How to Moon a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  I was still trying to figure out how I might convince him to make a pit stop in Sonoma. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the race route as an excuse. I’d picked up a pamphlet at one of the hospitality tents detailing the course for Stage Two. While the riders would be cutting through the center of Napa Valley, their path would miss Sonoma by about fifteen miles to the north.

  The heater and the cat blanket apparently combined to sooth Monty’s despondent state and offended feelings. By the time the first signs giving notice of the Sonoma turnoff began to appear, a pinkish glow had returned to his thin cheekbones, and his nylon shirt was almost dry—albeit now covered in a thick coating of white cat hair. I raised my eyebrows expectantly as he cleared his throat.

  I couldn’t have been more surprised by the first complete sentence he’d uttered since I’d picked him up from the curb.

  “Do you mind if we stop off in Sonoma on our way back?”

  THE ROUTE LEADING into wine country, one of Northern California’s major tourism draws, was well marked from all directions. The state had installed ample signage to ensure potential wine purchasers didn’t get lost along the way. I, of course, had Isabella’s backseat navigational support to help me. She had an uncanny ability to spot and call out relevant road signs, even if she couldn’t actually read them.

  Rupert, on the other hand, was far more interested in the contortions Monty was performing in the cargo area, where he was trying to change from his green cycling outfit into a suit and tie. It turned out his motivation for the spontaneous stop in Sonoma was an impromptu meeting with the Mayor’s Life Coach that he had arranged while waiting in the hospitality tent earlier that morning.

  “Not as much room back here as I thought,” Monty said as he bonked his head on the metal roof.

  I kept my eyes focused on the road, trying to ignore the nervous intuition gnawing at my gut. I couldn’t help but feel wary of yet another coincidence facilitating my progress along the trail marked out by the toy bears’ flags. I was starting to suspect that I was following a path laid far more recently than my uncle’s death a year ago. With each bear I collected, I could be stepping further into a trap.

  I shook my head and took in a deep breath. The Bear Flag Memorial was on the corner of Sonoma Plaza, a large green park situated around City Hall. What harm could possibly come to me in such an open public location?

  As Monty’s struggle with his clothing continued to produce strange sounds in the back of the van, I reached into my coat pocket and twisted my fingers around the toothpick handle held by the most recent toy bear. Given my history with Frank Napis, I didn’t want to think too hard about that question.

  THE ROAD BECAME rural as soon as we exited the interstate. Rolling green hills dotted with grazing cows presented a picture postcard of bucolic bliss. Even in the morning’s gray drizzle, the serene landscape helped lull my anxiety.

  Before long, the cows were bumped for a far more valuable commodity. Never-ending trellis lines combed across the rolling countryside, the supporting structure for thousands upon thousands of grape vines. Each individual plant had been painstakingly pruned and manicured down to a round clump of leaves perched atop a long, slender trunk. From the rain-streaked blur of the van’s front windshield, I had the impression we were passing fields of fluffy green flamingos preening their leafy feathers in the wet, billowing breeze.

  We caught a few glimpses of the area’s famous wineries as the van chugged along Napa Valley’s southern tip. Immense stone castles with elaborate archways provoked a fairy-tale mystique. Designed to enhance the wine-tasting experience, these glamorous structures provided a visual palate to match that aspired to by the wine.

  As we passed from one valley to the next, the castles disappeared, and the narrow country road transitioned into a far more traditional farmland scene. Just as prominent in the local wine industry as its flashy neighbor, Sonoma was more discreet in displaying the fruits of its success. Parked along the roadside next to these vineyards, you were just as likely to see a tractor as a Mercedes.

  Perhaps Sonoma’s graceful handling of the recent years’ wine celebrity had something to do with its mature age. The town’s historical roots ran deep into California history. Over a hundred and fifty years ago, Sonoma was the Mexican Territory’s northernmost military post, the last stop on the Mission Trail that connected twenty-odd churches and a small handful of presidios.

  When the Mexican government disbanded the mission system in the 1830s, the church-related infrastructure built up along the trail fell into disuse. By the time of the Bear Flag Rebellion in 1846, Sonoma’s ramshackle mission and all-but-abandoned presidio were left guarded by the oneman army of Mariano Vallejo. He held a lonely post, the only notable Mexican military figure north of General Castro’s encampment outside of Monterey.

  An even-tempered administrator and an enthusiastic host, Vallejo was well-liked in the sparsely populated region between Sutter’s Fort and Yerba Buena. He considered himself more Californian than Mexican and was openly amenable to the prospect of U.S. annexation—a future which he saw as inevitable. Vallejo no doubt participated in many lively separatist conversations with guests to his modest adobe.

  As the van circled the perimeter of Sonoma Plaza, we passed the crumbling remains of Vallejo’s Bear Flag–era home, attached to the still-intact Sonoma Barracks. The buildings were located across the street from the Bear Flag Memorial I had come here to visit.

  Despite my concerns about Frank Napis, I felt a growing sense of anticipation as I drove by the monument, which stood in a clearing at the edge of the plaza. This was the site of the famous Bear Flag Revolt, the central topic of Clem’s lectures, and the focal point, I suspected, of the trail of toy bears I’d been following. Perhaps here, I thought hopefully, I would finally figure out the nature of Oscar’s Bear Flag–related treasure.

  Monty was still straightening his tie in the rearview mirror when I picked out a parking space on the plaza’s west side—closest to the restaurant that would host his lunch date, farthest from the corner with the Bear Flag Memorial.

  I had determined that this was my best strategic line of attack—I could approach the next designated location from a safe Napis-surveying distance and keep Monty as far away as possible from my investigations. So far, he had been too wrapped up in his streaker drama to pay much attention to what I was doing, but eventually, I knew, his curiosity would kick in. I planned to keep him in the dark for as long as possible.

  “Okay, well, enjoy your lunch,” I said briskly as Monty helped me pull the stroller out of the van.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to join us?” he asked as he attached a waterproof nylon cover to the stroller’s main handle. The optional implement was designed to provide additional shielding protection to the occupants in the carriage. The weather had temporarily let up, but the dark clouds above us promised there was more to come. “The cats will be fine in the stroller, but you might get a little wet walking around.”

  “No worries,” I replied quickly, eager to set off on the hunt for my next Bear Flag clue. I pointed to the jacket I’d just pulled on over my shoulders. “I won’t melt.”

  I reached into the van to retrieve the first cat. Rupert was apparently unconvinced of the rain-repellant properties of the nylon cover, but after a brief struggle, I managed to stuff him into the carriage compartment. Focused on the search for the next clue, Isabella was far more accommodating. She leapt inside and immediately took her seat.

  “Mrao,” she chirped up at me, indicating she was ready to go.

  Monty bent down to check his appearance in one of the van’s side mirrors as I started off down a sidewalk. Fifteen feet along the path, I passed a newspaper kiosk that had recently been filled with its afternoon edition. I could guess the contents of the lead story without reading the glaring headline.

  Plastered across the paper’s front page was a photo of a long-legged man in green cycling gear chasing after a group of streakers in rubber
masks. The angle of the shot focused on Monty’s apoplectic expression, strategically cutting out the unprintable body parts.

  “Let’s get going before he sees this,” I said with a giggle, increasing the speed of the stroller. I had just turned into the plaza’s park area when Monty’s anguished screams rang out behind us.

  ON THE OPPOSITE side of the plaza, a man with a shorn head and a thin scar running down his left cheek slunk around the edge of the Bear Flag Memorial. In a small crevice on the monument’s boulderlike base, Ivan Batrachos quickly found what he was looking for. He wrapped his hand around a dingy brown package whose outer surface had a slick waterproof coating. He paused for a moment, sizing up the small bundle. It was just the right size to hold a toy bear holding a tiny paper flag.

  After a brief glance across the park, Ivan slipped the package into a pocket in his leather jacket and turned away from the memorial. He scurried over to the curb where he’d parked his motorcycle, mounted it, and sped off down the wet streets of Sonoma.

  Chapter 39

  THROUGH THE DELTA

  INSIDE THE SANTA Rosa broadcast booth, Will Spigot and Harry Carlin bent over a television screen showing shaky motorcycle footage of a group of riders crossing the flat delta outside of Davis.

  The area lay in an active floodplain, so, despite the nearby population densities of both Sacramento and the Bay Area, the land was generally devoid of housing. Instead, fruit orchards dominated the landscape. Mimicking the exacting lines of the vineyard trellises to the west, rows of evenly spaced trees sank their roots into the delta’s damp, sandy soil.

  After several hours of rain, the orchards had taken on more than a foot of water. The cyclists splashed along the puddle-strewn road surface, dodging ruts and dips filled with a dark, gritty soup, their once-colorful racing outfits blackened by the plumes of muddy brown spray that sloshed up from their tires.

  Carlin turned to look sympathetically into the camera. “The rain is causing some difficulties for today’s broadcast. At present, our helicopters are grounded. We’re getting occasional video feed from the motorcycles, but, as you can imagine, they’re having a tough time keeping their lenses dry.”

  Spigot’s mood had only soured as the rain intensified. “We think there’s a breakaway of eight or nine riders, but we’d be hard pressed to tell you who exactly is in that lead group.”

  Carlin’s face contorted as he turned back to the video screen. “If you squint just right, you might be able to make out one or two of the riders there on our screen.”

  The blurry video shot jumped as the motorcycle’s camera was suddenly knocked sideways, tossed through the air, and spun across the tarmac. It came to a stop focused on a soggy piece of furniture that had been discarded by the side of the road.

  “Oh, look, there’s a couch,” Carlin said cheerfully. “It’s got a nice floral pattern on it. Suit’s your taste, doesn’t it, Will?”

  “Hmm, yes,” Spigot said, feigning interest. “I quite like tulips.”

  The corners of his mouth turned downward as he tilted his head, assessing the chair. “They could have left it turned upright for me.”

  Chapter 40

  SONOMA PLAZA

  THE RAIN WAS still coming down as I began pushing the cat-filled stroller across Sonoma’s central plaza. A block’s width on each side, the plaza was the focal point of the downtown area. A network of sidewalks crisscrossed the square, meeting in the center at City Hall’s rock-faced building. The park’s perimeter was ringed by a collection of locally owned businesses, including a wine shop, a couple of furniture boutiques, several eating establishments, and an all-purpose mercantile store. The homey small-town feel meshed with the unseen but ever-present influence of the surrounding wine country wealth to create a Mayberrymeets-Beverly-Hills atmosphere.

  On a typical Monday, the innocuous downtown area would have been busy with shoppers and tourists, but the morning’s wet weather had chased everyone inside, leaving the place with an empty, forbidding air. Heavy sheets of clouds layered the sky, blocking out the sun’s warming light. Shivering, I turned the stroller onto one of the diagonal paths at the bottom southeast corner of the plaza and headed toward the Bear Flag Memorial on the opposite side.

  The spreading foliage of the park’s tall oak trees blocked out a good portion of the rain, so I stopped to dry my glasses on the tail of my T-shirt. With the help of raindropfree magnification, I read a bold-lettered sign affixed to the side of a nearby trash canister. Dogs, it stated, were not allowed in the plaza.

  “No mention of cats,” I reported down to the stroller. “For once, we’re not breaking the rules.”

  A few yards past the trash bin, we encountered the probable rationale for the canine prohibition. A narrower side trail branched off from the main path to a series of small ponds. Clumps of tall grass edged the water, providing protective cover for visiting waterfowl.

  Not more than twenty feet from the stroller, I spied a formidable-looking mother duck. She had heaped her brood of goslings into a downy pile, the single black offspring standing out amid the clutch of his bright yellow siblings. The mother bird eyed my stroller suspiciously before brusquely rousting her sleeping youngsters and ushering them away from the path. She, for one, was not fooled by the cats’ stroller disguise.

  After watching the duck’s departure, I turned my head to survey the surrounding forest and suddenly realized the folly of my approach. The park’s numerous thick tree trunks were plenty wide enough for someone to hide behind. Walking along this secluded sidewalk, I was an easy target.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I said nervously to my charges in the stroller.

  Rupert grumbled sleepily beneath the nylon cover, as if he’d already tried to communicate that message when I pulled him out of the van. With constant glances over my shoulder, I increased the pace of the stroller. It would be best if I reached the Bear Flag Memorial—and whatever clue Oscar might have left there—as quickly as possible.

  BACK AT THE Santa Rosa broadcast booth, Harry Carlin stared into the video monitor, trying to decipher the foggy motorcycle footage coming in from the field. Every so often, he turned his attention to the handheld computer in his lap and fiddled with its keys—to no avail. The riders were in a temporary media blackout. The television network had dropped its live coverage of the race, switching over to third-party infomercials until there was something of substance to report.

  The only action in the broadcast booth involved an intense game of chess. Will Spigot and the producer sat on opposite sides of the board, fiercely concentrating on the small plastic figures spread out between them as the rain poured down on the street outside.

  I APPROACHED THE Bear Flag Memorial from the rear, warily searching the trees that surrounded its small clearing for any suspicious characters. Although I couldn’t shake the eerie sensation that I was being watched, the coast appeared to be clear as I stepped out from under the protection of the overhanging canopy of branches and pushed the stroller around the memorial’s massive boulder base.

  An iron gray statue mounted on top of the boulder faced outward from the plaza, overlooking the street, the Sonoma Barracks, and, beyond, the restored mission. The statue depicted a youthful, clean-shaven settler carrying the pole of an enormous flag. The billowing stone cloth furled against his shoulders, evoking a dramatic patriotic image.

  Beneath the feet of the flag-bearing statue, the front of the boulder featured a large bronze plaque. The top half of the rectangular tablet contained a relief carving of a grizzly bear, fiercely guarding the state shield of California. The creature menaced me with an openmouthed growl and stood, I noted, on all four of its large padded feet.

  I wiped a layer of mist from my glasses and began to search the memorial for some hint to the next piece of Oscar’s puzzle. There was a small crevice on the side of the monument’s boulder base, but after examining its cache thoroughly, I found nothing inside. There had to be another toy bear—likely a wet
one—somewhere nearby.

  Having checked every available inch of the portion of the memorial I could access from the ground, I expanded my hunt to a few surrounding benches and a nearby cupola, but no toy bears were propped up against trees or tucked beneath bushes. Hands on my hips, I returned to the front of the monument and looked up at the statue.

  I thought back to Clem’s presentation. I still hadn’t caught the last part of his act, but I had read enough from Oscar’s history books to fill in the next section of the story on my own.

  “When we last left our Pathfinder,” I could imagine Clem saying in his light Southern drawl. “He had departed Monterey and was reluctantly headed north. With every step he took closer to Oregon, he got colder and wetter . . . and his socks got soggier . . . and the wounds to his precious ego grew more and more aggrieved.”

  My holographic, ghostlike Clem popped open a longhandled umbrella and walked up to the boulder that formed the base of the monument. His wrinkled linen suit fluttered in the wet breeze.

  “About a hundred miles north of Sutter’s Fort, Frémont’s snail-like march came to a full and complete stop. He could go no farther. He’d found the path to Oregon was absolutely blockaded by”—the imaginary Clem paused to pump his eyebrows at me—“a slight freeze and a light dusting of snow.”

  My glasses smeared again as raindrops began to streak down my lenses. I slipped them off and tucked them into my coat pocket. If Frémont had been so opposed to the rain in Oregon, I mused, he couldn’t have been altogether pleased with spring weather here in the Bay Area.

  “It was as he reached this moment of apparent impasse,” my self-created Clem continued with a twirl of his umbrella, “that a military courier named Gillespie caught up to our stagnated Pathfinder.