Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter 1 - A MAN ON A BICYCLE
Chapter 2 - BEHIND THE WALL
Chapter 3 - PEELING BACK THE LAYERS
Chapter 4 - THE GREEN VASE
Chapter 5 - A SPANDEX-CLAD VISITOR
Chapter 6 - FRIEND OF THE MAYOR
Chapter 7 - THE TOUR OF CALIFORNIA
Chapter 8 - THE DUFFEL BAG
Chapter 9 - THE CAT-MOBILE
Chapter 10 - ON THE ROAD
Chapter 11 - NEVADA CITY
Chapter 12 - IN THE VAN
Chapter 13 - CALAVERAS COUNTY
Chapter 14 - BROAD STREET
Chapter 15 - CLEM
Chapter 16 - THE VIEW FROM THE BALCONY
Chapter 17 - THE WORDS OF MARK TWAIN
Chapter 18 - SEARCH AMONG THE SEATS
Chapter 19 - THE NEVADA CITY BEAR
Chapter 20 - POST-DINNER REPORT
Chapter 21 - THE STOAT
Chapter 22 - THE NATIONAL HOTEL
Chapter 23 - THE BRICK
Chapter 24 - DOWNGRADED
Chapter 25 - AN EXCELLENT DRIVER
Chapter 26 - THE STARTING LINE
Chapter 27 - THE WILD, WILD WEST
Chapter 28 - DOWNTOWN SACRAMENTO
Chapter 29 - SUTTER’S FORT
Chapter 30 - A DELICATE CONSTITUTION
Chapter 31 - MANIFEST DESTINY
Chapter 32 - THE LURE OF THE YELLOW JERSEY
Chapter 33 - GAVILAN PEAK
Chapter 34 - STAGE ONE FINISH LINE
Chapter 35 - MOON OVER SACRAMENTO
Chapter 36 - THE FLOWER SHOP
Chapter 37 - A SECOND ATTEMPT
Chapter 38 - INTO WINE COUNTRY
Chapter 39 - THROUGH THE DELTA
Chapter 40 - SONOMA PLAZA
Chapter 41 - THE OSOS
Chapter 42 - A DISTURBED DUCK
Chapter 43 - THE SONOMA BARRACKS
Chapter 44 - THE BEAR FLAG REVOLT
Chapter 45 - A FLOWERY FABRIC
Chapter 46 - THE REPLICA
Chapter 47 - THE LIFE COACH
Chapter 48 - SNEAK ATTACK
Chapter 49 - THE SLIVER OF THE MOON
Chapter 50 - THE BOWELS OF THE BEAST
Chapter 51 - A LONE MISSION
Chapter 52 - THE KITCHEN RADIO
Chapter 53 - AMPHIBIANS ON WHEELS
Chapter 54 - HAROLD’S ENTOURAGE
Chapter 55 - MONTEREY
Chapter 56 - THE LARKIN HOUSE
Chapter 57 - A MUCH-NEEDED BUCKET OF FRIED CHICKEN
Chapter 58 - THE LEIDESDORFF CONNECTION
Chapter 59 - THE STUFFED KANGAROO
Chapter 60 - A DARK NIGHT
Chapter 61 - THE HAIRLESS MOUSE
Chapter 62 - HOW TO MOON A CAT
A Man of Many Guises . . .
And in that moment, I knew what he was after. I knew where my uncle had hidden the original Bear Flag.
“I’ve got to go,” I murmured under my breath.
I shuffled slowly backwards, my hand reaching behind my back for the door. My fingers closed in around the handle, and I pulled it toward me, anticipating the squeal of the hinges. There was a strangely satisfied smile on his face. He didn’t move to stop me.
I never saw the man crouched outside in the courtyard. There was a slight creak of wood as he stepped across the threshold.
Before I could turn around, a light thunk, expertly delivered, pounded against the back of my head. As the floor rushed up to meet me, everything went black.
Titles by Rebecca M. Hale
HOW TO WASH A CAT NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER HOW TO MOON A CAT
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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.
HOW TO MOON A CAT
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Rebecca Hale.
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ISBN : 978-1-101-53810-4
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.
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For the M’s: Morgan, Malcolm, and Miranda
Introduction
THE GLASSY BUBBLE of a full moon bobbed merrily up the California coast, its shining image rippling across the evening tide. Carefree and giddy, the bewitching orb frolicked above the shoreline’s rocky outcroppings, skirted the east side of the Farallon Islands, and bounced softly through the looping lines of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Inside the bay, the moon’s glowing marble rolled along the outer edge of San Francisco’s waterfront, past a line of darkened and abandoned piers, until it reached a compact collection of apartment buildings fringing the financial district. The bulk of the glimmering mass hovered in place while a white shaft of light zoomed inland over the hard green surface of a tennis court to cut a twinkling path up through the empty streets of Jackson Square.
The beam stopped in the middle of a block of darkened storefronts and honed in on the red brick facade of an antique store. A spectral spotlight splashed across the front row of windowpanes, illuminating the green vase icon embedded into each section of glass. On a counter just inside the store, a cash register’s burnished brass detailing flickered in the passing light.
Slowly, the focus of the moonbeam panned up the side of the building toward the apartment located above the showroom. A slight spring breeze whispered through the night, fluttering the blinds hanging over the open window on the building’s third floor, allowing a single sliver of light to maneuver stealthily through the narrow opening in the slats.
Inside the room, the l
uminous finger skimmed across the wooden floorboards to the bed pushed up against the far wall. Leaping nimbly onto the pile of sheets and blankets, the beam kinked to tickle the bottom of a cat’s upturned foot, playfully tugging at the feathery white hairs that poked out between the plump pink padding of his toes.
Rupert’s front incisors moved up and down. Dreamily, he licked his lips, but the peaceful rhythm of his snores continued unabated.
The warmth of the mischievous ray sidled up to the furry mound of Rupert’s exposed belly and gave it a prodding poke—an action which elicited no more than a wheezing snort.
Momentarily stumped, the moon paused to reconsider its strategy. A more aggressive approach would be needed to wake this sleeping beast.
Narrowing to a pointed prick of light, the beam crept up to Rupert’s chest and tapped the moist cushion of his nose. Rupert raised a paw over his face, trying to block the glare of the tiny spotlight.
Noting the movement, the beam branched out into an illuminated hand and reached behind Rupert’s head to scratch the backside of his orange-tipped ears. As the corners of Rupert’s mouth stretched into an appreciative smile, the beam gently teased the crook of Rupert’s elbow until he dropped the shielding paw from his face. Sensing victory, the beam sneaked back up to the tightly shut juncture of Rupert’s furry eyelids and softly pried them open.
With a wide yawn, Rupert awoke and glanced around the room.
It was an hour or two past midnight, dark and quiet inside the apartment above the Green Vase showroom. The other two occupants of the bed were still fast asleep: a second cat, his sister Isabella, and a woman with long brown hair who, in his opinion, was hogging the covers.
Rupert smacked his lips as the wild call of the moon worked its magic on his feline imagination. A shimmering figure danced across the bedroom, beckoning him to follow it into the hallway. Rupert blinked his eyes, trying to clear his vision as the trickling stream of moonlight tangoed teasingly toward the door, a tempting lure no cat could ignore.
With a muffled thump, Rupert hopped off the bed and followed the sparkling shape through the doorway. As he stepped outside the bedroom, the edge of the wall snuffed out the intruding angle of the moon, temporarily releasing him from its hypnotic hold.
Rupert set loose another mouth-stretching yawn and looked sleepily back toward the warm spot in the covers he had just vacated. The line of his body curved as his shoulders rotated to reverse course. But before he could complete the turn, a faint glow appeared on the floor at his feet, recapturing his attention.
Intrigued once more, Rupert proceeded down a trail of glittering moon dust to the second floor. He paused at the threshold of the kitchen and stared curiously inside, his head tilted upward, the orange tip of his fluffy tail pointed at the ceiling. A tiny lick of light lassoed the furry white cuff of his neck and led him forward.
Rupert ambled toward the kitchen table, the toenails on his chunky feet clicking against the uneven floor tiles. A rumble gurgled up from somewhere inside his pudgy round stomach, an instinctive biological response to the growing proximity of his food bowl.
The moon waited until Rupert reached the middle of the room; then it withdrew its influence and sat back to watch the rest of its mischief unfold.
Puzzled, Rupert plopped down beside the table, his tail twitching in bewilderment. His head rotated back and forth as his dazed eyes scanned the dark shadows that sank in around him.
What am I doing here? he wondered groggily.
He couldn’t quite remember what urge or motivation had inspired him to leave the warmth of the blankets in the upstairs bedroom. His chin drooped as the weight of his furry eyelids sank down over his bleary blue eyes. The light drone of a snore began to ooze through his nasal passages. He was on the verge of collapsing into a comatose heap on the tile floor when his ears picked up on a sound coming from the far side of the room—the almost imperceptible patter of tiny feet.
With a surprised grunt, Rupert pivoted his round rump toward the back wall of the kitchen. The scampering footsteps came to a sudden halt, as if the perpetrator had sensed Rupert’s presence.
Rupert listened intently for a long eerie moment, but the room was completely silent. Perhaps it had all been a dream, he thought drowsily.
Tiptoe. Tiptoe. Creeeeeeak.
Rupert’s head jerked up, this time his senses fully alert. He slunk across the kitchen, tracking the tiptoe-er to a twofoot section of faded wallpaper. He sniffed warily along the floor next to the bottom edge of the curling fabric that covered the wall, his nose sucking up the foreign scent.
The white wires of Rupert’s whiskers quivered as he analyzed the odor, trying to identify its source. The hair along his spine spiked with caution. You never knew what kind of critter might show up here in Uncle Oscar’s old living quarters. He had learned to expect the unexpected since he and his family moved into the apartment above the Green Vase.
The intruder wasn’t a frog. Of that, Rupert was certain. After their adventures last summer, he was now intimately familiar with an amphibian’s peculiar fragrance. No, this smell was staler, fustier—the aroma of one of San Francisco’s old rundown Victorian homes, laced with the slightest twist of cheese. He had come across this scent once or twice before . . .
Rupert suddenly puffed out an excited wheeze of recognition. He knew exactly what kind of animal was hiding behind that wall. After confirming his identification with a second snorkeling intake, he licked his lips, and his back end squirmed with excitement. It was a plain old vanilla house mouse. This was a creature even he could handle.
Rupert’s energetic snuffling spooked the mouse, and a torrent of panicked footsteps raced across the rough boards that formed the wall’s interior framing. Rupert followed the scurrying sound along the base of the wall, his own feet thundering heavily across the tiles of the kitchen floor until he skidded to a stop at the back corner of the room.
Another long pause descended upon the kitchen as the skittering sound again fell silent.
The mouse, Rupert deduced, was trapped. A successful capture, he thought with elation, was mere seconds away.
Rupert threw his entire moon-crazed body into extracting the mouse from its hiding place. He rolled over onto his side and attacked the wall, frantically scraping his claws against the corner of the frayed wallpaper. He worked to hook the sharp curve of his toenails beneath the curling edge of the fabric until finally, with a loud rip, he pulled back a small section of the paper. Eagerly, he swung a paw inside the hole—and immediately retracted it.
Rupert hunched his body against the tile floor, his blue eyes crossing as his nose pulsed in confusion. He had been wrong; somehow he had miscalculated. This was no ordinary mouse.
Cautiously, Rupert backed away from the hole as a tiny creature peeked out the opening. Rupert stared at the mouse, shaking his head in disbelief.
The mouse was completely bald. Its wrinkled skin was the flushed shade of a newborn baby. The thin flaps of its round, oversized ears were nearly translucent.
Other than the trembling whiskers attached to the pointed tip of its face, there was not a single hair on its entire body.
Chapter 1
A MAN ON A BICYCLE
AS DAWN BROKE a few hours later, a white-haired man in a wrinkled linen suit pedaled a bicycle along the city’s waterfront Embarcadero. The first edges of the rising sun stretched across the water, coloring the bay a brilliant blue, splashing light across the rolling green hills that framed the opposite shore.
There’s nothing like a crisp spring morning in San Francisco, the man thought with an admiring glance at the surrounding city. Smiling, he tilted his head back and soaked up the wet ocean scent. “It’s good to be back,” he sighed contentedly.
A light breeze tufted the thin strands of hair combed across the man’s balding crown. Two days’ growth of saltand-pepper stubble covered the lower half of his face. A bristly crag of wild flyaway eyebrows dominated the facial landscape in between.
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br /> The linen suit jacket hung loosely from the man’s short round shoulders. The front buttons of the jacket were unfastened, exposing the frayed edges of a collared white shirt and the elderly paunch of his stomach.
An elastic strap secured around the man’s lower right shin prevented the cuff of his pants from being caught in the bike’s spinning gears. The cinched-up fabric revealed an ankle-high lace-up boot, whose scuffed toe pedaled a slow circular motion in coordination with its mate to propel the bike forward.
Brief scenes of the bay flashed in the open spaces between the piers as the bike’s wide tires squished against the pavement. Beyond the barrier of the once-bustling warehouses, squawking flocks of seagulls soared acrobatically through the sky, searching the shallow water for their next bite of breakfast. Farther out, the loaded platform of a container ship slid silently past the waking city, its hulking mass and thousand-foot length dwarfing the commuter ferries and sailboats that dotted the bay.
The man’s boots dropped to the sidewalk as he braked the bike at a crosswalk and waited for a signal light to halt the mixture of taxi and commuter traffic that had begun to fill the Embarcadero’s busy thoroughfare. He released his stubby fingers from one of the rubber grips fitted over the U-shaped handlebars and tapped the trigger of the centermounted bell. The chipper ring startled a gull from its perch atop a nearby trash can.
The bike was a single-speed cruiser, painted the same simmering orange red as the Golden Gate Bridge. Sparkling reflectors had been threaded into the spokes of the wheels; a large wire basket hung beneath the bell. Designed to maximize comfort over speed, the bike’s durable frame amply supported the rider’s bulky figure. At his age, he thought as he pushed off from the curb to cross the intersection, he really couldn’t do without the extra springs beneath the cushioned seat.
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