Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PART I - Wednesday Morning
A SLIPPERY INTRUDER
PART II - Sunday Morning
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
PART III - The Days—and Frogs—in Between . . .
Chapter 1 - A MILITANT MUSTACHE
Chapter 2 - A FAVOR FOR DILLA
Chapter 3 - REDWOOD PARK
Chapter 4 - EN ROUTE TO CITY HALL
Chapter 5 - A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
Chapter 6 - COMMISSIONER CARMICHAEL
Chapter 7 - THE GRAND TOUR . . . CONTINUED
Chapter 8 - AFTER THE FROG ATTACK
Chapter 9 - BENEATH THE DOME
Chapter 10 - AN EARLY MORNING RIDE TO THE CLIFF HOUSE
Chapter 11 - A TRIANGULAR-SHAPED SMUDGE
Chapter 12 - A PERFECT OUT-OF-EYE SPACE
Chapter 13 - THE LAVENDER LADY
Chapter 14 - THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE
Chapter 15 - THE LITTLE GREEN BOOKS
Chapter 16 - AN INTRUDER IN THE BASEMENT
Chapter 17 - REDWOOD PARK—REVISITED
Chapter 18 - “WHAT’S WITH THE FROGS?”
Chapter 19 - THE BUS RIDE
Chapter 20 - DOWN THE HILL
Chapter 21 - A FAMILIAR SMELL
Chapter 22 - DILLA TAKES A WALK
Chapter 23 - NO WAY TO TREAT A CAT
Chapter 24 - THE SUTRO BATHS RUINS
Chapter 25 - IN THE MAYOR’S OFFICE
Chapter 26 - MONTY’S MISSION
Chapter 27 - THE CLIFF HOUSE
Chapter 28 - THE FRENCH RESTAURANT
Chapter 29 - SUTRO’S MISSING FORTUNE
Chapter 30 - THE MERRY-GO-ROUND
Chapter 31 - UNCLE OSCAR’S FRIED CHICKEN RECIPE
Chapter 32 - IN AN ABANDONED PLACE
Chapter 33 - THE BREAK-IN
Chapter 34 - FOLLOW THAT FROG!
Chapter 35 - THE MOAT
Chapter 36 - THE WINDOW
Chapter 37 - THE MYSTERY OF THE MIGRATING FROGS
Chapter 38 - UP, UP, UP
Chapter 39 - ABOVE THE DOME
Chapter 40 - DILLA CHECKS IN
Chapter 41 - ISABELLA TAKES CHARGE
PART IV - The Final Frogs
Chapter 42 - NOT SO DEAD AFTER ALL
Chapter 43 - RETURN TO THE RUINS
Chapter 44 - A FAKE-OUT FOR FRANK
Chapter 45 - SAM TAKES A SWIM
Chapter 46 - THE CAMERA SHOP
Chapter 47 - NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER
Runaway Bus . . .
In the rearview mirror, I saw the top half of the driver’s face as he glanced back to the carriage. The driver’s hat was pulled down low over his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes, but the reflected image struck me cold.
I’d seen those eyes before—on a face that wore a feathery red mustache.
“Monty!” I called out, trying to warn him, but the sound of the bus’s roaring engine drowned out my voice.
Thirty seconds later, midway down the next block, the bus lurched to a sudden stop, throwing me chin-first against the back of the bench in front of me.
Rubbing my jaw, I looked out toward the windshield on the front of the bus. The road in front of us suddenly dropped off, rolling down toward the flatlands of the Mission. We were at the top of 22nd Street, at the crest of one of the steepest hills in the city.
I watched in horror as Monty staggered forward and reached out to tap the driver on his shoulder. Just as Monty’s arm swung out, the driver cut the engine, yanked out the key and leapt up from his seat. Monty stood, stunned, as the driver hurled himself down the steps and out the front door.
Frank Napis glanced back at the bus, a smirking sneer on his flat face, before he scuttled away down a side street. As Monty and I stared at his fleeing figure, the bus began to roll, driverless, down the hill . . .
Titles by Rebecca M. Hale
HOW TO WASH A CAT
NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Rebecca M. Hale.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-18818-7
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For my mother, Carol
One of the striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives.
—MARK TWAIN, 1894
PART I
Wednesday Morning
The First Occurrence
A SLIPPERY INTRUDER
RUPERT’S FUZZY WHITE body meandered sleepily across the Green Vase showroom. With each step, the soft padding on the soles of his feet squished against the creaky wood flooring.
Wreek. Wroight. Wreek. Wroight.
He squeaked across to the far side of the room, taking care to rub his neck and shoulder against the corner of a bookcase he passed along the way.
The first rays of early morning light were beginning to pierce the predawn fog and shine through the wall of windows that lined the storefront, causing the green vase icon inlaid into each square pane of glass to gleam brightly.
Rupert stepped gingerly through the shadows, carefully avoiding the beams of light that stretched across the floor until he stopped in front of a particularly wide swath of sunlight. His chunky white feet kneaded a loose floorboard as
he considered his selection.
Wreek. Wroight. Wreek. Wroight.
This was it—the perfect spot. Rupert prepared himself to take the plunge.
He shook his head, setting off a violent vibration that spread throughout his entire body. A snowstorm of loose hair floated up into the air before drifting down onto the surrounding surfaces. Now suitably fluffed, Rupert smacked his lips together and stretched his mouth open to its widest yawn.
Still standing on the shadow’s edge, he pulled all four feet in under his pillowy stomach and prepared to launch. His long fluffy tail waved back and forth as he focused on the selected beam of light.
At long last, Rupert lunged forward onto the sunlit floorboard. In a single smooth motion, he rolled over onto his left shoulder and flipped a right paw up and over his head—perfectly beaching his pudgy form so that the brightest section of sunlight baked the paunch of his upturned stomach.
Rupert heaved out a deep, satisfied sigh, the pouches of skin above his mouth whiffling gently as he expelled the air. A look of intense satisfaction spread across his furry face as his eyelids narrowed into slits.
It takes a great deal of skill and training to achieve such an immediate state of complete relaxation.
Rupert’s soft, whistling snores mingled with the comforting rush of piped water flowing from a shower in the upstairs apartment. The seconds ticked slowly by as Rupert slipped deeper and deeper into his early morning slumber, rotating slightly to maintain optimal solar absorption. His thoughts drifted peacefully in and out of his favorite images: a freshly poured litter box, a set of warm bedsheets pulled out of a hot dryer, an unattended plate of leftover fried chicken . . .
But just then, the sonar of his sleeping senses picked up on a disturbance—an unexplained movement on the opposite side of the room. The orange triangle of Rupert’s right ear rotated in the direction of the sound.
A slight, splatting plunk thudded against the floorboards near the bottom of the stairs.
With a disgruntled half snort, Rupert’s head jerked up. His eyes glazed with sleep, he rolled up onto his stomach and glanced around the room.
Plunk.
Rupert’s claws dug instinctively into the soft wood surface of the floor. His shoulders stiffened as his body tensed into a stalking lion stance. His eyes and ears widened, searching for the creature who had made such a curious noise.
Plunk.
This time, he matched a movement with the sound. There was something small and springy in the shadows at the back of the room—something staring back at him with googly, round alien-eyes.
Rupert eased forward, the white fur of his stomach sweeping the floor as he snaked between a pair of bookcases and around a worn leather dentist recliner, cautiously approaching the intruder.
Even in the dim light at the back of the room, the moist sheen of the creature’s skin shimmered. A dank mustiness oozed out of its pores.
The flat bottom of Rupert’s chin hovered barely an inch over his front feet as his round back end rose upward, the plume of his feathery orange tail curving skyward into an intrigued S shape.
The creature inched toward Rupert, eyeing him warily. Its webbed feet suctioned against the floorboards as its bulging eyes squeezed shut and then reopened.
Rupert and the creature were now nearly nose to nose. They stared at each other for a long moment, the slight twitching of Rupert’s delicate white whiskers the only movement in the room.
Holding his breath, Rupert slid one paw forward, cupping it sideways. The long feathery hairs that stuck out between his toes neared the creature’s pulsing, elastic sides.
“Ribbit.”
Rupert jumped back, setting loose another explosion of hair. The frog closed its wide, lipless mouth and blinked once more.
Rupert hunched down again, his ample stomach carpeting the floor as he scooched back toward the frog. The frog stared anxiously at the advancing cat, its flat green face pinched with concern.
Plunk.
Rupert whirled around, his blue eyes chasing the springy form as it sailed up into the air, easily leaping over him.
Plunk.
The frog was wasting no time now. It hopped toward the front of the store, looking for an exit.
Plunk.
The frog eyed the iron-framed door leading to the street, searching for an opening in its glass panels. It could sense the crisp outside air on the opposite side of the glass; it could smell its freedom—but it saw no way to reach it. Looking up, the frog changed course and sprang up toward the top of the cashier counter.
Now in an uninhibited hot pursuit, Rupert scrambled wildly across the slick wood floor, his claws scraping into the surface as he accelerated. He fixed all of his concentration on the frog’s soaring figure, closely following its path through the air. With reckless abandon, Rupert hurled himself up after the frog, his front feet butterflying out as he tried to swat at the slippery little beast.
Another plunk sounded against the top of the cashier counter as Rupert caught its carved edge with his flailing front feet. The rest of Rupert’s heavy, round body slammed into the counter’s vertical front paneling. Undeterred, Rupert scrambled to pull himself up, the claws of his back feet digging tracks across the paneling’s decorative scroll-work.
Plunk. The frog jumped halfway across the counter, heading toward the nearest bookcase.
Rupert dashed after it, his wide middle brushing against a slender green vase sitting on the edge of the counter. A bouquet of fresh violet-colored tulips poking out of the top of the vase swayed back and forth, rustling nervously. The rim of the vase’s round base began to roll precariously.
Rupert paid no attention to the wobbling vase. He perched himself on the edge of the counter, trying to size up the distance to where the frog now crouched on the upper shelf of the adjacent bookcase.
Secure in its position of vertical advantage, the frog peered down at Rupert and blinked mockingly.
“Ribbit.”
Rupert’s feathery tail swished against the teetering vase as he launched himself into the air.
The crashing sound of tumbling books and breaking glass echoed through the showroom to the apartment above.
A woman’s muffled holler issued from the bathroom as ancient water pipes screeched, and the shower’s faucet was wrenched off.
“Rupert!”
PART II
Sunday Morning
Four Days and Several Frogs Later
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
IT WAS AN early Sunday morning in the middle of June, pseudo-summer on the tip of San Francisco’s peninsula. The arrival of the summer months signified more the end of the winter’s soggy, rainy spell than the beginning of a season’s warmth. Each afternoon, a crisp, cool, tourist-chilling wind buffeted off the Pacific, stealing the heat from the sun’s bright rays.
The mornings, however, were governed by a different beast entirely. In the wee hours of half darkness, the air stood still as a damp ghost of fog slid its oozing fingers through the streets, gripping the ready-made handles of the city’s steep hills. You could almost taste the dense, salty moisture that seeped in through San Francisco’s countless open windows—including the one on the third floor bedroom of the apartment above the Green Vase.
The rest of Jackson Square still snoozed in languid silence as I crawled out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. The first trickle of water spat violently from the faucet, gradually increasing into a steady stream as air pockets hiccupped out of the pipes.
I stood sleepily outside the shower stall, waiting for the water to heat up, while Rupert trotted into a shiny red igloo-shaped litter box to begin his early morning ritual. Within seconds, the box began to rock spastically back and forth, propelled by the efforts of the energetic digger inside. In a triumph to his well-honed technique, an occasional clump of litter gained sufficient height and spin to breach the interior rim and spray out the front of the box onto the bathroom floor.
Isabella ho
pped up onto the counter by the sink, yawning as she kept watch over the bathroom. With sharp blue eyes, a shiny white coat, and an orange-tipped pipelike tail, she was a sleek, slender mirror of her plump brother. She glanced down at the litter box as his fluffy white blur burst out of its opening and galloped down the stairs toward the kitchen.
With a sigh, I climbed into the shower and let the warming water soak my head and shoulders. Still half asleep, my thoughts drifted down to the Green Vase showroom, two floors below. I had inherited the shop, along with the living quarters above it, from my Uncle Oscar a few months earlier.
Oscar had run the Green Vase as an antique shop, or at least that’s how it had appeared to everyone on the outside—including me. Few customers had visited the Green Vase during Oscar’s tenure; those who had dared to enter were quickly shooed away. As one of my Jackson Square neighbors put it, Oscar “wasn’t much into customers.”
In the weeks following Oscar’s death, I had learned that his fascination with the historical figures from San Francisco’s past had been more than just an extracurricular pastime. He’d been searching for the hidden treasures those figures might have left behind.
The traditional antique storefront of the Green Vase had provided an easy cover for Oscar’s treasure hunting activities. The relics and artifacts that filled the showroom were all clues he’d collected to the location of much more valuable items, many of which were still hidden throughout the city. Unfortunately, Oscar had kept most of the details regarding his historical research in his head, so the underlying significance of the seemingly random articles within Oscar’s vast collection had died with him.
After Oscar’s death, my two cats and I moved into his old apartment above the antique store. At that time, the showroom was crammed with dusty, decaying boxes, cracked display cases, and piles of what could only be described as junk. Two months into the arduous task of sorting through the scattered remnants of Oscar’s investigative efforts, I had only processed a fraction of the heap.
Nine Lives Last Forever Page 1
