I still had no idea how the kangaroo fit in with Oscar’s Gold Rush interests. The beast’s crate had been marked with an Australian shipping address and lodged over the top of the trapdoor to the basement. Oscar had used the kangaroo’s mouth cavity to hide a clue related to Napis’s poison—one that I had unfortunately failed to appreciate until it was too late.
The kangaroo had stood for a time in the showroom next to the cashier counter, but the dead animal was too gruesome to look at on a daily basis, and I didn’t need any help scaring off potential customers, so I had moved it down to the basement.
Isabella inched up on the kangaroo, stalking a silent circle around it as Rupert climbed up the drop-down steps to get a higher level view. Rupert poked his head through the opening between the slats, pushing his face toward that of the kangaroo, his pink nose percolating with interest.
Isabella made a long trilling sound at my feet as I trained the flashlight on the stuffed kangaroo’s head. Slowly, I slid the light upward from the curious expression of the kangaroo’s crudely sewn-together mouth, past its bewitching glass eyes, to the furry, curved crown of its head.
A small frog blinked in the direct light of the beam.
“Ooh!” I exclaimed, shocked to finally meet the froggy interloper face-to-face. I have to admit, I was greatly relieved to see that this frog wasn’t wearing a mustache.
I leaned forward to study the creature more closely. It appeared to be a small garden-variety frog, similar in color and size to the one that had landed on Monty’s head in City Hall the previous afternoon.
The frog’s webbed feet stretched out, nervously gripping the stuffed kangaroo’s mottled fur. The shiny film of its thin, membranous skin glistened in the illumination of the flashlight.
“Ribbit.”
I jumped back, startled by the noise. The flashlight bounced out of my hands and flipped up into the air, the arc of its beam flashing momentarily on Rupert’s furry, round, midair figure, hurtling from the back of the steps toward the head of the kangaroo.
There was a muffled crash in the darkness behind the stairs as I scrambled after the tumbling flashlight.
When my fingers finally wrapped around the handle and swung the flashlight back into the corner behind the stairs, the scene had changed completely.
A wobbling Rupert was shakily wrapped around the kangaroo’s shoulders while his blue eyes rapidly searched the room for the escaped prey. Isabella sat serenely on the floor next to the kangaroo’s feet, placidly licking one of her front paws. There was no sign of the frog.
A man’s curly brown head popped down from the hatch.
“Hello! What’s going on down here?” he called out inquisitively.
I flipped the light up at his face, blinding him in its beam.
“Front door was unlocked,” he explained, squinting his eyes in the glare.
“Hmmnh,” I replied, not entirely satisfied. Montgomery Carmichael had a disturbing habit of making unauthorized visits to the Green Vase showroom.
I was at least relieved to see that he had resumed his regular attire and hairstyle. I focused the flashlight on the edge of the hatch where the sleeve of Monty’s white cuff emerged from his gray sweater.
A bright green frog-shaped cufflink hung from the cuff.
It was too much of a coincidence. Monty had a vast collection of whimsical cufflinks, and he took great care in making each day’s selection. Whatever frog-related scheme Dilla was cooking up with the Vigilance Committee, it was a safe bet Monty was chin deep in it, too.
I returned the light to Monty’s face, focusing the full force of its interrogating beam directly into his eyes.
“What’s with the frogs?” I demanded.
Chapter 17
REDWOOD PARK—REVISITED
HAROLD WOMBLER’S RAGGED construction boots shuffled past the massive concrete struts that formed the base of the TransAmerica Pyramid building. The shadows fell on his hunched shoulders, darkening the rough patches of stubble on his face, as he turned onto the sidewalk leading into Redwood Park.
The Thursday lunch crowd had begun to trickle in, their numbers migrating to the park’s center where a small, unshaded circle was receiving an unusual boost of solar energy. Harold watched as a group of office workers mingled around the flat wooden benches, unpacking their bundles of portable food. A few stripped off their suit jackets to revel in the unseasonably warm temperature.
The sunny weather did little to brighten Harold’s dark mood. He was still out of sorts from his morning trip to the Cliff House. He didn’t mind the early hour or the drive out to the far side of town—it was the company he objected to. There were few people in the world Harold loathed more than Montgomery Carmichael.
Harold gimped along beside a line of redwood trunks and headed toward the fountain. Mark Twain’s bronze frogs were enjoying their perpetual splash, their frozen, outstretched flippers forever reaching for the next stone lily pad.
Harold’s bloodshot eyes studied the mossy rocks beneath the surface of the pooling water. The roar of the fountain drowned out the conversation of the nearest lunchers, allowing him to collect his thoughts.
After a moment’s meditation, Harold pulled his faded baseball cap down over his eyes and grumpily hobbled over to a bench on the edge of the park that was occupied by an elderly Asian woman. The woman’s face was shadowed by the ring of redwoods skirting the backside of her bench, but Harold had no trouble identifying her. The bright green go-go boots on her feet gave her away.
Dilla tucked her scarf around her neck as Harold collapsed down onto the opposite side of the bench. With a nod, she handed him a bundle wrapped up in paper emblazoned with the name of a nearby deli.
Harold tore hungrily into the package. The pricey gourmet sandwich inside promised a hearty meal. The thick slices of fresh bread had been baked that morning. In between the slices lay a substantial pile of cheddar cheese, smoked ham, crisp lettuce, and juicy tomatoes; a generous smear of Dijon mustard seasoned the tasty heap. Harold savored the first bite before turning his head toward his bench companion.
“Thanks, Dilla,” Harold said as he pulled a sour dill pickle out of its separate wax paper wrapping. He was still cranky, but the sustenance of the sandwich made up, in part, for the unpleasantries of the morning.
Dilla tapped the toes of her boots against the pebbled pavement as Harold continued to munch. “How did it go at the Cliff House?” she asked cheerily.
Harold muttered bitterly into his sandwich. The only interpretable word was “Carmichael.”
Dilla giggled. “Did everybody show up?”
Harold nodded and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “The PM gave me a wave. Pleased as punch to be running the show.”
“The PM?” Dilla repeated, her voice briefly puzzled. “Oh, the Previous Mayor,” she added quickly, breaking the code. “Yes, he loves to be involved,” she said, laughing. “I think he’s enjoying this little project. He says he’ll support anything that might get those two stubborn men working together again.”
Dilla stretched out her legs to reach into one of her pants’ pockets. “He’ll be looking for you at this restaurant tomorrow at noon,” she said, handing Harold a piece of paper.
Harold unfolded it and scanned the information. “Not a very discreet location,” he said skeptically. “I thought the point was to keep this hush-hush until you get everyone on board.”
“The PM has a busy schedule. It was the only time I could get,” Dilla replied with a harried sigh. She pointed at the piece of paper. “That’s his regular spot. He eats there every Friday.”
Harold’s wrinkled face curdled sourly. “Isn’t this French? You know I hate foreign food.”
“I’m sure they buy all of their ingredients locally,” Dilla replied tartly.
Harold grumbled into another bite of his sandwich. “So where are we with the Mayor and the Board?”
Dilla tugged on her scarf again. “The PBS—that’s President of the Board of Supervi
sors,” she translated with a smile. “He’s a member of the Green Party, so there shouldn’t be any problems there. He seems quite keen on the idea actually.”
She sighed with a slight air of frustration. “But the Mayor is going to be a much bigger challenge than I thought. He harbors some, er, misconceptions about our little friends.” She tossed her hands into the air. “I think it’s just that he’s never really got to know one of them. For some reason, he’s intimidated by them.”
Harold snorted his disapproval. “You know, I never voted for the man myself.”
Dilla tutted her finger admonishingly at Harold. “The PM,” she winked, “has a plan. He’ll discuss it with you at the meeting.”
Harold grimaced. “At the French restaurant.” He finished off his sandwich and began gathering up the remaining refuse.
“This new Vigilance Committee you’re putting together,” Harold said thoughtfully as he wrapped up his half-eaten pickle. “It’s a worthy cause you’re promoting, don’t get me wrong. But you didn’t need to bring back the VC to pursue this project. Are you sure there isn’t some other alternative reason for stirring all of this up again?”
Dilla swung her feet out from the bench, grateful for the protection of the mask. It made it much easier to hide her facial expressions. “I can’t imagine what you’re getting at, Harold.”
Harold crimped his wrinkled face skeptically as he crunched the paper wrapping into a ball and tossed it through the air to the nearest trash bin. “I guess you’ll need some of the Sutro money to make all of this work,” he said with a shrug. “Are you certain it’s still hidden in the same place?”
Dilla leaned back on the bench, tilting her head skyward. “As certain as one can be about this sort of thing,” she replied, the slight wavering in her voice belying a trace of doubt. “It was a long time ago, you know. There’s always a chance Oscar moved it, but I doubt it. That wasn’t his style.”
Harold rubbed the stubble on the end of his chin. “You’re not worried about . . .”
“Old what’s his name?” she asked, her voice brittle despite her attempt at breeziness. “I’m not afraid of Frank.”
“No, no, of course not,” Harold said wryly. “That’s why you’re running around in this”—he waved his hands at her costume—“outfit.”
“Ah, for strategy, dear,” Dilla replied, wagging her finger at him. “For strategic advantage.” She tugged self-consciously on the hem of the baggy sweater before lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders defiantly. “Anyway, I’m heading over to the site this afternoon to check it out—we’re getting close enough now. We need to be sure.”
Harold chuckled and said teasingly, “Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be riding on a merry-go-round?”
“Absolutely not,” Dilla huffed her rebuke. “And don’t you tell anyone any different.”
Harold stood up and brushed a few crumbs from the folds of his ragged overalls. “One last word about Carmichael,” he said, taking a step toward Dilla. “I picked him up this morning—as you requested,” he added pointedly. “But I still don’t know why you wanted to get him involved.”
Harold waved his fingers in the air in front of Dilla’s face. “He’s got loose lips. Bound to spill the beans.”
The serenity of Dilla’s smile permeated even the thick rubber of the mask. “I’m rather counting on him for that.”
Harold grunted. “You’re sure he’s not collaborating with . . .”
Dilla’s voice grew more serious. “I’ve never been completely certain which team he’s on,” she admitted. She reflected, internally, that she could say the same of her lunch companion. “But this should be a good way to find out.”
Chapter 18
“WHAT’S WITH THE FROGS?”
“FROGS, YOU SAY?” Monty asked with exaggerated puzzlement as he pushed back from the hatch. He sat on the floor of the Green Vase showroom, nervously brushing his hand through the thick, bouncing curls springing from the top of his head.
“Frogs,” I replied suspiciously, swinging the flashlight in front of me as I marched up the stairs from the basement. My feet stomped against the shaky steps as I held the flashlight in front of me, flourishing it at the green frog-shaped cufflinks on the wrists of the white collared shirt Monty wore beneath his gray sweater.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Monty demurred, but the tone of his voice lacked sincerity. He scooted back from the hatch’s open hole, crab-walking on his hands and feet in hasty retreat.
Rupert and Isabella followed me up out of the basement as Monty slid his feet underneath his bony frame and popped up to full height. He sidestepped around the leather dental chair, swiveling it like a shield between us. His thin lips spread into a rigid grin, but the forced effort made his narrow face seem strangely contorted.
I tried to effect my most intimidating stare, but a pungent whiff of engine oil tripped up my concentration. I bent over the chair toward Monty, sniffing as I confirmed the source of the smell. Rupert hopped up onto the leather seat cushion of the dental chair and added his own loud, snuffling sounds.
I pulled back from the chair and delivered my verdict. “You smell like an auto repair shop,” I said, crinkling my nose.
Monty’s lips tensed tightly. “New aftershave,” he replied pertly.
Rupert issued a disapproving sniff and bounced off of the chair.
“Let’s get back to the frogs,” I repeated accusingly, trying to redirect the conversation as I returned the point of my flashlight to Monty’s frog-shaped cufflinks. “I just found a frog in my basement.”
I intentionally omitted mention of the frog-sighting from the upstairs apartment. Not in a million years would I confess to Montgomery Carmichael that I had seen two mustache-wearing amphibians in my bedroom.
“A frog . . . in your basement?” Monty raised his eyebrows as he stretched his long neck to look into the dark hole of the hatch. “You don’t say.”
“Just like the one from City Hall,” I pressed, squinting my eyes at Monty.
My mind scrambled to pull the scattered pieces together. There had to be some connection between Mark Twain’s famous frog story and the inexplicable frog invasion of both City Hall and the Green Vase. I felt certain that Monty knew more than he was letting on.
Monty stroked the point of his chin as he continued to peer curiously down into the hatch.
“What a strange ecological coincidence,” he said before turning away. With a skip of his leather loafers, Monty danced around to the front of the dental chair and dropped lightly onto its seat. He pulled the recline lever to extend the seat to a flattened position and leaned back, closing his eyes.
I rolled my upper lip inward, contemplating Monty’s unconvincing bluff. I needed a bigger stick to prod him with.
I walked up to the cashier counter and pulled out one of the Mark Twain books. Slowly, I returned to the back of the showroom and circled around to the front of the dental chair. All along the way, Rupert trotted on the floor near my feet, his eyes hopefully following the book, as if it might suddenly transform into a plate of fried chicken.
With a stiff outstretched arm, I waved the green book in front of Monty’s possumed face.
“So, you’ve got one of these, too,” Monty said assessingly, cracking open one eye.
“Too?” I pressed. “How many are there?”
“What else have you got?” Monty asked loftily, ignoring my question.
I crunched my lips together, pushing out a sigh of frustration as I crossed my arms over my chest.
Monty reclosed his eyes and mimicked a snore, but a confident, knowing smile was now spreading across his face.
Ruefully, I reached into my back pocket. Monty’s eyes slanted open, watching as I pulled out the black-and-white photo and laid it on the wide armrest of the dentist recliner.
Monty’s eyes popped fully open. “Aha!” he said, quickly snatching up the photo. He slammed the recliner into reverse and spra
ng up from the chair.
“Do you see them?” I asked as he paced toward the front of the store, closely studying the photo as he walked. “Dilla, Wang, Oscar, and . . .”
“Your good friend Frank,” Monty filled in sarcastically. Once more, his long, bony fingers pulled through the curls on the top of his head, this time conveying the reflexive action of a person deep in thought.
“Is this . . . the Vigilance Committee?” I asked tentatively.
Monty glanced back at me, his superior smirk my confirmation.
“I . . . just don’t . . . understand,” I stuttered in protest as I trailed behind him. “What is . . . what is . . . Frank Napis doing in the photo?”
Monty looked up at me, his expression brashly confident. “You don’t know very much about all of this do you?”
I wiped a hand across my forehead. The little bit I knew about Oscar’s Vigilance Committee days still didn’t make much sense to me.
The Uncle Oscar I had known was a gruff, isolated hermit of a man. He’d never once mentioned city politics or given any hint of the populist aspirations purportedly espoused by the Vigilance Committee. Oscar had been an island, self-sufficient and inaccessible. It was difficult to imagine him mixed up with an antiestablishment movement, particularly one that had apparently threatened the power structure of City Hall.
“Oscar just didn’t seem like the type,” I sighed.
Monty leaned up against the cashier counter as he stared into the black-and-white photo. “I never would have guessed it myself,” he acknowledged frankly. “Old Oscar, fighting for the common man, wrangling with the octopus, so to speak.”
“Wrangling with the—what?” I asked.
“The octopus,” Monty nodded smugly. “That’s old-time slang for the many-armed monster of big business.” He squiggled his arms in the air to illustrate the reference. “Weaving its tentacles into every aspect of life and politics.”
Nine Lives Last Forever Page 11
