How to Catch a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Per protocol, Monty’s view of the door was blocked by the confession booth’s dark curtain, but every few seconds, he edged his chair a little closer to the fabric’s edge.

  Once his guest arrived, he might have to take a peek around to the opposite side—and then make his own quick confession before dinner.

  —

  DESPITE MONTY’S VIGILANT surveillance, the confessor slipped in without his notice. He was admiring the craftsmanship on his frog-shaped cuff links when the chair on the other side of the curtain scraped against the floor.

  He jumped, startled by the sound, and nearly fell off his seat. Scrambling to regain his balance, he managed to sputter out a jumbled version of the standard mantra.

  The mishmashed liturgy appeared not to matter to the person behind the curtain.

  “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

  The voice was scratchy and high-pitched but with a strained tone, as if the speaker was making an effort at disguise.

  It could be anyone, Monty thought, more intrigued than ever.

  And then a distinctive scent floated through the chapel room, overriding the aroma of the fried chicken being cooked across the hall.

  Monty took a sniff—and he sensed that his confessor was not the niece.

  They’d only met a few days earlier, but she was not the type of woman to wear perfume, definitely not one with this lemony-sweet scent.

  Just then, the ship’s dinner bell rang.

  The bell was a deafening device that Oscar operated from the far end of the kitchen, its ringer designed to efficiently send its alert throughout the entire vessel.

  When the noise stopped, Monty waited for his guest to continue, but the curtain beside him remained silent.

  After a few minutes, Monty eased up in his chair and cautiously poked his nose over the top of the fabric.

  The chair on the other side was empty.

  Chapter 16

  DINNER INTERRUPTED

  WITH THE CELEBRATORY dinner ready, the passengers and crew of the San Carlos assembled around a long wooden table on the ship’s top deck.

  Most of the ship’s meals were casual affairs, but the discovery of a previously unknown portal to a protected bay of vast commercial potential warranted a more elaborate feast.

  Of course, Captain Ayala needed little excuse to call for a full course of Oscar’s fried chicken. He would have requested it even if they hadn’t found the bay.

  Water lapped against the hull, and a breeze rustled the sails. A row of candles illuminated the place settings.

  Captain Ayala presided at the head of the table. Humphretto took his appointed chair at the opposite end. The rest of the seats filled in with hungry passengers and crew members.

  The gathered eaters let out appreciative sighs as Oscar and his niece carried up the last trays of food. The chef allowed himself a rare beam of pride as he placed the fried chicken in front of the captain’s plate.

  Petey the parrot was the only one who disapproved of the meal’s main ingredient. With a loud squawk, he fluttered off Ayala’s shoulder and swooped up to the top of the main mast.

  —

  WHEN THE LAST steaming dish had been delivered, the niece slid into her chair. She glanced beneath the table, checking for her feline companions.

  Rupert and Isabella sat on the floor at her feet, eagerly waiting for their person to hand down special saucers filled with their cat-sized portions of the meal. Squirming, Rupert smacked his lips.

  Father Monty stood from his seat at the table’s middle and prepared to bless the meal. As he raised his hands, the sleeves of his robe slipped down. The candlelight flickered on the gold hilts of the jumping frog cuff links pinned into the shirt he wore underneath as he began a ritual incantation—and then stopped.

  He pointed at an empty seat on the table’s opposite side.

  “Are we missing someone?”

  Humphretto held up his index finger, counting the gathered heads.

  “One of the crew,” he said, frowning as he tried to remember the name. “Alberto, I think.”

  Ayala shrugged. “Let’s eat.”

  Monty gestured for patience. “I’ll check down below to see if he’s coming.”

  —

  THE NIECE WATCHED the priest disappear down the stairs, her brow furrowed with concern. Her uncle’s meal was going to get cold if they waited much longer.

  Three quick footsteps echoed up from the lower level—followed by a gasp of disbelief.

  The subsequent high-pitched scream was unlike any the niece had ever heard uttered from the throat of a man.

  Afraid the captain’s parrot had met an untimely end, she peeked under the table and confirmed that both cats were still at her feet and visibly hungry. Glancing up, she spied the green-feathered bird perched on the mast above the deck.

  Thank goodness, it’s not the parrot, she couldn’t help thinking.

  It was a death of both more and less significance.

  The scrub hand missing for dinner had met a gruesome and untimely end.

  • • •

  DEATH WAS NOT uncommon aboard the vessels of the Spanish fleet. All manner of sickness besieged the brave mariners. Mysterious illnesses were often contracted in the faraway lands to which they visited. Pirate attacks felled other unfortunate souls with either cannon fire or bayonets. Occasional mutinies resulted in ship-wide carnage.

  But none of the passengers and crew of the San Carlos had ever experienced a death quite like this.

  A secretive stabbing was somewhat unique.

  The murder weapon used in the crime drew even more interest.

  There in the pool of blood surrounding the victim lay a curved knitting needle whose tip end had been fitted with a sharp attacking blade.

  Modern-Day San Francisco

  Six Months Prior to the America’s Cup Regatta

  Chapter 17

  THE INTERIM MAYOR

  IT WAS THE beginning of March, just six weeks into interim mayor Montgomery Carmichael’s shortened term at San Francisco’s City Hall.

  He had been appointed to fill a vacancy created when the elected mayor was promoted to the office of the state’s lieutenant governor.

  The mayoral selection process had been controversial—if not downright puzzling. Mr. Carmichael’s name had been proposed, seemingly out of nowhere, several hours into a lengthy board of supervisors meeting dedicated to filling the opening. Despite the complete lack of consensus on all of the candidates that had previously been considered, Monty’s nomination had sailed through with unanimous approval.

  The city was still adjusting to the idea of Mayor Monty.

  He was an odd choice for the caretaker position. With no previous governing experience and very little practical business knowledge to fall back on, he was ill prepared for the task of running such a large metropolis.

  Beyond that, everyone thought him a bit weird.

  But then, San Franciscans had grown accustomed to eccentricity from their mayors. The last man to hold the position had famously admitted to a lifelong frog phobia (following an inexplicable amphibian invasion of City Hall). Part of his psychological recovery had involved hiring a personal life coach, a slot that had been filled by the then-unknown Jackson Square art dealer Montgomery Carmichael.

  It was one of the most bizarre stepping-stones into elected office that anyone could remember, even in the unorthodox history of Northern California.

  Mere moments after the board of supervisors confirmed his appointment, Monty had been filmed in a wet suit and flippers, being chased out of San Francisco’s Mountain Lake by an albino alligator who had escaped from the Academy of Sciences.

  With that introduction, no one knew what to expect from Monty’s brief tenure.

  Even though the last two months had passed without incident, few expected the status quo to last.

  But whatever shenanigans ensued, most viewed Mayor Carmichael as nothing more than a paperweight meant to hold down the posit
ion until the next round of formal voting could be held in the fall.

  The Bay Area’s political pundits gave him no chance of winning that election.

  Of course, this was no deterrent to Monty.

  • • •

  MAYOR MONTY APPROACHED each spring day with the same zeal that he had applied from the start of his mayoral term. He was a blind optimist, one of those unique individuals who managed to view every stumble and fall as a success.

  There was no fence he couldn’t hurdle, no mountain he couldn’t summit. Obstacles were simply ignored or imagined away.

  In Monty’s mind, he was the most popular mayor in San Francisco’s recent history and the unquestioned front-runner in the upcoming election.

  He stood in front of a mirror inside the second-floor apartment above his Jackson Square art studio and gazed at his reflection with smiling approval. He held up a wrist, admiring the frog-shaped cuff link attached to his dress shirt. Then he hooked a finger around the collar of his suit jacket and casually threw it over his shoulder.

  “Who’s that handsome guy?” he asked, striking a last pose.

  With a tight pivot, he bounded down the stairs. The flat soles of his dress shoes slapped against the steps as he answered the question.

  “Me!”

  —

  DESPITE HIS OVERWHELMING confidence, Monty wasn’t taking November’s upcoming election lightly. He had eight months left in office, and he planned to devote every waking moment to his campaign.

  Monty had devised a number of slogans and strategies that he was fine-tuning for imminent release, but his primary election scheme was to gain public support and approval by affiliating himself with San Francisco’s upcoming sailboat regatta. It sounded like a harebrained idea, but, to be fair, in the city’s colorful history, mayors had been swept into office using far more absurd propaganda.

  Later that summer, the America’s Cup would be staged in the San Francisco Bay for the first time in the championship’s history. Monty intended to plant himself front and center in every photo, video, and other publicity-related opportunity that arose.

  Preparations for the event were well under way, thanks to the efforts of the last mayor, who had drummed up financial support for the necessary infrastructure along the city’s shoreline and strong-armed supervisors to ensure the venue received the requisite permits to allow construction of the related pavilions.

  In other words, the political heavy lifting had already been done. All that was left was for the interim mayor to take credit for the success.

  The Monty train—or boat, as the case may be—was paddling full steam ahead.

  It was his race to lose.

  No one could convince him otherwise.

  He wasn’t the least bit worried that a serial killer might be circling his office, her needles at the ready for another kill.

  Chapter 18

  THE ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT

  ACROSS THE STREET from Monty’s art studio, the occupants of the redbrick building that housed the Green Vase antique shop bustled about their regular morning activities.

  Oscar’s niece trudged sleepily down the stairs from the second-floor kitchen carrying a plastic mug filled with fresh-brewed coffee. Halfway down, she waved the cup beneath her nose, sniffing the caffeinated steam wafting out the vents in the lid.

  Isabella looked up from the bottom of the stairwell and issued a series of sharp chirps. Her tail poked authoritatively into the air like the baton of a traffic guard leading a child through a crosswalk.

  The cat took seriously her role in getting her person out of bed each morning and to their day job at City Hall.

  The niece had reluctantly agreed to serve as the interim mayor’s administrative assistant for the first few months of his term.

  She had no real interest in the field of secretarial services. Truth be told, she had no idea what running the mayor’s office entailed—but then again, neither did Monty.

  The niece had only taken the position as a means of conducting surveillance on the workspace that had previously been occupied by the woman now known as the Knitting Needle Ninja.

  —

  SO FAR, THE police had had little luck in tracking down City Hall’s serial killer.

  Mabel was last seen leaving the Capitol Building in Sacramento, where she had been working for her old boss in his new lieutenant governor’s office. Luckily, news of her San Francisco crimes broke before any Sacramento interns could fall victim to her deadly slaying needles.

  However, despite widespread media coverage and the Bay Area’s entire population being on the lookout for the gray-haired administrative assistant, there had been no reported sightings.

  The Ninja had vanished.

  Or had she?

  Uncle Oscar felt certain that Mabel would return to her regular hunting grounds. He’d organized a team to watch for her at City Hall.

  The niece couldn’t imagine Mabel would risk showing her face anywhere in San Francisco, much less City Hall, but she had grudgingly signed on for a short stint in the mayor’s office.

  She had to admit that, at first, it was a little creepy sitting for hours at the desk where Mabel had plotted so many murders.

  That discomfort was minimal, she soon discovered, compared to the hassle of working with Mayor Monty on a daily basis.

  —

  THE NIECE PEERED out the antique shop’s front glass windows across the street to where Monty stood waiting for his city-issued town car.

  There was no escaping the man, she thought with a sigh.

  She winced as Monty cupped a hand over his brow and tried to see through the showroom’s front glass. He must have spied her shadow at the back of the room, because he suddenly lifted his hand and waved it in the air over his head.

  Grimacing, the niece wiggled a few fingers in return.

  If they ever did track down the elusive Knitting Needle Ninja, she would have to ask the woman how she’d pulled off such an effective disappearing act.

  —

  THE NIECE SET her coffee on a display table, turned away from the window, and bent to slip on her tennis shoes.

  She wore a practical skirt and blouse, the uniform she had grudgingly chosen for her duties at City Hall. She’d acceded to the necessity of wearing business attire, but she’d drawn the line at panty hose. A pair of running tights would keep her otherwise bare legs warm until she reached the office.

  One of the many benefits of living in casual California, she thought as she stood and adjusted the leggings. And then there was the bonus, she added wryly, of not caring if you were fired.

  That would solve a lot of my problems, she mused as she picked up the coffee cup and took a tentative sip of the hot liquid.

  The lid wasn’t securely fastened, and a few drops spilled onto the floor, narrowly missing Isabella’s head.

  At the cat’s scolding chatter, the niece noticed a spot of coffee on her blouse.

  “That’s not too bad, is it?” she asked, wiping the smudge with her hand.

  Isabella gave her person a disapproving stare.

  “I mean, really. No one will see it.”

  The cat’s orange ears turned sideways in disagreement.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll go change.”

  Warbling her concurrence, Isabella followed her person back upstairs to the third-floor bedroom.

  The tip end of her tail snapped the air with importance. The niece would need feline guidance to pick out a suitable replacement shirt.

  —

  A FEW MINUTES later, Isabella and her person—clad in a clean blouse—returned to the showroom.

  Isabella padded circles around the niece as she opened a closet and removed a large green stroller. After wrangling with the various levers and latches, the niece unfolded the contraption to its operational configuration.

  Sturdy nylon fabric had been wrapped around a lightweight metal frame to create a stroller that was specifically adapted for pet transport. The passenger comp
artment had a mesh cover that could be zipped over the stroller’s furry occupants, safely securing them inside.

  While initially skeptical of the device, Isabella now enjoyed her stroller outings. She lifted herself up on her haunches and inspected the interior before issuing her formal approval.

  “Mrao.”

  “Where’s Rupert?” the niece asked, looking around the shop.

  She was unable to interpret Isabella’s muttered response from inside the stroller.

  “Hmm . . .”

  The niece conducted a quick search of the showroom.

  Antiques from San Francisco’s Gold Rush era took up much of the space. During his time running the Green Vase, her uncle had amassed a wide array of historic relics.

  There were mining tools, gambling paraphernalia, and a number of gold-related fashion items. Most notable was Oscar’s collection of gold teeth, which Barbary Coast dentists had been commissioned to insert into the Forty-Niners’ mouths. In the fashion of the day, nothing conveyed success more effectively than a gold-toothed smile.

  Next to a collection of rudimentary tooth extraction devices stood a leather dental recliner that had been used during the gruesome procedures.

  The niece often sat in the recliner to relax, read a book, or ponder her uncle’s latest schemes. It was a surprisingly comfortable place to think—despite the immeasurable pain that had been endured by the chair’s previous occupants.

  —

  THE SOUND OF scrambling claws and pounding cat feet echoed down from the third-floor bathroom, growing louder as the noisemaker charged down the steps to the building’s midlevel and romped across the kitchen.

  Hands on her hips, the niece glanced up at the ceiling, anticipating the cause of the commotion.

  Moments later, Rupert rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and bounced into the showroom.