic figure trying to free himself from the clutches of the cobweb-filled wardrobe he’d fallen into. Ivan grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back to his feet.

  “I’m all right! I’m all right!” Monty called out as he righted himself.

  Ivan fished a small flashlight out of his tool belt and led the rest of the way to where a hulking, tarp-covered object leaned against the back wall of the basement. Monty and I caught up to him as he pulled back the covering.

  Familiar iron scrollwork framed the edges, supporting beautifully cut—unbroken—pieces of glass. It was an exact replica of the broken door swinging from the front entrance above, except that this one was in pristine condition.

  Gold script flickered on the top pane of glass.

  The Green Vase

  Another line of text was placed further below, near the middle of the door. This gold lettering announced the proprietor of the Green Vase.

  I caught my breath, speechless.

  “Take a look at that!” Monty exclaimed. Ivan grinned. The name listed was not Oscar’s, but mine.

  I slid the light down to the doorknob. Here, the design diverged from the original. A circle of twisting tulips wound around the facing, the pointed tip of each petal turning in towards the knob. Forged into the knob’s surface was—a three-petaled tulip.

  I ran my fingers over the sculpted ridges with my free hand.

  It was the same design as the key. The same design as the drawing on the sketch I’d left on the counter upstairs.

  I handed the flashlight to Monty and reached into my pocket. Monty’s eyes shone as I pulled out Oscar’s white envelope.

  The flower-tipped key felt heavy in my hands as I brought it up to the opening of the lock.